🎤︎︎ Woah! A distant roar of music shakes you to your core and you collapse against the ground. While you try to find your way, the slow click of heels sounds in the distance. Closer, and closer... you scramble onto your hands and knees to look up at the figure standing over you. Blanketed by her shadow you can see that she's here for one thing and one thing only... IT'S ROXI, AND SHE'S GOING TO ROCK YOUR WORLD!
On the Line: Requests, Qs, suggestions
Write Your World: Writing masterlist -coming soon!
Roxi's Gallery: Photo & video highlights
Hot Takes: Statements column
Mixtapes: -coming soon!
Rockin' Recs: Reading recommendations
Republish: Misc reblogs
★ But first, take some time to get to know her;
Roxi is the poster girl for readers all around whom posses an old soul fueled by a certain fire that can't be put out. With style and attitude, she's full of guts, glamour and a strong personality. She's opinionated, self confident, strong willed, stubborn, and unadmittedly; she loves hard and fierce. If you or a friend have experienced or wish to be in Roxi's high, high, high heels... or you want to get rocked, take a bite out of this!
★ Fanfiction with a spin;
Roxi is a slice of life. On this blog you will find your regular smegular character x reader writing as well as character x character... but with a hopefully well-recieved twist. Though Roxi doesn't use y/n at all, and doesn't make OCs in her stories too often, each 'reader' is characterized in a certain way. This blog is for the rocker readers, the metal readers, the hard loving and badass readers! The readers who like a little denim and leather in their life...and maybe some lace, who like to live on the edge, be a little dangerous, don't need a man but boy does she want to kick one around for fun. Watch out, it could be a whole different story if she gets attatched! So stay tuned in.
BUT there will totally be some variety in a select handful of writing! It wont always be personalizing the reader in this way, but this is the main content here!
★ What to expect; the unexpected!?
Given the old soul & rock and roll energy, 'Roxi' style fanfiction and projects include 'retro' or 'vintage' style media. That may be media from back then, or modern media made to emulate back then times. Either way, Roxi is a total blast from the past!
Want to know more? Ask away, you've got her on the line.
🎤︎︎ Thats Roxi Rolla for Rocksurworld magazine! With a long winded introduction Roxi hopes to inspire other 'in character' blogs to bring their own creativity to the table! In the mean-time, our new friend Rox is writing up some great stories featuring your favourites.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
summary: it’s the age-old fall from grace: high school royalty faceplants into reality, and the burger king crown starts hanging heavy. (sailor hat, in his case.) heir to the hawkins high hierarchy, ruler of keggers and hallways alike, steve harrington used to be untouchable. now? he's shaking under your hands, bleeding from battles no trophy could ever commemorate. you've stitched together plenty of broken people before—but never one that left a scar in you, too.
warnings: 18+ mdni, piv sex, oral (m!receiving), touch/praise-starved!steve, hurt/comfort, blood, injury, mutual friends/enemies-ish to lovers, hair washing, massaging, praise kink, body worship, sexual tension, forced proximity of sorts, reader isn’t fond of steve at first, mostly S4 canon but fix-it, angst, domestic fluff, found family, happy ending
a/n: another steve harrington character study dressed as a fic, what the hell else is new? | playlist ♬.ᐟ
They don’t take him to the hospital. They bring him to you.
Which is, objectively, stupid.
But apparently, hospitals ask questions. And you—part-time party medic, occasional dispenser of prescription-only painkillers (for legitimate anxiety and migraines, thank you very much)—you don’t.
You’re halfway through a rerun of M.A.S.H., sucking the soul out of a cherry popsicle. You’re braless. The house is quiet. Peaceful, if a little tragic. Exactly the way Fridays are meant to be.
Until the knocking starts.
Correction: pounding.
Panicked, frenzied, FBI-doesn’t-need-a-warrant kind of pounding.
You groan and peel yourself off the couch, popsicle stick still dangling from your lips. You are not emotionally equipped to accept salvation or Thin Mints right now.
But when you open the door, it’s not a solicitor.
It’s Robin.
Robin Buckley, looking like she just got shot out of a chimney. Her cheek’s streaked with soot and something red that is very much not Kool-Aid.
You blink. Yank the popsicle out of your mouth with a wet plop.
“Don’t freak out,” she blurts, before you even ask.
Which is Robin Buckley-speak for: Start freaking out immediately. Shit is on fire, metaphorically or otherwise.
The last time she said that, you ended up faking an asthma attack so you could ditch pep band and hit up Denny’s for the $1.99 Grand Slam. The time before that, you drove through three counties to rescue her cousin’s “emotional support ferret” from a petting zoo in Muncie.
This time? She’s brought a car with her.
A sleek maroon BMW, purring at the curb, passenger door flung wide open.
Inside: Limbs. Denim. Blood.
A boy.
Slumped sideways in the front seat, head tilted back at an angle that screams whiplash or maybe already dead.
You squint.
“Who the fuck is that?”
…
Steve Harrington.
Steve Harrington is bleeding out in your driveway.
You don’t know him. Not really.
Knew of him, sure. Back in high school, he was all Farrah Fawcett volume and varsity swagger. Heir to the Hawkins High hierarchy, ruling keggers and hallways alike. He had rich parents and a bimmer he didn’t pay for. Threw parties like they were some kind of divine rite.
But then? Senior year hit him like a metaphorical truck. Or maybe a literal one. Hard to say.
Because somewhere between the scorched-earth gossip of graduation and the literal scorched-earth of the mall burning down, Steve Harrington dropped off the map.
Poof. King Steve: dethroned.
Burned out, like the very mall he used to work in.
You missed that whole implosion. Spent that summer in Chicago drowning in vending machine coffee and disaster drills, chasing your EMT cert while trying not to puke during ride-alongs.
You came home to find that Hawkins had gained a mall, lost a mall, and started blaming everything weird on “gas leaks” again.
And Robin Buckley had Steve.
Her little sidekick from the ice cream wars. Who, allegedly, once confronted a creeper in the food court for harassing her. Ruined his pretty face doing it, too. Walked around with a purple shiner for weeks after that summer ended.
He now stocks tapes with her at Family Video, where helping customers ranks somewhere between abusing the label maker and arguing over who gets to abuse the label maker.
You ran into him once, alone, in the cereal aisle of Melvald’s.
Dark rings under his eyes. Hair still doing that gravity-defying thing.
He smiled. You didn’t smile back.
You didn’t care.
It’s the age-old fall from grace: high school royalty faceplants into reality, and the Burger King crown starts hanging heavy. (Well, sailor hat, in his case.)
But now, he’s here.
Dying on your lawn.
Ruining your Friday.
…
Up close, he looks worse.
Biblically bad.
Like, plague-of-locusts, hail-from-the-heavens, Lamb-of-God-who? kind of bad.
His jeans are shredded, shirt gone entirely. Bright red ligature marks around his throat like someone tried to strangle him with a piano wire. There’s ash in his hair, and something black smeared across his jaw that you’re really, really hoping is just dirt.
His eyes flutter.
Then, absurdly, he smiles.
“H-hey. Heard you know first aid?”
You stare at him for a beat. Then toss your popsicle stick into the grass.
“Yeah. Try not to bleed out on my porch, Harrington.”
He snorts. Gives you a weak thumbs-up.
Then promptly goes limp.
…
“It’s called compensated shock,” you grunt, dragging six-feet-too-much of unconscious prom royalty into your living room. “He looked okay ‘cause his body was pumping him full of adrenaline. Now it’s wearing off.”
Robin’s on the other end, doing her best to help, which mostly means not helping.
“Oh my god, yeah,” she babbles, smacking his sneakers into the doorframe. “—shit. He got all woozy at Skull Rock earlier.”
You pause mid-haul. “Skull Rock? Like, the makeout spot?”
Robin makes a face. “Yeah, but not for us, gross. That’d be like making out with my brother. Anyway, Steve invented Skull Rock! Took Heather C. there in tenth grade. Remember her? The girl with, like, thirty scrunchies and that creepy obsession with Mr. Connor’s—”
“Robin.”
“Right! Sorry! Panic talking!”
Steve groans from where you’ve deposited him on the couch, more pained by Robin’s volume than the probable internal bleeding.
You ignore him. “Why were you actually at Skull Rock?”
“Uhh walking? You know... trees. Friendship.”
You level her with a look.
She claps her hands. “Anyway! You can fix him, right? You’re, like, certified!”
You glance down at Steve.
His lips are blue at the corners, breath hitching in those tight, silent gulps that mean pain and refusal to show it.
“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Maybe.”
…
You do fix him.
Because you’re a sucker. Because you trained for this. Because your hands know what to do even when your brain is screaming.
And maybe, just maybe, because Steve Harrington keeps making these soft, miserable, apologetic noises every time he flinches.
Like he’s sorry.
Sorry for bleeding. For being in pain. For existing.
You hate that.
You also kind of hate how he looks like this—hot, in that tragic, beaten, dog-left-out-in-the-rain kind of way that hits your brain like a chemical imbalance.
You strip off his vest first (Dio patch on the back, which, huh, maybe he has changed) and find a makeshift bandage beneath it, half-dried and crusted with old blood. You peel it off. It comes away with a wet schlorp like opening a bottle of dollar store wine.
And something inside you goes still.
These are... bite marks.
Not scrapes. Not scratches.
Bites.
His flesh looks shredded, like a rottweiler got bored of chew toys and decided to sample teenage boy instead.
Except: you’ve treated dog bites. This is not a dog bite.
“Jesus christ,” you whisper.
You look up at the boy collapsed on your couch: sweaty, shirtless, and—oh, now he’s got a belt in his mouth.
Robin jams it there. “For the pain,” she says, helpful as ever.
Steve groans around the leather, eyes fluttering. Looks like he wants to die.
You’re still staring at the worst bite, wondering if it’s actually moving, when you ask, voice low:
“Someone want to tell me what the fuck did this?”
Robin freezes. Eyes the belt like she’d rather choke on it herself than answer.
“Uh… bats?” She offers weakly.
You blink. “Bats.”
“Like. Big ones? Really big?”
You stare at her. Then at Steve.
You don’t believe her.
But also… you kind of do.
Because whatever this thing was, it didn’t just attack.
It fed.
…
“Okay, but like—” Robin’s pacing like she’s trying to wear a hole in your rug. “He was fine earlier. Like, maybe not fine fine, but, you know, Steve-fine. And then we got out of the Up—uh—the woods, and I was driving him back and he just…”
She makes a dramatic fainting motion. Nearly brains herself on the coffee table.
“So, it could be rabies? Or tetanus? Or maybe one of those parasite things that lay eggs in your stomach? Or—”
“Robin?” you cut in, sharp as the pair of shears in your hand. “There’s towels and vodka in the kitchen. Go.”
“Right. On it.”
She skitters away like a gremlin set on fire, the thud of cabinet doors punctuating her panic.
You turn back to Steve.
His pulse is thin, fluttering weakly under your fingertips, but it’s there.
“Harrington. You with me?”
His hand twitches once, thumb up.
…
He doesn’t scream.
You wish he would.
Because you know this hurts. You know that when you pour antiseptic into wounds this deep, it’s supposed to rip sound out of a person. A yell. A curse. A sob. Something.
But Steve just… takes it.
His jaw’s locked tight enough to bend steel—no belt, miracle he doesn’t shatter a molar—and his throat works once, twice, swallowing back whatever wants out. His whole body trembles, shoulders twitching, knuckles bone-white, yet his voice stays sealed inside him like it’s chained there.
You kind of hate him for it.
Because you know this type.
Boys who bleed quiet. The beautiful, tragic kind who carry pain like it’s a penance.
You’ve seen them before, at crash sites, in the backs of ambulances.
It’s not bravery. It’s habit.
A mask.
And Steve Harrington? He’s been wearing his so long, it’s practically fused to the bone.
Still, Robin squeezes his hand like she’s coaching him through labor. Eyes locked on the ceiling, because she’s still pretending she’s never seen boobs or blood or the inside of a human person.
You press gauze to the worst of the bites, just under his ribs, angry and wet and oozing something thick. You have to lean your weight into it.
Steve jolts—full-body, every muscle locking under your palms. His hand lashes out, fast and blind, gripping the leg of your jeans until his knuckles go pale.
Then, just as quickly, he lets go. Eyes squeezed shut. Shame radiating off him like heat.
“Shit. S-sorry.”
You don’t answer.
You can’t.
…
It takes two hours.
Three full rolls of gauze. One regrettable vodka break, just to keep your hands from shaking.
It's not pretty. Not even close. But it's enough to keep him breathing, which, all things considered, feels like a decent win for a Friday night.
Now, he’s bandaged. Shirtless under your ex’s old hoodie, the one with the weird bleach stain and the hole in the sleeve, but Steve fills it out like it was made for him.
Of course he does.
In the kitchen, Robin’s hunched over your tiny sink, scrubbing dried blood and whatever else is staining her forearms that awful color.
As soon as she’s done, you grab her by the sleeve and tug her into the hallway.
“Talk.”
Robin sighs, long and loud. Tries to stall by running a hand through her hair, only to grimace when it sticks up with dried sweat.
“…Demobats.” She mutters.
“I’m sorry?”
“Demobats,” she repeats, like that’s a word people just know. “From this place called the… Upside Down.”
You wait. There’s no punchline.
“…You’re serious.”
She nods.
And then it all spills out.
Demobats. Some guy named Vecna. Russians. Underground government labs. Scoops Ahoy, for christ’s sake.
You lose the thread somewhere around “telepathic hive mind overlord.”
But you don’t interrupt. Because Robin may be a lot of things—loud, chaotic, deathly allergic to social cues—but she’s not a liar.
And there’s a half-dead boy on your couch with holes the size of teacups to prove it.
“So,” you say slowly, “that job at the mall…”
“Yeah. Secret Russian lab.”
“And you were tortured?”
“I mean, mostly Steve?” She winces. “But, uh. Yeah.”
“Jesus christ, Robin.”
“I know,” she groans, dragging both hands down her face. “I know it sounds crazy. I didn’t want to drag you into this, okay? But I thought—he looked bad. Worse than before. And I couldn’t exactly walk into the ER and say ‘Hi, my best friend got eaten by mutant bats from another dimension, please ignore the blood trail.’”
She huffs, blowing hair from her eyes, and squints at you. “You don’t believe me.”
You snort. “No. I do. And I think you should’ve called me sooner.”
“Well, I thought he was fine. He was fine. Until we got in the car and he started slurring his words and, like… blinking wrong. Then I panicked.”
You glance back toward the living room. At the boy who didn’t scream. Curled on your couch, twitching in his sleep like he’s stuck in a loop he can’t wake from.
Robin follows your gaze, voice softening. “Look, I know he’s not exactly your favorite person, but… thank you. Really.”
You roll your eyes. “He was bleeding out, Robs.”
She gives you a look. The kind that says she knows you better than you want her to.
You scowl.
“Go. Shower. You smell like a burnt tire.” A beat. “…You want something to eat?”
Robin doesn’t answer. Just throws her arms around you in the tightest, sweatiest, most Robin hug imaginable. All elbows and bones and bloodstained sleeves.
You stiffen. Then sigh.
“Love you,” she mumbles into your shoulder.
You hold her tight for a second. Then let go.
“You owe me, Buckley. Big time.”
…
Robin crashes in your bed, dead to the world in ten seconds flat.
You stay on the couch next to Steve.
Not close. Just close enough. So if he does something stupid like stop breathing, you’ll notice.
You keep a cool cloth on his forehead. Check his pulse every half hour. Whisper a soft “motherfucker” every time he twitches, because if he wakes up and asks if you were worried, you want to be able to say no with a straight face.
You stay up.
Because someone has to.
…
It’s almost 3 a.m. when he stirs.
Your head snaps up, heart launching into your throat like a flare. Your hand goes automatically to the bucket, the cloth, the mental checklist of emergency procedures you’ve memorized so well they’re practically sewn into your DNA.
But then his lips part.
Just a cracked breath through the dryness, small and quiet and impossibly fragile.
“Don’t… don’t let ‘em go back.”
It’s barely a whisper. It slams into you like a freight train.
You don’t know who ‘they’ are, but you know exactly what he means.
You’ve seen this kind of thing before, too. In the shaking hands of people who left something behind where no one could follow. This is what happens when the body survives, but the rest doesn’t.
And goddammit.
Goddammit, you didn’t want this.
Didn’t want some pretty, broken boy bleeding all over your couch. Didn’t want this guilt. This terrifying protectiveness. The quiet, suffocating weight of whatever this is clamping around your ribs like a trap you walked into willingly.
Didn’t want Steve fucking Harrington, of all people, to break your heart without saying a single word.
But he looks so young like this. Pale cheeks, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead. He’s curled in on himself like he’s bracing for another hit, one hand fisted in your throw pillow.
Without thinking, you lean forward.
Brush his hair back. Cool his skin with your fingers.
“Steve,” you whisper.
No answer. Just a tiny, broken noise. Almost a whimper, almost nothing.
Your throat tightens.
You reach down, and carefully, gently, pry his fingers free from the cushion. Thread yours through the empty spaces.
His grip grows impossibly tight, fingertips paling where they press between your knuckles.
“You’re okay. You’re safe.”
And slowly—like thawing ice, like a held breath finally let go—he stops shaking.
You stay like that, hand in his, until the sun starts bleeding through the curtains.
…
Robin once told you that you get off on fixing people.
She meant hearts. You meant bones.
You’re starting to think maybe she was right.
…
You wake to yelling.
Not normal yelling—whisper-yelling. The kind of frantic, hushed bickering that’s somehow louder than regular voices.
“…can’t just walk out, Steve!”
“It’s not that bad, just—give me a second—”
There’s the unmistakable rustle of struggling. A pained grunt. The telltale shuffle of someone stumbling sideways, seconds away from faceplanting.
“Oh my god, what is wrong with you?!”
“I’m fine,” Steve grits out, in the exact tone people use right before they pass out on you.
“And where exactly are you gonna go, huh? Enlighten me.”
“Just—I’ll go back and change, and then we’ll—”
“Nope. Absolutely not. You can’t even see straight, Harrington.”
“Yes, I can.”
“Really? Okay. How many fingers?”
“Why do you always do that?”
“Because it works!”
You groan loudly, dragging an arm over your face.
“Do I need to put you two in a time-out? Because I swear to god, I will.”
Instant silence.
When you peel your arm back, Steve’s frozen mid‑escape, one shoe on, looking like a kid caught stealing from the cookie jar. He glances your way, sheepish.
“Hey,” he says, like he didn’t just almost eat your tile. “You’re up.”
“Unfortunately.”
Robin flaps a dramatic hand at him. “Please, please talk some sense into this idiot before I duct tape him to the wall.”
You sit up, and immediately regret every decision you’ve ever made. Your spine crackles like bubble wrap. Your skull is pounding. The entire living room looks like a crime scene: blood-crusted towels, empty gauze packets, that one lonely vodka bottle rolling under the coffee table like a sad tumbleweed.
You squint at Steve. “Sit down.”
“I’m good.”
“You’re not.”
“I just need to—”
“Now, Harrington.”
You don’t raise your voice. You don’t have to. It’s the tone you’ve used on half-conscious college boys insisting they can “totally drive, man.”
Steve blinks. Then sighs, slowly lowering himself onto a kitchen chair.
Robin hovers like a human seatbelt, and he bats her away with a feeble flap of his wrist. Still, he grips the edge of the counter like it’s the only thing keeping him vertical.
You scrub a hand over your face. “Coffee? Or are we all just committing to bad decisions today?”
…
The coffee is yesterday’s.
Bitter, burnt, practically an oil slick in a mug.
You pour three cups anyway.
Steve drinks it black, which tracks. You clock the way his hands tremble as he brings it to his lips and file it away without comment.
Robin’s already rattling off the story again, filling in details she left out the night before. You get more names now. Places. Dates. Vines that slither like snakes. The gate under Lover’s Lake. You get the part where Steve dove in, headfirst, no hesitation.
Well, you already got that part last night, but Robin’s repeating it, and you’re starting to think maybe it’s not for you this time.
Steve just listens, quiet. Winces at certain beats—jaw tic here, hard blink there—but doesn’t interrupt.
You lean against the counter, sip your bitter sludge, and ask, casual as you can:
“So, you just jumped in. No plan? No backup?”
He shrugs, eyes on his mug. “Didn’t really have time to think about it.”
“Clearly.”
He looks up at you then. Runs a hand through his still-matted hair, blood-sticky at the roots, and releases a quiet breath.
“Thank you. For last night.”
You raise a brow. “Didn’t really have a choice, Harrington. It was either that or explain to the cops why there’s a dead body on my couch.”
He huffs a weak laugh.
“By the way,” you add, sipping again, “do your parents know about all this monster-hunting extracurricular bullshit?”
Robin makes a sound like a choked squirrel.
“Oh fuck! My parents! Shitshitshit.”
She’s already halfway out of her chair, tripping over her shoes while she scrambles for her jacket.
“Can you—?” she gasps, eyes wide.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll cover.”
“Thankyouthankyouthankyou!” She barrels over, grabbing your face and planting a comically loud kiss on your forehead. Then she turns and grabs Steve in the same breath.
Gives his face a little shake.
“If I come back and find out you even thought about sneaking out, I will tell everyone you still sleep with a nightlight. Got it?”
You snort into your mug. Steve glares at her. “Robin—"
“Got it?”
He scrubs a hand through his hair, rolling his eyes. “Whatever.”
She releases him, then points at you. “You’re in charge. Don’t let him do anything heroic.”
“Oh no,” you deadpan. “However shall I bear the weight of such responsibility?”
Robin snorts, slaps your shoulder, then bolts, keys jingling like cowbells as she shoots out the door.
“Wait—” Steve squints after her. “Are you—Robin! You can’t just take my car! You’re not even—”
Slam!
“—licensed.”
You both sit in the silence she leaves behind. Steve stares out the window, listening to the screech of his precious bimmer as it peels down the street.
Then he turns back, eyes flicking to the trauma floor that used to be your living room.
He clears his throat. “Sorry about your, uh… couch. And the carpet.”
You follow his gaze. The stains are bad, probably permanent. It stings a little, looking at them.
It hurts worse looking at him.
Steve Harrington, bruised and bandaged and slouched in your chair like he’s trying to disappear into the seams. His stupidly wide, puppy-dog eyes look like they’re about to apologizing for breathing your air.
You blink.
Then slowly, slowly, lean forward across the island.
“Harrington.”
“Yeah?”
“Stop apologizing for almost dying. It’s weird.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Lands on a sheepish smile instead.
You hate how it softens his face, how it creases the corners of his eyes.
“And for the record,” you mutter, lips concealed behind the rim of your cup, “you’re not the worst thing to stain that couch, so. You’re fine.”
He blinks, brow furrowing. “What’s… that supposed to mean?”
You shrug. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
It takes him a second to process it. Then he snorts quietly, eyes flicking to the side.
You take another sip, watching the pink rise in his cheeks as the sun filters in through the window.
And if you’re smiling too—well, he doesn’t have to know.
…
You try to make pancakes.
Try being the operative word.
There’s flour in your hair, batter on the counter. Somewhere, the smoke alarm is just giggling with anticipation.
Steve’s still in his spot behind the island, watching you glare down a lumpy pile of batter.
It’s distracting.
It’s fucking annoying, is what it is.
Pancakes aren’t hard. Whisking is not rocket science. And yet, it feels impossible with him sitting there, doing that thing with his eyes. All soft and brown and bruised, like you saved his life and now he doesn’t know how to deal with it.
“How’s it going?” he asks, voice pitched deliberately neutral.
You don’t turn around. “Fine.”
A beat.
“You sure?”
You slam the next pancake into the pan. It looks like something you'd peel off a sidewalk after a hot summer day. You stare at it, furious.
Behind you, there’s the scrape of a chair.
“I said I’m fine,” you warn.
He ignores that.
Limps over to you instead, his gaze finding you like a physical thing. Warm. Curious. You catch him in your periphery as he stops beside you, close enough that the heat from the stove mixes with the heat of his skin. Suddenly, the kitchen feels about fifteen degrees hotter.
“Here,” he murmurs.
Before you can object, his fingers wrap around yours, gentle and coaxing as he eases the spatula from your grip.
Then: flip.
One smooth flick of his wrist. The pancake lands perfect. All golden and fluffy.
You blink at it, betrayed.
“I was handling it.”
“Sure,” he says, lips twitching. “Looked like it.”
He flips another. Doesn’t even look this time.
You narrow your eyes. “Okay. How are you doing that?”
He shrugs, adjusting the burner dial like he’s lived here his whole life. “Cook for myself a lot.”
You pause. There’s something in the way he says it—off-hand, casual, but quiet enough to leave an echo.
You file that away, too.
“Of course you’re good at pancakes,” you mutter. “Probably make soufflés and like, caviar waffles or some shit.”
“Caviar waffles? That’s a thing?”
“I don’t know. You tell me, rich boy.”
He just snorts quietly at that, eyeing you sideways. “Well, my French toast is pretty solid. Could show you next time, if you want.”
You glance over, arching a brow. “Wow. Is that line always so subtle?”
He meets your gaze, smirk tugging at his split lip.
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
And fuck, it lands.
It lands hard, right in the soft space under your ribs. That warm, twisting feeling that makes your breath hitch and your stomach go stupid.
You turn away before your face can betray you, yanking open a drawer for a fork.
And then, as if the universe decided to throw you a bone, the kitchen landline starts to shriek like it’s being murdered.
You lunge for it like a lifeline.
It’s probably Mrs. Buckley, confirming her daughter crashed at your place, again.
“Hello? …You WHAT?”
Robin groans on the other end. “Yeah. Possibly until college.”
“Robin, you can’t—” You lower your voice, turning away from Steve and cupping the receiver like he’s not standing two feet away. “—you can’t be fucking grounded right now.”
“I know! But my mom saw the blood on my jeans and I totally panicked. I told her it was ketchup. Ketchup, dude. Now she’s got Toby posted outside my room. He’s just sitting there with his Legos, but he will scream if I so much as leave to go to the bathroom. So... yeah. It’s gonna be a while before I can sneak out. Are you… are you okay to stay with him for a bit? He’s trying to pretend he’s fine, but he’s definitely not.”
You glance back.
Steve’s standing at the stove, peering at his stomach while waiting for the next pancake to bubble. His hand drifts down and starts poking at one of the bandages under his hoodie. Slow and gentle, like it won’t count as touching if he’s polite about it.
You stretch the phone cord and smack his hand away.
He startles. Blinks at you like, Seriously?
You raise your brows like, Try me.
You sigh into the receiver: “Yeah. I got him.”
“Ugh, you’re the best. Just don’t let him—ohh, crap, I gotta g—"
Click.
Steve doesn’t turn when you pad back into the kitchen.
“She grounded?”
“Yep. Possibly until retirement.” You pause. “You don’t need to call your folks?”
He hesitates, just for a second. Then shakes his head. “They’re out of town.”
Then, with a one-handed spin of the spatula, he flips the pancake onto a plate.
You glance at the growing stack. They look obscene. You’d punch someone for a bite.
In your head, you run through the math.
Ten days. Minimum.
Ten days before the stitches can come out. Before he can walk out of here without ripping something open. Longer if he keeps poking at his bandages like that.
God help you. It’s gonna be a long week.
…
Breakfast is awkward.
No other word for it.
Steve eats like he’s on a timer. You eat like you’re trying not to notice.
Trying not to notice the way he keeps sneaking glances at you. Little flicks of his eyes over his plate, always quick, always subtle, never quite fast enough.
Trying not to notice the way he winces. Quiet flashes of pain, there and gone, just long enough for that crease to cut across his brow before he smooths it away.
When both your plates are emptied, he clears his throat.
“Hey, do you… you mind if I use your bathroom?” He gestures vaguely to his face. “Just need to clean up a bit.”
His hair is still matted. There’s soot smeared along his jaw, a faint line of red where the blood’s dried and half-wiped away.
You nod, mid-sip. “Sure. First door on the left. Just don’t get the bandages wet.”
“Got it,” he nods, starts to rise—then stops halfway, jaw flexing tight.
“Actually, uh…” His hand slides to the back of his neck. His eyes shut briefly. “Can you give me a hand with this? I can’t really…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t need to.
The white-knuckle grip on the hem of his hoodie tells you enough.
You blink, setting your mug down, and push your chair back without a word.
He doesn’t meet your eyes as you reach for the bottom of the hoodie.
The fabric peels up inch by inch, sticking to where the gauze bled through, catching where raw skin clings to cotton. He winces, raising his arms awkwardly, the stitches along his sides clearly pulling. So you move gently, painstakingly slow.
Your knuckles graze his stomach, and—
Jesus.
He’s warm. Muscle corded tight under skin that flushes easily, even with all the bruises blooming across his ribs like bad watercolors.
You get the hoodie off.
His chest is bare.
And now you’re standing close. Way, way too close.
His breath brushes your cheek when he exhales. You glance up, just on pure instinct, and find his eyes already on you.
You both freeze.
There’s a beat where everything narrows. Where sound drops out.
Your hands hover midair, still clutching the fabric, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin.
Close enough to trace the moles scattered across his chest.
You don’t.
You look away so fast it nearly gives you whiplash.
“Towels are under the sink," you mumble. "I’ll get you some new clothes.”
Then you take a quick step back. Like distance will save you from whatever the hell that was.
Steve blinks. Once. Twice. Then nods, eyes flicking away. “Thanks.”
He disappears down the hall, barefoot and bruised.
You stand in the silence with his hoodie clenched in your fists, your pulse trying to beat its way out of your throat.
…
There’s an old joke your friends like to make.
That you’re a sadist.
That you chose the EMT life because you enjoy it. The blood, the pain. The broken bones and the chaos. Things normal people flinch away from.
But in truth, they’ve got it backwards.
You’re not a sadist.
No. What you are is a fucking masochist.
Because there’s no other explanation for why you keep doing this to yourself. Why you let yourself get this close to people you shouldn’t. Why you torture yourself, again and again, with things you know better than to want.
Why you’re standing outside your bathroom door right now, ears tilted, listening to someone who shouldn’t mean anything to you rinse the blood off his skin.
You told yourself you were just finishing the dishes. That the stovetop needed wiping down. That there were chores to do, reasons to move around.
But your feet kept wandering. Back to the hallway. Back to him.
Back to this spot in the hallway, where you can feel the warmth bleeding under the door. Where you can hear the faucet running in short, irregular bursts—on, off, on again.
You picture him hunched over the basin. One hand braced against the counter, the other shaking under the strain of movement. Jaw clenched. Shoulders bowed.
Something twists low in your stomach.
You roll your eyes at yourself—because god, you’re pathetic—and raise a fist.
A light knock.
“You good?”
A pause, then:
“Uh, yeah. Just… hang on.”
There’s a clatter, a quiet shit. Then the door creaks open.
And Steve—
Well.
He’s wet.
And shirtless. And pink.
Flushed from the steam, maybe from embarrassment. Because his hair—The Hair—is half-lathered and sticking up in foamy tufts, like a soggy cat caught mid-bath. A single drop of water slides slow down the hollow of his throat.
Your gaze follows it.
The sweatpants you gave him ride low. Damp at the waistband, pulled snug across his hips in a way you’re absolutely not thinking about.
He gestures toward the sink, sheepish.
“I, uh… can’t really bend right now. Tried to rinse it out, but—” He winces, fingers grazing his sides. “The stitches are kind of a hard no.”
Your eyes drop, unbidden, to the bruises blooming purple-black across his ribs. The way his chest lifts a little faster when you step closer.
You should walk away. Turn around. Go wipe down the goddamn stove like you told yourself you would.
Instead, you say:
“Sit.”
He blinks. “…What?”
“On the floor. Back against the tub.”
There’s a pause. His brows draw together like he’s trying to figure out the punchline.
You don’t blink.
He exhales sharply, jaw flexing. “No, it’s okay, I can—”
“Steve.”
It lands heavy. The weight of it surprises even you.
His first name, in your voice.
You’ve only said it once before, when he was unconscious, twitching under bloodstained gauze, fists clenched against a nightmare you couldn’t reach.
But now, he hears it. And something inside him goes quiet.
He studies you for a second longer, then sighs, shoulders dropping.
Wordlessly, he lowers himself to the tile.
One hand braced on the edge of the tub, the other on the floor, every movement stiff. His back hits the porcelain with a soft thud.
You kneel beside him and roll up your sleeves.
“Lean your head back.”
He shifts, uneasy. “Seriously, you don’t have to—”
“I know.” You pick up the cup beside the sink and check the tap, waiting for the water to warm. “Just tilt."
There’s a long pause.
Then he does.
His head tips back against the curve of the tub. With his throat exposed, the worst of the bruising shines a mottled red-black beneath his jaw. His lashes flutter, lips parting just slightly.
The first pass runs slow and gentle down his scalp. He flinches.
“Too hot?”
He blinks, breath shallow. “No. S’fine.”
So you pour again. And again. Slow rivulets trickling through his hair, carrying blood and soap and grime down the drain. His hair start to fall naturally again, dark strands slicking to his forehead.
It’s just the water at first. Rinsing out grit, loosening stiff knots and matted roots.
Then you lather the shampoo between your palms, and sink your fingers into his hair.
And that’s when it happens.
The shift.
Steve Harrington—king of easy charm, Mr. Everything’s Fine—goes completely still.
Not in a relaxed way. Not in a sleepy way.
No, he goes rigid.
His breath falters. His jaw locks. You can see the muscles in his neck ripple with tension.
And when you sweep a thumb absently behind his ear, chasing a line of foam, he jolts.
A full-body shiver, running shoulder to spine.
You clear your throat, voice catching before you force it steady. “Been a while, huh? Since someone did this for you?”
His response is delayed, a low rasp. “Uh huh. Long time.”
Then, after a beat:
“Used to be my mom’s thing. When I was a kid.”
Your hands still in his hair. He goes stiff the second he says it—jaw clenched, lips pressed tight, hands curling in his lap.
You blink, then resume drawing slow circles over his crown.
“That must’ve been nice,” you say quietly.
He doesn’t answer. Just breathes through his nose and keeps still.
So you keep going.
Rinse. Lather. Repeat.
And with each pass of your hands, his breathing changes.
His head rests heavier against the porcelain. His lips part around soft, even breaths. His eyes flutter shut.
Then, he leans.
Barely enough to notice. But you feel it, the subtle tilt of his head toward your hands.
Like a plant bending toward light.
You wonder, not for the first time, how long it’s been since someone touched him like this. How long he’s gone without care, without softness.
And maybe that’s why this hurts so much.
Because you’d had him pegged, hadn’t you?
The hair. The charm. Pretty boy, ladies’ man, heartbreaker.
King Steve.
But this? This isn’t him.
This is the After.
The aftermath of Russians and monsters and lakes with no bottoms. The man who throws himself between danger and kids that aren’t his, time and time again. Like he’s got something to prove. Or maybe something to atone for.
The one who apologized for bleeding on your floor.
This is someone who’s forgotten how to be held.
And right now, he’s under your hands. Throat bared. Hair dripping. Leaning into your touch like he’s starved for it.
And that slow, sinking weight in your stomach settles for good. That gut-churn of realization that you barely know anything about the man who nearly bled out on your couch last night.
You try to swallow the feeling down. Try to keep your focus on softer things: dripping water, steam-soaked light, the silky-smooth slip of his hair between your fingers.
But every time your hands leave him, even for a second, you feel it. The tension in his frame. The hesitation in his breath. Like he’s bracing for it to end.
And each time you return—thumb grazing his temple, palm cradling the back of his neck—he breathes in. Relief, sharp and silent, tucked between the ribs.
You reach for the conditioner next, fingers trembling a little as you work it through. When you tip his head back, he goes easy. Pliant. Trusting.
And then a quiet thought hits you.
A hunch, really.
You let your fingers drift lower. Past the crown. Down to the nape of his neck. The hair there is softer, damp strands clinging to skin gone tight with tension and bruising.
You trace gently around the worst of it. Avoid the dark, angry lines where something had closed around his throat.
Strangled. That’s what Robin said.
You press into the muscle just beneath it, right where the pain likes to live.
Steve shudders. His head lifts from the tub with a breath, caught on something sharp.
But you don’t let up.
You continue pressing in slow, deep circles, growing firmer.
There’s a sound, then. Sharp. Brief. A strangled thing, torn between a groan and a gasp.
He tries to stifle it a second later, clearing his throat.
“Too hard?” you ask quietly.
His voice comes cracked. “N-no. Just—it’s fine. You don’t have to…”
The rest trails off when you move to his shoulders next, thumb kneading into the dense muscle. You’re not a massage therapist, but you know anatomy. You know where pain settles when it’s been left too long. How it tucks itself into the tender parts: the base of the neck, the hollow beneath the collarbone.
And god, he’s full of it. All the signs. All the tells.
He lets out another shaky breath, lips sealed around a sound he doesn’t let out.
And there, just for a moment, you let yourself look.
At the bruises. The thin cuts just beginning to scab. The water gliding over his collarbone, beading into the curve of his chest.
That thick, molten part of your brain—the masochist, the idiot, the one who says yes when she should absolutely say no—flares hot.
It wants to lean in.
Wants to touch your mouth to his skin, right there, at the slope of his throat.
Just to see if he tastes like lavender and heat. Just to see if he lets you.
To kiss him slow enough to wash the ache from his mouth. Replace every sharp thing he’s swallowed with something soft.
God, you’re losing it.
You drag your thumb again along the base of his neck. His lashes flutter.
Then, from the corner of your eye, you see it—his hands shifting in his lap.
Cross. Adjust.
You glance down without thinking.
And oh.
Oh.
The sweatpants don’t hide much. Not like this. Not with how he’s sitting, loose-limbed and open, the fabric soaked and clinging in ways it wasn’t meant to. They’re pulled taut across the breadth of his thighs, darkened in patches where the water’s seeped through.
And beneath that?
Yeah.
Your breath stutters. Heat rockets up your neck.
You yank your gaze away, fumbling for the faucet and filling another cup. Your hand trembles as you lift it, rinsing out the conditioner.
His hair sticks to his forehead. Without thinking, you smooth it back.
His eyes flutter open.
And the look he gives you…
It’s quiet. Devastating. Tucked somewhere tender and deep, pressed hard against bone.
Softer than longing. Sharper than want.
It's something that aches.
You don’t know what to do with it.
So you just keep your hands in his hair.
And you rinse.
…
You rinse long after the conditioner’s gone.
After his breath has evened out and the water’s cooled to a gentle trickle, steam curling around your ankles like fog.
The bathroom smells like lavender and heat and skin that isn’t yours.
When you reach for the towel and bring it up to his head, he leans.
Blot, pat, smooth. The towel’s too soft, your hands too careful. You graze the shell of his ear, the edge of his jaw, feeling the quick flutter of his pulse beneath your thumb.
His eyes are still on you.
“Thanks,” he says, quiet.
You nod, not trusting your voice.
The steam’s thinning now, but the air still clings.
Too warm. Too full of something unsaid.
His breath brushes your cheek.
You’re too close.
It’s too much.
You could kiss him.
God help you, you could.
Just one lean forward. That’s all it would take. His mouth is right there—slightly parted, pink and swollen in the middle where he’s been biting down.
And the look on his face isn’t just gratitude. Not just relief.
That’s want.
And worse? It’s yours too. It’s in the pit of your stomach, burning upward. It’s in your hands, your chest, your throat, curling behind your teeth like smoke with nowhere to go.
You pull back abruptly. The towel slips from your hands and lands in his lap with a soft thud.
“Okay,” you say, voice tight. “You’re good.”
Steve blinks, like you just dragged him up from underwater.
His throat bobs. “Cool. Yeah. Thanks.”
You stand too fast. Your knees pop. You don’t look at him when you speak next. “You should lie down for a bit. Keep pressure off the stitches.”
He nods, a little too slow.
You grab the towel again and press it against his chest. Not hard, but firm enough to make a point. Whatever it is.
Then you turn.
And you walk out.
You don’t need to look back to know he’s still watching you go.
...
It starts the way summer storms do.
Not with thunder. Not with rain.
With pressure.
The kind that presses close to the skin, wrapping around like a second layer. That hair-raising, skin-prickling tingle. Right as the birds go quiet and the trees hold still and the sky forgets how to move.
Stillness so absolute your skin buzzes with it.
The moment before it tips.
It’s here now. In this room.
In the narrow inches of couch cushion between you. In the weight of the blanket tangled over your legs. In the single, unspoken brush of his thigh against yours.
The TV plays to no one. A dull flicker of static and synth beats, some late-afternoon rerun neither of you are really watching. The glow of it pulses dim blue across his skin, the shadows deepening where his jaw tightens every time you move.
The room smells like clean skin and new sweat. Yours. His. Both.
His voice breaks the quiet.
“Hey, how long ‘til the stitches come out again?”
“Ten days.”
“Hm. I like this show.”
“Knight Rider?”
“Yeah. It’s cool.”
“No. It’s dumb.”
“What? C’mon, the car talks.”
“Exactly.” A beat. “How do the stitches feel?”
“Uh, good. Yeah. They’re fine.”
“You hungry?”
“No, you?”
“No.”
And it builds, again. That low, rolling kind of stillness.
Storm pressure.
It crawls up your spine. Pools hot behind your ears. You fidget with the hem of the blanket, rolling your shoulder back into the cushion like you can shake it loose.
You can’t.
The blanket’s too warm.
He’s too close.
And he’s watching you. You don’t have to look to know.
“…You’re doing it again.”
“Hm?”
You turn your head. Meet his gaze full-on. “Looking at me like that.”
His lips part. “Like what?”
Your eyes drop to his mouth.
His pinky brushes yours.
And just like that, the storm breaks.
…
Steve leans in first.
The same way he had in the bathroom, instinctive and unthinking. Like something inside him keeps tipping forward and you’re the only place left to fall.
Only this time, you don’t let him do it alone.
You meet him halfway.
His nose nudges yours. His breath fans hot across your cheek.
And then your lips meet.
A question and an answer, exchanged wordlessly.
There’s no clean edge between want and need, no way to separate gentle from hungry. One second, it’s the cautious warmth of shared breath, the next—
It’s the pull of his hands. The low, wrecked sound he makes in his throat when your fingers slide up his neck, threading into the damp hair at his nape.
Heat. Ozone. The bright-white zing of electricity rocketing down your spine.
You move forward without thinking. He shifts to catch you, hands spanning your hips, guiding you into his lap. You straddle him, careful to avoid the bruises across his stomach.
His breath is hot. His lips are plush, a little chapped from the way he’s been chewing on them all night.
Wordlessly, you reach for the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head and letting it fall behind you. Cool air rushes over your skin.
Steve goes still. “God, you’re…” He breathes, throat working around the rest of the words when you take his hand and guide it upwards. Across your stomach, up your ribs. His thumb grazes over your nipple, soft and reverent, and your breath hitches.
You tug him back into a kiss, hips starting to drag across his lap. The hard press of him burns heat through the cotton of your sleep shorts.
“Good?” you breathe against his mouth.
“Yeah,” he rasps. “Fuck. Yeah. You?”
You nod, catching your breath.
But he doesn’t stop looking at you
And there’s something about the way his gaze lingers—soft, searching—like he’s waiting for more than just an answer to a question. Something he doesn’t know how to say out loud.
But you know.
You just… know.
The same way you knew when your hands were in his hair earlier. That quiet ache. That silent pull in him, desperate and soft.
So you give him what he doesn’t know how to ask for.
Your hand slides up to his chest, pressing over his heart. It’s pounding. So is yours.
“You feel so good, Steve,” you whisper, close enough for him to taste the words off your lips. “You’re so good. So fucking good.”
He shudders, pulling you in tighter, groaning with his lips buried against your neck like he needs to hide the sound somewhere safe.
Still, you don’t stop.
You reach for his hand and slide it lower, under the waistband of your shorts. His fingers slip through your slick heat and go still.
“Jesus,” he breathes.
You kiss his temple, then his cheek. Frame his jaw with both hands and lift his gaze to yours.
“Feel that?” you murmur. “That’s for you. All for you.”
He lets out a strangled sound, nearly pained, and surges up to kiss you again. His fingers start to stroke through your heat, finding the rhythm, learning you. When his thumb grazes your clit and starts to circle, you gasp, hips jerking into his touch.
“Shit, baby…” he breathes.
And that word—
It’s soft. Unconscious. Slipped out before he knew it was there.
You don’t think he even realizes he said it. His eyes are blown wide, focused only on you: the way your hips grind, the way you cling to him when his fingers push deeper.
Still, there’s that tremble in his voice.
Like that word came from somewhere deeper than he meant to reach. Like it cracked off the part of him that’s always waiting to be turned away but still dares to offer softness first.
You roll your hips again, chasing friction, but your focus has shifted now. You’re watching him instead—flushed and open beneath you, mouth parted, eyes locked to your face like you’re something he’s trying to memorize.
And it guts you. The honesty of it.
How easy it is to see now.
That this is someone who aches for closeness. Reaches for it before he even realizes he’s doing it. Who says baby like it’s the only word he knows for want.
Your chest grows tight. The heat in your stomach twists into something unbearably tender.
You roll your hips one last time, savoring the drag of him against you, then shift off his lap. His hand slips from your shorts, reluctant, trailing warmth up your stomach.
His eyes follow you as you slide to the floor. Your knees sinking into the carpet, fingers hooking in the waistband of his pants. He lifts his hips and—
You blink. Your mouth goes dry.
Because he’s—
Wow. Okay.
Noted.
It’s not just the size—though, yeah, that’s definitely part of it. It’s the weight of him. The flushed color, the dusky warmth. Velvety skin stretched tight over thick veins. The way he sits heavy against his thigh, curved just slightly, leaking at the tip and twitching under your gaze.
You swallow hard.
“What?” He stirs, uncertain. “Is something…?”
You look up at him, eyes wide.
“Jesus, Steve…” you breathe. “Just. Holy shit.”
His brows pinch together, concern flickering across his face—until he sees your expression.
And there it is.
That grin. That stupid, boyish, shit-eating grin.
“Oh,” he says, trying to play it off. “Yeah?”
You narrow your eyes, desperately trying to hide your smile. “Don’t get cocky.”
He raises a brow.
You realize your mistake immediately. Your cheeks flare hot.
He laughs, breathless. Looks down at you all soft and pleased and fond. It makes you want to bite him until he forgets how to smirk entirely. Kiss him stupid and never let him go.
“Shut up,” you mutter.
“Didn’t say anything,” he says, still smiling.
You roll your eyes and yank his pants the rest of the way down.
He quiets instantly.
Because your hands are on him now.
You stroke his thighs first, warming up the sensitive skin there. Pressing soft kisses along the inside, inching higher and higher until he’s twitching under your mouth.
“You’re so pretty like this,” you whisper. “You don’t even know, do you?”
He makes a strangled sound, part laugh, part disbelieving groan. His hands flex where they rest against his thighs.
You reach up and guide one to your hair, eyes still on his.
“You can touch me,” you murmur.
His fingers curl, tentative. “You sure?”
You nod. “I want you to. Want you to feel this.”
Then, without looking away, you lower your mouth to him.
Slow. Wet. Base to tip, dragging your tongue along the underside. He jerks, whole body going taut.
“Jesus,” he hisses. “Okay. Okay.”
You take your time. Because no one ever has, it seems. Not like this.
Your fingers wrap around the base, tongue gliding along the ridge, licking the salt beading at the tip. Every twitch, every shudder, every wrecked baby whispered from above becomes something you file away silently, cataloguing the way he unravels.
And Steve unravels beautifully.
You glance up through your lashes, watching the way his stomach trembles, how his throat works. All the control he’s trying so hard to hold on to.
Then finally, you wrap your lips around him.
Just the head at first, sucking slow and sweet. You circle your tongue around the crown and let out a soft hum.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “Baby, your mouth—shit—”
His voice keeps catching like he doesn’t quite believe it. You get the sense he hasn’t been cherished in this way, either. Adored. Worshipped.
So you double down.
You ease off for a breath, kissing the flushed tip, thumb gliding over the sensitive skin there. Then you sink deeper, lips sliding lower, jaw loosening, tongue tracing the underside as you stretch around the thickest part of him.
You keep going until he’s pressed up against your palate, brushing the back of your throat. You breathe into it. Let the weight of him sit there, hot and thick and yours.
“Shit, shit—” he pants. “I’m not—not gonna last if you keep—"
You pull off with a soft pop, lips slick and swollen. A line of spit follows you from the flushed head of his cock.
“It’s okay,” you smile, breath warm against his skin. “Don’t have to. Just want you to feel good.”
He stares down at you, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy.
Then, suddenly, breathless and earnest:
“Wait, can I—can I get you off first?”
You pause, stunned.
You blink up at him, hand still wrapped around the base of his cock. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” he says, quick and pleading. He cups your jaw, stroking your cheek. “Please. Let me?”
You hold his gaze a moment longer, drowning in that quiet, unspoken vulnerability he carries, one you’re learning to name without words.
Then, finally, you nod.
“Okay.”
You crawl back into his lap, shorts discarded somewhere behind you, it doesn’t matter where.
What matters is the way his hands settle on you again, calloused palms sliding around your hips, drawing you closer. You feel the thick heat of him pressed between your thighs, sticky and flushed and aching.
You roll your hips teasingly, gliding against him before reaching down to line him up. The head of his cock nudges, presses, catches. Then slowly, inch by inch, you sink down.
The stretch is immediate. Hot and all-consuming. You clutch at his shoulders, mouth falling open as you let your weight sink deeper, not pausing until he’s fully seated.
Your thighs tremble where you straddle him.
Steve groans low, one arm tight around your waist, the other gripping your hip.
“Shit, are you—?”
“I’m okay,” you breathe, laughing softly into his skin. “Just… gimme a sec. You’re kind of a lot, Harrington.”
He kisses you, rubbing circles into your back while you adjust. The burn softens. The fullness remains.
And when you start to move—lifting your hips, rolling them back down—you feel him everywhere.
“God,” you pant, “you feel so good.”
You kiss his jaw, his throat, burying whispers between breaths.
“Can feel you so deep—fuck—”
The rhythm builds slowly. Wide circles, deep grinds, savoring the way his cock hits just right.
And the more you give him—You feel so good, Fucking me so well, Love how you feel inside me—he melts a little more beneath you.
“Shit, right there—” you gasp, hips stuttering when his hand slides between your bodies, pressing into your clit.
“Come for me,” he whispers, voice rough. “Please. Want to feel you.”
His fingers circle faster.
And your body breaks.
You cry out, nails digging into his shoulders, every muscle clenched and trembling as the orgasm crashes through you. You collapse against his chest, shaking, gasping his name, everything hot and white and so much.
He holds you through it, breathing hard against your temple.
“That’s it,” he pants. “That’s it, baby, I’ve got you—fuck—”
You’re still trembling in his lap when you feel him thrust up into you once, twice. He pulls out with a sudden gasp, groaning your name, spilling hot and thick across your stomach, shuddering with the force of it.
You kiss him through the haze of your own come-down, legs still trembling, fingers tangled in the sweat-damp hair at his nape.
“Just like that,” you whisper. “You’re perfect like this, Steve. So good.”
His breath stutters against your cheek. His body, still pulsing with aftershocks, presses into yours like he can’t stand the space between.
And even after the world goes still, after the stuttered breaths give way to silence and the hum of the TV creeps back in, you keep touching him. Stroking his hair, brushing sweat from his brow, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses anywhere your mouth can reach.
And in the hush that follows, you murmur things you’ve never said aloud. Not to anyone.
Things too raw for daylight.
Things meant only for him.
…
You never ask him to stay.
Not when he wakes beside you the next morning, bare-chested, sleep-warm, hair sticking up in a dozen directions. Not when he wanders into your kitchen wearing nothing but rumpled boxers, whisking eggs for French toast like it’s an inside joke you’ve shared forever.
Not when you start leaving the sugar bowl out because that’s how he takes his coffee: one teaspoon, no milk. Not when you slip a second toothbrush into the cup by the sink, bristles leaning together like they’ve been kissing too.
He never asks. You never offer.
…
You learn the little things first.
That he hums when he cooks, usually something dumb from the radio, sometimes dumber jingles from the worst commercials. That he wipes down your counters when he thinks you’re not looking. That he folds your laundry better than you do, big hands careful with worn-out cotton and delicate lace. It gets to you, the way he touches your things like they matter.
And sometimes, you catch him staring again.
Only now, you don’t look away.
You’ll be across the room, pretending to read, eyes dragging over the same sentence for the fifth time because you can feel his gaze on you. He’ll be leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed, wearing that stupid smug expression he pulls when he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Seriously, Harrington,” you mutter, eyes on the page. “Take a picture.”
He doesn’t blink. “I’m good. Like this view better."
You roll your eyes and throw a sock at his face. He catches it one-handed, smug.
Then he moves.
Three steps. That’s all it takes.
Three steps until your back’s against the mattress, his weight pressing you down, mouth dragging hot across your collarbone. His hands sneak under your shirt, warm palms sliding up your ribs. His lips chase yours like it’s a promise he’s been dying to keep.
“You’re annoying,” you whisper, breath hitching as he nips at your neck.
He grins into your skin. “Yeah? You gonna kick me out, then?”
You don’t.
You kind of never do.
…
The days bleed together after that.
A quick stop at his house to grab spare clothes turns into a silent pause in front of his dresser. His fingers hover over a framed photo: faces you don’t know, smiles frozen mid-laugh.
He doesn’t explain. You don’t ask. You just wait by the door until he turns and threads his fingers through yours.
He doesn’t let go the whole ride back.
A grocery run on day three turns into a dumb argument in the pasta aisle. You’re ranting about canned tomatoes; he’s trailing behind you like a sulking toddler, forearms slung across the cart handle, sneaking cookies into the basket when you’re not looking.
You scowl at checkout. He grins.
“You’re gonna thank me later,” he says.
You do.
First with a mouthful of chocolate and a grudging laugh.
Then again, ten minutes later, when your 'thank-you's come in the shape of his name and a fistful of his hair between your thighs.
…
Eventually, the domestic stops feeling borrowed.
It starts to feel owned.
You vacuum, he sweeps. You cook, he washes up. He steals bites of dinner while it’s still sizzling and you smack him with a spatula, pretending to be mad.
He says, “Ow,” even when it doesn’t hurt. You say, “Asshole,” even when it’s not true.
On the fourth night, you both sit cross-legged on the living room floor, scrubbing blood out of the couch cushions with baking soda and half-assed prayers.
He’s watching you. Again.
You glance up. "What?"
He shrugs, smiling a little. “Nothing.”
“Steve.”
“I just…” He hesitates. Looks down. “I like this.”
You raise a brow. “Cleaning your blood out of my furniture?”
He shuffles forward, bringing his cushion closer to yours.
“Yeah,” he says.
But it’s not what he means.
You both know that.
…
The sex changes, too.
In the mornings, it’s quiet. Slow. All languid stretches and sleep-warm skin, coaxing sighs from your lips as the sun peeks through the blinds.
But at night? He’s something else entirely.
He fucks you like he needs it to survive. Like you’re his last breath. Gripping your thighs, your hips—holding you open, holding you still, driving into you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you forever.
And as the bruises fade, so does his hesitation.
He knows you now.
Knows what makes you beg, what makes you break. Where to bite, where to suck, where to press until your voice is raw and your nails leave crescent moons down his spine.
One night, he pins your wrists above your head, breath ragged.
“Say it,” he murmurs, grinding deep. “Tell me who makes you feel like this.”
You break on his name.
He swallows the sound with his mouth and doesn’t stop until your thighs are shaking.
And afterward, he stays.
Inside you. Around you.
He never pulls away first.
…
Not all nights are easy.
Some nights, you wake alone.
You find him in the kitchen, framed by the glow of the open fridge. The light catches the tired slope of his shoulders, the untouched glass of water going warm in his hand.
You don’t ask. Just step in behind him, press your cheek between his shoulder blades, and wrap your arms tight around his waist.
He breathes out. Sets the glass down. Closes the fridge.
When he turns, he doesn’t speak. Just lets you hold him.
Lets you guide him back to bed.
…
Your mornings are different now.
You wake in shirts that smell like him. Brush your teeth while he showers, fog curling across the mirror. He laughs at something stupid from behind the curtain, and you laugh back, still half-asleep.
It all happens so slowly you almost miss it.
The toothbrush that isn’t yours. The second pillow with its permanent dent. The pair of shoes you stop tripping over by the door because you’ve learned to walk around them.
He’s etched himself into your life in the smallest of ways. Fit through the cracks with warm hands and boyish grins and quiet looks in the daylight.
Like maybe he was meant to be here all along.
…
Somewhere between day seven and eight, you stop keeping count.
Because every morning, you tell yourself he’ll probably leave soon.
And every night, he gives you another reason to believe he won’t.
…
Like tonight.
You’re wrapped around each other, skin still damp with heat, covers shoved somewhere near the foot of the bed. His hand rests on your back, fingers splayed. Yours curls against his chest, cheek pressed to the slow, steady rhythm behind his ribs.
It would be so easy to stay here.
To let the quiet stretch. To pretend the heaviness in your chest is just exhaustion, not the weight you've been carrying since the night you dragged his bleeding body across your living room. Since you sat awake beside him, watching every shallow breath, waiting for the next one to come.
But the question’s been sitting on your chest for days now. And with the weight of him beside you, it presses too hard to ignore.
“Why’d you do it?”
He doesn’t answer right away, and you wonder if he’s already fallen asleep. But then his chest rises under your cheek—a careful, deliberate breath.
“…Do what?”
“The lake,” you murmur. “You jumped in first. Why?”
He’s quiet for a beat too long. You glance up to find the tight underside of his jaw, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“I don’t know,” he sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. “Someone had to go. And I was the best swimmer, so. Didn’t really have to think about it.”
And you believe him. It’s the part that hurts the most.
That he didn’t have to think. That throwing himself in came as naturally as breathing.
Because somewhere along the way, Steve Harrington decided that his pain was worth less than everyone else's.
You shift closer, hooking your chin on his shoulder. His thumb draws slow, thoughtful circles against your spine.
“Steve,” you say quietly. “You know it’s not about being a hero, right? You don’t have to keep throwing yourself in front of everything just to prove yourself.”
His hand stills.
“I’m not.”
“Not what?”
“A hero. I’m not.” He lets out a bitter huff, eyes looking at something past the ceiling. “I was… just kind of a selfish asshole for a long time. Didn’t care about much. Or anyone. And even after I tried to fix it, it just—it never felt like enough. Still doesn’t.”
You watch him, the weight of his words like pressing down on a bruise.
“So what, you jump into lakes now to make up for it?”
He almost smiles. “Kinda. Yeah.”
Then, quieter:
“I don’t know, it’s like, if I’m not the one stepping up, then… what’s the point, you know? What the hell am I even good for?”
Your heart aches. Because god, how long has he carried that? How many times has he thrown himself in just to keep from drowning?
You see it then, the fracture that runs through him. Spiderwebbed across everything he is, everything he was. A wound so old it’s fused to him. Clotted over, never cleaned.
The weight he carries isn’t something he puts on; it’s something that grew with him.
Years of being told he wasn’t enough. Not smart enough. Not serious enough. Just the boy with the car, the smile, the house too big for how small it made him feel.
That kind of doubt doesn’t heal. It burrows deep.
Sinks its teeth in. Festers.
Until guilt turns into remorse,
Remorse turns into habit,
And habit drags on as penance.
So he made himself useful.
Built his worth out of protection. Of stepping up, stepping in, taking the hit before anyone else could.
Diving first. Bleeding first.
Hurt first. Hurt worst. Hurt instead.
That’s where his value lives. Not in being loved, but in being needed.
You lift yourself up until you're eye to eye, cupping his face, thumbs brushing the tops of his cheeks.
“You’re for you, Steve.”
He blinks, brows knitting.
“You don’t have to earn it. Being loved. Being cared for. That’s not something you have to prove.”
His eyes search yours, like he’s trying to make sense of the words.
Then, slowly, his shoulders ease. He cups the back of your neck, drawing you in. His exhale against your lips sounds like a weight being untethered.
You stay like that for a while, breathing together, fingers laced at his chest.
Eventually, he sleeps.
You don’t.
You stay awake, tracing the lines of his face in the dark. The peace that sleep gives him. The stillness that never lasts.
You watch as his brow smooths. As his lips part. As his lashes flutter once, then settle into stillness.
You stay up.
Because someone has to.
…
You get used to the quiet.
Used to Steve padding around the house in socks, humming half a tune under his breath.
To the way he opens every cupboard before finding the cereal that’s been in the same spot for days.
To the way he claims half your couch, half your bed, half your toothpaste.
You get used to someone else’s heartbeat in your space.
So when the knocking starts—three sharp raps that rattle the wood—it takes you both by surprise.
Steve’s already halfway to the door when you follow, tugging your sweatshirt over your head.
You’ve barely turned the knob before the door bursts open.
“Guess who’s officially un-grounded and here to collect her idiot boy? Oh, and look—I brought backup!”
Robin barrels in first, followed by two figures: a curly-haired kid drowning in a bright yellow baseball cap, and behind him, a taller shape in black denim and leather. Eddie Munson, wearing that same smug grin you remember vaguely from high school.
You’ve heard about them, of course—Steve’s strange little apocalypse crew—but hearing about it is one thing, seeing it is another.
“He’s alive!” Robin crows, flinging her arms around Steve.
“Took you long enough,” he mutters into her shoulder.
“Uh, excuse me. Your fault,” she shoots back, jabbing a finger in his chest. “Grounded, remember?” Then she turns to you, eyes sharp with curiosity. “So? How much trouble was he?”
You glance over at Steve. He’s already looking back, mouth tugging at the corner like he’s daring you to say something first. There’s a kaleidoscope of memory that flashes between you in the space of a blink.
You look back at Robin and shrug, casual as ever. “Not much. He folds my laundry now.”
Robin gasps. Eddie lets out a low whistle.
“Well, shit,” he drawls. “Steve Harrington, domesticated. Didn’t think I’d live to see the day.”
Steve rolls his eyes. “You guys are hilarious.”
But his ears are pink by the time you close the door.
…
After a round of burnt grilled cheeses, the kitchen’s a mess of crumbs and chatter.
Robin perches on a stool, slurping tomato soup straight from the pot. Eddie’s straddling a chair backwards, drumming on the counter. Dustin paces, orchestrating what sounds like a full-scale military operation using a butter knife and a salt shaker.
“—I’m saying if we shift the rendezvous point closer to the treeline, we can cut our response time in half. Minimum.”
Steve leans against the fridge, nodding like he’s catching every third word.
You’re at the sink, rinsing dishes, the voices behind you fading into a comfortable hum—until Dustin steps in beside you, tone low and careful.
“So… he’s okay to come back now, right?
You glance over your shoulder.
Steve’s got his shirt hiked up for Robin and Eddie to see, scars catching the kitchen light—pale and raised, still tender from where you pulled out the last stitch two days ago. Robin wrinkles her nose, groaning about how she's lost her appetite.
You turn back to Dustin. “I mean, no fever, no infection. Doesn’t seem to be actively dying. So yeah, I’d say he’s good.”
Dustin beams. “Awesome.”
You hesitate. Then, before you can stop yourself:
“Actually… I was thinking I could come with you guys this time.”
The room goes still.
Robin lowers her spoon. Eddie looks up. Even the sink seems to hush.
Steve’s voice breaks the quiet.
“No.”
You turn, incredulous. “Excuse me?”
“No way,” he says, pushing off the fridge, crossing the kitchen with that particular brand of determined worry you’ve come to recognize. “You’re not going.”
You blink at him like, Seriously?
He raises his brows like, Try me.
You sigh, turning off the water. “I wouldn’t be going in. Just close enough to help. You know, in case someone ends up bleeding to death again?” You shoot him a pointed look.
He ignores it, jaw working like he’s gearing up to argue again. But Dustin cuts in.
“Wait, that’s actually kind of genius,” he mutters thoughtfully. “You could be our medic. Like—Eddie, dude, she could be like our cleric!”
You frown. “Our what now?”
“D&D thing,” Eddie smirks. “Healing spells. Keeps the rest of us idiots alive.”
You laugh softly. “Sure. Okay. Cleric.”
But Steve isn’t laughing.
“Wait, just—hang on,” he steps forward, catching your wrist. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
…
The hallway is narrow and dim, lit only by the slant of light spilling in from the kitchen.
You lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching him pace three slow steps before stopping, running both hands through his hair.
He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t speak.
You wait.
Finally, quietly: “You can’t come with us.”
You narrow your eyes. “You’re not the boss of me.”
“I mean it.” His voice is low. Firm. But it’s not angry. Not that sharp, flinty tone you remember from high school, when he used to wield confidence like armor. No, this is something else.
Fear.
You tilt your head, voice softening. “Steve…”
He exhales through his nose, more of a tremor than a breath. “You heard what it’s like down there. You saw what happened last time.”
“I did. That’s why I’ve decided to go.”
His eyes snap to yours, incredulous. “And you didn’t think to talk to me about it before?”
“Why? So you could freak out and tell me no?”
“I’m not—” He cuts himself off, jaw flexing. “I just can’t ask you to risk that. It’s not fair.”
“You’re not asking,” you say quietly. “I’m offering.”
For a moment, neither of you moves. He stares at you like he’s searching for something—some argument, some loophole that’ll make you stay here while he walks back into hell. Like if he keep fighting back, maybe he won’t have to admit what this really is.
But when he speaks, his voice isn’t tense anymore. It just trembles.
“I can’t—I can’t lose you in there. You get that? I can’t. I just…” His eyes flicker away, toward the shadowed doorway behind you. He swallows hard.
“...I just got you.”
The quiet stretches. You gaze at him, heart heavy.
His shoulders are tense when you reach for his hand. His fingers twitch in yours, like he’s ready to pull away—but he doesn’t. He never does.
“Steve,” you start gently. “I know you’re scared. I am too. But I can’t just sit here and wait while you...” you take a breath, squeezing his hand. “If there’s a chance I can help, I’m taking it.”
He looks down at your joined hands, your fingers laced tight. His thumb drags slow, absent circles against your skin—once, twice, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of it. The fight drains out of him with a sigh that sounds too big for his chest.
He steps forward wordlessly, and pulls you into his arms. His chin drops to the top of your head. You press your cheek to his chest, feeling the wild rhythm of his heart start to slow.
“Fine,” he murmurs. “But you’re staying up here. Radio only. And you’re not going anywhere near the gate, you hear me?”
You smile into his shirt. “Deal.”
…
It’s almost 3 p.m. when he stirs.
The sunlight’s lazy this time of day, all thick and golden, caught in the slow spin of dust motes above the coffee table. The air smells like coffee and the lavender candle you lit this morning. You’re curled sideways on the couch, a book open but long forgotten on your chest.
“Jesus,” comes a voice beside you, rough with sleep. “How long was I out?”
You smile, already watching. “Couple hours.”
He squints at the light. “You let me nap that long?”
“You needed it.”
Steve rolls up from where he was buried in the couch, a soft pillow line stamped across his cheek. His hair’s flattened on one side and sticking up in the back. You reach out and comb your fingers through the mess. It fluffs up worse for it, but he sighs and leans into your hand anyway.
He trades the throw pillow for your stomach, draping a heavy arm across your waist. You rest your palm on his shoulder, thumb tracing the ridge of his collarbone.
The house hums around you: the low buzz of the fridge, the steady tick of the clock, the soft creak of settling wood. It’s a silence that no longer feels hollow.
You let it breathe.
It’s been three weeks.
Three weeks since you stood on the other side of a collapsing gate, heart in your throat, waiting for their silhouettes to break through the mist.
Three weeks since the air finally stilled, the ground stopped shaking, and the last portal sealed itself shut behind Eddie, behind Robin, behind all of them.
Three weeks since you checked every pulse, cleaned every wound, counted every head, and realized, miraculously, that no one was missing.
That everyone made it out. Alive. Together.
Three weeks since Steve stumbled out of the wreckage and into your arms and didn’t let go.
The bruises have faded since then. The stitches dissolved. The nightmares are fewer now, further between.
And Steve hasn’t left. Not once.
You're not sure when it stopped being temporary. When duffel bags became dresser drawers, when his shaving cream started living on your bathroom counter, next to the ceramic dish that holds your rings. When the dent in your couch, the dip in your pillow, stopped feeling like borrowed space and started feeling like home.
He still has his edges, the instinct to fix, to shield, to throw himself in front of the next disaster before it happens. But you’ve learned how to slow him down. To be the hand that pulls him back before he burns himself out.
And he’s learning to let you.
You’re halfway lost in that thought when he pokes your side.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “You okay?”
You hum. “Just thinking.”
“Uh oh,” he teases, voice still scratchy with sleep.
You smile, ruffling his hair. He groans and nips playfully at your stomach. When your laughter settles, you say it, quietly:
“I was just… thinking about what you said.”
He stills, blinking up at you. “Yeah? What’d I say now?”
“At the gate.”
That’s all you have to say. You both remember.
The roar, the smoke, the sting of blood and dirt. The ground giving out beneath you when he finally made it out—only to tell you he had to go back. One last time. To help the others out. To step into the jaws of a place that wanted to claim him for good.
I know! I know! Just—I need to tell you something. No, I know, just listen—
You remember the chaos closing in, the sky fractured by fire and screaming metal, and his hands—steady, impossibly steady—as he caught your face. His voice cracking on the words:
I love you. I need you to know that, okay? I love you.
You stare at the book laying on your chest, swallowing hard. “I never said it back.”
Steve looks at you for a long moment.
Then, softly: “Yeah, you did.”
“When?”
He smiles, tracing a quiet pattern along your waist.
“Not out loud. But you did.”
You think back.
To the tremor in your hands as you let his fingers slip away. The hitch in your breath when the walkie crackled with his voice. To how tightly you held on when he staggered out with the others, bruised and shaking and breathing, and realized you could finally breathe too.
Every heartbeat since has felt like a promise.
Maybe words would’ve failed then. Maybe he heard it in all the ways you refused to let go.
Your fingers find his jaw.
“Still,” you whisper. “I want to say it now.”
He tilts his head, waiting.
And you do.
Softly, firmly, the words falling easy like they’d been waiting inside you all along.
And when he says it back, you feel it in your chest long before you hear it.
…
The house is still too small. The front door still sticks when it rains. The couch still carries the faint stain from that first night.
But it’s home.
More than it ever was. More than it ever could’ve been without him.
The proof is everywhere: his Ray-Bans next to your keys, a battered boombox on your plant windowsill, the Polaroid Robin took where he’s smiling at you instead of the camera.
Some nights still weigh heavy on him. When even rest won’t stay kind.
But on those nights, he finds you. He always will.
And somewhere between the grocery runs and movie marathons, between loud songs in the kitchen and quiet kisses before bed, it stopped feeling like borrowed time.
It’s just time, now.
Yours.
Together.
…
Robin once told you that you get off on fixing people.
She meant hearts. You meant bones.
Maybe she was right.
But maybe that’s not such a bad thing.
You've named it something else now, anyway.
…
epilogue
You stretch, set the book aside, and head for the kitchen.
You’ve got prep to do for night.
Steve moves in behind you, hair still rumpled, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He leans his hip against the counter, flipping through the Player’s Handbook Dustin left last week, brow furrowed like he’s cramming for a test.
“I swear,” he mutters, squinting, “you need a math degree to play this game.”
You laugh, laying a neat row of apple slices beside a bowl of pretzel sticks and M&Ms—fuel for the chaos to come. “You’ll live.”
“Not if Eddie's dragon eats me.”
“Well, maybe you should listen to your cleric tonight, then.”
He grins, stealing a slice from the tray, then slides closer until he’s flush against you. His hips trap you against the counter, chest warm against your back. He leans into the crook of your neck, lips grazing your ear.
“You know it's kinda hot when you boss me around, right?”
Before you can roll your eyes, he catches you by the hips and spins you around, grin breaking wide and easy. You love how it softens his face, how it creases the corners of his eyes.
Soon, the party will be here—arms full of sodas, dice clattering in boxes, voices overlapping in familiar chaos. The house will fill with laughter, with the easy rhythm of shared lives.
But for now, it’s just him.
Rumpled hair. Soft smile. Apple-sweet kisses and the honey-gold hush of afternoon light.
And the sun keeps pouring in.
writing fanfics has made me go out of my way to learn things and do deep research in ways no colleges, exams, jobs or other projects ever could. yes, it’s a hobby. but it’s also my love and passion. next time you say “fanfics are an unserious activity for kids”, I will actually bite you. no ma’am, while kids certainly can enjoy writing fanfics, it’s sleep-deprived adults — with jobs and responsibilities, bills to pay, kids to raise, animals to take care of, battles to fight — who have built the fanfic community and always been the backbone of it since day one.
his favorite books as a child were "where the wild things are" by maurice sendak and "the velveteen rabbit" by margery williams.
his mother used to sing "(they long to be) close to you" by the carpenters as a lullaby and to soothe him after one of neil's rampages. (because of the lyrics: "on the day that you were born/the angels got together and decided to create a dream come true/so they sprinkled moondust in your hair of gold/and starlight in your eyes of blue"). this is the song that would save him from the hold of vecna/the mindflayer.
his mother's name is rose
he once met a little girl at the beach when he was 8 and his surfboard spun out and crashed into her while she was picking up seashells on the shore. the sand dollar she was holding broke in half and she gave him one to keep. he still has it.
he used to cry a lot at movies or songs that made him emotional, before neil crushed his softer side.
love the idea of billy and eddie being friends but still not running in the same social circles. like they don't really hang out at school, each preferring to sit with their own friend groups but everyone kinda has to accept that this new king of hawkins high and the nerdy drug dealer are friendly with one another and it was a shock to the social food chain.
but it's not unusual for billy and his friends to pass eddie in the hallway and chuck him a tape with a 'trade ya for that dio album' and eddie replies with a salute and just continues on his way.
metallica release master of puppets and eddie fuckin pounces on billys back, shakes him back and forth right in front of the other jocks and just yells 'METALLICA FUCKIN METALLICA' and billy just turns around and puts him in a headlock because of course he's coming over that night to listen together despite them both listening on repeat already.
Thinking about the idea of Billy Hargrove and the potential hypersexualization of oneself.
While there is a sense of vanity in how he sees himself, and how he drinks in on the attention girls & older women have given him, that attention is often coupled with the idea of Billy making himself of great sexual appeal to others, particularly women— even though he’s a teenager in high school.
A part of it can be a subconscious thing he does. Seeking that attention and treating it like it’s affection, and/or love of any kind, especially when in the absence of a missing mother figure. A part of it can be a way to perform; to make his dad believe that the queer has been beaten out of Billy after all. A part of it can also be something deeper — something relating to the concept of hypersexuality. Or perhaps having a twisted sense of what is love and what is lust. A way to cope and keep his mind off things. Whether it would be his father’s fist, his mother’s abandonment, his deadly anger, his little boy crushes, his self-loathing, no self-worth…
about: max hates the way billy treats girls, steve is nothing like billy
c.w: mentions of sex but nothing explicit, billy being awful to women but again nothing explicit, soft fluff because steve is a girl dad, some canon divergence with how the fight with billy went in the s2 finale, angsty with a tooth-rottingly fluffy ending, no pronouns for reader but mentions of reader wearing makeup
a/n: max is my daughter i love her so much, i wish they elaborated more on her and steve’s relationship in the show because i just know she wishes he was her older brother instead of billy, divider by @cursed-carmine
Billy is weird with girls. Sometimes they call the house asking for him and Max hears Billy say crude words on the phone, words that would have her mouth washed out with soap if her mom heard her say any of them. More often than not there’s a girl in his passenger seat when Billy drives her home, very obviously displeased by Max’s very existence.
And sometimes her mom and his dad— not her dad because he’s back in California— go out late and Billy will bring a girl over, never the same one. He never tells her to get out or leave because he doesn’t care, but Max quickly realizes she should with the disgusting noises they make. She usually goes outside, skating up and down their street until the girl leaves.
He never drives them home and they leave the house with makeup ruined and walking funny. He never lets them stay the night either. Some of them look upset when they leave, others don’t really care.
There’s been a few girls who walk outside and cry on the curb in the dim streetlight. It’s never loud sobbing, just quiet sniffles as they hug themselves. Max never talks to them, she has no idea what she could ever say to them.
Today it’s one of those nights again. His dad booked a fancy dinner in some restaurant across county lines so he won't bring her mom home until the early hours of the morning. This also means whatever girl Billy brings over is going to be there for a long time.
Under usual circumstances this would be fine, Max would just skate downtown to kill time, except it’s the middle of June and a storm is rolling in.
She thinks it’s ridiculous, why is there rain in the middle of summer? It was never like this in California, they had some bouts of rain in December and April but never the summer. Even when it did rain it never lasted long or was bad enough that her mother invested in proper rain attire.
Which is how she finds herself walking down the street, her jeans and converse completely soaked. The crappy poncho her mom bought at Melvald’s was in the clearance section for a reason because her hair is soaked through and she can feel water soaking her shirt.
She wants to go home. Not that dump on Cherry Lane but San Diego.
She feels hot tears welling up in her eyes when her shadow starts to elongate in the puddles and she hears the rev of a car engine behind her. Great, some asshole is gonna splash water all over her. Instead the car slows to a gentle stop next to her and when she turns her head she sees a familiar red BMW, Steve’s already rolling down the window to talk to her.
“What are you doing?” he frowns, and she can see you in the passenger seat craning your head to look at her. “It’s pouring out here.”
Max’s mouth goes dry, what is she doing out here?
“Walk,” she finally says, hoping the lump in her throat isn’t obvious.
“C’mon get in,” Steve replies without missing a beat, nudging his head toward the passenger side. “You’re gonna get yourself sick.”
“I’m fine,” Max insists, because she really is about to start crying and she doesn’t want to be in his car when that happens.
“Max get in,” your voice cuts in, frowning at her and exchanging a glance with Steve, like you two can communicate without speaking.
She does, only because you’ve been the coolest person ever to her since you stabbed Billy with a tranquilizer syringe and threatened him with a baseball bat.
She gets in the backseat, probably ruining Steve’s fancy leather seats with how soaked she is, and immediately notes the grocery bags. Not junk food but actual ingredients, great Steve was gonna cook you dinner and now she’s crashing your date night.
Steve is already slipping off his knit sweater and cranking up the heater. He sets the car in park in the middle of the road before turning around so he can hand her the sweater.
“You wanna actually tell us why you were walking around in the rain?” He has a disapproving frown on his face but for some reason Max doesn’t feel like it’s directed at her.
She wants to refuse the sweater but she’s shivering in the backseat and it feels warm in her hands. So she takes her crappy poncho off and slips it on, hoping the two of you mistake the few tears escaping her eyes for rain.
“Hey we’re not gonna tell your parents,” you say gently, reaching out to smooth down her soaked hair. “We just wanna know, I promise.”
“My parents are out for the night,” her voice cracks when she talks and she really hopes you two just think she’s cold. “So Billy invited a girl over.”
She’s looking down at her soaked shoes because looking at either one of you feels scary right now. Even then she knows you two are exchanging glances, communicating without speaking again. She remembers her mom and dad doing that, when she was younger and they still loved each other.
“Okay,” Steve says after a beat, his voice softer and reaching out to fix the sweater so it sits evenly on her. “You’re gonna come back to my place with us, and then you can use my phone to leave a message for your mom that you’re sleeping at a friend’s house. Sounds good?”
Max nods, trying to rub her hands and warm them up. Steve takes the car out of park and starts driving back to his place. The two of you are quiet throughout the drive and she doesn’t feel like starting a conversation. Every so often her eyes dart back to the grocery bag, the thought of Billy making a girl dinner is so laughable it feels absurd.
After a few minutes the BMW rolls into the driveway and you come over to her door with an umbrella while Steve grabs the grocery bags from the other side. It’s ridiculous for you to walk her twenty feet over to the door with the umbrella but she humors you anyway.
She follows suit when you and Steve slip off your shoes by the front door before walking in. The two of you actually own proper rainboots and Steve gives a glance at her thoroughly soaked converse.
“Alright I’m gonna start cooking dinner,” Steve tells her, gesturing to the grocery bag. “Why don’t you go take a shower?”
“I don’t need–”
You both give her a look.
“...Fine,” she relents after a moment, because it does feel like her bones are rattling inside her body.
“Perfect,” you take her hand, leading her over to the staircase. “I’ll show you where it is and get you some clothes.”
You take her upstairs, stopping by one of the cabinets in the hallway to grab some towels before leading her into Steve’s room. It’s mostly what she’d expect from a teenage boy, some movie posters, a basketball laying around, and a desk that obviously has seen very minimal studying.
She does catch the fact that there are multiple pillows on the bed and the sheets are a nice cream color instead of bachelor navy blue. There’s some books and a candle on the nightstand, along with two mugs holding the remnants of last night’s tea in them.
“Here we go,” you say, finally looking up after having rummaged through the top dresser drawer. Based on the clothes Max can see in, it’s your designated space in Steve’s room.
You hand her the towels along with some fluffy pajama pants, they have little teddy bears on them, along with an oversized t-shirt.
“Bathroom’s down the hall on the left, just yell if you need anything.”
She mumbles acknowledgment and you turn to leave, then Max calls out your name before she realizes it.
“What’s up?” you turn around. Her chest feels tight, everything feels wrong and right at the same time. This is how things should be for her, but they’re not and she’s terrified this brief moment will be stolen from her in seconds.
“You’re not gonna call my parents… right? You or Steve?”
Your face softens and you walk over to her. Wrapping her in a hug and pressing your lips to the top of her head.
“No we’re not,” you murmur and rub her back. “You just have to promise me one thing, okay?”
Max’s shoulders are shaking as she cries into you. Quiet sniffles like the girls who sit on the curb outside of their house after Billy decides he’s done with them. “What is it?”
“Next time something like this happens,” you whisper, still rubbing her back. “Call us, we’ll come get you.”
She nods against you and you hold her for a few minutes until the crying subsides. When she pulls away you press a kiss to her forehead before leaving.
She follows your instructions, going down the hall and to the left to find the bathroom. There’s two of everything. Tooth brushes, towels, body washes, and shampoo and conditioner sets. She can’t resist being nosy and taking a peek in the bathroom drawer. She finds a makeup bag and inside all the products look minimally used.
Steve must have bought it so you wouldn’t need to bring yours back and forth.
The idea of him standing in your bathroom carefully writing down the products and their shade names to buy them is so silly and sweet enough to make her giggle quietly.
Max takes her time in the shower, letting the steaming hot water warm her body. She also wants to make sure she’s fully composed because it’d be way too embarrassing if she started crying again.
She steals your body wash and washes her hair with Steve’s shampoo and conditioner because she thinks it’s funny. The boys make fun of him for preening with how much he invests in his hair products. It’s stupid considering how nosy they got when Dustin revealed he knew Steve’s hair routine. He never actually told any of them.
She dries herself off thoroughly after the shower and examines the skincare products on the counter. Not the cheap soaps she convinced her mom to buy after her face started breaking out. Fancy expensive ones that you need adult money to buy. Two of everything again, things Steve bought to make you more comfortable in his space.
She uses your facewash and dabs on a little moisturizer out of curiosity, it smells like clay and she likes it a bit. After wrapping her hair in a towel she heads out of the bathroom and walks over to the stairs.
The smell of garlic hits her nose and just as she’s about to head down she clears the click of the front door. Then your feet padding on the floor as you walk into the kitchen and tell Steve: “She’s a size six.”
“Hmm you think red rainboots are a little too on the nose?”
“She likes the color so it’ll probably be fine. Just maybe make the pants and coat a different color?”
“How about all yellow? She can look like the Morton Salt girl.”
“Well she would look adorable, but she’d also probably kick you.”
“Red boots it is. I’ll get a small for the pants and a medium for the coat.”
“Steve, that jacket is stupidly expensive.”
“Which is why I’m getting a medium so she can grow into it.”
Max doesn’t tell herself it means anything, she never does, but the next morning she finds a bag of rain gear on her porch.
Summary: Steve is super stressed and sentimental about grad day on behalf of the kids. Reader is trying to help him get it together before it's time to watch them all walk the stage. She once told Steve she was proud of him, now it's time he pay it forward.
Content: S5, Everyone's emotional because it's grad day! Lots of the kids and reader platonic stuff, Steve and kids platonic stuff, roughly fourteen months after the first part of this miniseries. Lots of talk of Eddie and Jane, so kind of whump.
WC: 4k
A/N I absolutely loveee writing platonic stuff just as much as I do romantic so this was a blast to write all the kids into. Please please please if you have any platonic friendship requests with any characters send them my way, I'd love to write them too. PS. I loved the conformitygate idea but knew there would not be a secret episode, however, I dedicate this to all those that are coping. Have some Steve caring for the kids in these trying times!
June 1989
The phone has been ringing off the hook for what feels like all morning. Really you're just tired and its early and whoever is on the other end better hope they have something really important going on.
You trudge in fluffy slipper covered feet to the hallway, covered by a silk robe. The phone has to be tired by now, it's been dialed three seperate times as you clung to your last bits of beauty sleep. It was hard to get any in the first place because Steve had gone out early for whatever reason, leaving you to wake up to an empty half of mattress to your side.
"Hello?" You pick up, not having it in you to be this worried when you've just been interrupted from sleeping in.
"Babe- I've called the house three times, this is important!" You half expected one of the kids to be on the line, really they aren't kids anymore. Most of them turning or already have turned eighteen this year.
"Oh my gosh, okay-" You scrub a hand over your tired face, pinching the bridge of your nose. "What is the matter?" The frustrated tone was not lost in translation on the other end.
"I've been trying to find a gift for Dustin all week and nothing is good enough." He's audibly stressed. Today is the day. "I just came from yet another unsuccessful search and I'm running out of options here." You can hear faint rushes of traffic, a dog barking, some passerby- probably wondering what this guy at the pay phone is freaking out about.
"What? You said that you had that covered!" One of the privileges of bieng together so long was that you got to write both your names on everyone's gifts. You'd had totally abused that by giving Steve free range over who gets what.
"Well I thought I did but everything seems so stupid and insencere," He hasn't been this panicked in a long time. "I just want to give him something special. He's gone through so much shit to get here I can't just give gim a stupid stuffed animal or money- that's too generic. Dustin is not generic."
"I agree, he's not generic." The calm tone almost aggrevates him further. "But, I don't think anyone would say no to a little college spending money."
"Okay, yes, I put cash in the card for everyone. But I want a gift." He stresses further. "He's valedictorian, too, he deserves something cool."
You sigh, thinking for a minute while Steve impatiently waits in hopes you have a better idea. "Cool?" You can work with that. "I'll be ready in fifteen if you want my help. Come home." Setting the phone back before he could respond, you discarded your robe and slippers, trading them for something casual.
Honking could be heard from your now shared driveway while you pulled on your boots, throwing your purse over your shoulder and locking the door behind you.
"Tell me where to go." Dustin would be pretty entertained to see all the fuss this is causing right now.
"Record store, but not the one here. We have to go out of town. I hope you don't have any plans until grad starts." He floors it out of the driveway, burning some serious rubber. "You do have something for everyone else though, right? I mean, we don't have to but you mentioned something about it to me-" Steve wasn't made of money, though he was getting way better at earning it and paying it forward, but he had a little extra cushion this year. He wanted to do something special for all the kids He'd devoted years of his life to protecting and fighting alongside.
"Yeah, I got the other four-" That hurt to hear. There will forever be one missing from the bunch. "It's just Dustin. Nothing seems right. I mean, he's like my best friend."
"Well, what is everyone else getting?" You leaned forward, fiddling with that sweet state of the art radio system.
"Each of them is getting cash and a card- I have to get you to sign those today-" He realizes, nodding towards the glove compartment he'd put them in earlier and white knuckling the wheel out of stress. One might think these were his biological children.
"On it." Once a catchy enough tune was on, you set the radio to that station before scanning over the five cards in a row. You felt a little empty when you reached for non-existent number six, almost asking Steve if he'd forgotten one. You stayed quiet for a little, reading the inscriptions Steve had personalized to each one over and over again until he spoke.
"Oh, gifts." He resumed. "I had to get the parents in on this one but…Lucas and Max are going to California for a couple weeks this summer. They deserve it, and I remember when I first started driving that shithead around the only thing I could get her to talk about was how much she hated Hawkins."
"What! Steve-" The other gifts better be equally as substantial because a fully paid vacation is a little off the wall.
"Two round trip tickets, everything else was up to Lucas' parents. Like hotels and activities and shit. Don't be mad, I know thats a crazy grad gift-" He raises a watch adorned hand from the wheel. Ever the expressive.
"I'm not mad and it is crazy!" But it was his money, and his discretion. You stuck the cards back in the glove box for now, and chucked the closed pen at his side. You'll add your notes later. "They just didn't question some guy years older than their kid buying them a ridiculously insane grad gift?"
"I'm driving, don't throw things!" He retorts. "They know I used to drive them around and babysit and crap all the time, and remember I'm coach now so I've got a better rep." He came up with it all on his own. Consulted parents, funded it, planned it, knew them well enough to think of it that way. So why couldn't he get a gift for Dustin? Whom he was arguably closer with.
"They better love it, a gift like that." You leaned back in the seat. "What about the others?"
"I actually ended up having Jonathan pick out a crap ton of art stuff for Will. The really good brands, no cheaping out." He started. "Then I just made sure to check with Joyce so we didn't get doubles."
"Wow. You got Jonathan in on this? And not me?" It wasn't spoken with any offence, he had just made an interesting choice.
"Well they are brothers." He gestured again. "But I didn't ask for your help until now because I didn't want you stressing out over it and I thought I had everyone covered-"
"What about mike then, what does he get?" You're curious. Especially since he was having the most trouble after everything, understandably so.
"Yeah, that was a hard one…" He sighed. "I still feel like I'm not totally happy with it, but it'll do, and everyone is pretty much even in cost." He prefaced. "I ended up landing on this fancy new typewriter, Nancy said he'd like it and all he's been doing is writing so…" He shrugged with another sigh. "I just feel bad, and I can't give him anything that will fix it."
A pout meets your lips at how much thought and work went into each gift, and how overly critical he was of all of them. "That's a great gift, he'll like that. They're all great."
"Yeah, everything except whatever I think of for Dustin." He says, pulling onto the main road.
"Well then, you'll just have to watch and learn as I save the day with the power of metal." You laugh to yourself a little. "Power metal?"
"Oh my god." He almost face palms but he's still paying attention to the road.
When you arrive to the 'good record store' as you had so frequently called it in past times, Steve is a little reluctant about the gift idea, though he hasn't heard the full explanation.
You're actively perusing the new releases section and grabbing a handful of titles. He doesn't remotely recognize anything except for the creature on the holy diver album a few sections over- he remembers you and Eddie calling it 'Murray' years ago- the familiar Dio back patch hangs in the back of your shared closet now, unwashed of the dirt and grime it had collected while on Steves shoulders. He kept it after all that time, mostly out of a deep kind guilt that rests in a dark space in his chest.
"Hey, uhm-" Steve runs a hand across the album before picking it up and returning to the section you're shopping around in. "What about this one for Dustin?" Steve doesn't know how to tell him that he feels it too. The guilt and the grieving and the feeling that it should've been him. He understands your idea a little more now.
You nod no. "He already has that one, that's why I'm grabbing new releases." You swat a hand, gesturing for him to put it back.
He returns to your side with a hand on the small of your back. "I just thought- because Eddie, and Dustin's whole speech plan and-"
"I know." You spoke assuringly. "There'll be new albums from bands Ed liked, we can get him those." You explained the plan with extra grace reserved only for him. "I think most of the music stuff he left behind was given to Dustin by Wayne already- anything that was salvageable." The rift coming from the gate didn't leave much behind, but there was always the van.
Steve nods in understanding as you browse. Just then, a store employee eagerly approaches the both of you. "You two must be shopping for your son, having some difficulties?"
Steve's jaw drops. And you're too shocked to even pick it up for him. "Uh-"
"I overheard," The employee explains, already pulling a selection from the shelves. "Don't worry about it- shopping for kids can be tough these days!"
Steve is wondering if you actually do look like a married couple with a whole child- and how he can make it keep looking that way. You're wondering what about your appearance is telling this guy you don't already know what you're doing. Your jaw drops in offence right alongside Steve.
The employee shuffles through the stack of tapes. "Kids don't want records these days- what's he into? Metal, rock, a little pop? How old is he?"
Steve is watching you try to contort your face into a nice no-offence-taken expression. "I'm so sorry, we already know what we're getting-" You'd grabbed your own picks off the shelves as well. "We'll just take these ones, thank you."
You were out before you even really got into the store and Steve was about a plane tickets worth out of cash so at least he knew the cost was even. He's trying and failing to speak normally after that striking interaction. "So uh, what did we- I mean what did you get him?" Married, really? He knew what he intended to do when he put that promise ring on your finger, but he never anticipated doing it so soon, you'd even talked it through together.
"We got him…" you reached into the bag. "A debut album, Skid Row- seemed like something Ed might've picked up." You were impressively more thought out than Steve had been with the rest of the gifts. It's a little too late to have you choose all of them. "-new Sabbath album, which I hope he didn't already grab because that did come out in April…" So thought out, and so knowledgeable, in the awkward moment of haste you'd still asked for a gift reciept. "Testament, exodus, metal church, king diamond, wasp." You'd gotten about ten of them. "Debut Annihilator , aaand another debut, Morbid Angel. I hope we don't have too many of those."
"Nah, I think you got some good ones." Though most of them Steve just pretended he knew.
"Thank you…" He said, starting on his drive back in to Hawkins. "I just really wanted to get him something special to both of them, y'know?" Steve doesn't know when he got so thoughtful but he thinks that you might have had something to do with it.
"You're welcome. It's very special, I think he'll appreciate how you thought of him like that." You placed a hand on his free one.
"No, you did all the thinking." And he did all the stressing. "Would've arrived empty handed if not for you."
"You wouldn't have let that happen." Well he didn't let it happen, he called on you for help. And you think that's something because for the longest time he couldn't. He looked at places on his own, looked at trucks on his own, furniture and groceries on his own. The only help he accepted was when he was between vehicles and you forced him to catch a ride in your car.
It's a rush to get in the door and get ready for the grad with little time to spare.
Steve is fussing over his hair while you lay on the bed. That trusty Farrah Fawcett hairspray is still his go-to. He's realized in having you stay the night so often now that he's actually a lot more maintenance than most women. But you like to admire him anyway so you don't mind. You're on your stomach, legs haning off the end of the bed as you add your own personal inscription to each of the cards.
He had decided to match his tie to your dress- a nice burgundy. You fought him on the corduroy suit last week when he bought it but when he picked up the tie to match you, you let it slide- mostly feeling a little bad about shutting it down so harshly.
He doesn't know how you do it. So dressed up but also authentic and beautiful. A black leather jacket covers your upper half and your dress to match Steve's tie pokes out the bottom until it reaches your knee. Complete with tasteful jewelery and short biker boots. Your hair is down and kind of unruly, but entirely on purpose and no match for the now slightly outdated Farrah.
"Gonna be ready soon, Stevie?" You're toying with the hemmed edge of a blanket now. He's messing with his tie in the vanity mirror. "M'done signing and putting Dustin's gift together."
"Just a minute-" He'd never been particularly fussy like this, but today was a really special moment in everyone's story so it was entirely warranted. He's grabbing a camara and his keys before heading out.
Ms. Henderson is happy to see the both of you when you arrive. The sweet woman has saved a spot with her purse, she's gleefully moving over to let you two by. "Oh, the both of you look just lovely!" She's absolutely beaming with the excitement of the moment. "Dusty is just so happy to have you all here- he is so lucky to have such darling friends-" She means well, but you're thankful when the crowd is silenced, holding on to Steve's arm in anticipation.
A small sentimental whisper of 'There they go…' meets your ear as each cap and gown walk the stage. Steve feels you squeeze tighter around his bicep at that. Milestones always feel like endings, until you take the time to realize they are only beginnings in disguise.
By the middle of Dustin's speech Steve is looking in any direction that might prevent the tears that are pricking at his waterline from going further. You're smiling straight ahead, honored to witness the history that's coming next.
The second Iron Maidens 'The Trooper' starts blaring from hi-jacked speakers, you and Ms. Henderson are yelling for your lives. Steve has never felt tethered to the storytelling of metal the way you and Dustin are. But he doesn't need to be to understand that if Eddie were around, he'd be yelling too.
"Hell yeah, stick it to the man!" Dustin can just barely hear your overflowing support over the music as he completes the rest of his plans. The expression on principle Higgins face is laughable and much better than imagined as Dustin snatches his diploma, in one last act of defiance he flips the bird before running off in the midst of confetti and cheers.
There are people in that audience that would never have rooted for the boy before. Some of them even bullied him, if this were any other day they'd cut him down for voicing things like that. But moments like these are uniting in such an odd and interesting way. It won't ever happen like this again, but you know that everybody in the bleachers and every student in those chairs are cheering with their whole heart to be a part of one final thing. Dustin knows that if no one else did, you and Steve would still be cheering.
Palm still against the corduroy, it's your turn to whisper to Steve 'It's exactly what he would've wanted.' It was a perfect song too, and it helped that Eddie had been an avid listener. The faculty had stopped it playing after Dustin exited the stage, but you were well familiarized with Maiden, enough to know what came after.
The song told the brief story of a British soldier during the Crimean war just before his final moments, which you would be happy to explain to Steve on the way home- he would be happy to listen. To Dustin, you were sure that when he thought it through he was seeing Eddie plunging into battle with nothing but bravery, even when he knew he might not make it. And he didn't. Neither did the trooper.
But both will be remembered, and both have been honored. In all the commotion of the town splitting four ways and the unjust accusations placed on Eddie, the horrible things said about him, the search warrant- everything. It was comforting to know that someone had done right by him just this once.
Steve lined the five of the kids up infront of the banner. He fussed just as badly as Jonathan when he took photos. Telling them to scoot closer, tilt their heads up, look towards the camera. You reminded yourself that today was special and he had every right to act so preservative of the moment. It only happens once, just like so many things.
Once he was finally happy with the shot, everyone trailed behind him like ducklings toward the parking lot. Soon, today's photo would be in the most pristine frame, smack in the middle of the photo wall Steve had started when he moved in to his place.
"I uh…know gifts aren't mandatory, but you all deserve something for getting through highschool and everything else." When he envisioned this moment in time, he had hoped that all six kids would have made it back alright. It having been her own choice didn't derail the sadness that seemed to loom in moments like this, the feeling that someone important was missing.
Everyone got their envelopes, already ecstatic about the personalized cards and messages. But the gifts had them over the moon. If Steve couldn't have an enjoyable graduation, he'd make sure that those kids did.
"Lucas, Max- we want you to open these at the same time." Steve insisted, handing them small ticket-sized boxes with matching bows. Lucas is looking at her in awe and she's looking at the ticket the same way. Many thank you's are said as you hand out the others.
"You're both very welcome, I can't wait to hear all about it." Max nods at you, promising.
"You will, I swear, thank you." Max doesn't always like to expose her happiness or thankfulness. But today you've seen both. Steve calls that a win.
Mike and Wills gifts rest on the open tailgate, each a little awkward to hold. The smile that spreads across each of their faces for simply being seen- it tugs on your heart strings. Steve's too.
"This is too much- I mean- this stuff costs a fortune…" Will is looking to you in disbelief, you shut that down easy. That boy deserves so much, more than he will ever know.
"Will, you're going to school for art. You need that stuff. We want you to have the best supplies." You'd seen from a young age just how good Will was at art, and how much he loved it. As he grew, crayon drawings on Joyce's fridge soon became homemade birthday and holiday cards handed out at gatherings, impressive school art projects presented at school events, handmade christmas gifts- each of which you still displayed proudly- and skillfully detailed paintings. To see someone bloom like that, even in the midst of so many troubled times in life, and still prevail- that was passion.
"I know but-"
"No buts." Steve backs you up. "Matter of fact, let us know if you need anything else. Textbooks, canvases, any supplies." Will can only nod now, you know he feels it, the belief you have in him.
It's always been a little hard for mike to show things, but he nods at Wills thankful expression and manages a flat smile. "Uhm, thank you I- really like it." On top of that, he's just had a rough go these days. Mike has been a man of few words recently, it just means they count more. You hope that now, maybe if he can't bare to speak them, he can write them.
"You better give us credit in that bestseller you're going to write." Steve claps him on the shoulder and he nods profusely. You smile at how he shows his appreciation.
Steve had saved the best for last, hoping the others might disperse. But everyone wanted to wait and see what the rest of them got, you'd think it was christmas. So, now they were only waiting on Dustin.
A medium box done up with a bow is placed gingerly into the boy's arms. Steve had a million different things to say, but none of them made it to word-form as he silently watched Dustin peer into the box filled with your previously picked out tapes.
His eyes scan each title, getting glossier by the second. Before you can blink, your boys are hugging tightly. Dustin should be lucky he can flex the way he does, if not you think Steve would've crushed him by now.
"I'm sorry he couldn't be here." Dustin knows exactly who he means, how could he be mistaken with that kind of gift? "The speech was great, I know he would have loved it."
"I'm glad you're here." It's the response that Steve needs to hear. The kind that tells him not to feel guilty for being the one to make it. Bieng present now is the best thing he could ever do.
"Yeah, man-" For the umpteenth time today, he's blinking back tears. "Me too. I'm glad I'm here too."
Dustin looks back down at the assortment in the gift box, blinking back his own tears, as mournful as they are happy. Steve clasps his shoulder.
"He'd be proud of you." But he remembers how much he needed to hear it back then. "I'm proud of you."
"We both are." Dustin nods a thank you at each of you before Steve is letting the emotion of the moment take over. His chest is tight with the sentiment and his eyes are rimmed with happiness.
"I'm proud of all of you."
Theres a handful of nods and thank you's directed at the both of you, then you're bieng pulled into a group hug with the six of them. Friendship never felt so undying as it did in this moment. The real gift was never material, bieng able to see these kids grow away from what their life had been all this time was a privilege in itself.
Albums mentioned: Dio-Holy Diver, Skid Row-Self Titled, Black Sabbath-Headless Cross, Testament-Practice What You Preach, Exodus-Fabulous Disaster, Metal Church-Blessing In Disguise, King Diamond-Conspiracy, W.A.S.P.-The Headless Children, Annihilator-Alice In Hell, Morbid Angel-Altar Of Madness
(I know King Diamond-Conspiracy released in august -after they would have graduated- but I did a lot of reasearch on release dates -some of these are actually late 88 releases not early 89- and these were the best metal options! Ik no one cares but I love to be accurate with the dates so this was annoying.)
