hoe for drew

she/her   19     gemini

[itneverendshere]

cowboy casanova - rafe cameron AU (one shot)

part ii.

synopsis: no real plot line just me thinking about cowboy!rafe while listening to cowboy casanova lmao...might write a part 2...idk; thought my rafe phase couldn't get worse..but it's WORSAA than ever, drew got me on a leash jesus; anyway enjoy

warnings: cowboy!Rafe Cameron; no smut per se yET; kissing; a LOT of pet names;

word count: 1.648k

You’re smarter than this.

At least, you thought you were. Until Rafe Cameron managed to get his hands on you, and now he’s all you can think about. 

He stands a few feet away, back leaning against the passenger's side door of his truck. His arms are crossed over his chest, biceps straining, against the sleeves of his white t-shirt.

Holy fuck. 

Had it been his usual tank top and you'd be on your knees the second you saw him.

Instantly, his gaze turns towards you, indiscreetly sweeping down your body. He tips his hat in greeting, seemingly oblivious to the fact that his eyes are wandering as if he isn’t practically undressing you in his mind.

“Missed your face, darlin’.”

His eyes linger on your lips as your tongue traces its outline. The intensity in his gaze deepens, a dark heat simmering behind his blue irises. The air between you becomes charged with palpable tension as if a silent understanding passes between you.

“Can’t say the same thing, Casanova.”

He thinks it’s real fucking cute when you act like you don’t care about him. 

“Breaking m’heart,” Rafe's smirk widens, and he takes another step closer, closing the distance between you. One of his hands finds home in your waist, wrapping his warm and calloused fingers around the skin, the contact sending a jolt of awareness down your spine.

His presence seems to envelop you, and his voice drops to a low, gravelly tone, “Be nice.”

It’s entirely too hard to focus when he’s this close and all you can do is remember the last time you saw him. 

Last time, you didn’t expect things to get heavy so easily, but you couldn’t complain when you were pressed too snugly against him on the back of his truck, with your dress off and one of his hands, the same one he’s touching you with now, hooked under your ass. 

You clear your throat, slowly becoming yourself again, “What are you doing here?” 

His index finger is hooked under your chin, “Already told ya sugar.”

“And I know you better than that,” You flick the brim of his hat with your finger, “Spill, cowboy.”

A few tendrils of dark blonde hair slip loose over his forehead, and you fight every goddamn sinful thought in your mind. Like, how you had a fistful of his hair in your hand while you sat on his face.

Every time he turns those burning eyes on you, you feel something tighten deep within you. 

“Missed ya’, that’s all.”

His words give you a surge of stupid confidence roll, and you reach up, plucking his hat off his head before plopping it down on your own. His lips slowly slid into a sly grin as you tilt your head back slightly.

Rafe thinks it’s so cute when you get all red and flustered by his frame pressing against yours. His knuckles brush against your jawline, his grin melting into the sweetest smile. 

“And you wonder why I can’t get enough.”

A breath hitches in your throat, your lips parting in surprise. As much as you want to pull that beautiful mouth against yours, there’s a lot more to you two than meets the eye. You’re not supposed to do this…feelings were strictly prohibited the moment you started sleeping around with the Rafe Cameron.

You know better than that. 

“Don’t go all soft on me now, Cameron.”

He brushes a kiss on your cheek, and it takes every ounce of self-control to hold yourself back.

Rafe’s breath is ghosting over your neck when he leans over and asks if you’re doing all right. He knows exactly what kind of effect he has on you, and you hate it. 

“Lookin’ real pretty today sugar.”

“You think so?”

You want to argue back and call him out on his bullshit, but you don’t. You’d been working an eight-hour shift at the bar and after putting up with disgusting men all night, it feels nice to have someone call you pretty instead of a nice piece of ass.

His tongue darts out, sweeping over his bottom lip and your eyes track the movement like it’s the most mesmerizing thing you’ve seen in your life.

His lips stretch into a smug, satisfied grin, “Want me to prove it?”

“You wish.”

So maybe you’re also a terrible liar and your body likes to speak for itself. 

Rafe’s lips roll between his teeth as he fails to stifle a grin, “Is that why you all pressed up against me, sugar?

He loves the way you pretend to be surprised when he calls you out on your bullshit. 

Especially loves the way you always whine out that you really shouldn’t do this again when he got you in his bed, lips swollen from his kisses, and chest heaving. 

“You’re the one pressed up against me.”

“Yeah?” His hands glided with gentle precision up your arms, their touch leaving a tantalizing trail of goosebumps in their wake. The roughened calluses on his palms make delicate contact with your skin, further heightening the electrifying sensation.

As his hands continue their exploration, they caress over your shoulders, exerting just the right amount of pressure to melt away any tension, as he moves over your shoulders and cups the side of your neck.

You’re still marked up from the last time he had his mouth on you and it makes his chest swell with pride.

“Yeah.”

“Too bad, ‘cause I have no intentions of letting go, darlin’.”

Your hands fist the sides of his shirt, trying to give yourself something to keep you tethered to reality, “Cameron.”

“Got you right where I wanted ya.”

“Acting like you ain’t got a string of women pining after you.”

You try so valiantly to keep your voice from warbling, but as he kisses down the column of your neck you can’t help the sigh that slips through your open lips.

“Only want one,” Rafe tuts against your collarbone. You screw your brows together and open your eyes to look down at him as he pauses his administration to get your attention, “She’s right here.”

Your mouth drops open a little wider as his words work their way through your mind. 

You find yourself momentarily speechless, unsure of how to respond to his unexpected declaration. His statement carries a weight that you hadn't anticipated, and it takes a moment for it to fully sink in.

As you gaze down at him, your eyes meet his, searching for any hint of jest or insincerity. However, what you find in his gaze is a genuine sincerity and affection that leaves you breathless.

A mix of emotions swirls within you—shock, disbelief, and a glimmer of hope. Part of you wants to question his words, to delve deeper into his intentions and understand the magnitude of what he's saying. But another part of you simply wants to savor the tenderness of the moment, to bask in the vulnerability and the possibility of something more.

You feel his lips press against your collarbone again, his touch both comforting and electrifying. It sends a shiver down your spine, and you can't help but let out a soft sigh. The sound escapes your lips, betraying the longing and desire that are now coursing through your veins.

“You mean that, cowboy?”

“Got my hat on ya, don't I?”

You don’t wait another second, before grabbing the collar of his shirt and tugging him down to meet you as you rise on your toes. His lips are just as hot as his hands as they meet yours tentatively as if he’d never kissed you before. Your hand slides behind his neck, using it as an anchor to keep your knees from buckling.

Then, in one swift motion, his hand slides below your ass and hoists you up on his lap, pushing your back against the truck. You realize he’s holding your entire body weight with just one arm, and it almost makes you cum on the spot. You can feel yourself growing wetter at the idea of his strength.

So maybe you like it when Rafe Cameron manhandles you…who wouldn’t.

Breaking off for air, you rest your forehead against his, eyes closed, “Showoff.”

He grunts against your lips, “Only for you, sugar.”

You groan, pulling him back to your lips. He chuckles against them but stops as your fingers delve into his hair. Rafe pulls you closer, so your core is pressed up against his, and you squirm at the feeling of him slowly grinding into you.

His fingers brush against the bare skin of your waist where your shirt has ridden up, sending a shiver through you. A whimper escaped as you part your lips and his tongue plunges inside.

He tastes exactly how you remember, whiskey and cigarettes. You hate smokers, and yet he still pulls it off. He smells like he's yours.

His right-hand slides around to cup the back of your neck, tilting your head back to give him better access to your mouth as his tongue swiped greedily against yours. 

Rafe pulls away, both of you panting to catch your breath, his forehead pressed against yours, “Not fuckin’ you against my truck, sugar.”

You’d let him fuck you anywhere at this point.

“Inside, then?” You rasp before you can give into temptation, “Need you.”

His forehead falls on your shoulder as he groans, “You can’t do that sugar.”

“Do what?”

He grips your wrist, dragging your hand down his body until your palm is pressed against his cock, “Killin me here.”

Rafe stifles a groan when your hand grips the hardness beneath his pants, “Inside, now, cowboy.”

“Fuck, baby—” He meets your gaze through hooded eyes, “Gonna ruin you, yeah?”

Your pussy clenches around nothing as you whimper, tangling your fingers through his hair, “Please.”

“Don’t gotta ask twice sweet girl.”

[caileeflavoured]

here we go again… which season of OBX is the BEST? 🐚

season one

season two

season three

Voting ended onFeb 26, 2023

(again… there’s only one correct answer)

[strangercharacters]

ultimate stranger things protagonist bracket: round #1, poll #1

you must choose:

mike wheeler

steve harrington

Voting ended onFeb 19, 2023

other polls found here!

[spideystevie]

sweet nothing

summary: five glimpses of sweet nothings

word count: 3.6k

a/n: based off sweet nothing from midnights. something about this song man. it’s not edited (boo) but i hope you guys like it <3

1. tiny as a firefly.

There’s a lingering bite of winter in the morning air. You can’t remember Steve’s windows being opened last night but then again, you hadn’t been paying much attention to that. The bed grows cold without him lying next to you warming you up like the burning embers of a fire. 

A small breeze flutters the curtains. The air smells sweet, fresh like morning dew though it drives a shiver down the length of your spine. Steve’s old t-shirt’s done little to warm you up from the moment you put it on to brush your teeth this morning. You nestle yourself into the covers on his bed that still smell like him and now a hint of you intermingled. It elicits a small sound of bliss. 

The tap runs in the bathroom while Steve brushes his teeth. You hold a bundle of sheets close to you as you shift up towards the headboard. A tiny bit of heat creeps up your neck to your cheeks at the maze of clothes haphazardly left around his bedroom floor. 

Keep reading

[djoslider-deactivated20230802]

what keeps you up at night?

[lurkymurker-deactivated20221030]

You Are In Love (part 2)

part 1 / part 2

synopsis You and your good friend Steve go on one of those not-dates that are totally platonic.

notes friends to lovers + fem!reader, Robin being wingwoman x2, lots of mutual pining and yearning, lots of sweet anticipation and fluff really!

a/n part 2 spans the second verse and some of the bridge 🫶

You aren’t sure why you’re so nervous.

Having known Steve Harrington as long as you have, you’ve been to his house more times than you can count. Were you an architect, you’d probably be able to draw up the floor plan with memories alone, grid paper deep and meaningfuls and warmer nights on the roof.

Perhaps the nerves are borne from the two months you’ve spent working together at Family Video. Total cliche, summer love on minimum wage, but there’s a terrifying tangle of new feelings the long shifts have encouraged to bloom. And it’s happening so quickly — tiny buds that flower and flower — a part of you is suspicious that they’ve been there all along.

As roots, you surmise, an unrequited something that’s been hidden beneath the surface.

Growing, now, they’re taken on a more physical form. Because it’s as though your veins have less gold in their rush, more adrenaline, poor heart thrumming and pulse a mess.

There’s a hand outstretched that’s still suspended by the doorbell, knuckles rap-free but still aching as it rings. Idle and unused, so not quite from the force of a knock; maybe craving something more, something sloven and calloused like the promise of Steve’s touch. You exhale quickly, a breath that’s forced through flared nostrils. The arm that’s pining drops to your side even quicker.

Above you, the porch light glares fluorescent yellow, an ugly, confronting hue that doesn’t let you hide in the shadows.

A shame, because that’s all you really want to do. You drag a clammy hand across your denim shorts painstakingly slow.

Beyond the front door, there’s a muffled clamour. Hinges creaking, linoleum squeaking, the steady thud of nearing footsteps. Steve Harrington, to whom they belong, feels equally nervous as he reaches for the door handle. His hand falters where it grips and pushes, long fingers shaking and breathing non-existent.

Maybe focussing on the facts will help him regain control of this situation. There’s a sweet, overwhelming something that’s threatening to yawn his chest wide open.

Fact one, you’ve been to his house a million times before tonight. Fact two, he’s been on the same number of successful dates without his heart making a fool of him. Fact three, this isn’t a date, anyway.

Fact four, he really wants it to be. He holds firm on the handle until his knuckles blanch, pressure enough to subdue the jolt of his wrist pulse.

When he pulls it open and finds you figure on his porch steps, his heart squeezes through his open ribcage and springs forward. Like, really thuds against his breastbone and almost ends in a stumble, kind eyes and bashful smile sure to land him in serious trouble.

He thinks that you’re more dressed up than usual. Is that conceited of him? There’s a sheen of gloss on your lips, a pretty colour on your eyelids, and you’re wearing a tiny tank top that shies away from your denim shorts. The taunting wafer of skin between the two shines porch light yellow. It’s a little more than usual, a little more than Steve can handle. He thinks that this is on purpose, too. Is that conceited of him?

Fact five, he’s never been on a date with someone who’s made him feel this much, ten seconds in. Not that this is a date, or anything.

“Hey,” he greets quickly, sounding more breathless than he appears. “Hi, come in.”

Your smile grows in response, neat hands clasped at your torso as you move past him. “Robin here yet?”

There’s a pause as your elbow knocks his at the doorway. You think he’s wearing more cologne than usual. Is that conceited of you? Farrah Fawcett in the air intermingles with aftershave, giving away his well-mussed hair and clean shaven chin. And he’s an all-encompassing warmth that makes an inch feel far less, broad shoulders better defined in the long sleeve he’s wearing. You think that this is on purpose, too. Is that conceited of you?

“Nah,” he answers after a beat, scratching the back of his neck bemusedly. His biceps looks really solid up close.

“Hm.”

You walk along the hallway and into the living room, finding an impressive assortment of movie snacks splayed out on the coffee table. Near an edge, there’s a stack of well-loved classic films, The Breakfast Club and The Goonies favourites in amongst them.

You know, for that movie nights friends do all the night.

“Thought she would be,” you add, frowning thoughtfully. “Didn’t you guys do a shift together today?”

“Yeah,” Steve answers, shrugging when you turn. “Said it was,” he pulls up his fingers into mock quote marks, “‘absolutely imperative’ I drop her home instead of coming straight here.”

“Interesting.” You don’t think that it’s interesting at all. You think that it’s Robin playing Cupid with bent arrows.

Steve cracks a grin, less nerves and more amusement. “I don’t try to figure out what the fuck goes on in her pea brain anymore.”

He begins to jog backward toward the kitchen, raising his eyebrows expectantly. “Beer?”

“Beer,” you agree, collapsing back onto the couch with a smile in tandem.

There’s an organised array of plush cushions that soften your fall, greens and tired greys that have known the passage of time. Known the other girls that have made home on this couch, Steve’s hands on their waist and his lips dragging over their jaw. Your chest feels a little funny. You straighten up and folds your hands in your lap with newer diffidence.

“Reckon we start without her?” Steve calls from the kitchen, hissing open two bottles of beer.

“Dunno.” You glance up at the wall clock, still unsure. If you wait for Robin, perhaps you can stay here a little longer. “Maybe?”

Steve’s agenda is different. Starting early will mean more couch time when it’s over, long stretches of silence and anticipation and first kiss seconds. “I’m sure she won’t mind,” he tries.

“I don’t know,” you say, lying through your teeth. “She told me she’s been dying to watch Breakfast Club.”

“But she’s already seen it.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s a classic.”

As if on queue, his corded landline rings just as he’s about to argue. He frowns at it for a moment before reacting, freeing a hand by placing one of the glass bottles on the kitchen counter. Condensation glazes the black headset as he pulls it to his ear.

“Yeah?” He’s never had to be formal on the phone. It’s not like his parents have ever bothered to call and check up.

“Yeah?” Robin mocks, her sweet, croaky voice filled with mirth. “Seriously, Steve? You always pick up the phone like that? What if someone important was calling you? What if it was the fucking cops?”

“Hello, dumbass.” Steve tries for more slow and placating, but the scoff that escapes him is a loud, exasperated sound. “Why the fuck would the cops be calling me right now?”

“You’re nineteen with a fridge full of beer?” she offers.

Steve sighs tiredly. “Whatever. When’re you getting here?”

A pause. He thinks he hears a crackle of static as Robin twirls her telephone cord around her forefinger.

“Oh, right, yes,” she answers in a rush, making up for the beat of hesitating silence that she’s lost. “About that.”

Steve’s brow furrows, grip on the headset loosening a margin. “Robin.”

“Change of plans, Harrington,” she lies, another rustle as she shrugs. “Something came up. Can’t do move night anymore.”

“Oh.” A whole evening with just you on his plush couch, no Robin. Steve tries for nonchalance. “Right.”

He overshoots. There’s an audible promise of something more hidden within nerves and anticipation.

“You’re welcome,” Robin says, sounding pleased with herself.

The tips of Steve’s ears warm. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters.

“Don’t know who you’re convincing, dingus,” Robin snorts, shaking her head bemusedly. “Because it definitely isn’t me.”

“What came up?” Steve asks gruffly, trying to change the subject. His voice has grown a fair few octaves and he feels very unlike himself.

“Stuff,” Robin answers vaguely. She knows that he won’t call her up on it with any fire; Steve’s well aware that she’s lying, and the unrequited something in his ribcage is grateful for it.

“Stuff,” Steve echoes, eyes darting to the sliver of living room he can see through the ajar kitchen door. “Right.”

“Anyway,” Robin says, her wide smile audible. “Better go get started on it.”

“Robin —”

“Bye!” she interrupts, already moving the headset back to its holder. “Have fun without me.”

Steve grimaces abashedly, waiting for the low knell of the dial tone. And then, “like… so much fun,” Robin adds through a laugh, making obnoxious kissing noises that are sure to travel to the couch. “Do everything I wouldn’t do and then some more stuff —”

“Good bye Buckley,” Steve forces through gritted teeth, hastening to push the black headset into place before it has a chance to burn his skin more. On the other end of the line, Robin grins down at her receiver triumphantly, looking extremely smug as she hops off the counter and does the same. Less heat on her cheeks, less havoc in her heart; Steve wants to feel jealous of her, but he can’t.

Because she’s not the one that gets an uninterrupted evening in your presence. Nerves aside, Steve Harrington’s sure he’s won the fucking jackpot.

When he reenters the living room with two beers in hand, it’s to find concentrated-looking you sorting through a bag of sour patch kids. To find the greens and purples, he surmises; those are the two flavours you’ve always preferred to the rest. There’s a soft, barely there moue on your lips as you squint into its confines. Steve wonders fleetingly how much it’d cost to manufacture bags with only your favourite sour patch kids in them.

Something in his heart squeezes and pulls. He decides to focus all of his energy on placing one foot in front of the other.

“Here,” he says, holding out a cold beer bottle for you to accept. There’s a touch of pinky fingers as you move to take it, his hand leaving an imprint against the condensation. Yours doesn’t quite manage to cover it on replacement.

This revelation makes your chest feel funny. You decide to focus all of your energy on taking a sip. “Who was on the phone?” you ask, tipping it backing and gulping down a generous amount.

There’s a few things Steve isn’t allowed to look at. The way your full lips wrap around the rim, the shift of the column of your throat as you swallow. The hitch in your crop top as you stretch and tilt your chin up. He resigns to staring at his own beer bottle instead.

“Robin,” he answers, grabbing The Breakfast Club tape sleeve and turning to place it into his video player. “She isn’t gonna make it.”

Steve’s back is to you, affording a moment’s privacy for your surprise to take free reign. Surprise that’s selfish, surprise that’s a little giddy; in hindsight, her absence shouldn’t make you feel so anticipatory.

Because this is just a casual movie night between two just friends, right? Nothing more, nothing less, nothing that your pretty make-up and carefully curated outfit would lead an outsider to believe was a first date.

Right?

“Oh, what?” you ask, tad too heavy on the nonchalance. “How come?”

“Didn’t really explain,” Steve answers with a shrug, slotting the tap in and turning. “Something about some stuff she had to do?”

“Maybe an errand for her mom,” you try. Why are you helping her, again? “You know Mrs. Buckley can get meticulous about her grocery list.”

“Oh yeah, of course,” Steve agrees ethusiastically, grateful that you aren’t asking any more questions. An insistent line of reasoning is sure to land him in trouble, prod at his poor, messy heart, until he’s spilling the truth about Robin, trusty friend come makeshift wingwoman.

If only he knew she was working as a double-agent.

“No big,” you add, clearing your throat awkwardly. “She doesn’t mind if we go ahead, right?”

“No, not at all,” Steve says quickly, too quickly. He winces a little as his eagerness registers, sitting down beside you on the couch before continuing. “I just mean — uh, she’s watched both movies already. She’s not missing out on anything, is she?”

You smile sheepishly. “She was looking forward to watching The Breakfast Club.”

“Why?” Steve teases, scoffing playfully. “Heard that movie’s super overrated.”

“Shut up,” you return with a mock-glare, bumping your shoulder against his. There’s a beat where you should pull away, but you don’t. The skin of your forearm is all warm and pliable, still touching his when you add, “I know you secretly love watching chic flicks.”

Steve doesn’t, really. He just secretly loves doing things you love. “Not as much as I love The Goonies,” he says.

You make a face. “Boring.”

“Hey.” Steve’s turn to create an excuse to move closer. He raises his arms faux-threateningly before dropping one behind him, stretching it along the headrest of the couch before relaxing. “C’mon. You’ve never even fucking watched it.”

“True,” you allow, raising your eyebrows meaningfully. “But that’s because it doesn’t look like the kinda thing I’d be into.”

Steve’s brows soar in tandem. “Why not?”

“Just… not my vibe, you know?”

“I do,” Steve nods, “except that it is.”

You cock your head to one side, surveying him with mild amusement. “And how can you be so sure?”

“Because I know you,” Steve answers, inching closer without meaning to. “You gotta trust me, Y/n. Do you?”

Maybe it’s the way he says it; more sure of himself than he has been all evening, deep and firm with a timbre that makes your breath catch. He knows you, he insists, like there’s a chamber in his heart that has your name written all over it. You wonder if it mirrors the one in yours. And when he asks you if you trust him, all brown eyes and messy hair, you realise that the walls are stretching and your insides shrinking to make space.

You’re going to be all heart, no other vital organs soon.

“I trust you.” With this, amongst other things. “You better not let me down, Harrington.”

“I could never,” Steve says, using his forefinger to cross his chest pocket for good measure. “We ready to go?”

His arm, still stretched like a pillow over your headrest, moves down an inch to make contact with your shoulders. This shouldn’t make your pulse race the way that it does. Steve’s put his arm around you more times than you can count.

“As long as we’re starting with The Breakfast Club,” you answer, sounding weaker than you want to as the pressure grows warmer. Your cheeks, too, all the skin-on-skin forearm and half a thigh and almost ankle.

“See,” he says easily, pressing play to a familiar-sounding opening. “Knew you’d say that.”

“Fluke.”

Steve decides to ignore you. “Cause I know you.”

—

You keep track of the passage of time through touches.

Near the beginning of The Breakfast Club, they’re quick and fleeting; fingers reaching for the same bag of candy, knees almost knocking as you readjust. Like you’re testing tentative waters before braving a step further, adding an element of something more to amicable points of contact.

At the halfway mark, Steve’s manspreading becomes obvious. His thigh is a firmer pressure on yours, legs swinging a little so your ankles are tangled, too. It’s here that the temperature in the room rises a few degrees.

By the times The Goonies has begun, the arm Steve had on the headrest rests around your shoulders. His fingers graze the bare skin of its curve intermittently, braving closer and closer to your forearm before clasping and squeezing. Here it lingers. You find yourself moving closer.

And then, somewhere between twenty minutes in and thirty, you pull your knees up and drape them onto the free couch to your right. Slowly, your head moves in the opposite direction, tucking under Steve’s chin to fall against the pillow of his bicep and relax.

He begins thinking of excuses to keep you here forever. The hold he has on your elbow tightens, but there’s a paradoxical sense of featherlight abandon. You’re safer here, he thinks, well taken care of. Do you need anything else? Less space and more embrace? His heart on a silver platter, all of you within all of him?

He’ll give it to you if you ask. There’s no space for light to squeeze through the space where your hips kiss.

When the end-credits roll, you haven’t moved an inch. And though you were previously intertwined and at ease, the prospect of separation sets your soft skin aflame. The thrum of your heart begins to quicken. Maybe dread, maybe anticipation.

“So?” Steve whispers, making no move to pull away. “Did you like it?”

“Was okay,” you reply quietly. “How about The Breakfast Club?”

When met with silence, you angle back and tilt your chin, soft lips parted. There’s terrifying depth to the brown of Steve’s irises, sure and charged as they look over your features. “Wasn’t really paying attention,” he murmurs honestly.

“Rude.” You know he didn’t mean it that way. “You promised you would.”

“Hey,” he responds, raising his eyebrows. “I was trying to, I swear. Just couldn’t.”

You fold your arms across your chest, pouting with faux-chagrin. “Why not?”

“Didn’t hold my attention,” he answers cryptically, shrugging. There’s another pause as the hand on your forearm drops, slipping under your wrist to give your waist a quick squeeze. When he doesn’t pull away, you wonder whether he means to linger, the warmth of his touch making your fingers feel tingly.

He doesn’t. Touching you puts a monumental strain on his self-control.

“Not interesting enough?” you ask weakly.

“Easy to get distracted,” Steve corrects.

You nod, swallowing slightly. “Hey Steve?” you ask tentatively, chewing on your bottom lip. “Think I can stay the night?”

There’s no reason for the question to come out so demure. You’ve crashed at Steve’s house enough to call it half yours, sprawled on the couch with liquor breath and make-up still on. And yet, the proposition comes out all rushed and unsure, as though you haven’t ever slept over before.

Perhaps it’s because this you hasn’t, the you with Steve-borne chaos within your heart chambers. It’s why you feel the need to add, “Only — like, only if it’s no trouble, of course, I totally don’t mind driving home — it’s — I only ask because it’s, like, super late and you know the street-lights get so dim after eleven and I’m —”

“Hey,” Steve interrupts, lips pulling up all sweet on your diffidence. He isn’t smiling big, but his cheeks ache anyway. “Of course you can stay. C’mon.”

He straightens and untangles with some reluctance, knotting his fingers in yours to guide you up as he stands. Except too much, because since when do just friends hold hands? There’s a beat where you memorise his callouses before he pulls back.

He walks you up the stairs and into his bedroom, retrieving an old pair of shorts and a faded tee for you to throw on.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he says, handing you the items of clothing before gesturing to his bed.

You blink up at him in surprise. The flannel comforter that covers it smells like cedar wood and fresh linen.

“What?” This is new. “No, it’s — I’ll sleep on the couch like I always do.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he assures, ushering you toward his bed. This is new. “Take my bed. Seriously.”

You look up at him over your shoulder, raising your eyebrows dubiously. “I’m not letting you sleep on the couch in your own house, Harrington.”

“But you’re the guest,” he tries. Your knees knock the edge of his bed as you startle to a stop. “I insist.”

“The guest?” you echo, snorting bemusedly. “I’ve stayed here like, a million times dude.”

Steve balks. “You know what I mean,” he says quietly, a knowing timbre that makes your skin feel hot.

You swallow. “I can’t.”

“Too bad,” he returns, pulling away and jogging to the door. “Let me know if you need anything, alright? Or, uh, I mean —” he halts just short of it, turning around and combing his fingers through his hair. Rough, a little jagged. Like he’s nervous. “— yeah, that — you know where everything is anyway. Right?”

“Right,” you mumble, watching his hand drop to his side again. Why is he nervous?

Why are you?

At the doorway, a pause. Something fond and messy is wreaking havoc on Steve’s poor heart.

He thinks it has something to do with you, with the fact that there’s a kissable girl standing in his bedroom. And he knows that this doesn’t make any logical sense — you’ve been here a million times before, in thirteen-year-old dungarees and mismatched socks with holes.

But still, he thinks. A kissable girl and a bed.

He closes the door in a hurry.

—

You wake to the smell of burnt toast.

It’s different to the frangipani detergent Steve uses, sheets all lush and floral on your nose. And there’s hints of him hidden within it, faint vanilla and a strong cedar wood that you know. Sometimes more, sometimes less with some cypress, too. Maybe it’s the pheromones, but you’d be happy staying here forever.

Steve’s bed is softer than he is.

Not that that’s a bad thing, you find you like a solid wall to latch onto. A little more pressure when he squeezes you, a broad set of shoulders to steady yourself on.

You’re sure that there’s a point to this tangent, but instead of finding it, you’re getting distracted. You find that this is happening more and more often. Steve Harrington and his stupid bed are warming your clay heart terracotta.

Once you’ve ambled out of bed, re-tucking and re-making and smoothing out as you go, the burnt toast smell leads you down the stairs and out into the large kitchen.

Here, you find a shirtless Steve Harrington trying his hand at a full English breakfast. With his back to you, he’s attending to a sad-looking frying pan of blackened whites and yellows, stove coil burning. There’s another with dry bits of bacon and hash browns, hissing away under thick wisps of smoke.

He has a lot of muscles.

Maybe you’ve always known this and pretended not to notice, maybe they haven’t ever been this apparent. Maybe they’re tensing more than usual, flexing and relaxing with every move of his shoulders. Maybe they’re new.

Or maybe, it’s you. The heat on your cheeks could scramble more eggs than they’re worth.

“Morning,” you say weakly, trying for nonchalance and landing on hopelessly soft. Something broad and traceable is turning your brain to fog.

Steve looks over his shoulder and grins all over easy, beckoning you over with a nod before responding, “How’d you sleep?”

“So shit.” His sweatpants hang low on his hips. “Your couch is way better.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Steve says, returning to his pan of scrambled eggs. “Gave me a kink in my neck.”

“Hm,” you return, frowning in feigned bemusement. “Weird. Never had that problem before.”

“Sure you haven’t,” Steve says, raising his eyebrows skeptically.

You shrug, reaching under his forearm to switch off the stove-top. “Told you to give me the couch.”

When Steve angles back and looks down at you, there’s a moment where you startle at his closeness. Moving to the stove-top had felt like second nature, but tension in his proximity is anything but. Your fingers feel weak against the shiny, black knob, chin less than an inch from the bulk of his bicep. “Couldn’t do that.”

“Why not?” you ask, raising your eyebrows.

The column of Steve’s throat shifts as he swallows. “You deserve to sleep on a proper bed.”

“And you don’t?”

“Not as much as you,” he answers. What he really means is, you deserve far more than I do. What he’s really saying is, let me try to give it to you.

You try to roll your eyes, but the thrum of your heartbeat messes with your conviction. “That’s stupid.”

“You’re stupid.” Steve’s trying not to focus on where his shirt hems and your bare thighs begin. “I’m just being a good host.”

He’s failing miserably. He adds, “A good friend,” as if there’s anything platonic about the way he’s thinking about you in his bed.

“Good friend,” you echo. It garbles out of your throat a little funny. “Right.”

There’s more awkward silence as the pair of you hide an emotion, Steve his blunder and you your disappointment. He scoops scrambled eggs and bacon onto two plates of burnt toast, handing you the one that’s more seasoned, less charred.

The dining table feels too formal. Between platonic and romantic sits a terrifying stretch that’s unrequited, and perhaps the pair of you aren’t ready to let it go, just yet. You have to accept it to move past it, though perhaps that’s proving more difficult than it appears.

Instead, you hop up on barstools and eat at the kitchen counter. It isn’t much, but it’s better than informercials on the couch, one step that says just enough to mean something.

You use your fork to prod at a piece of scorched egg, a fond, teasing action that makes Steve mock-indignant.

“Wow.” You raise your eyebrows up at him. “Delicious.”

Steve frowns, but his eyes are full of mirth when he says, “Sue me for doing you a solid and feeding you.”

“Poisoning me,” you correct.

“Food is one of four basic human needs, by the way,” he says. He’s scraping off charred bits of toast when he reaches to your plate and does the same, absentminded little movements that flip your heart like a pancake. “Shelter’s another, king bed princess.”

You blink down at his large hands. There’s a quick second before you realise that his response calls for a scowl. “This isn’t food. It’s firewood.”

Steve grins sheepishly, wider when he catches the scrunch of your eyebrows, your chin. There’s determination to the way you’re frowning, all of your facial features intent on chastening him. He fights back with more fire. “I was trying something new. Smoked, like with salmon.”

“Cute.” Steve’s chest does something soft and messy. “Inedible, but cute.”

“You haven’t even tried it,” Steve accuses.

You fork at a piece of bacon that’s more streaky than burnt. “Smoked stuff has gotta be bad on your lungs.”

“Wrong pipe, babe.” He’s called you that before, right? He calls you that all the time.

Suddenly you’re unsure. “You know what I mean,” you say, popping it into your mouth and chewing dubiously. “Like cigarettes.”

“Like cigarettes?” Steve asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Yeah, they make your insides all gross,” you point your knife tip at a blackened edge of toast, “like that.”

“But cigarettes get people nice and relaxed, too,” Steve points out.

“Steven.” You make a show of wincing as you pop another charred rectangle into your mouth. “Besides the point.”

Steve grins devilishly, sweetly like hidden danger. “What you’re saying is,” he continues, deciding to ignore you. “My cooking relaxes you.”

You try for a frown, as if your lips don’t want to pull up in tandem. Steve’s amusement is contagious, all bright eyes and flared nostrils.

And the way he’s looking at you. Among other things. “Your cooking’s giving me a headache.”

Steve falters, brow furrowing a pinch. “You don’t actually have a headache, right?”

“No — no,” you say too quickly, his worry like dynamite to the flame in your chest. “I’m mostly kidding. Free of aches,” you look down at your plate pointedly, “but definitely not eating that.”

Steve’s features relax into a half-smile, half-grimace, hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck. “Shit, I know, it sucks,” he admits, emboldened by your sincerity. “Just wanted to make you something, you know?”

Your lips part in surprise. “Me?” you say, as if there’s ever been anyone else. “Why?”

“Because I never do.”

“Because you don’t have to.”

“We shit on the breakfast menu at Benny’s anyway,” Steve argues, shrugging. “Least we can do that for free here.”

The flame softens your heart like clay. “This isn’t as shit as Benny’s cardboard pancakes.”

“Yeah?” Steve asks, heart-squeezing smile reinstated.

“Don’t get me wrong, still totally shit,” you tease, breathing a laugh at his faux-indignation. “But better than diner food by a mile.”

“Right,” Steve nods. “Because you prefer homemade meals.”

You roll your eyes, kicking his shin gently. “Not what I meant,” you say, “It’s better because you made it.”

Steve frowns down at your suspended leg, struck with an urge to reach down and pull it into his lap. “Shouldn’t that make it worse?”

“For me, Steve. You made it for me.”

“That makes it better?”

A pause. There’s tension to this revelation that has your poor pulse jolting, because Steve made you breakfast and you enjoyed said breakfast and now the pair of you are wondering whether this goes beyond meal preference.

If only you knew. “Thank you,” you say quietly, hoping that answers his question. “You know I would’ve been okay with butter and jam.”

“No biggie,” Steve says, as if he had the ingredients lying around. (He didn’t. He’s been up for a few hours already, first customer at Kroger’s with a conveyor belt full of groceries.) “I like cooking.”

You raise your eyebrows skeptically. “Liar. You hate it.”

For you, he wants to add. I like cooking for you. Instead, he gives your heart a break and says, “Feelings change.”

That’s generous, it isn’t quite a break. There’s a hint to double-meaning that does something warm and fond to your chest. You try to control your breathing, hopelessly failing.

“Ah.”

If Steve has to stare at your pretty face and stop himself from kissing you silly, the least you can do is bring solidarity to his suffering.

“Right,” you add weakly.

“Right.” He sounds more sure of himself than you do, and you want to hate him for it.

You can’t, though. You’re falling in love.

—

“No, he was a total serial killer in the making,” you insist, leaning against the glass front as you wait for Steve to lock up. “You should’ve seen his face when he asked for Motel Hell. Seriously fucking sinister.”

Steve jiggles the door handle to ensure that it’s secure, pocketing the store keys before turning toward you. He was crouching a second ago, and you almost startle when your eye-line goes from floppy hair to wide shoulders. “Sinister?” he echoes, raising his eyebrows.

“Oily forehead, straggly hair, weird clothes,” you list, your own lifting in tandem. “He didn’t even make eye contact.”

“Poor dude was probably stressed the fuck out,” Steve reasons, grinning roguishly. “Got a pretty girl working the till instead of overgrown baby Keith.”

Your cheeks warm. “Don’t be lame.”

“No — not even trying to be,” Steve insists, crossing his heart and hoping to die for good measure. “D’you have any idea how many guys key up over you ringing them through?”

“Steve,” you warn.

“Too many,” Steve says, unlocking his BMW as the pair of you near. The carpark is dimly lit and deserted; an alarming sight, but you’ve never felt safer. “Like — too many.”

“No way,” you argue, frowning stubbornly. “I would’ve noticed.”

He waits for you to open the door and get in before he says, “You never do.”

“Hey.” You’re still frowning as you buckle in, though there’s a brush of fingers as his find the centre console. It ebbs a smidge. “I’m perceptive.”

“Not with guys,” Steve returns, raising his eyebrows meaningfully. “You know that Eddie kid was totally flirting with you when he came in today, don’t you?”

He’s been dying to bring this up all day. How stupid Eddie Munson, all rebellious hair and riot of metal clothing, managed to steal another one of those, fond messy smiles from you.

They’re meant to belong to him. It’s selfish, he isn’t proud of it, but Steve’s sick of someone else doing his job better than he can.

“No he wasn’t,” you argue.

“Oh, he definitely has the hots for you.”

“Right,” you say, snorting bemusedly. “Because I’m more of a catch than his very cool, very available, band of groupies.”

“Sweeter,” Steve corrects. “More unassuming.”

He turns on the ignition and shifts to back out, using it as an excuse to stretch his arm across your headrest. It’s a solid weight that pressed into your shoulder, the soft hinge where it meets your neck.

You shiver. The moment passes, Steve’s hand dropping to the centre console, but your skin still feels overwhelmingly warm all over.

“You think I’m naive.” You say it like an accusation.

“I think you can’t tell the difference between someone being nice to you and someone flirting.”

Your lips part in surprise, more bashful than kissable but Steve’s mind strays anyway. “Serial killer dude was not hitting on me.”

Steve cracks another roguish grin, raising his eyebrows. “Might’ve wanted to, though.”

“No way,” you say.

“And you wouldn’t even have known it.”

“Steve.” You frown, worrying the hem of your denim shorts absentmindedly. “Take it back.”

Steve’s eyes fall to your fingers without meaning to. They pull up the edge and expose bare thigh as they move, just enough skin to cause a car crash. You’re trying to kill him.

Steve thinks he’ll even let you. “It’s the truth.”

“How’re you so sure?” you return stubbornly. “You aren’t in their heads.”

But I’m in mine. Except that that’s definitely overkill, so he amends it to, “But I’m a guy. We think the same.”

You falter. What does he mean by that?

“That doesn’t make any sense,” you say, sounding unsure. Does he mean that he’s a guy that flirts with you, too?

“Of course it does.”

Another pause. Car rides with Steve feel like time-travel, sometimes.

Music blaring and windows rolled down, velvet hues bleeding into cotton candy clouds. You’re so caught up in the conversation that you don’t realise you’re almost home, his BMW rolling to a stop adjacent to your lit porch.

You turn your head as it halts, blinking up at your drawn curtains. “Right,” you say slowly, and then you startle, eyes widening as you spring to action. “Wait — I almost forgot — wait here.”

You jump out of his car with a quickness that’s alarming, leaving poor Steve with clammy hands on the steering wheel. The smell of you lingers as he watches you disappear through the front door, citrus that cuts through lavender and vanilla soap. Cinnamon, maybe, a hint of patchouli that’s all him. He aches at the prospect of your sweet perfume fading.

When you walk back out the front door and toward the greying sidewalk, Steve’s exited his BMW to lean against the hood. His hands are clasped behind his neck in a handsome display of strength, bicep stretched deliciously and long legs neatly folded.

You fight the overwhelming urge to collapse against him. He looks as though he could carry all of your weight, and then some.

“Here,” you say, a little bashful, a little breathless.

In your outstretched palm, an oversized tee that belongs to Steve. It’s the same one you’d worn to bed after Robin-free movie night; you don’t know why you’re so intent on returning it, you’re sure he wouldn’t mind if you decided to keep it.

Maybe you’re vying for confirmation. “Didn’t get a chance to return it.”

Steve looks down at it with a frown, pushing your hand away. It’s palm to wrist and your skin burns as it registers, warmth that spreads to toe tip nerve-endings. “Have it.”

“It’s yours,” you say lamely.

“I want you to have it,” Steve repeats, firmer this time.

He straightens before he inches closer, guiding it back to your chest. Here, his hand lingers, squeezing pressure into your soft-looking knuckles. “Please?”

You look up at him with wide eyes. He’s close enough for your knees to feel like jelly, every freckle on his nose neat and traceable. “Why?”

“I liked seeing you in it,” he says honestly. His fingers move to your wrist and clasp gently, thumb swiping over the pillow of your palm. You almost don’t feel him pull you forward as he leans back against the hood, you thighs finding home in the space between his.

Closer now. You can count the frown lines on his forehead, enough for your heart to ache and your fingers to itch. He should have less. He shouldn’t have any, only creases when he smiles and when he laughs and when he teases.

“I’ve worn your stuff before, though,” you mumble lamely.

His head dips. “Not like this.”

The hand that’s caressing your forearm drops to your waist and holds pressure. The touch travels to your chest and stretches your yawning heart wide open.

“Steve,” you whisper, eyes closing.

His nose dots yours when he responds, equally hushed, “Y/n.”

“What are we doing?” you say, even softer this time.

You can feel Steve’s warm breath on your cheeks. “I don’t know about you,” he murmurs, “but I think what I’m doing is gearing up to kiss you.”

There’s nothing platonic about the way his lips meet yours, soft to more supple, harder until you’re breathless. Torso to torso squashes his oversized tee, rough hands vying for free curves to press you into him. They slip under your tank top and mess with the cadence of your skin, sloven touch mirroring the labour of his kisses.

And there’s nothing platonic about the way his tongue moves over yours, a hot, searing swirl that jolts straight to your core. You gasp as his lips move, slow to quick to the sort of ardent that bruises, tension in the air and hands on your skin and cheeks all pretty and warm to the touch.

There’s nothing platonic about the sureness with which he’s kissing you. Steve’s memorising the way your lips taste, immortalising his own with longer stretches of firm pressure.

You wonder if he’s wanted this as long as you have. He wonders the same with far less diffidence.

When his lips drag to your jaw and along your throat, you sigh and say, “Steve,” all pretty and drawn out.

Steve’s obsessed with the sound. He pulls up to eye-level and cups your cheek, rough thumb swiping over it gently. “Yeah?”

“We just kissed.”

Steve raises his eyebrows, pressing another kiss to your lips, another, one more. “We’re still kissing,” he corrects quietly. You can feel his smile more than you can hear it, yours growing in tandem until your cheeks are aching.

“You know what I mean,” you mumble.

Steve’s fingers are warm enough to mould your skin like clay. You lean into the rough hand he has on your cheek, less sloven and more reverent now that your soft lips are imprinted. “This is what I was talking about before,” he teases, grinning a little.

Your brow furrows as you look up at him. “Hm?”

“About never taking a hint.” He smiles wider when you scoff. “Flirting’s kinda pathetic when it’s one sided.”

“Who said anything about it being one sided?” you ask timidly, trying for fire but feeling it elsewhere. On your cheeks, in your ribcage, every nerve-ending Steve’s touch has set ablaze.

Steve’s lips part in surprise. “You were trying to flirting to with me?”

“Why’re you saying it like that?” you ask, groaning.

“Because.” Your foreheads touch as he leans in, a featherlight pressure that feels all yours. “God — because there’s no way you have a crush on me too. You’re you.”

“I’m me?” you repeat, bemused.

“I don’t believe this,” he says, mostly joking as he presses closer. Nose on nose now. “I’m gonna need to make out with you some more before I’m sure.”

“Steve,” you fake-chide, breathing out a fond laugh. “C’mon. Of course I like you, you dingus.”

Steve almost startles at the sweet register of the confession, missing a beat before raising his voice and yelling, “HEAR THAT, MAPLE STREET?” You want to tell him to shut up, but your cheeks ache too much. “SHE LIKES ME!”

Into the echo, you say, “This is the part where you tell me you like me back.”

“Right,” Steve nods, kissing you once more good measure, quicker, harder till it’s there forever. “Except that I way more than just ‘like’ you, sweet thing.”

—

Your legs wraps around Steve’s thigh like ivy, ankles almost knocking and shoulder pressed to bicep. He has a rough hand squeezing the exposed skin below your shorts, sometimes firm, sometimes softer; always warm and there.

Since the sidewalk first kiss, you’ve learnt that Steve’s obsessed with creating points of contact. It’s as though skin-on-skin emboldens his senses; he’s always searching for something exposed, something unblemished, no regard for personal space and you aren’t even sure you mind it.

There’s a bounty of stars in the sky above you, brighter comets illuminating his features as he turns. The hand holding pressure grows looser and more careless, trailing up your thigh to slip underneath your tank top.

Your head moves too. “Hi,” you say softly.

A pause. He has a strange look on his face when he returns, “Hey.”

You reach forward and smooth a thumb over his frown lines, other fingers moving up to drag through his brown hair. “What’s that look?” you ask between soft, soothing swipes.

Steve turns fully, broad shoulders perpendicular to yours. “You’re my best friend, you know that?”

Your breath catches. Something warm and overwhelming threatens to break out of your ribcage. “I know that.”

“Good.” Steve feels it too. “Shit, I’m lucky.”

There it goes. It’s your heart that bounds out of your chest and into his, tucking into the empty space as though it’s always belonged there.

It has. His replaces yours in tandem.

“Me too,” you say, smiling softly.

“Less than me.”

“That’s not true.”

And so it goes, round and round like a snow globe dance, a silly argument about who’s sweeter on who, who’s pined for longer and who loves who more.

It’s only the latter than really matters. You are in love, and you’ve finally accepted it.

[demxters]

— 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆, 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆

steve harrington x reader

summary: each kiss and their meanings throughout your friendship with steve harrington

wc: 6.2k

warning(s): swearing, canon violence, underage drinking, (18+) description of a make out and an almost steamy time, ST4 VOL. ½ spoilers, canon divergence 

a/n: all i have to say is… i’m rlly sorry :) also, please, please follow the 18+ warning!

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

forehead: friendship

The fact of the matter was, only a few months prior you had been fighting interdimensional monsters. Since then, it seemed like anything could be possible. Maybe that is why you barely bat an eye at the strange, yet welcoming recurrence of Steve Harrington in your life.

Keep reading

[starkeystights]

I have so many emotions right now🥺

[demxters]

— 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆, 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆

steve harrington x reader

summary: each kiss and their meanings throughout your friendship with steve harrington

wc: 6.2k

warning(s): swearing, canon violence, underage drinking, (18+) description of a make out and an almost steamy time, ST4 VOL. ½ spoilers, canon divergence 

a/n: all i have to say is… i’m rlly sorry :) also, please, please follow the 18+ warning!

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

forehead: friendship

The fact of the matter was, only a few months prior you had been fighting interdimensional monsters. Since then, it seemed like anything could be possible. Maybe that is why you barely bat an eye at the strange, yet welcoming recurrence of Steve Harrington in your life.

Keep reading

[roanniom]

The Shift - Part 2

Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 9k~

Read Part 1 Here

Note: You can blame @millenialcatlady (lovingly) for the angst in this part. She is reminding me daily to appreciate a wider range of emotions in fic (i.e. more than horniness) and that spilled out big time here. You can also thank her for the length, because without the part that happens mid way, this part - as originally planned - would have been literally half as long lmao

Warnings: NSFW, 18+ ONLY, PIV sex / Unprotected sex / Car sex / semi public sex, fingering, teasing, dirty talk, slight degradation, slight praise kink, kinda inappropriate PDA in a grocery store, brief mention of masturbation (m), mentions of food and food consumption, Angst with a capital A (you are pretty mean to Steve at a certain point but then we realize you might have intimacy issues), enemies to lovers continuation

Steve is fucked. He knows it from the minute he touches you that he’s crossed a line he’s not going to be able to uncross. But you just got under his skin so much and on his nerves so frequently and the heat in that back room had been so unbearable he wanted to rip his clothes off - and yours in the process.

And that’s what’s got him banging his head against the counter today, while he sits overly early for his morning shift. He almost could have gotten away with blaming the heat - both the heat of the moment and the heat in that damn back room. He almost could have been able to chalk it up to a mix of repeated-bad-date-blue-balls and a hyperactive sex drive in need of an outlet.

But then he’d called you sweetheart. And you’d reacted like that.

And he’d said what he said.

Keep reading

[lurkymurker-deactivated20221030]

Set it up

gif by emziess!

Synopsis: Steve’s totally cool setting Robin up with his ex-girlfriend, Nance. Robin feels guilty — he has to still have some feelings for her, she insists; she doesn’t want to jeopardise that. That’s where you come in.

Notes: fem!reader + fake-dating, mutual yearning, pining, mentions of Robin x Nancy, a confusing amount of jealousy, no one wants to admit that this totally isn’t fake anymore, tw for cursing and mentions of drinking!

Word count: 11K

Steve groans loudly.

“I’m serious,” he repeats for what feels like the millionth time today. “I want to. She’s getting over Jonathan, you’re getting over Vicky… c’mon — it’s seriously perfect. It’s like the Universe wants you guys to end up together, or something.”

Robin sighs her defeat, peeling her left cheek off the front counter. The sultry, Hawkins’ humidity evades air conditioning; her skin is sticky with heat, and her fatigue an inevitable result of sunstroke. “Will you give it a rest?” She mutters, straightening reluctantly. “I don’t have the energy to argue with you in the middle of a fucking heatwave.”

“Then don’t argue,” Steve says simply, pressing his forearms into the front counter. “Let me set you guys up.”

“Steve, c’mon,” Robin groans, eyeing him warily. She brings two fingers to her temple, rubbing small, soothing circles into the skin there. “Remember our half-cut, bathroom stall deep and meaningful at Scoops? Remember what I asked you? Remember what you said?”

Steve grimaces, drumming his fingers against the side of the cash register absentmindedly. “I used to be in love with Nance. Past tense.”

He pauses then, raising his eyebrows pointedly. “I also remember mentioning a crush I had on some other loser. Who, as it turns out, prefers chics who sing like they’re in a shitty, muppet musical to Tom Cruise lookalikes. Don’t see you bringing up that scandalous little detail every time we have this argument.”

“Oh, shut it,” Robin chides, biting back a bubble of laughter. “You know what I mean, you idiot.”

“No, you shut it,” Steve counters, grinning easily. “I know both of you like the back of my hand — which means I know you’ll be perfect together. C’mon. Think I can’t play cupid with all the recon I’ve done over the years?”

“It’s not about that, though,” Robin sighs, planting her hands on the counter before fixing Steve with a sympathetic look. “Harrington, you used to love her. Like… get married and buy an RV and travel across the country type of love. I couldn’t be with her knowing that. We’re best friends. It wouldn’t be right.”

“But Robin,” Steve presses, eyes widening pointedly. “That’s the beauty of all this. I’m telling you that you can.”

Robin cocks her head to one side, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. “How can you be this sure you’re over her? What if, like, something happens, and you realise that you want her back?”

“It won’t,” Steve says firmly. He leans over the counter and reaches for the box of returns, scooping them up and setting them on the front counter. “Now, if that’s all ironed out —”

“It’s not,” Robin interrupts, holding it in place. Her grip is firm on the neat edges, creates wrinkles where the cardboard hinges. “How?”

Steve frowns, rifling through the pile absentmindedly. “How what?”

“How can you be so sure?”

His eyes remain on the contents of the box in front of him; there’s an alarming number of rom-coms hidden within it, the sort of cheesy, feel-good movies that John Hughes loves to direct. Sixteen Candles, Pretty in Pink, The Breakfast Club —

“Exactly,” Robin says then, satisfied by his silence. “You can’t be so sure, which is exactly why —”

“Because I’m seeing someone else, alright?” Steve blurts out without thinking. He freezes. That’s when the panic sets in.

The silence that follows stretches thin, cuts through the sticky, Hawkins’ air to replace humidity with something thicker. Anticipation.

“You’re — what?” Robin sputters, eyes widening in surprise. “Who?”

Steve keeps his head down as he grimaces, prays to God she can’t sense the way his pulse bounds, the rush of nerves vibrating through his skin. Sweat beads the back of his neck, trickles down his spine till he’s forced to straighten.

“Uh,” he starts awkwardly; his cheeks are warm, uncomfortably warm. “It’s —”

When the front door opens, a familiar ring cutting him off, he’s quite literally saved by the bell. Almost.

Robin’s unperturbed by the sound. She raises her eyebrows expectantly. “It’s… who?”

Several beats away, you scuff your sneakers on the welcome mat. Family Video’s marginally cooler than the bakery where you work; it’s filled with stale air, feels lukewarm on your sweaty skin.

“You guys in here?” You call, dusting off the front of your apron. “I’m on my fifteen! D’you want some half-burnt pastries?”

“Front counter!” Calls Robin’s croaky voice, muffled sweeter by the aisles that separate you. “Yes please!”

You slide two, grease stained paper bags out of your apron pocket; they’re half-squashed, and you salvage what you can before heading toward them.

Steve’s back is to you where he leans against the counter, Robin peeking around his broad shoulder at the sound of nearing footsteps.

“As promised,” you say, waving the bags in the air. You prop them against Steve’s forearm on the counter, and a hollow of grease seeps into his skin. “Managed to snag you a Pain au chocolat, Steven. You’re welcome.”

Steve looks down at you then, though it’s a transient gesture, just short of his usual, devastating charm. There’s a strained, almost panicked expression on his face; it halts his smiles, stops it meeting his eyes.

You frown bemusedly, searching his features for a beat longer than you normally would. It’s only when Robin clears her throat that you stop, turning your head and blinking across at her expectantly. “Sorry, hey. Got you one of those cream donuts with raspberries in the filling.”

Robin nods, and perplexingly, her eyes dart between you and Steve before she responds. “Right,” she says, landing on the latter with an unreadable expression on her face. “Thank you. You’re the best.”

You furrow your brow, attempting to decipher the silent conversation they’re having. “Uh, yeah,” you say after a pause, realising that it’s a fruitless task; you don’t think you’ll ever understand their friendship. “No big.”

You rock back on your heels awkwardly, sending them a fleeting smile each before stepping away. “I’ll see you guys round?”

“Yeah, totally,” Robin says then, shifting back into gear to return the gesture with a grin. “Soon, I’m sure.”

You nod, albeit bemusedly, sending her a mock salute before turning on your heel.

It’s only once the bell chimes, signalling your exit, that Robin pipes up again. “No fucking way,” she exclaims, her bright eyes twinkling. “Gotta hand it to you, Harrington. I would’ve never been able to guess it.”

Steve’s brow furrows in confusion. “Huh?”

“C’mon,” Robin teases, elbowing the solid pillow of his bicep. “‘I managed to snag you a Pain au chocolat, Steven’? When’d you ask her out? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Steve’s hand, which is elbow deep in returned tapes, freezes against the plastic edge of what he’s sure is another rom-com.

He has exactly one second — less than, now — to decide whether he’s going to be sensible about this, or extremely foolish.

Steve chooses foolish. He hasn’t ever been a stickler for the rules, anyway.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, straightening nonchalantly. “Yeah, you caught me. We’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks.”

—

The next day, Steve arrives at work half an hour early. He wastes five, precious minutes fidgeting with the centre console, another three with the air freshener dangling from the rearview. He squeezes his eyes shut, presses his forehead into the steering wheel, and tries his best to think up a way he can convince you to play along.

Sure, you’re kindhearted, boundlessly patient, but this sort of commitment feels like a stretch, even for you. Not to mention that you’re insanely beautiful, and definitely out of his league — what if you’re already seeing someone? What if you don’t want to agree? What if you laugh in his face, tell him he’s gone crazy?

Steve groans, opening one eye to hazard a glance at his wrist watch. When he realises that he’s already wasted ten minutes deliberating over absolutely nothing, he grabs his keys from the passenger’s seat and opens the door.

“Alright,” he mutters to himself, locking the car over his shoulder distractedly. “You’re fine. You’re Steve fucking Harrington. You can do this.”

He cycles through the pep-talk several more times as he heads toward the bakery, wiping a clammy hand on his jeans before placing it on the door handle.

When he opens it, he’s met with overwhelming citrus, fainter vanilla, the crisp smell of fresh bread and sickly sweet pastries.

“Welcome to Better Batter Hawkins’!” You greet automatically, sliding a batch of hot, cinnamon scrolls into an empty spot before standing. “What can I —”

You falter as you recognise the Family Video vest, eyes widening in surprise as they travel to Steve’s familiar face. “— oh, Steve, hey,” you finish, readjusting your straps self-consciously. You’re acutely aware of the flour dusted across your left cheek, the fact that your hair is a little frazzled from the heat. You shove your hands into the front pocket of your apron. “What brings you in?”

Steve grimaces at the question, and your curiosity piques.

“Well,” he starts tentatively, scratching the back of his neck. “The thing is… I need a favour.”

You cock your head to one side, raising your eyebrows questioningly. “A favour?”

“A kinda big one,” Steve adds, stepping forward gingerly. “But it’s for the good of humankind. Trust me.”

A soft bubble of laughter escapes your throat, and Steve grins, his nerves settling just a little. He realises then, as it blooms warm in his chest, that he’s never heard the sound of your laugh, before now. It’s soft and sweet, the sort of gooey that sticks, and he realises he doesn’t want you to stop laughing, ever. Steve’s heart thrums, and his ears grow a delicate shade of pink. He realises he wants to bottle up the peals like sunshine, tuck them into his front pocket so that they’re never out of reach.

“Alright,” you say, smiling with your eyes. “I’m listening. What do you need?”

Steve takes a deep breath in, exhaling the favour as a big, melted mess of words. “Basically… Ineedyoutopretendtobemygirlfriend.”

You blink. “Hm?”

“I,” Steve falters, wincing preemptively, “uh, I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend.”

“Temporarily,” he adds quickly, eyes widening with desperation. “For Robin’s sake, not mine.”

You blink, again, because you definitely didn’t hear that right. “I — what?” You sputter, disbelief transforming your features. “You — I — what?”

“Let me explain,” Steve insists, taking another step forward. His knees knock the front counter as he leans in, startling brown eyes meeting yours in earnest. This close, Steve can see the flour on your left cheek; it highlights the contour, makes you look prettier, somehow. Steve’s breath catches. He feels a strange, overwhelming urge to tell you how much he’d love to watch you bake.

“So,” he continues, tearing his gaze away in order to gather his thoughts. “I’m trying to set Robin up with Nancy Wheeler, right? I think they’re perfect for each other — like, especially when you consider all that opposites attract crap. But, the thing is —”

“Isn’t Nancy Wheeler your ex?” You interrupt, frowning thoughtfully. “Wouldn’t Robin, as your friend, feel totally weird about dating her?”

“Yes, yeah, exactly,” Steve affirms, his elbow bumping into a plate of free samples in his haste. His eyes dart down to it thoughtfully, and he pops a few bites of Bruschetta into his mouth before continuing.

“So,” he says between mouthfuls. “Damn — this is some good shit, by the way. You make these? Anyway — whatever, not important. As I was saying, they’re perfect for each other, right? But Robin thinks like you; she won’t let me set her up with Nance just in case I’m not completely over her.”

You nod slowly, drawing your bottom lip between your teeth. “And are you?” You ask hesitantly. “Over her, I mean.”

“Definitely,” Steve answers, and there’s something about the way he says it — so confidently, so smoothly, so impossibly at ease. It does funny things to your chest. “Ancient history. And I said that to Robin, too, but she just doesn’t wanna believe me.”

Steve pauses then, ducking his head sheepishly. “That is, until I told her I was seeing someone. That got her on board real quick.”

“No way,” you manage to say, heat creeping up your neck. “No way you said you were seeing me.”

“Didn’t have to,” Steve responds, shrugging awkwardly. “She just… you came into the store yesterday to drop off those pastries, remember? She just kinda decided that it was you right after you left.”

You ponder the revelation for less than a beat, realisation dawning alarmingly quickly. “So that’s why she was making that face,” you mutter, more to yourself than anyone else.

“Hm?” Steve asks. “Didn’t catch that.”

“No — I, don’t worry,” you answer distractedly, removing your hand from your front pocket to scrub it over your left cheek. Steve’s gaze travels along your torso as it moves, settles in the curve of your neck where the tie of your apron peeks through. Fleetingly, Steve imagines pulling it loose. Even more fleetingly, he imagines you having nothing on underneath.

Steve swallows tersely, his Adam’s apple bobbing dangerously in his throat. He needs to stop imagining things. He needs to fucking focus.

“So, let me get this straight,” you continue, forcing him out of his reverie. “Robin thinks we’re seeing each other. And you want me to…”

“…play along?” Steve finishes tentatively, rocking back on his heels. “For her sake? For Nance’s? For the sake of true love, even, if you’re into that.”

“Steven,” you say with a sigh, shaking your head slowly. “You’re crazy. You’re absolutely fucking crazy.”

Steve’s lips quirk up a little, the brown of his eyes glowing brighter. “Alright, so that isn’t a no.”

“It isn’t a yes, either,” you argue, jutting out your bottom lip. “And okay, say I decide to do it. How d’you they won’t see right through us? I know you work at a video store, and everything, but me? I am no actor —”

“They’ll believe it,” Steve interrupts without missing a beat. “I know they will.”

You frown, looking up at him intently. “How can you be so sure?”

Steve doesn’t know how to answer that question. He didn’t know when Robin asked him the same thing, yesterday; isn’t entirely certain there exists one right answer to it. All he knows is that he’s just sure — about Nance, about you and him, about the success of this ruse. All he knows is that you just have to say yes; that if you do, that if you agree, he’s dynamite.

“Just,” Steve pauses, and there’s a disarming amount of sincerity in his gaze, “d’you trust me?”

You shouldn’t. You’ve barely known him a few weeks; exchanged a grand total of twenty, pastry-related words in that time. You shouldn’t. And yet —

“Alright, fine,” you sigh, acquiescing after a beat. “Fuck it. I’m in.”

Steve’s expression brightens almost immediately. He lets out a triumphant hoot of laughter, and his pert nose flares, the apples of his cheeks blooming.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” He exclaims, hopping up and over the counter in one, swift motion. In his fit of exuberance, of overwhelming relief, he wraps his arms around your waist and picks you up easily. It’s like muscle memory, the way he twirls you around, and you suppress a gasp as his chest rumbles over yours warmly.

“Yeah, no,” you manage to respond, bracing your hands on the solid expanse of his shoulders. “You’re — it’s no biggie. You’re welcome.”

And perhaps it’s the shyness of your words, the way his hands slip to your belt line right after you say them. There’s a silver of bare skin between your apron tie and jeans; his pinky finger brushes over a trail of goosebumps, and it’s only then that Steve becomes aware of what he’s doing. His hold on you is squeezingly tight, and Steve becomes aware of how intently your figure flushes his. You feel devastatingly soft, feminine. Steve swallows. He begins to seriously doubt whether he’s capable of letting you go.

“Shit, sorry,” he mumbles, setting you down clumsily. “Got a little carried away.”

Your skin feels overwhelmingly warm, and yet you find yourself shivering at the loss of his touch. “Don’t mention it,” you say, sending him a fleeting smile.

He nods awkwardly, angling back and running his fingers through his hair. “So, uh, now that we’re in business, we should probably meet up at some point and talk details.”

“Good idea,” you agree, furrowing your brow thoughtfully. “When’re you free?”

“Tonight?” he asks, keeping his hand on the back of his neck. The position accentuates the large pillow of his bicep; he couldn’t have picked a more distracting pose, and you’re unsure whether you want to love or hate him for it. “When do you finish work? We can grab some take-out after?”

“Seven,” you answer, smiling. “You?”

“Seven-thirty,” Steve responds, sending you one of his own. “Come by Family Video when you’re done, and we can go from there, yeah?”

—

You stall till it hits twenty-past, pushing open the door to Family Video with your shoulder.

It nudges the overhead bell into action; a grating ring, but you still manage to catch the last of Steve and Robin’s conversation. You’re sure, through the way it halts expeditiously, that you’ve caught them in the middle of some sort of interrogation. One that involves you, no doubt, and your pulse jolts then, hoping to God that Steve has the common sense to skimp on details.

“That you, babe?” He calls out, smoothly, confidently, with an unfair amount of ease.

You’re only just getting used to the idea of being Steve’s fake girlfriend, so it’s safe to say the pet-name throws you a little. Your heart stutters, and you focus all of your energy on controlling your breathing.

It’s fine. You can totally do this. You can be Steve’s fake babe, sweetheart, whatever; take it a step further, even, call him something cute back.

“Yeah, it’s me,” you answer, deliberating over a pet-name — lovebug, maybe darling, or — “big hair.”

The words escape your lips before you conscious mind can intervene, and you grimace, ducking your head in embarrassment. “Seriously?” You mutter under your breath, fixing your gaze on your sneakers. They trudge across sticky linoleum. “Big hair? What’s wrong with you, you idiot?”

You force yourself to straighten as you near the front counter, catching the last of Robin mouthing “babe?” to Steve over the register. Her eyes are twinkling, and her expression looks equal parts disbelieving and oddly pleased.

Steve turns to face you then, hazarding a glance at his watch before leaning back against the counter. “Hey, don’t worry, we won’t be too long,” he assures. “I’ll just go grab my bag from out back.”

He retrieves a frayed, black lanyard from the pocket of his vest, keys jingling intently as he pushes himself off. When he brushes past you, he murmurs a barely perceptible, “hey, by the way. Hope the babe wasn’t total overkill”. It should be manageable exchange, except that the cedar-wood in his cologne, hints of cinnamon are disarming. You try to shake them off, barely able to respond (“oh, I — hey,”) before he’s gone.

It’s only then that you let yourself meet Robin’s gaze, clasping your hands behind your back and rocking back on your heels. “Uh, how’re you going anyway?” You ask, clearing your throat awkwardly.

You’re a terrible liar — the worst. Perhaps it’s a good thing that Steve’s nice to look at; it’s no secret that you’re attracted to him, so perhaps it’s a good thing that you don’t have to fake that part of being his faux girlfriend.

“Okay,” Robin answers, waving her hand in the air dismissively. “Fine, you know — same old shit with me. How are you? How’s being Steve Harrington’s girl?”

Your eyes widen in surprise, and Robin winces, clamping down on her bottom lip sheepishly. “Shit — I mean, that’s not what I meant — he told me you guys haven’t like, made it official yet —”

“Robin,” you interrupt with a laugh, relieved that she’s just as awkward about this as you are. “You’re totally fine. Don’t worry about it. He — yeah. We’re just seeing each other at the moment. No labels.”

When Robin’s brow furrows in confusion, panic bubbles up your throat. “Not yet,” you add quickly, trying your best to sound demure. “No labels yet, I mean.”

“Oh, right,” Robin says with a nod, decidedly convinced. “Makes sense. It’s only been — what? Like a few weeks since your first date?”

“Yeah, exactly,” you agree, latching onto her line of reasoning eagerly. “We’ve decided to take it slow, you know?”

Robin’s features soften, and her eyes dart over your shoulder before she beckons for you to come closer. “Steve needs slow,” she whispers, and then she pauses, meeting your eye with an endearing amount of sincerity. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

“I won’t,” you murmur back, smiling softly, genuinely. “You have my word.”

Robin returns the gesture, leaning over the front counter discreetly. “Also,” she adds. “How and when did he ask you out? Steve’s being super vague about the deets, which is so weird, because I’m usually the first person to hear about his Skull Rock chics —”

“I’m being vague,” Steve interrupts, coming up behind you and throwing a strong arm over your shoulder. “Because she’s not just another Skull Rock chic, alright?”

He pauses then, and when he looks down at you, you realise he has soft greens, the tiniest specks of ochre within his irises. “She’s different.”

Your breath catches. This is fake, this is fake, this fake, you repeat, over and over, trying to ignore the very real way your poor heart stutters.

“God, your lines are straight out of a fucking John Hughes movie,” Robin chides, but she’s grinning wide, her eyes winking with approval.

Steve rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah — you alright finishing up here?”

Robin nods, watches Steve’s arm slide down yours. You wonder whether she sees the cool trail of goosebumps he leaves.

“I’ll see you later, alright?” Steve says, turning around and sending her a wave over his shoulder.

You do the same, add a sweet smile for good measure, allowing Steve to guide you through the door and back out into the carpark.

“Big hair,” you blurt out as soon as you’re out of earshot. “I’m sorry. I totally don’t know where that came from. You called me babe, and I called you big hair. What did I tell you? I’m totally going to screw this up.”

Steve’s expression reads somewhere between mild amusement and charity; he leans back, he grins, and it holds a disarming amount of confidence. “Hey, don’t worry,” he assures, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. “It was cute, the whole ‘big hair’ thing. I kinda like it. Think it’ll stick.”

“You’re sure?”

“Definitely,” Steve affirms with a nod. “Now,” he pulls away to slide his keys out of his pocket, using them to point to a shiny, red BMW. “D’you wanna meet me there?”

You blink. “I didn’t drive here,” you respond. “I live like, five minutes away. I walked.”

Steve’s brow furrows, and he looks toward the sinking horizon. “You walk home alone after every shift?”

“It’s not that dark when I finish,” you reason, bathed in deep fuchsia as the sky bleeds to velvet. “I usually get home before the sun sets completely.”

“That’s crazy,” Steve insists, walking you to his car. “You should’ve told me. I can drop you home. We work the same shifts.”

“Steven,” you say tiredly. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is now,” he answers, raising his eyebrows pointedly. “Steve Harrington’s fake girl doesn’t walk home, ever.”

“Does Steve Harrington’s fake girl get a choice in the matter?”

“Absolutely not,” Steve teases, all easy charm and a devastating grin. “Steve Harrington’s fake girl made a deal with the devil. What did she expect? That it’d somehow end fairly?”

—

“Alright,” Steve announces once the waitress disappears, grabbing his burger and a generous handful of fries before continuing. “So, I’ve been thinking it over.”

You nod, tearing open a ketchup sachet and emptying it over your own basket distractedly. “I’m listening.”

“Dude,” he says disapprovingly, making a face at uneven spread of tomato sauce. “That’s gotta be a crime. Half of your fries are gonna be totally dry and sad, you gotta —”

“Steve,” you interrupt sternly, raising your eyebrows. “Focus. What have you been thinking over?”

“Right, sorry, yeah,” Steve answers, unwrapping his burger and taking a sizeable bite. “So, fake-dating 101, we gotta get our story straight. How we met, our first date, whether we’ve gotten past first base, crap like that.”

A familiar, prickly heat makes its way up your neck. “Speaking of,” you say then, clearing your throat awkwardly. “We should probably also set some ground rules, right? Make sure we’re on the same page about, like… fake-dating expectations.”

Steve nods his approval, swallowing down a mouthful of salty fries before continuing. “Alright, yeah. Ground rules.”

“Like,” you continue thoughtfully, reaching for your milkshake. You find yourself hoping that it’s spiked with something a little stronger, “Rule #1. No actually getting past first base in the name of being fake-together.”

Steve’s mouth slackens, and you swear you can hear the cogs in his brain turning. “I didn’t mean to — I wasn’t going to —” he sputters in a panic, and then he falters, features twisting into an embarrassed grimace.

“— that’s not what I meant,” he finishes after a beat, reaching for his own milkshake sheepishly. Beads of condensation drip onto the table as he picks it up.

“Oh, no, I know,” you assure, eyes widening in earnest. “I just wanted to put it out there, s’all.”

Steve nods, taking a sip. “Fair enough.”

“Ground Rule #2,” you continue, chewing thoughtfully. “No telling any parents or siblings. It’ll get too complicated if we involve too many people.”

“My parents are never really here,” Steve assures; he doesn’t seem to mind this fact, but you feel a twinge of sympathy, anyway. “So that won’t be a problem, don’t worry.”

“Okay, good,” you answer, reaching for a fry doused in tangy ketchup. “Last one — you gotta come to a gig I have on next weekend.”

Steve raises his eyebrows curiously, cocking his head to one side. “What is it?”

“Someone I know’s playing at the Slow Lounge on the Saturday,” you answer cryptically, meeting Steve’s inquiring gaze with the little self-preservation you have left. “What?” You add, folding your arms across your chest. “Think you’re the only one who’s allowed to get something out of this deal?”

Steve’s eyebrows soar further upward, as if that’s fucking possible. “Spill it,” he demands, pointing a soggy-looking fry at the centre of your chest. “Who’s the someone you know?”

You frown down at it, deliberating for a moment, another, before you realise lying is fruitless. “Matthew,” you answer with a sigh, dredging up forgotten details with a bashful shake of your head. “Matt Johnson. My ex-boyfriend from way back.”

Steve nods slowly, popping the fry into his mouth. “And you’re putting yourself through the torture of hearing him play live because…?”

Your nose crinkles, and you bite back a smile at his response. “He invited me. Gave me the whole, ‘I’m so glad we’re friends, now,” spiel. I dunno — I guess I just don’t wanna turn up alone. And, I mean, we totally don’t have to play the fake-dating card, or anything —”

“Are you kidding?” Steve interrupts with a grin, his eyes twinkling danger. “Of course we do. We’re gonna give that motherfucker a show.”

The ease of his admission throws you, settles all gooey in your heart like you’re halfway to lovesick. “Yeah?”

“Definitely,” Steve affirms, taking another bite of his burger and chewing thoughtfully. “Alright,” he says through a mouthful of bacon and beef. “Now. Our story.”

You nod, gesturing for him to continue.

He places his burger back onto the plate and folds his arms across the table, giving you his full attention. “So,” he starts, lowering his voice to a sensible whisper, “I’ve been real careful not to get too detailed with Robin. The girl has a fucking photographic memory, I swear — this way, it makes everything less complicated.”

“Okay,” you say. “What have you told her, so far?”

“That I asked you out four weeks ago,” Steve answers, listing things off with a furrowed brow. “That before that, I’d come by the bakery before my shifts at Family Video and grab myself a pain au chocolate.”

“Shit — smart,” you intersect, smiling in approval.

“Right?” Steve agrees, looking immensely pleased. “Okay, so, I also told her that we went to that ice-cream place near new Starcourt on our first date. And that we’ve been to the arcade, and Skull Rock, and you’ve also come over to mine a few times since then.”

You take a thoughtful sip of your milkshake, meditating on everything he’s said so far. “Chocolate chip.”

“Hm?” Steve asks, frowning bemusedly.

“My favourite flavour,” you explain. Your knees knock under the table, then; it’s a tendril of warm touch, but it’s enough to raise the temperature in the room a few degrees. “We should probably know that stuff about each other by now, right? Favourite food, favourite movie, favourite band?”

“Right,” Steve agrees, and then he pauses, his eyes twinkling mischeviously. “Bet I can guess.”

“Bet you can’t.”

“Cinnamon scrolls,” Steve begins to list, pointing forefinger to forefinger for good measure, “probably like, Sixteen Candles or something — am I right? or —” you press the tips of your warm fingers into markedly warmer cheeks, hating how easily Steve fucking Harrington’s seeing through you, “— I totally am, huh? Okay, and favourite band…”

He trails off, leaning in closer with a devilish grin on his face. “…hmm, your ex-boyfriend’s?”

You disguise your laugh as a particular animated scoff, giving his shoulder a playful shove. “Shut up. It’s Duran Duran, alright?”

“See?” Steve says, giving his shoulder an absentminded squeeze. Your touch lingers. “Easy. Your turn.”

“Okay,” you say seriously, clearing your throat before continuing. “Pain au chocolat, Top Gun — don’t give me that look, Steven, I just know you have a man crush on Tom Cruise — and… Bon Jovi. Definitely Bon Jovi.”

Steve raises his eyebrows, mildly impressed. “Risky Business. Very close.”

“Same difference,” you dismiss, waving your milkshake in the air. A fleck of condensation hits your cheek. Steve’s mind drifts to when there was flour in that spot, to when he climbed over the bakery counter, and —

He reaches forward impulsively, swiping it away with his thumb. “Water droplet,” he explains, gaze falling to your lips momentarily. “Don’t worry about it.”

The nerve-endings where he touched you are on fire. You ignore them. “Anything else we need to discuss?” You ask quickly, eager to change the subject.

“Uh,” Steve pauses, brow furrowing in concentration. “Oh — yeah, we gotta talk about this weekend.”

“This weekend? What’s this weekend?”

“Pool party, of course,” he responds easily. “Me, you, Robin, and Nance. Oh — and the gang.”

You raise your eyebrows. “The gang?”

“The gang,” Steve affirms. “Nance’s younger brother Mike and all of his friends. She’ll be the one dropping them off, of course. How else d’you think I’m gonna rope her into spending Saturday afternoon at my house?”

—

It’s as you stand frozen on Steve’s front porch, blinking down at the energetic young boy in front of you, that you realise he’s already broken ground rule #2.

Because there’s no way that this curly-haired stranger, all bright eyes and an animated expression, toothy grin that you’re sure he’s practiced in front of a mirror, isn’t in some way related to Steve.

It’s the only explanation, really, for how quickly he springs into action after you introduce yourself. (As Steve’s girl — in hindsight, it probably shouldn’t roll off your tongue as easily as it does.)

“Shit, of course you are,” he says in a sweet, awestruck sort of voice, his eyes widening as he gives you once-over. “And of course he was being super vague. He didn’t want us to clock how totally out of his league you are, and — okay, how did he do it? High-school him, sure, but the lame-o who takes us to the skatepark like, every Friday? No fucking way. You work at Better Batter, right? So are you like… really good at baking? Steve loves chics who can cook. He’s super American Dream like that, but don’t worry, Robin’s been really good with straightening him out into a total feminist —”

“Woah,” you interrupt, just. “Slow down, dude. You’re a sentence away from passing out.”

Dustin’s grin widens, and he cocks his head to one side. “Sorry. Dustin.”

“Nice to meet you Dustin,” you say politely, moving your straw-coloured beach bag from one shoulder to the other. It’s leaves a thick, red indent on the bare skin beside your bikini strap. “You going to let me in, or…?”

“Feisty,” Dustin notes, nodding his approval. “That’ll be good for Steve. He’s usually so far up his own ass —”

“Henderson!” calls Steve’s voice from a distance, rich and deep and alarmingly familiar. “What’s the fucking hold-up?”

You spot his impressive head of hair peeking around the corner; his brown eyes come next, and he straightens as soon as he registers your figure.

“Shit, hey,” he greets briskly, breaking into a jog. His shirt isn’t done-up. “I didn’t realise — I would’ve come myself, I just thought it was Mike and Nance.”

“No biggie,” you dismiss easily. As he nears, his hair flops over his forehead. The tips glisten in the sun; his tanned skin does, too. You blink, glancing down at a very amiable looking Dustin. “Got acquainted with your little brother.”

“Little brother?” Dustin and Steve echo in unison, sounding equal parts exasperated and pleased by the claim.

“Sorry,” you say, eyes widening. “I just thought —”

“You told her that you have a little brother?” Dustin interrupts, sending Steve a bewildered glance. “And that it was me?”

“I mean,” Steve falters, eyes darting toward you momentarily, “you basically are.”

Dustin ponders this for a moment, his knitted brow acquiescing. “Fair enough,” he decides. He flashes you one last, cheeky grin, turning around with a cheekier, “I’ll see you two love-birds by the pool, then.”

Steve waits for the younger boy to disappear around the corner before he allows for a sigh of relief.

“Dude,” he mutters incredulously, beckoning you in. “What was that?”

You shrug helplessly, stepping into his side. “I’m sorry, the way he was talking about you… he had the sibling thing down, I swear.”

Steve angles back, surveying you with narrowed eyes. “What did that little shit say?”

The slight movement causes his forearm to knock yours; it’s damp on your bare skin, sunshine warm. “You know,” you tease, looking up at him demurely. “The obvious stuff. How’d you land me, I’m totally out of your league, when am I gonna break it off with you —”

“Stop —”

“— you’re a total lame-o now, I definitely deserve better —”

“I said,” Steve interrupts again, his eyes alive with mirth, “stop.”

“What?” You ask, looking up at him through your lashes. “It isn’t like he’s totally wrong, and — listen, maybe me and you being together is like, too unrealistic for this to —”

Steve cuts you off with a strong arm around your waist, picking you up and throwing you over his shoulder in one, swift motion. “What did I say?” He teases, the smile on his face audible.

“Steve,” you huff out, biting back a laugh. Your hands land on the broad muscles of his back, his on the smooth expanse of skin beneath your dress. You shiver. “You’re a serious man-handler, y’know that?”

“Take it back,” Steve says, gasping dramatically. “I’m being a perfect fucking gentleman right now —”

Someone standing a few steps away interrupts by clearing their throat. Loudly.

Steve’s back is to the stranger, so it’s you lifts her head, squinting slightly as you look toward the source of the commotion. Nancy Wheeler’s on the porch steps with her hands clasped behind her primly, a gangly-looking kid with a towel around his neck standing by her.

“Oh,” you say in lieu of greeting, eyes widening sheepishly. “Hey, you guys.”

Steve turns to face them then, setting you back on the ground carefully. “Mike!” He exclaims, “Nance, hey!”

You separate, and the skin that touched his feels like hot, crackly static.

“You wanna come in for a bit, Nance?” Steve adds, stepping aside so the boy named Mike can get past him. “Robin’s here, too, so it won’t just be us three.”

Nancy’s cheeks grow the faintest shade of pink. “Yeah?” She asks, tilting her head down a little as she nods. “Okay, yeah. I’ll come.”

She walks up the porch steps and follows her younger brother into the hall, sending you a fleeting smile as she passes you.

You and Steve trail behind a few steps, close enough that your knuckles brush electricity intermittently. At the turn, he holds out his arm, halting you mid-step.

“You ready?” He asks, lifting it and throwing it over your shoulder, silky smooth.

You reach up and intertwine your fingers, bumping your hip against his playfully. “I’m ready.”

The outdoor pool is a bustle of energy. Mike’s found his way to the deep end where Dustin and another boy stand, peering over the edge suspiciously. A pretty girl with brilliant auburn hair wades through the shallows; she submerges, and the light reflecting off the water paints it sienna. Robin’s laying on a straw-coloured lounger on your right, scrambling to prop her sunglasses up and greet Nancy as she nears.

Steve sends you an amused “are you seeing this?” look, giving your hand an absent-minded squeeze before guiding you toward the two of them. The callouses on his palm are rough and soft at the same time.

“Robin,” he begins once within earshot. “You remember Nancy, right? Wheeler’s older sister?”

“Yes,” Robin affirms, straightening with an alarming quickness. “Yeah, of course. From that time at the skate-park, right? Hey. I’m —”

“— Robin,” Nancy finishes, smiling with her eyes. “Yeah. I remember.”

Robin chews on her bottom lip nervously, intending to look to Steve for help, but landing on you, instead. “Oh!” She exclaims, sounding pleasantly surprised. “Shit, hey, I totally didn’t see you. What’s going on?”

“Hey Robin,” you greet, mildly amused by her eagerness. “Same old. You?”

“Same old,” Robin returns, and then she pauses, eyes darting to Steve mischievously. “But hey — did Steve tell you about that tourist who came into Family Video the other day? Total disaster, so he probably didn’t —”

“Robin,” Steve hisses through gritted teeth, fixing her with a pointed glare. “Wasn’t there something you wanted to ask Nance, earlier?”

Robin falters, swallowing nervously. “There was?”

“Yes,” Steve says slowly, encouragingly. “Something about how her summer internship?”

Nancy’s lips part in surprise, and she sends Robin a curious glance. “You’re interested in news and media?”

“Oh,” Robin says sheepishly, turning to face her completely. She dangles her legs over the side of her lounger, scuffed knees barely an inch from Nancy’s. “Right, yeah. Not so much interested as… curious? I’m graduating in a year, and I just really don’t know what I wanna do with my life, y’know? And you’ve totally got it all figured out —”

She stops mid-sentence, clamping down on her bottom lip as though she’s said too much already. “— I mean, I just mean —”

“Robin,” Nancy says then, her features softening a little. “That’s sweet. Yeah, of course. What do you want to know?”

Robin’s blush comes roaring back. Steve begins his triumphant retreat.

“We’re just gonna go grab some sodas,” he announces, raising his eyebrows pointedly. “You guys need anything?”

“We’re good,” Robin dismisses, only half-listening, anyway.

Steve nods diligently, turning you around and heading for the deck slider.

“What’d I tell you?” He whispers smugly, untangling from your figure once you’re inside the house. You’re eighty degrees deep in sweltering heat, and you still miss the warmth of Steve’s touch when he separates. “Perfect. For. Each. Other.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you chide, rolling your eyes playfully. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself, Steven. They only just started talking, like, five minutes ago.”

“Trust me,” Steve dismisses airily, leading you into the kitchen. “That conversation? Raw fucking chemistry.”

You bite back a peal of laughter, leaning against the marble counter as he ducks his head into the fridge. There’s a brilliantly transparent window that dominates your left side, filtering through scintilla of light, softer sunshine. It looks out over Steve’s backyard, giving you a clear view of all of his friends.

Giving them a clear view of you and him.

“Steve,” you mutter discreetly, worrying the frayed hem of your dress. “You know, like, everyone’s pretending not to look at us right now, right?”

Steve stands and closes the fridge door, holding two cream sodas in one hand. Condensation drips down the osculate between his thumb and forefinger, along his hand, settles over the pulse point on his wrist.

“Okay,” he says, setting them down on the kitchen counter calmly. “No big.”

And then, he presses firm on the curve of your waist, picks you up and deposits your figure beside the sodas like it’s nothing.

You don’t think it’s nothing. He nudges his way into the space between your thighs, rests his hands either side of you, and you don’t think it’s nothing. The pillow of his bicep ripples over your skin, sends shivers of electricity down your arm, and you definitely don’t think it’s nothing.

His head dips to the shell of your ear, and he whispers, with an unfair amount of ease, “Do ground rules allow me to kiss you on the cheek?”

You want to hate him for how uncomplicated he’s making this all seem. But his warm breath on your skin, the trail of goosebumps it leaves; he’s entirely too close for you think of anything but his proximity.

“I think so,” you answer softly.

Steve’s fairly confident that this is his forte. He angles back so he can lean into your cheek, instead, and there’s a split second where his face freezes in place. He blinks down at you, thrown by how pretty you are up close, and there’s a split second where he begins to doubt that it is. His gaze travels from your wide eyes to your nose, trails to the way your lips part, and he really begins to doubt it.

The split-second passes, and Steve presses a kiss to your cheek. The softness of his lips lingers.

“Okay,” you whisper after a beat, edging forward on the marble counter. “I think we’re good.”

He doesn’t move back right away, and your chest brushes his torso like a fleeting bolt of electricity. The warmth of his skin lingers the same way his lips did.

“Right,” he says, glancing over at the window before clearing his throat. “Of course we are.”

—

“So,” you say with a sweet smile, hopping up on the front counter and dangling your legs over the edge. “We still on for tomorrow night, Steven?”

It’s nearing two weeks since the conception of your ruse, and in your humble opinion, you think you’re really getting the hang of it.

The two of you have managed to slip into a comfortable, almost effortless routine; Family Video rendezvous’, rides home after shifts, the occasional shindig at Arcade, even a couple of double dates.

Not that anyone has the balls to brand them as such, of course; just an almost couple and a fake couple watching movies and eating take-out, at Steve’s, or Robin’s, even yours, sometimes.

“Mm-hm,” Steve nods, tugging the strap of your apron loose. It’s become a signature move, but that doesn’t mean it leaves you any less breathless; Steve leans in, acutely aware that he’s in plain sight, and presses a featherlight kiss to your cheek. It lingers, the way it always does, warm and startlingly soft. “When should I pick you up?”

“Like, seven?” You hazard.

“When,” Robin groans then, hitting her forehead against the edge of the Horror aisle in mock agony. “Is. It. My. Turn?”

Each word is punctuated by a thump that’s firmer than the last, and she ends her dramatics by looking toward the two of you expectantly.

“Dude,” Steve chides, a flicker of amusement crossing his features. “You know all you gotta do now is ask her out, right? She’s totally into you.”

“No, but —” Robin falters, gesticulating between you and Steve wildly. “— but how can you know? We definitely don’t act like this when we’re together.”

Steve’s hand, which rests beside your thigh, trails up to the pulse point of your wrist, giving it an absent-minded squeeze. He does that a lot; almost without realising.

You realise. You always realise.

“What are you talking about?” Steve asks.

“You guys just look… right together,” Robin grumbles, leaning against the aisle and folding her arms across her chest. “Like, just totally made for it. I want that. But I’m so — I’m so awkward every time she’s around —”

“Robin,” you interrupt, trying to ignore the way your stomach flips at her words. “Listen, I mean,” you turn to look at Steve, and — have his eyes always been such a rich shade of brown? “we were totally like that too, at the start.”

Robin ponders that for a moment. “Okay, yeah,” she says slowly, pressing her ear into her shoulder. “You have a point. The only reason I realised what was going on was ‘cause of the nervous energy the two of you used to give off.”

A pocket of oxygen catches in your throat. You wonder whether Steve’s thinking the same thing you are. “Nervous energy?” You echo, chewing on your bottom lip absently. “When?”

Steve wishes you wouldn’t do that. His gaze falls to the soft pillow of your bottom lip, feels an overwhelming urge to reach out and brush the pad of his thumb over it. His grip on your wrist loosens. And then, the column of your throat shifts as you swallow, tempting Steve’s eyes to trail further, and he really wishes you wouldn’t do that.

“That time you got Steve a pain au chocolat,” Robin says, her brow furrowing in thought. “You guys kept bumping into each other accidentally on purpose. And Steve fixed his hair like, ten times in the five minutes you were here.”

“No I didn’t,” Steve defends quickly, a tell-tale blush blooming across his cheeks.

“We weren’t bumping into each other that much, either,” you add meekly.

Robin cocks her head to one side, surveying the pair of you with amusement. “Yeah, you were. It was like you didn’t understand the concept of personal space, or something.”

Steve clears his throat, and you feel your cheeks grow warm, overwhelmingly warm.

“Don’t get all shy now,” she continues, rolling her eyes with a grin. “It was cute, alright? Even if it made me wanna puke.”

She pauses, frowning thoughtfully. “And then fucking die, because I’m totally alone and miserable, and you guys are —”

“Robin,” you and Steve interrupt in perfect unison. Then there’s a pause, sticky silence that stretches with anticipation.

And as if that isn’t enough to turn your knees to jelly, you turn to face each other in perfect unison, too. Steve wonders whether there’s anything else the two of you can do in perfect unison. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and his eyes travel lower, lower still to the soft skin of your neck, unmarked. Covering you in teeth-scraping kisses isn’t one of them.

“…uh, yeah?”

Steve clears his throat again. “Just ask her out,” he says weakly, and the words have more meaning than he’d like to admit. “She likes you, you like her — what more do you need? Stop complicating it, Buckley. Ask her out.”

—

When you open your front door to greet Steve on Saturday night, his first thought is: the night air is uncharacteristically chilly.

His second: you’re definitely going to freeze in that dress.

And his third, as his gaze travels from the spaghetti straps to the low neck, along the gentle curve of your waist, the spot above your knees where it hems: breathe.

“Shit, hi — hey,” he stutters, stopping just short of your black Doc martens. “You look great.”

Your pulse leaps, and you feel far more giddy than you should. This is fake, this is fake, this is fake, you think, over and over till you’re certain it’ll stick. “Thanks,” you say. “You too.”

Steve grins. You realise that it never will.

“Shall we?” He asks, combing back the hair that’s flopping over his forehead.

You nod in response, following him down your porch steps and toward his BMW. He’s first to the passenger’s side, quick to open the door for you and bow you in.

“You do this for all your fake girl’s, Steven?” You tease, steadying your hand beside his before sliding in.

“No,” he says easily, silky smooth as butter. “Just you.”

And you think, this is fake, this is fake, this is fake, till your poor heart slows again.

The drive to the gig is agonisingly long; big stretches of crackly silence, petioles of touch that feel like those on purpose accidents Robin was going on about.

Steve pulls up beside the Slow Lounge after what feels like forever; you aren’t sure why — there should be this much tension. There’s no pressure to act like you’re together within the confines of his car, right? So why do you still feel as though you’re halfway to breathless, drowning in an anticipation that’s almost electric?

“How long do you want to stay?” Steve asks, turning off the ignition and unbuckling.

“Oh, um, I dunno,” you say. “Not too long, though.”

Steve nods, opening the door and jogging around to meet you on the pavement. He locks the car over his shoulder while you’re walking to the entrance, biceps stretching deliciously against his bomber jacket.

There’s a gush of cool air, and he steps closer instinctively. You’re not sure why the movement sends a shiver down your spine; Steve Harrington is like a broad, welcoming furnace.

“You cold?” He asks nonchalantly, as if it isn’t all he’s thought about since he picked you up.

“I’m okay.”

“Take my jacket.”

“Steve, no, seriously,” you assure, stopping his hand where it’s pulling at the blue sleeve. “I’m okay.”

Steve raises his eyebrows accusingly. “You shivered.”

“Fake shivered,” you counter; you aren’t sure why, but borrowing his jacket feels a step too far. (Your stomach’s a mess, and you think, this is fake, this is fake, this is fake.)

Steve frowns, an unreadable expression crossing his features. “Right.”

“Now, c’mon,” you urge, linking arms and dragging him into the Slow Lounge. “We’re late.”

Steve doesn’t care. His mind strays to how softly your elbow hinges into his bomber jacket, on how the strobe lights make you glow, and he really doesn’t care.

He hazards that your ex-boyfriend’s the drummer on stage; he’s got that effortless, boy-next-door charm that reminds Steve of those John Hughes movies you like so much. He messes with his hair self consciously.

“Dude, slow down,” Steve grumbles, squeezing through the crowd with markedly less grace than you. “This is close enough to the stage, don’t you think?”

You look back at him with a frown, the lights airbrushing you around the edges; a halo. “Fine,” you say, slipping your forearm down his till your fingers intertwine. You give his hand one, last tug. “Come here.”

Steve steadies just short of bumping into you, his eyes darting toward the stage on instinct.

“Think he’s about to look over,” he says softly, watching the drummer shake out his hair, crane his neck a little. And then, before you’re able to whisper your response, he turns you around by the hips and pulls you into his chest.

You startle at the firm pressure, lips parting in surprise. His torso feels solid enough to hold all of your weight, and then some; it makes you feel safe, perplexingly at home. “Shit, you’re right.”

You blink at Matthew in the distance, feeling a surge of satisfaction at the way his brow furrows. It’s transient — he’s quick to plaster on an easy smile, but it’s there enough for your own lips to curve up in triumph.

“Hey!” You call silently, giving him a thumbs up. “Great gig!”

Matthew squints at your mouth moving, sending you a drum stick salute that the whole crowd can see.

That Steve can see. His hold on your waist grows tighter.

He isn’t sure why, but the exchange is doing cruel things to his chest. Something thick and white-hot trickles down the column of his throat, coats the base of his stomach, leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

And then, there’s that familiar twang that jolts through his heart. He hasn’t felt like that since Nancy Wheeler broke his heart.

“That totally worked,” you whisper then, breaking him out of his reverie. “He did not look pleased.”

Steve turns you toward him and ducks his head, pressing his lips to the shell of your ear. “And now?”

You’re not sure. Your lashes flutter as Steve’s lips trail further, hitting the sensitive spot beneath your earlobe, and you’re really not sure.

“Yeah,” you lie, as if you’re focusing on Matthew’s expression at all. “Definitely not pleased.”

His lips linger for a moment longer before he pulls back and winks, holding you steady as he swivels you back around and pulls you close. There’s a familiar warmth creeping up your neck, blooming across your cheeks till it reaches the tips of your ears. You fidget, worrying the hem of your dress. Why is it so hard to get comfortable when Steve’s hands are on your waist?

You spend the rest of the gig wondering whether time’s moving too slow, or too fast. When Steve’s fingers brush bare skin, when his warm breath raises static, you swear it’s the former — it’s going in slow motion. But when you close your eyes, focus on his big arms, how his jacket smells like danger and overwhelming musk, you’re sure that it’s definitely the other way around. You can’t take it anymore, but you also aren’t sure you want it to stop. And somewhere, deep in the back of your mind, this is fake, this is fake, this is fake, fades into the shitty tune of ex-boyfriend’s songs.

When it’s over, Matt’s quick to find you in the crowd.

“Hey,” he greets breathlessly, tucking his drumsticks into his back-pocket. “You came.”

“I came,” you affirm, accepting his awkward, side-hug. “Great gig.”

He sends you one of those smiles that look like sucking your lips together, allowing the silence to stretch before shifting his gaze to your fake date.

“Steve Harrington,” he acknowledges, cocking his head to one side thoughtfully. “You guys here together?”

“Yeah,” Steve says with a charming amount of sincerity, throwing his arm over your shoulder. “Great drumming, dude. It’s a cool hobby.”

An unreadable expression flickers over Matt’s features. “Yeah. Not a hobby, but yeah.”

“No, yeah, super great,” you blurt out then, leaning into Steve’s side instinctively. “Uh, cool place to come on date night, don’t you think babe?”

You look up at Steve expectantly, and he fights the urge to press his lips to yours.

He almost fails, brushing them against the edge of your cheek at last minute. “Definitely,” he agrees, sending Matt a serene smile. “Listen, we’re probably gonna go grab a bite now. You wanna join?”

Matthew’s gaze travels from your head on Steve’s shoulder, to the hand he has on yours. He’s about to respond, when a chilly draft filters it’s way in. You shiver.

“Are you cold, sweetheart?” Steve asks with a frown, giving your forearm a gentle squeeze before pulling away. He slips off his bomber jacket and throws it over your shoulders, wrapping his arms back around you and pulling you close, closer.

Matt’s eyes dart back to your face. “I’m good,” he mutters, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Uh, you guys go ahead.”

“If you’re sure,” Steve responds, his voice cloyingly sweet. “We’ll see you around, dude!”

“Yeah,” You add, overwhelmingly warm all over. “Thank you again, for the invite.”

Matt sends the pair of you a curt nod, shoving his hands into his pockets before turning on his heel. He slips into the Slow Lounge crowd with the sort of eagerness that should be scalping; it isn’t, Steve’s hands, his jacket, are far more distracting.

“Sorry,” Steve let’s slip once he’s sure Matt’s out of earshot. “Got a bit carried away, huh?”

Yes, you think, this is fake, you think, yes you did, but that’s okay, because this is all fake, including everything you just did.

“No,” you lie. “You were fine — great, even. Totally honoured your end of the favour.”

Steve wonders vaguely if that was even really his intention. “You’re sure?” He asks. His hands are still on your waist

“I’m sure,” you answer, placing your palms over his knuckles. His grip slackens, but the skin beneath it feels charged; hot and bruised and electric, as though his touch has left a mark.

It persists. Long after you separate, walking back toward his BMW with your knuckles brushing, skin aflame. It persists. Long after he drives you home, itches to place his hand on your thigh, kiss you under your dim, porch lights. It persists. Long after a sleepless night, an anticipatory work shift, another twenty-four hours of fake being his. It persists. Two days, five, a week passes, and it persists.

And it’s as you’re waiting on Steve to finish closing, leaning against a ripped poster tacked to Family Video’s front window, that you realise this feeling may persist forever

You swallow nervously, worrying the edge of your bottom lip. It’s clear, painstakingly clear, that you’re beginning to crush on Steve, but how are you going to explain to him that your fake feelings have somehow turned real?

Even thinking it feels pathetic.

He asked you for one simple favour, and you… what? Created a problem for him, instead?

“Oh, there you are,” says Robin’s familiar voice then, sounding sweet, hoarse enough to interrupt your train of thought. “Swear you were by the front counter a second ago.”

You shrug, sending her a weak smile. “Needed some fresh air.”

“Gets super hot in there without the aircon on,” Robin agrees. “Anyway, listen, guess what? I’ve got the greatest news fucking ever to tell you.”

You knit your brow, searching her features a moment. Your gaze darts over her bright eyes, the pleased way her cheeks flush; she’s buzzing with excitement, and that’s when realisation dawns. “No way,” you gasp. “When? How?”

Robin’s about to respond when Steve swings open the door, hair mussed by his discarded vest and voice a little breathless. “Hey,” he greets tersely, giving his shirt collar an absent-minded tug. “What are we talking about?”

You frown. This is the fourth time today that Steve’s done that — turned up out of nowhere and cut Robin off in the middle of a conversation.

Robin grins wide, her pert nose flaring. “Me and Nance.”

Shit, Steve thinks. The cat’s out of the bag.

And then, a shattering sense of longing pulls at his chest. The amount of energy he expends on keeping his face neutral has him clamping down on the inside of his cheek till he tastes metal.

“Oh yeah,” he says, trying his best to feign nonchalance. “Of course.”

Your eyes flicker to his features momentarily, and he wonders whether you feel it, too. His heart aches, his dread builds, and he selfishly hopes that you do.

“So,” Robin continues excitedly. “She came into Family Video yesterday, and I just, like, asked her. Isn’t that insane? I just did it. Right by the chic flick aisle, looked her right in the eye — okay, maybe kind of in the boob — and went, will you be my girlfriend? And she said yes. To me. I — can you believe it?”

Your features soften, lips pulling down in a moue. “Robs, that’s so sweet.”

“Isn’t it?” Robin beams, crinkling her nose affectionately. “Like, I have a girlfriend now — me! I’m in a totally official, totally legit relationship, just like you idiots.”

You breath out a nervous peal of laughter, feeling Steve’s sticky gaze on your cheek. “Yeah you are.”

She rambles on about Nancy for a few more minutes before acquiescing, affording you the luxury of a moment or two to digest all she’s said.

Robin and Nancy are in a totally official, totally legit relationship, which means that you and Steve don’t need to be in a fake one, anymore.

You falter, feeling a wave of disappointment wash over your features. It’s so deep, all-consuming that you aren’t able to focus on anything else; your face falls, and you think, this is fake, this is fake, this is fake.

You don’t think, they got together yesterday. You don’t think, Steve knew that they did. You don’t think, he was trying to keep it from you. And you definitely don’t think, perhaps he wanted to delay the inevitable. Perhaps he wanted to keep up the ruse; perhaps it’s become more than a ruse, for him.

The next time you speak, it’s to bid Robin farewell. She’s giddy with happiness, and it tugs at your heartstrings; Steve’s, too, and perhaps that’s why you both linger back.

It’s only after she’s stepped into her car that he breaks the silence.

“So,” he starts awkwardly, rocking back on his heels. “Robin and Nance.”

You tuck your hands into your apron. “Robin and Nance.”

Steve’s Family Video vest is bunched up in his hand, and it nudges your bare elbow as he angles toward you. When you do the same, when the moonlight bathes your skin iridescent, Steve’s breath catches, and he begins to seriously doubt that you’re real.

In his defence, the two of you are meant to be in a fake relationship, it doesn’t matter that his feelings for you are the devastating opposite. It doesn’t matter that the jealousy, the yearning is all real; you’re the very real girl of his dreams, and it doesn’t matter that he’s only now coming to terms with it.

Because, at the end of the day, your relationship began as a ruse. And so, doing it justice will mean ending it as one, too.

“Guess it’s time to call it quits on the fake-dating thing, then, huh?” Steve asks quietly.

You look up at him through your lashes, trying to hide your disappointment. “Guess so.”

You fail. And as Steve meets your gaze, disarmingly sincere, he realises something. This may be the end of it, but it doesn’t have to be the end of you and him.

His heart leaps.

“Thank you for playing along,” he whispers. His fingers twitch toward yours, the air between you thick with tension.

“No biggie,” you say weakly, eyes falling to the ground. There’s an inch, maybe two, of space between your sneakers and his. Steve shuffles forward until the tips touch.

“You know,” he murmurs, reaching up to trace the line of your jaw. His thumb tucks beneath your chin, and he slowly tilts it upward. “Fake dating you has been real confusing.”

Your eyes widen. Steve’s forearm rests against your sternum, so close to your heart that you’re sure he can feel it quicken. “How so?”

He leans in till your foreheads touch. “Because,” he breathes out, “the way I feel when I’m around you is anything but fake.”

Your breath hitches. “Steve...”

“No, really,” Steve insists. The tip of his nose dots yours. “It’s like, we’re fake together at my pool party, but share a very real moment in the kitchen. I’m your fake boyfriend at that Slow Lounge gig, but I feel a very real amount of jealousy when your ex comes round. I give you fake compliments, but think them over till they’re real. I fake talk about you all the time — except that, no, that’s definitely real, too. Robin told me off the other day because I wouldn’t shut up about how cute you look in this dumb apron.”

He pauses then, flicking the strap at your waist for good measure. “See? Super confusing. Why do you have to be so pretty? It makes fake falling in love really, really confusing.”

“Steve,” you repeat softly, feeling something gooey and warm settle near the base of your stomach. “Really?”

“Really.”

Your heart skips. “D’you think we can fake kiss, now?”

“Shit,” Steve murmurs, moving his hand to cup your cheek. “I thought you’d never ask.”

There’s nothing fake about the way he presses his lips to yours.

Delicate at first, memorising you through pastel kisses, growing firmer, more impatient, with every second that passes. There’s nothing fake about the way he holds you, leaves you breathless; once muted, his kisses gain vivid pigment, brand you his. And he tastes like spicy mint and cream soda, half-burnt pain au chocolats, like something deeply ardent is intermingling with something soft. There’s nothing fake about the way he sets your nerve-endings aflame. Steve kisses you slow, slower, a gently building pressure, and as you wrap your arms around his neck, you’re hit with a very real mess of emotions.

“That,” you mumble when he pulls away, lips curving into a bruising smile. “Was definitely not a fake kiss.”

“Yeah?” Steve teases, his warm breath fanning your cheeks. “Want me to try again?”

He dots another kiss to yours lips, one more so it sticks. “How about those?”

You rest your hands over his chest, feel the warmth of his skin. “Better.”

“Mm,” Steve mumbles, leaning in and grazing over the pulse point on your neck. “Good.”

His lips trail along the column of your throat, press hot kisses on your collarbones, linger over your shoulder. “I have to drop you home, now, huh?”

You lean back to meet his gaze, raising your eyebrows bemusedly. “I mean, yeah. You promised your fake girl an unlimited number of rides home.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, nodding sagely. “But you’re my real girl now, aren’t you?”

You feel embarrassingly giddy, warm all over. “Yeah, so?”

“So,” Steve says, grinning devilishly. “I drive my fake girl back to her house, sure. But my real girl? I tend to drive her back to mine, instead.”

—

[upsidedownwithemmy]

She Drives Me Crazy part two.

CAMP UPSIDE DOWN PART ONE

Steve Harrington x fem!reader[33K] summer camp, broken kayaks, too much tension and that boy you hate. an enemies to lovers camp counsellor story.

She drives me crazy and I can’t help myself.

By week four, you were in need of a break. And when a scheduled day off of yours finally aligned with Robins, you wasted no time in organising some time out of camp. A small trip to another nearby lake, one without yelling kids and sun bleached kayaks. 

The sun was high, the air was warmer than ever and the promise of a day in the water sounded like magic. You wanted green lakes, blue skies and roads lined with trees. You wanted the mountains in front of you and the camp in the distance for a few hours, music that you got to pick, and a bikini that wasn’t uniform regulated. 

You’d packed a cooler, cans of beer that Jonathan had snuck into camp for you both, sandwiches from Bob and you a pile of junk food that would go great with the joint Robin had been tasked from getting from Eddie. 

You didn’t expect your friend to meet you at the staff parking lot with the boy in tow, grin sheepish and her baseball cap jammed backwards on her head. 

“Hey, Munson,” you greeted easily, if not a little confused. You stood by your car, cooler at your feet, looking between the pair. 

Something suspicious was going on and it tugged at your gut. 

“Mornin’ sweetheart,” he smiled, eyeing up your car like it was being evaluated. “Yeah, I don’t think this gonna fit us all, y’know.”

You turned, wide eyed to Robin and she flushed before kicking at a stray rock. 

“Come again?”

Eddie grinned, slapping a hand to your shoulder before gesturing to Robin. “Buckley invited us to join you both. She said music, swimming and food, and I was all, how could I say no to that?”

But you weren’t really listening to much else the boy said, the summer turning warmer around you because all you could focus on, all that seemed to matter was:

“Us?”

But then another bag was being dumped beside yours, the smell of cedar and mint and boy filling the air and you didn’t even bother looking before you were shaking your head at Robin. 

“No.” You stated, deadpan. “No, no way.”

Steve grinned, leaning against your car like he hadn’t a care in the world and he tilted his head towards Robin and Eddie, rolling his eyes as he said, “see?”

It was unfair that he looked good, soft jeans that weren’t as tight as the ones he usually wore, the knees worn and ripped from time. But in the time that you spent observing him, eyes trailing up and down the tall length of him, you didn’t notice how Steve did the same to you. 

Not that it mattered. ‘Cause you went back to glaring at Robin, palm thrown out to gesture at Steve and you didn’t really care that the back of your hand rapped against his chest. 

“Ow,” he muttered. 

You ignored him. 

“Why is he here?“

You didn’t care that it sounded like you were whining, voice petulant if not a little panicked because the idea of spending an entire day at a lake with Steve Harrington filled you with a cacophony of emotions. Your stomach tumbled, twisted, dipped. 

Instead of Robin answering, Eddie raised a hand like he was a kid in a classroom, smiled all soft and warm at you. 

“‘Cause I am.“

You groaned. It was extremely difficult to be mad at Eddie Munson. 

“I need out of this camp just as much as you do, princess,” Steve scoffed, “Henderson keeps going on about someone called Vecna and how he needs a bard.” 

“Well, take your own car!” You grumbled, toeing at the backpack he’d dropped by your feet. It felt heavy, cold with the cans of beer that were shoved inside. “Find another lake, preferably far from ours and deep enough so that no one will be able to find your body.”

“Charming,” Steve snarked, but he was already peering into your car windows, a frown on his face. “Yeah, no, my car needs an oil change and the nearest mechanic doesn’t open ‘til Monday.”

He pulled at your back door, ignoring your squeak of protest and you burned when a cassette or two fell out, followed by one trainer and an empty Gatorade bottle. 

“Jesus Christ, I’m not getting in this.”

You shoved at the boy, your shoulder nudging his until he relented and moved aside, letting you slam the door. You narrowed your eyes at him, annoyance already simmering in your chest, an all too familiar feeling. 

“As if I’d let you,” you huffed, “besides, the seatbelts don’t work in the back.”

“Have I told you recently that your car is a piece of shit?”

You glared at Steve, overly aware that you were once again standing far too close to each other and that you most definitely had an audience. You didn’t really have an argument, you knew your old car was lacking in several areas. Speed, reliability, cleanliness, maybe. 

“Not everyone’s daddy can buy them a shiny BMW, Harrington.”

“Don’t act cute,” Steve tutted, “I bought that car myself.”

You rolled your eyes before pushing away from him, shoulders nudging once more in a final act of defiance. The birds were singing, the morning was bright and you were already far too angry for what should have been considered healthy. 

But then Eddie was clapping his hands together, still grinning wide beside Robin and he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing towards the old van that was parked at a weird angle beside the trees. 

“Guess I’m driving, huh?”

The minute the bags were loaded in the back of Eddie’s van, Robin rushed to the passengers door, hopping into the seat with a grunt and grinning as she hung out the open window. 

“Sorry, lover boy,” she called to Steve, eyes innocent except for the wicked flash of a smirk across her lips. “I get travel sick.”

“That’s a damn lie,” you glared at her, wondering how this morning had gone to shit so quickly. 

The temperature was climbing as the early hours slipped away, the sky turning from pink to lilac, blue around the edges and the sun coming through the canopy trees was brighter and stronger than before. You could hear the kids in the mess hall, the smell of breakfast and the buzz of conversation. 

Eddie stood between you and Steve, far too amused as the back doors of the van sat open, the shag rug carpet and mismatched cushions waiting. Steve looked at you and back into the truck, eyes wary, like he was weighing up his options.  

“I could drive, man,” Steve offered, hands shoved into his pockets and trying to avoid your gaze. 

You scoffed, unsure if you were relieved or offended that he didn’t want to spend the hours drive with you, trapped in the back together. 

Eddie tried to smother the smile he couldn’t help but give him, fist pressed to his mouth and he levelled the other boy with a mirthful stare. 

“Really? I thought you hated driving my van?” 

Steve didn’t know what to say. 

“I mean, you can if you want,” Eddie told him, his voice all caramel soft, he sounded like he was goading Steve when he turned to you, all sticky sweet smiles, “I don’t mind riding with Hawkins here, I’ll keep you right when the road gets bumpy.” He winked and offered his keys to Steve, silver dangling from a ringed finger. 

The only sounds came from the forest. 

Then, a sigh, rough and low, before Steve pushed past Eddie and his outstretched hand, the keys jingling as they went ignored. 

“Doesn’t matter, your clutch is fucked,” Steve clambered into the back of the van, gaze steady on the floor as he threw himself down onto a beanbag, ignoring Robin’s snickering. “It’s annoying as shit.”

Eddie grinned. 

The drive was silent for the most part, at least for the first twenty twenty minutes. The road out of camp took you through the forest, past the river that led to the lake and when the cabins were too far away to see, you finally relaxed. 

Until Robin made a fuss of finding some music that wasn’t Black Sabbath or any other band she’d declared migraine inducing, and finally she held up a cassette with a small noise of triumph. 

“Prince, Eddie? Didn’t peg you as the type,” she told him coyly whilst Steve snorted from the back beside you. 

“Hey now, Prince is perfectly acceptable,” Eddie argued, the tips of his ears turning red under his curls. “I am a man of mixed taste.”

“Sure you are,” Robin placated as she slid the tape into the player.

The roads were becoming less smooth as you neared your destination, favouring smaller, forgotten lanes as you passed the bigger lakes, flashes of blue and green flying past the small window in the back. 

The journey became more bumpy as you all turned off into a track that took you through a part of a forest, the van manoeuvring itself over overgrown roots that interrupted the trail, a too big rock making the truck shake. And as the opening guitar riff of Prince’s ‘Kiss’, started to play, you were sent into Steve’s side, the van bouncing with Eddie’s efforts to get you all to the water's edge. 

You scrambled to right yourself, moving away from the boy as if you’d been stung and the sudden proximity was jarring. You’d managed to spend the majority of the journey on either end of the van, backs pressed to the metal sides and you’d only just moved into the middle so you could lean over the front bench to take a handful of M&M’s from Robin. 

But the jostle of the drive meant that you landed on Steve’s lap, clumsy and in no way meant, but your back was suddenly pressed to his chest and out of instinct, his hands caught your waist before your head could jerk back and slam into his nose. 

‘I just need your body, baby, from dusk 'til dawn…’

“Fuck,” you whispered, desperate to not draw attention to the position the two of you were in, but Robin was snickering and Eddie caught sight of you in the rear view mirror and he let out a low whistle. 

“Christ, kids, at least wait until Robin and I are out.”

“Fuck off,” you and Steve both snarled, voices mixing as you shoved away from each other. 

The rest of the drive went like that, no matter how much you and Steve tried to cling to opposites of the van. The road got rougher as the lake came into view, blue green water meeting bluer skies, the beginnings of mountains and forests lining its edges. 

Your shoulders brushed with Steve’s, hips bumping, hands falling onto tops of hands, pinky fingers grazing as you both tried to stay upright and by the time the van parked up beside a sandy dip in the grass, you were both burning with the exertion of the journey and all the casual touching. 

Steve burst out of the van before anyone else, the engine not even switched off and the back doors brought in fresh air, bright sun and the smell of pine. 

The lake was on the smaller side, no jetty’s to tie a boat to, no long stretches of beach that became home to little kids and their buckets and spades. In fact, the four of you were the only ones there. The silence was dizzying, the views almost too pretty, and it was complete bliss before Eddie jumped out of the driver’s seat and grinned. 

He threw his hands up, his head back, messy curls tumbling as he let out a loud whoop, a noise that bounced off of the cliffs before the forest on the other side of the water swallowed it whole. 

You smiled properly for the first time that morning, Robin on your left, Steve on your right, as you all watched the city boy tear off his shirt, jeans abandoned on the way before leaping into the shallow water. 

The day went like that. 

Genuine happiness from four twenty somethings that were just trying to do enough to get by. You knew your co-workers loved Camp Upside Down as much as you did, it’s why you all returned summer after summer. But there was something different about being able to stretch out along sand, Robin’s head resting on your bare stomach ‘cause you’d pulled your shirt over your head the minute you’d lay down. 

Your unbuttoned shorts showed off the edges of a cherry red bikini, something you weren’t allowed to wear during work. The boys splashed in the lake, the campfire burned and you’d even reluctantly shared your lunch with Steve - half of your sandwich for some of the potato salad he’d managed to scrounge from that day's lunch prep. 

It was the burn of the sun and cool lake water, sand between your toes, stolen towels from camp, the smell of smoke and the taste of lukewarm beer. It was quiet, it was loud, it was the crackle of Eddie’s van stereo flooding out from its open doors, it was power naps with your cheek pressed to your bundled up shirt, watching Eddie throw himself from tree branches, laughing until your stomach hurt and it was not arguing with Steve Harrington. 

Not really. 

Not like before. 

And when Eddie retired to the back of the van to close his eyes and get out of the sun for a bit, Robin swam back to shore and got herself comfortable in the sand, a sketch pad in one hand and a case of pencils at her still wet feet. 

It left you and Steve together in the lake, deep enough that your feet couldn’t touch the bottom and you swam lazy circles around each other, floating on your backs, water lapping at your ears and your chin tilted up to the sun. 

It was nice. It was easy. 

Every now and then, the lake pulled you both closer, bobbing on what little current there was until your outstretched fingertips brushed the boys and you were both startled from whatever daze you’d fallen into. 

Eventually, you couldn’t find it in you to care too much, not when it happened again and again and again. Maybe it was the weed, maybe it was the heat, maybe you were just too lazy. But it’s how you found yourself shoulder to shoulder with Steve, bare legs brushing, skin slick with lake water and leftover sunscreen. 

You kept your eyes closed when you finally spoke, like it would make you braver, like you could keep your words a secret. 

“Why do you hate me?”

There was a pause after you spoke, a dead space in the water between you both and you could feel that Steve had opened his eyes. The water moved, splashed at your cheek and you felt his head turn, his gaze on you. 

“Who said I hate you?”

The tips of his fingers were still brushing yours. 

You laughed and it sounded nervous, a soft noise of embarrassment, like a girl with a crush. You didn’t know how to feel about it. 

“You argue with me about everything, you look like you wanna kill me every time I open my mouth near you and you’re constantly finding new ways to wind me up.” You told him casually, like it was nothing new, like it was normal. And it had been, for as long as you could remember. “I’d say that insinuates an annoyance, at least.”

“That’s awfully presumptuous of you, princess.” Steve smirked, “what if arguing with you was the best part of my day, huh?”

His reply made your eyes flutter open, heavy as if you’d been pulled from sleep, from a dream and the sudden reality of your situation made you dip further into the lake, your legs pulling you down and your feet kicked to keep you afloat. 

Steve mirrored you, easily treading water as the surface swallowed half his face, his eyes impossibly golden as they stared back at you. You were a foot apart, maybe two, and you realised rather quickly that you missed the closeness of him. 

“Don’t lie,” you scoffed but there was something about the way Steve was looking at you that made you feel doubtful. “What’s next, pulling my hair at recess?”

Steve laughed, a genuine burst of amusement from his lips that didn’t sound sarcastic for once. He let himself fall back, the water lapping at his shoulders and he grinned at you, the soles of his feet brushing up against your thighs, just for a second. 

“I dunno,” he looked a little pink around the cheeks, his smile nothing short of scandalous. “Would that do it for you?”

Your mouth fell open. 

This was a fight that you weren’t sure you could win, his teasing words no longer a taunt, the conversation no longer an argument. Steve looked at you with the same fire he always had though, a challenge in his eyes that you desperately wanted to rise to. It wasn’t really a fight, no, not anymore. 

But you still wanted to win. 

“Guess you’ll never know,” you shrugged, smug when Steve grinned wider. 

—————

The drive back to camp was a world away from the journey in the morning. You climbed into the back of the van with Steve without argument, all four of you soft and lazy from a day under the sun, hours treading water, throwing your tired bodies from small rocks and cliffs. 

The sun had warmed the truck, the air smelling like boy and coffee and a little weed, and you were slack as you fell into the cushions, not really caring that your foot was pressed against Steve’s thigh. 

Robin turned the radio on, the tinny crackle of static making the music seem softer and Eddie hummed along as he drove, the trees outside creating dappled shadows across everyone’s sunburnt skin. 

It was nice, it was peaceful. 

Your hair was still damp, your skin smelling like sunscreen and the lake, lemonade and cheap beer on your tongue and you didn’t really care when the rough road out of the forest sent you bumping into Steve’s side again. 

His hand caught your waist to steady you, a wide, warm palm on bare skin because you hadn’t bothered to button your shirt back up, the sides hanging open on your shoulders, the bright red of your bikini a reminder of the day spent in the water. 

Your shared conversation in the lake hung in the air as Eddie drove you all home, the long haired boy and Robin oblivious to it. But it fizzed in the back of the van like a firework waiting to pop, the anticipation of wondering what colours would fill the air when it did. It felt like the slow climb to the top of a rollercoaster, it felt like the night before a storm, it felt like what if?

When you arrived back at camp, dinner was over and the kids were lingering, heads tilted to the sky that was uncharacteristically dark, navy clouds looming overheard with the threat of rain. You’d left the sun behind, hanging over a different lake, along with a different side of yours and Steve’s relationship. 

You didn’t know what to say when the four of you clambered out of Eddie’s van, Robin and the other boy talking happily about music and Robin’s sketches, rucksacks over their shoulders as Steve awkwardly handed you the empty cooler. 

You mumbled a thanks, suddenly shy and you stood at the back of the van, waiting to see if Steve would say something, if you would be brave enough to say anything. 

But then the sky split, the clouds crashed and rain tore down on the camp. 

You all scrambled under the canopy of the trees, yelling swears between laughter and the sound of the kids screeching was drowned out by the rumble of thunder, the on-shift counsellors telling everyone to return to their cabins. 

No one really said goodbye, the rain making you all run to your bunks, the day ending without so much as another shared glance. So you tripped through the trees with your hair plastered to your forehead, laughing when Robin stumbled in mud and shrieked. By the time you both made it home, you were giggling on the porch, skin soaked, shirt and shorts sticking to you and Robin was wide eyed. 

“Wait! I’m going to Vickie’s!” She almost shouted, barely heard over the roar of the rain, the rumble above. 

You laughed, incredulous as you watched her run back out into the downpour. 

“You’re what?!”

“Vickie’s cabin!” She called back, “no one’s gonna care where everyone is when we’re all stuck inside!”

And then she was gone, probably for the night, you assumed. 

That’s why you were surprised when there was a knock on the door fifteen minutes later, the rain still falling, the day turning to night quicker than normal as the clouds stayed heavy, the forest dark. 

Everywhere smelled like damp moss and pine, wet bark and the lingering smoke from the campfire that had long been ruined. You’d only managed to drag a brush through your hair, the strands tangled and partly dry, your shorts uncomfortable on your skin and your shirt hanging off one shoulder. 

You answered the door, not sure who to expect, not sure why Robin would be knocking, why anyone would be out in this weather. 

When you saw Steve standing there, you realised that the boy hadn’t even been an option. Surprise coloured you, mouth falling open at the sight of him on the porch, drenched, shirt sticking to him, almost translucent and his hair a wet riot. 

He was holding a blanket, the soft knitted one you’d taken from your bed to use on the beach that day. It was half soaked from where he’d hidden in under his arm, running through the rain from his cabin to yours. 

You stared, shocked. 

“I think, uh, I think I shoved this in my bag by accident.”

He was yelling over the dim of rain, the world noisy around you both, the forest creating chaos, a whole other kind of fight. It was waiting, it was wondering if you were going to join in. 

“It couldn’t wait?” You cried back, completely bemused by Steve’s decision to come over for nothing more than a stupid blanket. 

But the boy was struggling to respond, shoulders shrugging, cheeks pink and looking a little wild. Thunder grumbled above, the trees swayed and a drop of rain slid down Steve’s cheek, rolling over the curve of his lip. 

“Yeah,” Steve replied, voice too honest, “it probably could’ve, yeah.”

It happened like the storm, the slow roll of electricity over your skin, a building in the atmosphere, something in the air that told you that something big was coming. 

And Steve was still standing there, chest heaving like he couldn’t catch his breath, and neither could you when he was looking at you like that. 

Rain soaked shirt, brown hair sticking to his forehead and falling into his eyes, all flushed cheeks and parted lips. 

“Was that everything?” You asked, voice almost too quiet to be heard over the sound of thunder above, the sky goading you, telling you to say something else.  

“Uh, yeah, yeah,” Steve said and it sounded like a lie, it sounded too sweet. “Maybe? I- I don’t know.” 

You swallowed, chest bursting, heart pounding, ‘cause it felt like you were supposed to be waiting for something more, something spectacular, something that you were supposed to give into a long time ago. And then:

“Christ, fuck it-”

He was crashing into you, arms tugging you into him rather than wrapping around you and you let him, Jesus fucking Christ, you let him, a gasp that sounded like a moan falling from your lips as he kissed you. 

Your hand was fisted in the front of his shirt, the other tugging into his damp hair and the sounds he made against your mouth were obscene. Nothing about this was gentle, nothing about Steve was soft. He was pushing you both backwards, into the cabin and out of the storm with his hands gripping hard on your waist, crescent moon marks left on your skin and it was sinful, it was too good, it wasn’t enough. 

You pulled where he pushed, tugging him into you, the door slamming shut and the rain pounding in the wooden roof. The kiss was messy, heated, another fight you both wanted to win. 

It tasted like the storm, like mint and the woods and Steve, and it said: fuck you, fuck me, I don’t hate you at all. 

It was a kiss that was wildly different to the one you shared at the gym, the one with an audience, a kiss that was supposed to be nothing more than a dare. This kiss was all teeth and tongue, wandering hands that grabbed at exposed skin, pulled and shoved shirts out of the way so you could touch and touch and touch. 

The lack of sun outside made the cabin a little darker, the small light by your bed casting nothing but a weak glow and moody shadows, perfect for hiding feelings in. You pulled Steve into the room, clumsy feet tripping over a shoe or two, the strap of a bag, the blanket that he dropped to the floor in favour of holding you. 

No one spoke, not apart from letting out hushed curses, swears that sounded like prayers, unholy noises that came from the back of your throats, whines and begs that came from years of tension. 

Robin's notebook hit the floor, pencils and pens rolling with it when you stumbled into the desk and Steve grabbed the backs of your thighs, hauling you onto it. He was licking into your mouth with a greed you’d never experienced before, a hand on your cheek, telling you to tilt your head this way and that so he could kiss you deeper, kiss you filthier. 

It was fun to fight back a little, grabbing at the hair at the nape of his neck in return, fisting it in your hand and pulling until he groaned for you, lips faltering against your own and attacking your neck instead. 

Your legs were around his waist and you weren’t sure how it happened. You knew you didn’t mind, you didn’t care, not anymore. Because Steve’s hand was curled around your knee, hiking your leg further up his hip so he could move into the space between your thighs. 

The sounds you were letting out were a little pathetic, small sighs and whines, asking for more without saying the words and all you could do was pull the boy into you and open your mouth for him when he used his thumb to tug at your bottom lip. 

He kissed you like he wanted to argue about it afterwards. 

“Shit,” you gasped, eyes rolling back when he rocked into you, body pressed against yours, all wet clothes and rain damp skin. “Steve.”

The groan that ripped from his chest was absolute sin, lips leaving yours to press his face into your neck, his hands flexing on your hips. 

“Say that again.”

You were confused until you realised that you weren’t sure of the last time you called the boy by his actual name. No Harrington, no wonder boy, no asshole, no douchebag. 

At least, not right now. 

It made your head swim, the hold he had on you, literal and figurative, because for the first time in your life, you did as the boy asked. 

It was a whimper against his ear, mouth moving deliberately against the shell of it, all dirty and coy. Your lips brushed his earlobe, your hand cupped his jaw and you canted your hips into his, just the once. 

“Steve.”

A dam burst and you couldn’t help but appreciate how gorgeous Steve Harrington looked when he lost all the composure he liked to pretend he had. 

“Oh god, holy shit,” he was back on you, all lips and tongue and teeth and hands, “you sound so fuckin’ pretty, so good, fuck.”

You whined in response, a high, keening noise that you didn’t even recognise but you were on fire, burning in all the places that his lips touched. You weren’t gentle with each other, hands grabbing, tugging, getting as close as you possibly could and you needed more, now. 

“Steve…” 

He moaned again, whispered your name back to you like a prayer and god, he was right, it sounded so good coming from his lips like that. 

“What d’you want?” Steve asked, low and rough, his lips on your neck, skating across your pulse. “What d’you need, huh? Tell me.”

You wanted everything, all of it at once. You wanted his lips, his tongue, his mouth, you wanted his hands, you wanted him naked, you wanted him under you, above you, against you. You wanted his noises, you wanted to make him moan, to make him swear, to make him throw his head back and call out your name. 

You wanted him. 

You wanted Steve fucking Harrington. 

Instead you said, “-want more, need more.”

Another groan, a disbelieving sound, one that you shared with him, because Steve was running the flat of his palm across your throat, fingers curling briefly before they splayed out and ran the length of your body. 

They trailed down your chest, down between the thin, red straps of your bikini, between the open sides of your shirt and they landed on the still wet band of your shorts, a finger tapping across the button. 

“D’you want me to touch you?”

Jesus Christ, you couldn’t stand it. You squirmed on the desktop, legs tightening around the boy’s waist to gain some much needed friction but Steve moved his other hand to your thigh, holding you still. 

“C’mon baby, use your words,” Steve murmured. “You’re usually so good at that.”

Baby. 

It shouldn’t have made your heart stutter, it shouldn’t have made you wetter than you already were. But it did, fuck, it did. 

You leaned back, hands on the table and chest heaving, your shirt sliding from your shoulders and your head hitting the wall. You stared at the boy through your lashes, lips parted and glossy from his kisses. 

You looked wrecked and Steve fucking adored it. 

“Touch me,” you wriggled again, hissed when he tightened his hand around the curve of your thigh, a delightful sting on your skin. “Steve.”

He huffed out a laugh then, mixed with a moan, and he smiled at you, sticky sweet. “Say please, princess.”

Absolutely not. 

“In your dreams, Harrington,” you gasped out, a laugh lacing your breath. 

‘Make me,’ is what you meant.  

Steve tsked, grinning. “So stubborn,” he said. 

‘Challenge accepted,’ is what he wanted to say. 

And then you were kissing again, deep, slow passes over each other’s lips, teeth catching, tongues soothing and the boy swallowed every moan and gasp you gave him. His hand found your neck, cupping it to move you the way he wanted, head tilted so he could kiss you even harder. 

Steve kissed like he argued, like it was his favourite hobby, like he wanted to have the last word, steal the breath from your lungs and leave you shaking. 

His fingers tangled in your hair, tugged a little mean when you nipped his lip almost too hard and you surprised even yourself with the sound that left your mouth. 

Steve pulled back from you, just a little, just so his nose brushed against yours and you could see the dark glitter of his eyes. 

“Well, would y’look at that,” he murmured and his voice was tougher than you’d ever heard, sticky honey and a storm, “I guess you do like that.” 

You were reminded of your conversation in the lake and you flushed, hating the smug expression on the boy’s face, hating that you liked it even more. 

Steve was real fucking pretty when he was proving you wrong. 

But you didn’t say anything, didn’t give him the satisfaction of an argument, you just just shoved him backwards, following the way he stumbled until you were pulling him back into you, pushed onto your toes so you could catch his jaw with your hands and press your lips back to his. 

“You’re insufferable,” you told him between kisses, voice too breathy to carry any real heat.

“Yeah?” Steve shot back, grunting a little when you pulled at his shirt, his arms flying up so you could pull it off of him. He stood, shirtless, chest heaving and gazing at you like you were something to eat. “I could say the same about you, sweetheart.”

And then he was turning you, walking you backwards with his mouth on your neck until your body hit the wall and his fingers were back on the button of your shorts. 

He sucked a bruise on your throat, all pretty and sharp, lilac on your skin and he nosed at it, humming thoughtfully. 

“Say please,” he told you again, a finger dipping into the denim, scratching soft against the red edge of your bikini. “Be nice for me, princess, huh?”

It was dizzying, his words. His touch. His breath on the column of your throat, his hair brushing your jaw. 

Another kiss, sweet and soft, jarring in the way he held you to the cabin wall, body hard and solid against your own. His thumbs pressed circles into your hips, soothing and a silent reminder that you could stop this whenever you wanted. 

“If you’re nice to me, I’ll be nice to you.”

It was too sweet a deal to say no to. Especially when Steve was looking at you like that, like he wanted to give you the world, like he’d been waiting an age just to touch you like this. 

So you let out a huff, more whimper than protest and your hands fell to his jeans, damp with rain and tight for other reasons. You cupped a palm over him, hard and thick inside the denim and you were close enough that your lips brushed over Steve’s when you spoke. 

“Please,” you whispered. 

He was popping the button on your shorts before the words left your mouth, groaning and canting his hips into your hand as if he couldn’t help himself, as if this was all suddenly too much. 

You slipped your shirt from your shoulders, the wet smack of it hitting the floor as you both toed off your shoes, a different trainer hitting a different corner of the cabin, patience gone as Steve slid the flat of his palm down the curve of your tummy, fingers reaching into your bikini bottoms to find you slick and ready for him. 

“Oh shit,” you both gasped out together, your hands flying to grip Steve’s shoulders, nails digging into the muscles there as his fingers dragged through your folds, thumb finding your clit, his middle digit easily sliding inside of you. 

“Jesus christ, sweetheart,” Steve groaned, eyes falling shut as he leaned into you, forehead to yours and his free hand pulling at your knee, hitching your leg back to his hip so he could push his finger into you a little easier. 

It was a slow drag, a white hot burn that had you clawing at him, already teetering. It was almost embarrassing, almost. It would have been if Steve wasn’t rutting against your hip, desperate as you were, looking so, so pretty and wrecked. 

“D’you always get this worked up when we argue?” 

You thought he was joking, and you were about to tell him off, the bite of your response on the tip of your tongue, but your body had other ideas. You clenched down on him, involuntarily, hips stuttering at his question and he swore into your mouth, delighted. 

“Fucking hell,” he moaned, another kiss, quick and dirty, “you fuckin’ do, don’t you?”

“Of course you’d run your mouth,” you snarked, but still, you tilted your head back for the boy, just so he could suck another kiss onto your throat. “Why am I not surprised?”

He grinned against you, all teeth and curled his finger into you, hitting a whole other spot. Another hot drag, slipping out of you before he pushed back in again, two fingers moving a little faster, his thumb running circles. 

“Somethin’ tells me you like it,” Steve told you, smug. 

And god you did, you really fucking did. 

You didn’t satisfy the boy with an answer, you just whined, pressing your lips back to his as you chased the high you were desperate for. Steve seemed to catch on pretty quick, surprisingly in tune with the way your body was reacting to him and he curled his fingers in and out of you a little quicker, mouth hovering over yours, noses bumping, panting softly. 

“I’m gonna come,” you told him, your hands buried in his hair. “Steve, fuck!”

His hand that was still gripping your thigh was the only thing holding you up, Steve’s body pinning you to the wall and was smiling, victorious as you tightened around him, your face pressed into the crook of his neck as you came, soft sounds falling from your lips. 

“Aw fuck,” he hissed, “that’s it, there you go princess.”

The boy coaxed you through it, murmuring soft, sweet praises, telling you how pretty you sounded when you came, how good you felt around his fingers. It was too much and it wasn’t enough. And when you shrugged off the hazy warmth of your orgasm, you were quick to move into Steve, lips back on his as he slipped his hand from your shorts and grabbed at your waist.  

You walked him backwards, in charge now, smiling against his mouth when he groaned into you. 

The backs of Steve’s thighs hit your bed and you pressed one more kiss into him, a little mean when you nipped at his bottom lip and then shoved him. There was a satisfaction in watching him fall into your mattress, eyes shocked, lips parted and before he could say anything, you hooked your thumbs into your shorts, pushing the denim down your legs. 

The cherry red bikini was the only thing you had left on, the straps of it slipping down your shoulders, the bottoms cut high on your hips. You waited to feel the rush of insecurity, the self conscious need to shy away and cover up. 

But Steve was staring at you with a slack jaw and flushed cheeks, eyes roaming greedy over bare skin and all the places he could get his mouth on, and that nervous feeling? It never came. 

“Pants off, Harrington,” you told him, voice a little too breathy to sound demanding.

He smirked, pushed onto his elbows so he could tilt his head up to meet your gaze. “Always knew you’d be bossy,” Steve murmured and you warmed at the notion of him thinking about this, about you, like that.  

“I’m not bossy,” you argued, but then you were on him, straddling his lap in a way that made Steve lose his rebuttal, his argument slipping from his lips as his hands found your waist again. 

You pushed him back into your pillows, hands flat on his chest and overwhelming need to make him fall apart like he’d done for you taking over. 

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing, princess,” Steve grinned, tongue caught between his teeth as he gazed up at you through messy hair. 

But his smirk slipped from his hips when you settled over him properly, nails pressed into his bare chest as you rocked your hips a little. Steve groaned, loud and unabashed and you think you kinda adored how loud he was about it. 

His palms kneaded at your hips, a push and pull that told you ‘holy shit, stop’ and ‘fucking hell, do that again.’

Your fingers shook as you popped open the button of his jeans, hands tugging at the waistband, sneaking under his boxers to find him hot and hard for you. Steve sucked a breath through his teeth, looking a little wild underneath you and his hand shook like yours did when he grabbed at your wrist. 

“This is gonna be over way too quick if you keep doin’ that.”

His voice was all rough honey, sweet to your ears, low enough to make your thighs clench around him. 

“D’you have a condom?” you rushed out in a sigh, ‘cause you were desperate now, brows knitted together with impatience and Steve tapped at your hip, silently asking you to shift back. 

You moved, bottom lip tucked between your teeth as he fished his wallet out of his pocket, hands fumbling with the leather until he pulled a silver foil square out of the back.

“Is that-?”

Steve grinned, all teeth and cheekiness, eyes sparkling. “The one Murray threw at us? Yeah.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or shove at the boy for his smugness, so you did both. A huff of breath falling from your lips, a hand pushed to Steve’s chests in a poor attempt at a scolding and then he was pulling you down with a hand around the back of your neck. 

“Were you hoping to get to use it?” You asked, eyes fluttering closed when Steve hooked his fingers under the straps of your bikini. “That’s awfully presumptuous of you, Harrington.”

But Steve just hummed, unphased by your teasing when he had his lips on your collarbone, pressing a line of kiss to your breast. 

“Seemed symbolic, no?” 

And then you were on your back, tucked under the boy with his elbow pressed to the pillow, his other hand trailing up and down your waist, taking in soft skin and new freckles and scars, mapping out the scar on your knee, the bruise you got from helping El do a cartwheel on your hip.

You looked up at him then, time slowing with his movements, all soft hands and softer eyes and oh my god, this was Steve fucking Harrington. You weren't ready to admit what this meant, not yet, you weren’t ready to realise what this was. 

So you reached up between your bodies to tug at his jaw, fingers spread out to tap at his chin, thumb on the plush curve of his bottom lip.

“You gonna kiss me or what?”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he huffed and he tried to look annoyed, he really did but Steve kissed you anyway, heat flooding you both, the rain battering louder on the roof as you pulled at his jeans, pushing them down his hips.

“I- god, shit,” Steve was mumbling, voice cracking at the feel of you under him, against him, body squirming for friction, for him.

You pushed at him, lips still moving against his, giving him all your soft noises, rolling you both until you were on top again, precariously close to the edge of the bunk, sheets rumpled.

“Of course you wanna be on top,” Steve snarked, but he couldn’t hide how his eyes were glassy, how needy his hands were as they tugged at your bikini and you laughed as you raised your arms for him, letting him pull the swimsuit off. 

You’d never felt more powerful when you smiled down at him, saccharine sweet. “Don’t you like it?”

Steve was speechless. Just for a second or two, at least. 

“Yeah, I really fuckin’ do,” and oh, his voice sounded too sweet, a little broken and wild, all husky just for you. 

Everything snapped, the tension, the waiting, the storm outside. The foil packet crinkled as Steve ripped it open and the air fizzed when he rolled it onto himself, tip already leaking at the sight of you waiting for him.

Neither of you had the patience to allow you to move off of him in order to take your bikini bottoms off, neither of you wanted to stop touching for that long. There was a new found desperation when Steve sat up, back against the headboard as you crowded over him, gasping and sighing into the mess of his hair when he pulled your bikini to the side, swiping his fingers through you. 

“So wet,” he whispered, lips pressed to your chest, teeth grazing skin, kisses pushed to every part of you he could reach. “You hear that, babe? How wet y’are for me?”

You were on fire and yes, yes you could. It was obscene in the best way, intense and a little dirty, and you watched in awe when the boy pulled his fingers away from you, sucked them into his mouth instead and soothed your responding whine with a pet to your hip.

“Shit, shit, shit- Steve.”

“I know, I know,” he cooed, voice far too soft and gentle, and Jesus, he was still trying to tease you. “Tell me what you want, yeah?”

But then the charade fell when you sat up and slipped over him, hard tip nudging against you before you blew out a breath, groaning as you took him all.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” he was clawing at you, hands pushing at your hips to make sure you didn’t move just yet, eyes clenched shut as his forehead fell against yours. “Oh good girl, good fucking girl, princess.”

That did it for you, that little gush of praise and it had you clenching around him, making you both moan. You rocked your hips, once, twice, against Steve’s tight hold until eventually he helped you. Strong hands lifted you up and down over him, the slick, hot slide of the boy making you dizzy.

He whispered your name, moaned it, gasped it out on a hot breath that fell across your cheek and you pushed a palm to his jaw, held his chin in your hands to make him look at you and you felt the boy throb as you did it. 

“My name sounds so pretty when you say it,” you murmured, repeating his previous words back to him and he groaned and laughed, hips canting up into yours with a snap.

The bed was moving against the wall, a dull thud, thud, thud that was hidden by rain and thunder, but Steve still grinned when you moaned louder than ever, his hand pushed to your mouth to muffle your sounds.

“So noisy, huh?” That taunting tone was back, the one that made you press yourself down onto him a little harder, deep enough to make him gasp and grab at your waist. “Oh, you’re too sweet, you know that? So pretty - you know just how to get me all wound up, don’t you?”

You moaned, soft and sweet, to pent up to argue back but you moved a little quicker, made Steve’s head fall back, neck taught and fingertips bruising on your thighs as he kept you spread open for him. 

You pulled away from his hand, breath hitching as he twitched inside of you and you mouthed at his throat, lips pressing a scattering of messy kisses there and you trailed them to his ear. 

You hummed, a happy noise that came from the back of your throat and you wound your arms around his neck, fingers threading through his hair. 

“You close, hmm?” You gasped, chest pressed flush to the boy’s and you both rocked your hips, a dizzy mess of desperate movements. “Huh, Steve? Are you goin’ to come for me?”

The boy realised your game and he huffed out a laugh, groaning as he tucked his face into your neck, smelling rain and leftover sunscreen, letting you take your hands through his hair, tugging a little when you wanted him to slam his hips up into you. 

His hand found its way between your bodies, slick with sweat and rain, thumb running perfect, little circles over your clit as he forced you into the same breathless high that you were pinning on him. 

“Christ, yeah,” he grunted, voice shot, every word tumbling into the next, “come w’me? Not gonna last much longer, y’feel too good.”

His voice was a shot of whisky, caramel and sticky sweet when he spoke into your skin, a hand roaming up and down the expanse of your bare back, tongue laving over a nipple, sucking bruises into the dip between your breasts. 

You can’t remember a time you had ever felt so needy, it was startling, it was electrifying. 

“Steve, Steve, Steve,” you sounded wrecked, and Steve adored it. “Harder, fuck, harder, I’m close-”

Amazingly, Steve was so much more agreeable when he was buried to the hilt inside of you, hands pressing bruises to your hips as he slammed up into you, meeting your thrust for thrust as everything came to a high and you crashed into it together. 

“Awh shit, that’s it, there you go sweetheart.”

The boy whispered your name when he came, hips stuttering, mouth pressed to yours as he held you still, your limbs twitching from the aftershocks of it all. Steve petted at your thighs, hands all soft and shaky, forehead pressed to yours as you both panted, trying to catch the breath the other had stolen.

The rain had stopped when you clambered off of his lap, Steve helping you move on your shaky legs as he tied off the condom and tossed it into the bin near your bed. The birds were chirping again when he lay down beside you, both of you half naked, clothes rumpled, hair misbehaving, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip.

The clouds were lifting, the room not as dark, a stripe of sunlight filtering through the gap in the curtains, gold cutting through the shadows. There was a drip, drip, drip of leftover rain on the porch, the soft gasps from both of you, sheets tangled at your feet. 

Quiet passed over you both, skin still tingling, lips feeling bruised from each other's mouths, the taste of Steve Harrington and rain still on your tongue. 

I can’t get any rest, people say I’m obsessed. 

The last week of summer camp went by in a slow roll. Like the way a camcorder stuttered over its film, lazy and with a soft crackle, memories trapped between sunspots and dust. 

Days passed without you being able to see much of Steve, Hopper finally making good on his promise as he kept you both apart, Steve sharing lifeguard duties with Billy and you co-ordinating crafts with Nancy.

The kids kept you all busy, the last few days bringing a new buzz of excitement as the thought of returning back home, to school, to reality, set in. You helped Will finish his painting, watched with pride when he presented it to Will, the other boy awed. Nancy settled arguments between Max and Lucas, raising her brows at you in amusement when you told her that they were fine, they were both just too stubborn. Steve finally taught El how to swim and when Robin caught Dustin and Suzie sharing a shy first kiss behind the old bike shed, she didn’t have it in her to tell them off.

In fact, you didn’t see Steve until three days after the storm, trailing out of Hop’s office after a surly looking Billy, both of them sporting bruised faces and cut lips, Steve’s hair messier than usual and Billy’s red lifeguard shirt was ripped at the collar.

He glared at you as he passed, blonde hair mussed and blue eyes cold, as if somehow, his black eye was your fault. But you didn’t worry yourself over Billy Hargrove’s sour mood, your feet quickly carrying you over to where Steve was.

Catching Steve’s elbow in your hand didn’t feel anywhere as near as unnatural as it did a week ago, your touch almost too casual on him. It shouldn’t have been a big deal, your hand on his bare arm, not really, not after that night.

But you hadn’t spoken about it since, you hadn’t touched, hadn’t pressed your lips back to his. So now, the feel of your palm curled around his elbow had you both burning. Steve stared at you, eyes flickering to where you held him and you swallowed hard, told yourself to be brave and you didn’t let go. He didn’t pull away either. 

“Hey,” your voice was a soft murmur, the low buzz of the kids in the mess hall almost drowning you out. “Are you okay? What happened?”

You were frowning as you took in the bruise at his temple, shades of lavender and navy creeping towards his eyebrow, a cut on his lip that was red with dried blood, his hair falling over his eyes like he’d been thrown around. 

Steve shrugged, eyes glancing back towards the door of Hopper’s cabin, scowling when he saw that Murray was at the window, watching you both with a mug of coffee to his lips, hiding his grin. Steve took your hand in his, gesturing to the old gym and you would’ve followed him even if his hand wasn’t pulling you along behind him.

Once you were both hidden from the rest of the camp, bodies pressed into the cool shadows that the side of the old building brought, Steve turned to you, a hand still tangled in yours, the other finding the dip in your waist, just because he could. His touch brought shivers to your skin, a feeling you still weren’t used to and you found that you didn’t hate, not at all. 

If anything, it made you braver, urging you to take a step closer, your hand taking his chin in your grip as you tilted his head up to the sun, the bruise catching the light and you made a soft noise, a quiet hum. Steve let you push and pull at him, the start of a smile on his lips that you were sure he’d normally try and hide from you, but his fingertips were curling into your staff shirt, pushing it out of the way until his skin found yours and your breath hitched.

 “Billy?” You asked, careful.

“No, I’m Steve,” he joked but it was weak, his smile too tired and you huffed, catching his gaze with a stare he knew too well. 

It was no secret that Steve and Billy had never seen eye to eye, Steve took genuine offence to the way that Billy treated the kids, too harshly and with rough words, rolling his eyes if they ever got upset, laughing when he managed to scare them. 

But it had never come to a head, fist staying clenched by sides and jaws clenched, but Steve tended to try and stay out of fights - for the kids sake if anything. 

And you knew that, knew the boy better than you thought, years of living in the same small town, summers spent in the same warm forest making you pick up more than you realised about Steve Harrington. 

“What happened?” You asked again, still quiet. 

Your thumb ran over the cut on his lip, gentle and if Steve wasn’t in pain, you probably would’ve smirked when he shivered at your touch. 

“Jus’ Hargrove talkin’ shit,” Steve grunted, voice rough as if he’d been yelling. Knowing Hopper and Murray, he probably had been. “It’s fine, m’fine, princess.”

The pet name carried so much more affection than it had before, warming you to the bone, skin tingling, cheeks flushed. 

You frowned, lips pouted, unperturbed when you dropped your hand from Steve’s jaw and it landed on his shoulder instead, the two of you swaying slightly together, not all that used to touching just yet, but enjoying the closeness nonetheless. 

“You don’t usually let him get to you,” you huffed, brows still knitted together and you were somewhat annoyed at yourself for not being there to break the boys apart. Steve had proved himself capable of listening to you now, and you were not above using it to your advantage, especially if it kept him out of the way of Billy’s fists. 

Steve just looked at you, eyes all soft, brown sugar and honey, shrugging with a small smile, like he was keeping a secret. 

“Stranger things have happened, haven’t they, sweetheart?”

You stared at him, lips parted, wondering if this was another taunt, a tease, the start of an argument, because neither of you had had a chance to talk about what had happened in your cabin that night. You’d both woken up tangled together, bodies lazy and tired, the moon in the sky outside and Robin thankfully still gone. You had wrapped yourself in the sheet that smelled like Steve as you watched him get dressed, cheeks warm and nerves fluttering at your chest. 

Neither of you had spoken, but he smiled all soft and bent down to kiss you before he left, his lips yielding on yours, a small noise of something huffing from him as he let you cup his jaw, holding him to you a little longer. The fight seemed to have left both of you, too slow and sleepy to pretend anymore. Steve had traced the bruise he’d left on your neck, pushed your still messy hair from your forehead and kissed there too before he left, the cabin door closing softly behind him. 

So you were waiting for a snarky comment, a dismissal, an argument, maybe. But Steve grinned and squeezed at your waist, fingers still brushing warm underneath your shirt and then the bell rang, signalling the end of dinner and you both startled, jumping apart, despite being hidden.

“Steve-” you stopped, laughing embarrassed when Steve said your name at the same time. “Uh, you first,” you told him, achingly shy all of a sudden.

“Do you- uh, you think you could meet me later? By the lake?” Steve asked, squinting at you like he too was suddenly feeling awkward.

You felt like a teenager standing at her locker between classes, the school hall empty and your heart in your throat. You grinned, tried to hide it by ducking your chin to your chest, an already scuffed trainer kicking at the twigs by your feet.

“Are you asking me on a date, Harrington?” Your voice was all soft teasing, warm like the summer and it made the boy smile, cheeks pink, eyes rolling with affection, not annoyance. 

“No,” he scoffed and you heard the lie there, heard the warmth. “Shut up.”

You laughed, snorting softly in a way that made Steve grin even harder, both of you feeling uncharacteristically giddy in the presence of the other, and god, you couldn't help but think about how the boy had dragged you into his lap, half naked and desperate. 

“I hate you, remember?” Steve whispered it, moving a little closer, a hand playing with a stray lock of hair, knuckles brushing against your cheek. 

You hummed and nodded, brows furrowed and lips pursed as if you were indeed, remembering. You remembered how the boy tasted, how he felt, how wild he got for you when you tugged his hair and bit down on his pretty bottom lip. 

So you pushed softly at his chest, all strong muscle and warm skin underneath his faded staff shirt and you looked up at Steve through your lashes.

“Yeah, I remember,” you murmured back.

And then the sounds of the kids spilling out of the mess hall finally got too loud, the evening hardly over and there were jobs still to do. You both heard Eddie announce that week's dungeons and dragon’s meeting, a crowd of the kids cheering, Nancy corralling others to the campfire, s’mores and storybook in hand. You had promised Max that you’d swap some mixtapes with her, the redhead and El both at your side during lunch, brandishing old Madonna and a double cassette of Kate Bush that Max said she was sick of listening to.

“Eleven o’clock?” Steve asked, hand brushing down your arm, any excuse to touch you before his palm curled warm around your elbow. “Where the old boathouse used to be?”

You nodded, relishing the last touch before he left, hand in his hair as he walked back out to the chaos of the camp, meeting Dustin on one of the walkways and ruffling the young boy’s curls. You waited until Steve had disappeared into the woods, following the trail that led to where Eddie was setting up his wizard game.

It didn’t take long for you to settle yourself onto a fallen log beside Robin, cheek leaning on her shoulder as Suzie settled herself by your feet, leaning on your legs as El tucked herself into the other side of you. The kids were all enraptured by Nancy, the small crowd lit by the glow of the fire as the girl told stories of three headed dragons and kids with superpowers, little girls and boys who were all strong enough to defeat monsters and nightmares.

And then when the fire was starting to burn out, the night darker, the kids sleepier, you swapped your old tapes with Max’s, sending the girl back to her cabin happier than before. The rest of the camp followed the trails into the shallow parts of the forest, the moon filtering through the branches as they tumbled into their bunks, all smelling like smoke and with marshmallow stickiness on their fingers. 

Nancy waited until Robin had been pulled away by a disgruntled Mike, Will on their heels as they claimed they needed an impartial party in order to settle a game debate, Eddie too busy laughing to indulge the boys.

“So,” Nancy murmured, shoulder nudging yours, “you heard about Steve and Billy, huh?”

You panicked at the mention of the boy, a small surge of ‘oh god, she knows’, before you remembered the bruises, the fight that Steve never explained to you.

You blew out a breath and shrugged, suddenly feeling like it was too hard to play normal, like Nancy would look at you and know, like she’d notice the lavender bloom on your skin, hidden by your shirt collar. 

“I mean,” you started, voice overly casual, “I knew they tried to beat the shit out of each other, but I dunno why.”

The girl looked at you through frizzy bangs, brows raised and hidden behind her fringe. Her mouth fell into a little ‘o’, surprise colouring her features before she smiled, knowing.

“You don’t?” You shrugged again, following Nancy’s lead as you both made your way around the now empty logs, gathering up chocolate smeared paper plates and forgotten sweaters. The fire simmered between you both, the burnt out logs still glowing and smoking, the faint sound of Hopper’s records playing from his open office window filling the air. 

“Hargrove was being his usual self, a complete dick.” 

You snorted at Nancy’s words before she continued, still smiling. 

“But then he started talking about you,” the girl said, lips twisted, eyes gazing at you. “Kept asking Steve if he thought he should make a pass at you, some disgusting comment about how easy you’d give it up.”

You screwed up your face, unimpressed but unsurprised by Billy’s words and you were standing still, feet planted as you waited for the rest of the story. 

“Guess he finally pushed Steve too far, ‘cause before any of us knew it, he flew for Billy, fist straight to his face.”

Your jaw dropped, lips parted, eyes wide. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Nancy huffed out a laugh, “took Eddie and Hop to break them up, Steve was really gunning for him. But I guess, I can’t really blame him, Billy was still running his mouth even after Steve rattled his jaw.”

“Huh.”

You were speechless.

“I know, right?” the girl smiled and she walked around to take the stack of plates you’d collected, looking at you with the air of suspicious interest that only Nancy Wheeler could manage. “Has, uh, anything happened between you two?”

You baulked, eyes ever wider and you wondered if Hopper’s music was loud enough to cover the thumping of your heartbeat. You laughed, forced, pulled your brows together and scrunched your nose. “What? Who?”

God, you’d never made it as an actress. 

“You and Steve,” Nancy replied lightly, settling another inquisitive stare on you. She seemed to be searching your face for clues, for hints. “You’ve been getting along better lately, no arguments.” She grinned, sharp, “it’s been quiet.”

You barked out a laugh, nervous and shy, because she was right, of course she was right, Nancy was always right, she just didn’t need to know the reason why. 

So you shrugged again, feeling warm, wondering if you needed to blame the leftover heat from the fire for your flushed appearance. “Yeah, uh, I guess Hopper finally decided to keep us apart.”

Your words sounded scripted, the lie sounded thick and it tasted weird on your tongue. Nancy smiled at you like she knew everything. But she nodded, soft and placating as she sighed and picked up another sweater, chocolate stained, and a hat that looked like Dustins. 

“Yeah,” she agreed, “I guess.”

----------

Robin was already asleep as you pushed your feet back into your shoes, your friend snoring softly from her bunk, hair covering her eyes, lips pressed into a pucker with her face squished to the mattress edge.

The rest of the camp was somewhat quiet, the hushed conversations coming from some of the open cabin windows, torch lights shining out of cracks in the curtains, whispered stories and secrets lingering in the still warm air. Hopper’s cabin was illuminated in the distance, music still playing softly, the backlit figures of the camp leader and Joyce sipping wine over the desk. 

You passed Eddie as you walked towards the lake, sticking to the shadows off of the path, converse crushing pinecones and the boy was leaning over the edge of the railing of his porch, a sneaky joint hanging from his fingertips, the tip glowing a dirty red in the dark.

He caught your gaze, grinned wide and toothy as he raised a hand in a lazy wave and you felt too warm knowing that he was well aware of his own missing bunkmate. Did he know? Did Steve tell him? Did you mind?

“Late night rendezvous, Hawkins?” Eddie whispered, head tilted to look at you teasingly. You flipped him off and he chuckled, low and throaty. “Don’t argue too loud now, you don’t wanna wake the kids.” 

And then he winked, stubbed his joint out onto the railing and padded back into his cabin, barefoot and ready for bed. 

The camp was darker without the campfire lighting up the main square, the tall trees blocking out most of the moon, the stars white dots between indigo clouds. It got brighter as you neared the lake, skirting the edges of the beach before you waded through the longer grass, the messier part of the waters edge that no one was usually allowed into.

Wildflowers and weeds brushed your bare shins, your pyjama shorts not doing enough to keep you cool, even in the night. The summer lingered in the air, on your skin, leftover sun kissing at your cheeks, your shoulders. Or maybe it was the anticipation of what was waiting for you on the other side of the lake, who was waiting for you.

So you moved a little faster, crickets chirping in the longer grass, cicadas buzzing from the forest you’d left behind. The moonlight danced off the surface of the lake, the water silver, the air fresh and sharp. Everything was pine and cedar, damp moss and old smoke. 

And then Steve was sitting in a clearing in the bush, bare feet dipped up to his ankles in the water, jeans rolled up as he sat on the remnants of an old dock, half of it destroyed by weather and time with the bare bones of the boathouse behind it. 

Steve looked up as you approached, hiding his smile by looking back out at the water and he shuffled along the old boards a little, letting you sit down next to him. You pulled your shoes off like he had, tucked your socks inside so you wouldn’t lose them and you sighed when the cool water licked across your feet. 

You wish you could say the silence was comfortable, and it was, in a way. The night wrapped around you both like a warm blanket, familiar in a way that only the camp was, smoke and mountain air, fresh water and cedar. 

But there was something buzzing underneath it all, an electrical current that carried tension and questions. It fizzed, it crackled. It was stolen glances from under lashes, hands curled around the edge of the dock, close enough for pinky fingers to brush. It was the promise of another kiss, the flushed cheeks of remembering that you had kissed. It was the boom, boom, boom of a nervous heart, that sticky feeling of not being able to swallow properly. 

Your shoulders brushed, hands grazed, breath hitched and chests burned. There was a smile on your lips that you were trying to hide, the kind that made your cheeks ache, biting your tongue to stop the sheer giddiness of it all. 

“D’you still hate me?” Steve asked, and he sounded like you felt, that hidden smile in his voice, rosy around the edges, the sunshine boy in the middle of the forest. 

You laughed, soft and on a huffed breath, chin tilted down so you could watch the way your toes trailed patterns in the water, the way the lake looked like ink underneath you both. You thought about his question, about how you would’ve answered it a week ago, how you wanted to answer it now. 

You realised then, that despite what had occurred in that small space in time, the answer would have been the same. 

“I’ve never hated you, Harrington,” you told him and his surname sounded so much nicer now, an endearment on your tongue instead of a curse. “Not really.”

Steve glanced at you from under his lashes, brown eyes looking black in the night, the shadows on his face blue and the bruises from Billy looking darker than before. 

He smiled, lips curling a soft line, dimples appearing and he looked adorably shy. He nudged you, shoulder bumping your own. 

“I don’t know if I believe that, princess.”

You knew he was joking, at least you were sure he was. But you guessed that such a statement required an explanation. So you inhaled the mountains, the forest, the lake and Steve in your lungs, before blowing it back out with all your pride. 

“I was always jealous I guess,” you shrugged, eyes on your hand, fingers playing with an old knot in the wooden board you sat on. “You always seemed to get what you wanted. You were so popular, everyone liked you. Even the teachers.”

“Kinda immature, I know,” you flushed, bottom lip tucked between your teeth. “It just seemed like everything I wanted - everything I worked so hard for - was just handed to you.”

You snuck a glance at the boy, knowing that your words were unfair. Steve wasn’t stupid, he did well in school, well enough to get good grades and get away with being too cheeky every now and then. 

“I know that sounds harsh and- and I’m sorry that I always spoke shit about your dad,” you cleared your throat nervously. “About your family, your uh, financial situation… that was never very nice of me.”

It wasn’t a secret that you didn’t live in a house that was as big as Steve’s, or that through middle school, your mom worked two jobs. But you were happy and it wasn’t Steve’s fault. You knew that. You’d always known that. 

But the boy only nodded, a knot between his brows and he moved closer until his knee knocked against yours as if he was telling you it was okay. 

“No, uh, you’re right,” Steve whispered. He was frowning, like he had only really come to this realisation then. “You’re right, about my dad.”

You didn’t want to be. 

“He’s not really around, you know? Neither is my mom. There’s always business meetings, trips out of town, out of state.” He laughed, humourless. “Which is why we stay in that nice, big house, I know but-”

Steve swallowed, face twisted in sadness and frustration and you ached to reach out and smooth away the lines there, the furrow on his forehead, the downturn of his lips. Somewhere in the distance, something small splashed in the lake. 

“-but they’re just never around. They never were.” He looked at you, smile sad, eyes sadder. “My dad’s just an ATM. He’s a cheque, a couple of numbers after a report card.”

“Steve…”

He didn’t want your sympathy you realised, he didn’t want pity. But he didn’t brush you off when you lay your hand on his leg, rough denim under your palm, just above his knee. 

“My mom was the same, pizza money on the counter, a couple of hundred dollars for the weekend when I was fourteen and they had to go to Memphis -no, Minnesota - I can’t remember. But I was alone the whole week.”

“That’s horrible,” you told him. Your statement was simple, an understanding, a fact, and Steve liked that your voice didn’t soften for him, it didn’t change. 

“Yeah,” he agreed, nodding and pulling the hand that was on his knee into his own. Your fingers tangled with his and your tummy flipped at the roughness of his palm. 

“I hated when he pulled that shit, you know? The science fair?” Steve scrunched his nose in annoyance. “He didn’t even stay for the results, to watch me get a prize. He just paid and left.”

Your hand squeezed his a little tighter. 

“Your parents were always there,” he murmured and his voice warmed. “I remember in fourth grade, when we changed classes and you were so nervous, your mom was there giving you a hug and your dad was taking photos even though you were crying.”

“I wasn’t crying,” you huffed, voice breathy because you were embarrassed by the memory, shocked that Steve remembered. “You noticed me?” You couldn’t help but ask. 

He only hummed, still smiling, both of you leaning into the other more than before, letting the boy take your warm weight as you accepted his. 

“I always noticed you,” he said and his sincerity was life altering. “You just drove me crazy.”

It didn’t sound like a bad thing, when he said it like that, when he was looking at you the way he was.

“Did you always hate me?” 

Steve grinned, shaking his head as he looked out onto the water. “Never did, princess, I told you that already. I guess I was jealous of you too, huh?”

You were shocked, lips parted, heart heavy. But then you shook your head, thinking of something else to say to clear the weight in the air because you didn’t want to think of fourteen year old Steve in that big house all alone anymore. 

“I work here to save for college,” you told him, like it was supposed to be a secret, like Steve hadn’t heard you talk to Dustin about it before. “My grades weren’t quite good enough to score me a scholarship so-” you trailed off, gesturing uselessly to your staff shirt you were still wearing. 

“I failed my Chemistry exam,” Steve told you in return, voice unaffected. “Then I told my dad I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to go to college, that I didn’t have a clue what I wanted to do.”

You turned to look at the boy, traced the lines of his face with careful eyes, the slope of his nose, his jaw, the curve of his cheek. 

“He cut me off,” Steve said simply, “we don’t really talk anymore. So I’m tryin’ to save up for my own place.”

“In Hawkins?” You asked, because nothing else seemed to matter. 

“Anywhere,” Steve answered. “Where d’you wanna go to college?” 

“Anywhere,” you told him and it felt like a confession. 

His smile was blinding. 

—————

Steve kissed you behind your cabin, the forest your only audience. He pressed you into the wet wood of the wall, just like he had done the days before, rain on his skin and his lips on your neck. 

But this felt like a first kiss, it felt like the first time. No one dared you to do it, no fight or challenge in either of your bodies and it made you melt against him all slow and soft, butterflies in your stomach, your heart in your throat. 

It still felt new, it felt like a crush, like something to wake up and look forward to in the morning, like the first day of summer, the morning before camp began. 

Steve kissed you lazy and deep, like he had all the time in the world, like he wanted to swallow you whole like then night. He tasted like mint toothpaste and soda, the fizz of it making you buzz, cherry and sugar on your tongue. He brought his hand to your cheek, fingertips pressing gentle to your skin, his thumb soothing over the sting of his teeth on your bottom lip.

It made you push up onto your toes, chasing his mouth, your hands in his hair and making him bend down for you, sighing all happy like he didn’t care you were telling him what to do. 

He kissed you like he wanted to keep you. 

It was hard to pull away from each other, even when the rest of the camp was asleep and the night was drawing into early morning. You craved the touch of the boy you’d always kept at arm's length, amazed at the way you responded to him so easily, so desperately, like your bodies were both yelling at you, asking ‘why weren’t we doing this all along?’

You wanted to tell him your secrets, you wanted to share your summer. You wanted to ask what this meant, but you were too scared, maybe still too full of pride and the idea of going back to Hawkins and being rejected was too much to bear. 

So you took the stolen kisses behind the cabin, hands touching bare skin under shirts, edging just shy of being scandalous, the sounds of your soft breath mixing with Steve’s and it was dizzying. 

It was enough for now. 

You went to bed with one more kiss still fizzing on your lips, a new mark pressed on your neck, hidden under hair and matching the one you had given the boy. Steve watched as you walked into your cabin, footsteps soft and the shy squeak of the door made you both cringe but Robin stayed asleep. 

You waved goodnight, eyes tired but your heart still thumping, and when Steve raised his hand in response, a smile on his face that had the shadow of shyness, you wanted to squeal. 

It was ridiculous, this giddiness, this new feeling for the boy you’d known for so long. It wasn’t all that different though, being pressed up against Steve Harrington as he kissed the breath from you. He still made you wanna bite back, kiss him harder than he’d kissed you, a sense of a challenge lingering around you both at all times. 

It just felt more fun now. 

—————

Hopper seemed almost disappointed that he hadn’t managed to collect more damage money from you and Steve. There had been a mason jar sitting on his desk from day two, a haphazard sticker on it with the words `therapy savings' written in sharpie. After the kayak incident, there had only been a few more dollars stuffed into it, some loose change for snarky comments made at meetings and one green M&M that Eddie had managed to throw into it from across the room. 

But the camp was still standing after another year, the buses and cars of parents littering the spaces between the cabins as the kids dragged out too big duffel bags, yelled about lost games and forgotten socks. 

Some kids lined up to hug you goodbye, El and Will sniffling softly into your t-shirt as your own tears fell into their hair, your arms wrapped tight around them. You’d see them next year, like you always did, when they were older and taller and less likely to throw themselves into your arms in greeting. 

Dustin told you all about a radio he was building, something that would allow you to chat to him through the school year and he was handing you a scribbled note with all the best walkie talkie brands on it and numbers for different frequencies. He let you mess his curls one more time, his grin wide and his cheeks pink. 

Lucas and Mike helped you load your bags in your car, despite their parents standing waiting with smiles on their faces. You pestered them both into a hug, both of them pressed to a shoulder as you told them to be good and stay out of trouble. 

Your voice didn’t really crack until Max appeared, Walkman around her neck and another cassette in her hand. She tried to look casual about it when she handed it to you, a piece of tape stuck to the front with the words ‘love from Max’ written on it. 

“Maxine,” you gasped, all faux shock and she rolled her eyes. “You made me my own tape?”

The girl shrugged, one hand pulling at the end of a braid as she scowled, trying to keep the pink from her cheeks. 

“It’s no big deal,” she muttered to the ground, “your taste in music needed expanding.”

She said it huffily, but she meant ‘I’ll miss you.’

“Thanks kid,” you whispered, throat tight, eyes glassy and you nudged your shoulder into hers. She pressed her head to your arm in lieu of a hug, saving that one show of rare affection for Lucas instead. 

Then she was gone, along with the rest of the kids, and the camp was finally quiet again. 

Billy picked up his wages and left without saying goodbye to anyone, duffel bag dragging on the ground as he grabbed a greyhound out of Indiana, face still mottled with bruises from Steve’s fists. 

Robin left with Eddie, the boy telling her that he’d drive her home instead of her having to share the same fate as Billy, shoved on a bus during the high heat of the day. She didn’t take much convincing when Eddie jumped into the driver seat and started blaring Prince from the radio, curls messy as he grinned at her. 

“C’mon Buckley, you can’t say no to me.”

And she didn’t. 

They boy hugged you tight before they left, Robin promising to write, promising to visit and Eddie lifted you off of your feet, crushing you to his chest as he whispered in your ear, “look after my boy, huh?”

They left in a plume of dust and dirt, the sound of ‘purple rain’ trailing behind them. 

Nancy and Jonathan were next, the girl doing one last round through the cabins, arms full of forgotten drawings, a lone teddy, seventeen odd socks. Then she hugged you, eyes fond, leaving with her boyfriend for a week's holiday in his hometown before promising you that she’d catch up with you back in Hawkins before college started. 

It left you and Steve alone in the staff parking lot, sun shining, blue skies, green forest and birds chirping. 

He was leaning against his car, arms crossed like the way he was looking at you was no big deal, smile all soft and familiar now, like that’s the way he’d always looked at you. 

Maybe it was. Maybe you’d never noticed. 

You pressed your hip into your own car, eyes full of trouble as you gazed at him expectantly. Steve raised his brows, smirked like he wanted to argue with you, like he wanted to kiss you. 

“Race you home?” He asked and god, his voice was honey, sweet and warm, capable of stopping you in your tracks. 

You laughed, patting the hood of your old car affectionately before telling him, “nah, my car is slow as shit.”

Your callback to his own words at the beginning of camp made him bark out a bright laugh, genuine amusement in his eyes and he shook his head, lips twisted. 

“Glad you can finally admit it, princess.”

You wondered if this was a goodbye, if this was it. You wondered if you were supposed to talk about what had happened, if this kiss you shared behind your cabin meant the same to Steve as it did to you. If you were supposed to go back to sharing the same town and calling each other names like you hadn’t been on top of him. 

So you waited, a beat of silence, a roll of summer washing over you both. The breeze picked at both your hair, stray stands blowing across lips and mouths and you sighed, soft, wanting. 

“Uh, there’s um,” Steve was scratching the back of his neck, eyes fond on you, smile all nervous. “There’s this diner in Lowell, they do a pretty good burger.”

You grinned, happiness beating out of you like the fucking sun. 

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve called back, grinning just like you. He looked pretty, softer than you once knew him, all wild curls and caramel eyes, new freckles on his nose, the bruise you gave him faded on his throat. “D’you wanna stop for lunch?”

You could’ve sworn the only sound in the forest was your heart. 

“Are you asking me out on a date, Harrington?”

You waited for the scoff, the teasing, the taunt. You were so used to the quick, sharp bite of a reply, that when he shrugged all slow and lazy, head tilted to look at you from under his lashes, you were surprised. 

“Yeah,” he told you again. 

It was such a simple reply. One word, so sincere, heart stoppingly sure. 

You ducked your head, hiding your grin, your flush, the way your eyes must’ve been glittering. It felt a little magic, a little manic, that feeling of something new.

It felt like a first kiss, a boy touching you during a thunderstorm, like the taste of rain, the smell of campfire smoke. It was all Steve fucking Harrington. 

So you nodded, took a breath, took a chance, grinned and opened your car door. 

“I’ll meet you there.” 

[upsidedownwithemmy]

She Drives Me Crazy

CAMP UPSIDE DOWN PART TWO Steve Harrington x fem!reader

[33K] summer camp, broken kayaks, too much tension and that boy you hate. an enemies to lovers camp counsellor story.

I can’t stop, the way I feel. 

Camp Upside Down was about eighty miles outside of Hawkins, Indiana, just past Belmont and hidden amongst the trees of the YellowWood State Forest. 

It held too many kids, a collection of old wooden cabins, a few impressively sized lakes, sports equipment that was made in the sixties and Steve fucking Harrington. 

It’s not like you had always hated the boy, you just couldn’t really remember the last time you liked him. 

The first of June brought blue skies, summer rolling in with thick white clouds, the kind that didn’t look real. The Indiana air was warm and hazy, growing hotter in the afternoon, long days, bright nights and the return of fireflies and open air pools. 

Each year you left Hawkins behind, a kiss pressed to each cheek by your parents, your old car packed to the brim as you headed west for six weeks, to your home from home, buried between cedar trees, amongst giant redwoods and overgrown wildflowers. 

You rolled out of town and took the sun with you, windows down, radio blasting music and static, that soft buzz that you loved so much. You sped past the water tower, the quarry and the wheat fields, the strawberry patches and the forest that no one liked to wander too far into. 

You hated that Steve Harrington followed, his car newer, shiner, faster. You hated when he overtook you on the straight, before you had even had a chance to leave town. So you would hang your arm out the window, middle finger poised in a pretty salute just for him and he’d send you one back, like clockwork, like you’d practised it, like it happened every year. 

If you could get close enough, your car bumper threatening his, you could just make out the scowl behind his raybans, the twist of his lips cursing you out in the reflection of his rear view mirror. 

It went on like that for the whole drive, never stopping unless the boy did, refusing to fall behind, because bathroom breaks were for losers and you did not fucking lose to Steve Harrington. 

It was flat out, foot down, wind whipping in on the highway; a game of cat and mouse, curses yelled over the radio, hair messy in your face, just pushing the speed limit until overhead signs and four lane roads turned into something else. 

It’s like the sun got softer when you turned off the freeway, the light hazy between the trees and it made this part of the world seem like it was just for you. 

Single track roads took you through the forest, past rivers and lakes, mountains in front of you, Hawkins behind you and the air was sharper, muddled with pine and moss, still wet tree trunks from the morning rain, wildflowers and something too sweet to name. 

Smoke threaded through it all when you got closer to camp, the big wooden archway greeting you like an old friend, the cabins appearing through cracks in the forest, the doors open, staff carrying in pillows and sheets, prepping for the arrival of the kids in a few days time. 

And when you pulled your car into the staff parking, a clearing between trees behind the big gymnasium, you turned off your engine, closed your eyes and listened to the little slice of peace you’d get in your six week stay. 

No kids, no screaming, no arguing, no singing. Not yet. 

Just bird calls and the buzz of insects, soft wind between branches and the slow crackle of the main campfire if you strained your ears hard enough. 

“Your shitty car gets slower every year, princess.”

You swore, low under your breath, the soft “for fuck sake,” mixing with a sigh as you let your head fall onto the seat and you opened your eyes.  

Steve was standing at your open window, hip leaning against the side of your car, arms crossed, expression smug. He grinned at you. 

“Harrington,” you greeted, a drawl that lacked any sort of warmth, tinted with annoyance instead. 

The boy tsked, sarcasm dripping from him as he leaned in, arms on the window ledge, peering into the car and peering at the pile of cassettes on your passenger seat. 

“Blondie? Really?” 

You swatted at him, brows knitted together already because you’d been at Camp Upside Down for quite literally three minutes and the boy was already doing his best to infuriate you. 

“That’s not very nice,” he told you but he was still grinning. “You didn’t miss me?”

You pushed the car door open, knocking Steve out of the way in the process and you scowled as you popped the trunk, turning to him with a glare. 

“Miss you? I saw you at the store two days ago.”

Steve watched you haul out your bags, snorting when you let them fall to the forest floor without much care. 

“Yeah, but you called me a dickhead and hit me with your cart.”

“You yelled across the store and asked me where my cauldron was.”

You set the boy with a stare, a little dead behind the eyes, just like you’d perfected. Your lip twitched into an almost smile when you let another bag tumble out of the trunk, narrowingly missing the boy's foot when he flinched out of the way. 

Steve shrugged, tongue pressed to his cheek to stop his grin as he stared at you right back. 

“It was a valid question.”

You slammed the trunk, your gaze on the boy withering and you kicked at one of your bags. You hated this part. 

“Are you gonna help me with these?” You really didn’t know why you were bothering to ask, because the boy was already backing away, hands shoved into the pockets of his Levi’s and he was still fucking grinning. 

“Why would I do that?” He questioned. “Besides, I only came round to tell you Hopper wants everyone in the office. Now.”

You glared at Steve, seething, lips parting with a high pitched scoff as you threw an arm out and gestured to all your belongings, most of your life packed into four too big duffel bags. 

“You fucking just watched me unload the car.”

Steve hummed happily, too far away for you to throw a pine cone at. He tutted, all faux concern and sad brown eyes. 

“Damn, I did, didn’t I?” And then he was walking away, heading to the offices that were housed in the row of cabins by the lake. “Don’t be too late, princess, Hops already in a shitty mood.”

——————

Camp leader Jim Hopper, was indeed in a foul mood when you arrived twenty minutes later, out of breath and just as annoyed as he was. 

The cabin was full, bodies squeezed between desks and the moth-eaten couch was piled with people. Faces new and old stared back at your sudden entrance, the scowl that was already on your face only deepening when Steve, who was leaning lazy against a wall, wiggled his fingers at you. 

“Hawkins,” Hopper barked, “how nice of you to finally join us. You think after doing this for four years, you’d know that the first day meeting is always at eleven o’clock sharp.”

Hopper's habit of calling people by their hometown should’ve been insulting, if it wasn’t for the fact that he was a teddy bear looking man, moustache twitching when he was either annoyed or amused, but he had soft eyes and an even softer patch for the camp kids. 

When you first pointed out that there were three counsellors that came from Hawkins, he merely started calling you Hawkins number two, so you tended to not remind him after that. 

“Sorry,” you huffed, not sounding all that sorry, and you glared at Steve as you squished yourself between Eddie Munson and Robin Berkeley. Buckley. 

“Okay, shitheads, listen up,” Murray, Hopper’s right hand man, stood with a clipboard, thick rimmed glasses slipping down his nose. “Roll call.”

“Muson, music. You’ve got three new kids that have signed up for private guitar lessons, you’ll get their info by tonight, make sure you check in with Joyce at reception.”

Eddie Munson, one of the older boys nodded, long, dark curls already frizzy with the warmth that the forest trapped beneath its canopy. Originally from Pittsburgh, the boy was still dressed in his leather jacket, a denim vest that had ripped sleeves and a giant Dio patch sewn messily onto the back, ready for a metal concert rather than s’mores around the campfire.

“And for the love of god, wear the proper uniform this year.”

On cue, Hopper started throwing out the mandatory shirts, white and years old, the sleeve cuffs red, just like the printed ‘staff’ on the back, in bold, capital letters. 

“Nancy, you’re moving up this year, senior counsellor,” Nancy Wheeler, another Hawkins native, nodded sharply, her hair clipped back and uniform already on. “We’re gonna need the first week's schedule done for the kids arriving at the weekend and christ, make sure these idiots turn up for their shifts.”

Robin snorted from beside you and Murray rounded on her, a finger pointing accusingly. “Buckley, any more missed shifts from you this year and you’ll be on clean up duty for every dinner shift. Bob wants you in the mess hall tomorrow for lunch prep.”

The girl scowled, mumbling under her breath about how it wasn’t her fault she never heard the morning tannoy. A pretty girl from Detroit, Robin was all ripped jeans and backwards caps, sarcastic comments and sleeping wherever she could make herself comfortable.

Hopper threw a shirt at her, grinning when it landed against her face with a soft thump.

“Jonathan.” The boy who was busy fiddling with the camera around his neck suddenly looked up, eyes wide as if he’d been caught half asleep. “The parents are more than happy to buy more of the photo packages this year and we need new prints for the newsletters so we want content, content, content. No slacking and distracting your girlfriend or you’ll be sleeping on the other side of the lake.”

Jonathan Byers, from Bloomington, just a few hours from Hawkins, mumbled an agreement before walking over to sit by Nancy and resting his head on top of hers.

“Hargrove,” Hopper barked from behind his desk, “you’re back on sports but we’re a lifeguard down this year so you’ll be splitting shifts with Harrington.”

Billy Hargrove, California bad boy, was sliding an unlit cigarette between his lips, getting the tip slick as he grunted his agreement. He caught his staff shirt as it flew through the air at him, winking at you when he tucked it into the waistband of his too tight jeans.

“And for fuck sake, Billy, no non staff members in the cabins after six,” Hopper groaned, “I’m not having screaming mothers at my door at one in the morning this year, corrupt the girls of Indiana on your own time, not mine.”

“You two,” Murray finally rounded on you and Steve, a sardonic grin pulling at his lips. “Lovebirds, you’re both on games and swimming.”

Steve and you both huffed out a protest at the term, features pulled into a scowl and you flipped off both Robin and Eddie when they chuckled.

“And Jesus Christ, if any more of your lovers' tiffs result in more broken equipment, it’s coming out of your wages.”

You scoffed, a sound of protest as Steve swore. “Bullshit, what broken equipment?”

The rest of the team snickered as Hopper levelled you with a stare from over the top of the computer screen. Murray snorted from behind his fist and even Steve had to try to hide his grin at your words.

“There’s three cracked kayaks, fourteen broken tennis racquets and a box of punctured basketballs sitting behind the gym as we speak, sweetheart, don’t even go there.”

You rolled your eyes and pushed yourself off of the couch, grabbing Robin’s hand and yanking her up with you when she batted at your arm. 

Everyone else shuffled to their feet, leaving the few newbies in the corner, wide eyed and worried as they waited for their orientation. 

Hopper glared at the seven of you as you lined up at the door, restless and waiting to escape to your cabins, to steal some food from the kitchens when Bob wasn’t looking.

“No drugs,” Hopper announced before Eddie could open the door. “No smoking, and for god sake Munson, don’t tell the kids that you can eat the mushrooms, not again.”

Eddie had the audacity to look bewildered, brown eyes big and doe like as you held in a snicker from behind him. He swatted at your leg and you thumped him back, grinning when the back of your hand caught the edge of his rolling tin in his front pocket. 

The older man moved onto Billy, glaring when the boy only smirked, sliding a pair of gold rimmed aviators over his eyes. 

“Nudity is for the showers and your own cabin, California, I don’t wanna see your ass comin’ out of the lake, I don’t care how early it is in the morning.”

Billy simply grinned wider, snickering when Nancy blushed, rolling his eyes when Robin dug her fingers into his ribs. 

“And you two,” Hopper lifted a hand, gesturing between you and Steve once more, “if I gotta break up any more fights, or play couples therapist, you’ll be paying for my own before summer is over, you hear me?”

The pair of you sulked, eyes lowered to the floor and feet shuffling as you weighed up your options of arguing back, but the office room was lacking its usual cloud of cigar smoke and the coffee machine in the corner had a piece of paper with a big ‘out of order’ scrawled on front.

“Loud and clear, chief,” Steve smirked, eyeing you from where he stood, Eddie grinning between you both.

Murray opened the door to the forest and the sun, the wall of heat seeping in and fighting with the old aircon unit and Hopper’s last words to you all before you slipped out were:

“Play nice and don’t kill the kids.”

Billy caught Steve by the shirt as they left, the boy’s watching as the rest of you walked down the gravel path that led through the trees, splintering off from cabin to cabin.

The blonde boy turned, grinning sharklike, sunglasses still on. He nodded to your retreating frame, taking a second to watch the way your shorts rode up the backs of your thighs as you climbed the cabin stairs behind Robin. 

“You tapped that yet, Harrington?”

Steve glowered, ripping away his arm from the other boy but his reaction only made Billy smirk wider, a lighter appearing from his pocket as he lit his cigarette. 

“Get fucked, Hargrove,” Steve did his best to sound bored, like he didn’t care.

But it only made Billy laugh, blowing smoke to the blue skies and he followed Steve down the opposite trail, heading towards the same cabin that Eddie was currently dragging a small amp into. 

Steve huffed when the blonde boy stomped up the stairs behind him, stepping over the forgotten bags that lay unpacked on the floor. “Maybe that’s Hawkins' problem, you know?” He asked, referring to you. Billy eyed Steve, leaning against his top bunk, the air in the wooden cabin so much cooler than outside. “Maybe she just needs a good seeing to.”

Eddie raised his brows, looking carefully between his bunkmate and Billy, wondering if there was about to be a new record for how quickly a fight broke out. The current sat at seventeen hours after arrival, but there had been a lot more vodka involved that time, and maybe a comment or two about that one time Billy got the clap from some girl in the next town over. 

“Now now, boys,” Eddie intoned, “I’ve not nearly had enough sleep to deal with this shit.”

He went ignored.

Billy continued, teeth sharp and white and bared as he followed Steve around the bunks, leaning against the dresser before the boy had a chance to open it and his eyes flashed when he watched the muscle in the brunette’s jaw twitch. 

“Think she’d let me?” Hargrove asked, “think she’d get a little wild for me?” “Don’t you have shit to do?” Steve snapped, refusing to look at Billy, ‘cause he could feel the tips of his ears getting hot, a horribly uncomfortable tightness clawing at his throat. 

But Billy could see right through him, years of spending summers together, watching the way you and Steve argued, nose to nose and chests panting. He always made sure he had a front seat to the show and poking the angry bear only made the inevitable first argument so much more fun to witness.

Billy clicked his tongue, still grinning unbearably wide. “Maybe I can go visit Hawkins… I’m sure there’s something heavy that your girl needs help with.”

“She’s not my fucking girl.”

The blonde winked at Eddie as he passed, the longer haired boy doing nothing to hide his smile, knowing fine well what game Hargrove was playing. And shit, he was winning, ‘cause by the time Billy left and Steve spun back around, his fists were clenched and a heavy scowl pulled his brows together. 

“You’re too easy, Harrington.”

“Shut up,” Steve muttered, but there wasn’t much heat behind it. He liked Eddie, and god, he knew he was right.

——————

“You know, every summer I expect you and Harrington to walk into camp, hand in hand, talkin’ all sweet to each other,” Robin wasn’t looking at you as she spoke, too busy stuffing already crumpled shirts into the shared dresser, but you knew she was grinning. “The sexual tension has to break sometime, you know?”

“Over my dead, fucking body.”

Your reply was one she’d heard before, year after year, summer after summer, because every June, the same thing happened. Fall outs, arguments, screaming matches in the mess hall, head to head battles on the dock, late night yelling over a campfire and a bottle of cheap bourbon.

“I still don’t get it,” the girl smirked, finally eyeing you from over the top bunk. The late morning light made the small cabin glow, the surface of the lake reflecting in through the open window and off of the panelled walls. “Steve isn’t that bad.”

“That’s because you didn’t have to go through high school with the King himself,” you deadpanned, already bored of the conversation. You’d had it before, several times over with almost all the camp staff, each one wondering why you and Steve fucking Harrington wanted to kill each other over a game of dodgeball, the last poptart at breakfast, picking teams on games night. “Harrington got everything I worked hard for, just ‘cause his daddy has some money.”

You threw your now empty duffle bag to the ground kicking at it until it slid underneath the bed. Your own pillow was in its rightful place on top, the peach coloured case clashing horribly with the army green duvet, but it smelled like home. 

“I announced I was running for class president in sophomore year, and then that asshole decided he would to,” you levelled Robin with a stare, still petulant after so many years. “He threw a party at his stupid rich house and by Monday, everyone was talking about Steve Harrington’s pool and how they were voting for him.”

“Don’t you think it’s unhealthy to hold onto such a grudge-”

You cut the girl off, on a tangent now she’d brought the sore subject up. “Like, wasn’t it enough that he was the swim team captain? And then! When we got into that stupid fight in Junior year, we both ended up with a weeks detention but no, no. Mr Harrington swoops in with a little two grand donation to the school’s library upgrade and low and behold, little Stevie is suddenly off the hook.”

You kicked another bag, this one not as empty and you tried not to wince when your toe made contact with what you assumed was a collection of books. 

“As long as his record is squeaky clean, right? S’not like his dad won’t just pay his way into fucking Yale, or Princeton, for him anyway,” you were grumbling now and when you looked up to see Billy Hargrove walking by with a too smug smile, you flipped him off, trying to make yourself feel better.

He just wiggled his fingers at you in a wave, winking when you grimaced.

“I think I need a drink,” you said, throwing yourself down onto the bed and concluding your Steve Harrington rant, more than likely only the first of the day.

The sheets smelled the same, like they always did. A little musty, like the back of a storage cupboard, almost hidden by the laundry detergent you knew Joyce made Hopper use. Fresh like pine needles, like the forest floor and mountain air. Kinda like another home. 

Robin barked out a laugh before coming over and standing between the space between your knees, your legs splayed over the too narrow mattress. She offered you a hand, exaggerating a loud groan when you took it and she pulled you back up to sit. An affectionate pat fell on your head before she looked around the mess of your half unpacked cabin, sheets and folded towels on the dressers, drawers open and half full, a litter of shoes by the door and an unplugged radio on a chair. 

“You know what?” She huffed out, “we both need a drink.”

——————

The keg party by the lake was a first night tradition, the older staff members long gone to their beds after a tiring first day in the forest heat, lugging around equipment and furniture. 

The rest of you gathered at the dock, crowding the small part of the water front that had sand instead of rocks, the air still warm from the leftover sun despite the stars in the sky. It was inky black in the middle of the woods, the clouds navy, the lake a mirror and the fire gave off an impressive amber glow.

Everyone was painted in orange light, pink and red on their cheeks, smoke in their hair and a different kind of fire in their chests when Billy produced a few bottles of cheap whisky, a half bottle of bourbon and surprising everyone, Nancy had added a bottle of vodka to the pile. Cheap beer came in the form of lukewarm kegs and despite the effort it took, Jonathan pulled the short straw and drove out of camp, meeting the delivery boy on the main road to pick up a pile of hot pizza boxes. 

It smelled like summer, smoke and god awful decisions.

The dirty beat of Need You Tonight by INXS started through the tannoys above you, the old, tinny speakers hidden in the trees.

Some people cheered, others moved to the sand to dance, a slow grind of bodies with their bare feet in the lake, water lapping at ankles as they moved. Steve was grinning from the dock, a rip in the one knee of his jeans, the skin underneath already tanned as if he belonged under the sun. The white t-shirt he wore was threadbare, years old with ‘camp upside down’ faded in green on the chest. 

He was watching you, a feeling that used to make you unravel, like you knew he did it just to earn a rise from you. So you waved instead, sugary sweet and full of sarcasm, huffing when he beckoned you closer with a hand that was holding the last of the bourbon, and you told yourself it was the promise of alcohol that made your feet move. 

You rolled your eyes before narrowing them at the boy in front of you, your red cup clutched to your chest and you couldn’t help but take another step forward, just a small one, until the toes of your shoes were touching his.

He looked down at the wooden boards, the water lapping underneath, barely seen between the cracks in the dark, but the boy was too focused on the way your converse bumped his nikes. It felt like a challenge, like everything with you did and when he looked back up, your chin was tilted high and your eyes were glittering.

You looked like trouble and he hated it. 

“Is this another one of your shitty mixtapes, Harrington?” You let the words drip from your lips, whisky mixing with distaste and the late night air.

Everything was warm and sweet, bourbon and peaches, campfire smoke and leftover lake water on your skin. Steve looked at you, eyes shining, freckles on his nose like stars and he grinned.

“How’d you know, princess?” He took the cigarette that had been tucked behind his ear, slid it between his lips as he kept your gaze, always undefeated in the staring contests you both never meant to start.

“‘Cause it sounds like something a boy would make when he’s trying too hard to get a chick in his bed.”

He lit the cigarette, still grinning, the end of it caught between teeth and Steve Harrington looked so unbelievably ready to play one of your little games with you. The ash burned red in the dim light, the sounds of your friends and co-workers dull behind you both.

“Does that mean it’s working?”

“You fucking wish, wonder boy,” you scoffed and you made a grab for the bottle he was holding, twisting your lips to hold in the annoyance when Steve moved it out of reach, holding the amber liquid above your head.

“So mean already,,” Steve tutted and you hated the familiar warmth that wrapped around his words, like it was supposed to be a compliment. “Don’t you usually wait for day three before breaking out that one?”

“Give it,” you demanded, and from over Steve’s shoulder you could see Eddie and Jonathan watching, expectant smiles on their faces and interest in their eyes.

“Make me, princess,” Steve answered, voice just as short as yours but he sounded too amused, like he always did when he was trying to push your buttons. The boy was too tall, his hand and the bottle well above your head, leaking into the night sky above and you weren’t going to humiliate yourself by trying to jump for it. 

So you drained what was left in your cup, the vodka was too cheap and it burned your tongue but the mix of cherry kool aid made up for it, staining your tongue red. You swiped at your lips, grinned and planted your hands on Steve’s chest much to his surprise. 

But just as his mouth fell into a pretty ‘o’ shape, his brown eyes darkened to that dark honey shade you were used to, you pushed, hard. He hit the water with a splash and to the raucous sound of whoops and cheers, a wolf whistle when he emerged, white top soaked and clinging to the ridges and dips of his muscles, tangled at his waist. 

He spluttered, waist deep in the lake as he stared back up at you, hair dripping into his eyes and oh, he was mad. You were fucking joyous, wrapped up in the way people were laughing and you didn’t break eye contact with the boy as you bent at the waist and picked up the bottle that’d dropped as he fell.

You pulled off the lid, grinned and brought it to your lips, draining the rest of the smoky drink, another burn that nipped at your throat, your chest, your skin. You felt too warm when you chased a stray drip of it with your thumb, sliding over your lip before sucking it back between your lips.

“Made you,” you told Steve. 

The things you do, don’t seem real. 

The kids arrived in a wave of colours and chaos, bags forgotten on buses, new cabins already turned inside out and Joyce had a queue as long as the lake outside of her office, her hands full of allergy medication, inhalers and requests to change bunks ‘cause ‘Kyle Jamison snores like a seventy year old with a lung condition.’

The camp itself was just as messy, it always had been. The old cabins littered the space, winding dirt tracks leading you into a cluster of trees, surrounding the old wooden huts, the porch light almost always flickering in the dark. 

There was faded bunting hanging from branch to branch, the old gym that sat with its rusting tin roof near the back, the dock with its splintering planks by the lake. The grassy hub at the centre was worn down by constant running and makeshift picnics and the wildflowers that free in between it all were getting too tall, bursts of red, yellow and orange between green moss. 

It was getting old, things were a little broken but the entire forest smelled like morning dew, that ‘it’s just rained’ kinda way and old campfire smoke. It was another home. 

Camp Upside Down was officially in full swing. 

You were pleased to see you had some of your returning favourites in your group that year: Will Byers, Lucas Sinclair, Suzie Bingham and Dustin Henderson. 

You were just going through the last of the names on your list, kids gathered in front of you and awaiting their assigned cabins when Steve snatched the clipboard from your hand, huffing. 

“Harrington!”

“What the hell is this?” Steve grumbled, looking at the sheet of paper and at your group. He singled out Dustin, and the boy flushed, all nervous grin and bright eyes underneath his curls. “Henderson, I thought you said you were requesting my group this year?”

The young boy shrugged, glancing at the trees instead of Steve. 

“I, uh, I said I was happy with either of you,” Dustin grinned, front teeth coming in more than they were last year and you beamed back. “Besides, Hawkins sneaks us extra cookies before bed.”

 You shot the boy a look. 

“Hey! I told you not to tell anyone about that,” you admonished, eyes rolling. “And that’s not my name, Dustin, we spoke about this last year.”

But before Dustin could argue back, Steve was pulling you aside, his hands shockingly warm as they wrapped around your wrist. You stumbled into the tree line with him, shoes sinking into moss, senses surrounded by cedar and cicadas and Steve. 

“What the fuck? Steve!” You hissed, pulling yourself from his grasp with a scowl. 

Before either if you could say anything,Lucas Sinclair, a tall, dark haired kid tapped a passing new counsellor on the arm. They looked concerned when the boy pointed to you both, hidden in the trees.

“Mom and Dad are fighting again,” he told them, voice bored and lacking any real worry. 

“You’re stealing my kids, princess!” Steve’s voice was just as annoyed as yours, his brow furrowed as he stabbed a finger at your sheet of names. 

“Stealing?” You scoffed, whacking your clipboard against his own. The metal clip narrowly missed his fingers and he swore at you hotly. “Stealing? They’re children, Harrington, not collectibles.”

The kids in question were giggling where you’d left them, your group mixing with Steve’s as they stared in that unabashed way only preteens could. You flushed when you heard one of them - Nancy’s brother, Mike, you were sure - made wet, kissing noises. Immature and highly ironic, you noted, considering he was standing hand in hand with a girl called El. 

You glared at them all and they quietened, but only just. 

Spinning back round to deal with your other problem, you pointed a finger to Steve’s chest, hating the way he smirked at your sudden frustration. 

“And what’s your point anyway, huh?” You huffed, “you have Maxine this year, I always have Max in my group!”

Steve looked entirely too smug as he bent a little at waist, crowding down into you so you were both toe to toe. 

You hated it. 

You hated his brown eyes, the way they caught the sun. You hated the smattering of freckles he got every summer, the moles on his neck, the ones you knew dotted the rest of his skin. You hated his hair, how it fell into his eyes when he got mad at you, how he was too focused on you to push it back. 

“Maybe Max just likes me better.”

You gasped, entirely offended at his accusation and before you could hurl something sharp and quick back at him, the girl in question raised her hand from the middle of the crowd, face scrunched in uncertainty. 

“Hi, uh, yeah” You both turned to look at the redhead. “Yeah, no, that’s absolutely not true.”

You rounded back on the boy, a shit eating grin on your face as you raised your brows, your expression victorious. 

“Whatever,” he mumbled, almost nose to nose now and you could smell the spearmint gum he’d chewed, the clean smell of his cologne, whatever body wash he’d used that morning. “Good luck keeping mini Byers alive.”

“Hey!” Will piped up, louder than he’d been last summer and he was scowling at Steve. “I only have three inhalers now.”

Steve rolled his eyes, finally moving out of your space and rounding up his kids like some sort of rogue cowboy, sans horse. He waved the boy away, sounding somewhat placating when he congratulated him. 

“That’s great, Will, honestly buddy,” Steve offered a fist bump, one that the smaller boy happily accepted. “Just don’t let Hawkins here let you forget them yeah?”

Steve turned back to you once more, still smug, still infuriating. “We wouldn’t want her to get in trouble now, would we?”

——————

“Camp has been in session for five minutes.”

Murray was standing in front of you, hands open in a gesture that screamed ‘for the love of god, explain yourselves.’ Hopper was sitting at his desk, eyes closed, fingers running circles at his temples and he sighed heavily. 

Neither you nor Steve spoke, eyes trained on the old, worn floorboards, converse shuffling, shoulders shrugging, lips twisted to hide your matching smirks. 

“Does someone want to explain what happened this time? Because we can’t keep throwing kayaks in the trash like they’re broken cups, people! They're not cheap!”

“Well, you see, Steve has this real annoying habit of-”

“- just because the princess feels then need to win at everything-”

“I need to win at everything?! Me?! Are you fu-”

“Yes you! Always breathin’ down my back, waitin’ for me to fuck up so you can-”

“Enough!“ Hopper jumped up from his chair, hands slamming on his desk as he hunched over it, shoulders heaving, face too red. “Who. Broke. The Kayak?”

You and Steve sighed, shoulder slumped, heads tilted to the ceiling as if you could avoid the question, each other, the inevitable punishment that was coming your way. You sighed, Steve groaned and you both swore. 

Because, honestly? You weren’t sure who’s fault it was. Maybe yours, probably Harrington's. More than likely both. ‘Cause the kids had stumbled out of the lake, giddy and a little sunburnt, leaving you to haul the kayaks onto the shore on your own.

Steve had only watched you for a few minutes, smirk on his face as you struggled with the faded red boats, huffing as you attempted to lift them onto the racks, feet clumsy and damp hair sticking to your forehead, your cheeks. 

In fact, he looked entirely too amused as he leaned against the dock and by the time he’d come over, offering a rare display of help, you stubbornly told him to ‘fuck off.’

 He’d laughed at that, angering you more and you squeaked as he stretched out behind you, his chest still bare from helping his group in the water, and the solid warmth of it brushed against your back when his hands moved to help yours.

He jumped when you did, hands stuttering over your own, over the kayak and you had to push yourself up onto your toes when the boat slipped from the railing. You both caught it in time, Steve pressed into you, cedar and mint and boyish cologne as the curve of your ass settled into his hips. As soon as the kayak was in place, you spun, pushing at his shoulders.

“I can do it myself,” you mumbled, suddenly far too flustered to sound overly annoyed. “I don’t need your help.”

“Christ, princess, you sound like a five year old,” Steve scoffed, but you couldn’t help but notice the flush on his cheeks, looking like you felt. “Can’t admit when you need help, huh?”

“I don’t need help from you, wonder boy,” you tried to laugh, but it came out too pitchy, too forced. 

The camp was quiet now the kids had gone back to their cabins, the lake settling after the afternoon swim, the smell of churros and pizza rolls coming from the mess hall. The air fizzed with summer heat and something else and you weren’t sure why, but your chest was heaving, the straps of your swimsuit suddenly feeling too tight. 

“Stop calling me that,” Steve growled, eyes flashing and he moved into you again, the way he did when every argument started. “You know I fuckin’ hate that.”

“No shit,” you spat, meeting him in the middle, chin raised in a taunt, a dare, a challenge. “You think I’m here to make your life easier than it already is?” “You’re fucking infuriating,” Steve hissed, “you know fuck all about my life, princess, don’t act like you’re so hard done by.”

You pressed a hand to Steve’s stomach, ignoring the way the muscles there clenched under your touch and you pushed at him, something inside you crackling when he didn’t budge. 

You hated his stupid smile, the way his lips twisted when he made you mad enough to scrunch your nose at him. You hated the way he looked down at you when you were this close, through his lashes, like you were something to be studied. Like he liked the way got into his personal space.

“Well damn, why don’t you tell me how you really feel, Harrington?”

Steve pushed his tongue to the inside of his cheek to try and hide his grin, and he shrugged, trying to look entirely unbothered at your pushing. He took another step towards you, chasing you slowly when you stumbled back, body pressed to the stacked kayaks behind you. 

The old boats were warm from the sun, the cheap pvc hot on your skin, back bared down the low cut of your swimsuit, your shorts doing nothing to protect the backs of your thighs. You wondered if that’s why your chest felt flushed, if that’s why your face was heating up. 

“Can’t do that,” he said, tutting before taking his time letting his eyes drop down your body, before trailing back up again. He caught your gaze, held it, bolder than ever. “I’ll get in too much trouble.”

And then, he fucking winked. 

So really, it was Steve’s fault that you stumbled into the racks, the kayak that the boy had just helped you push into place rocking on the rails. Neither of you had the reflexes to do anything about it when it slipped backwards, landing on the hard ground, the dull thud ringing out across camp, the sound ending with a sharp crack, the pvc splitting across the bow of the boat. 

So that’s how you both ended your night in the mess hall, waving after Bob as he finished serving up sloppy joes and went to find the gaggle of kids that demanded that he needed to fix their broken Walkmans and waterlogged Mattel electronic games. 

Murray had stood in front of you both, grinning widely as he handed you mops and cleaning supplies, gleefully pointing out the mustard stains on the linoleum, the spattering of jello that had somehow painted one of the windows. 

It was times like these that you were almost sure you preferred Hopper’s red face and grumbled lectures. 

“I want this place spotless,” Murray told you both, waving a pair of yellow rubber gloves at Steve. The boy snatched them, face less than impressed when the man simply chuckled. “If you can flirt somewhere away from expensive camp property, you can work out some of this sexual tension by trying to get rid of that dried in chilli from last year.”

You would’ve gagged at the mention of the fossilised food if you hadn’t burned at the insinuation of flirting. And sexual tension. With Steve fucking Harrington. 

But the boy beat you to it, as always, his eyes widening and he brandished the mop like a weapon as he pointed at you. 

“We were not flirting,” he insisted, “we do not flirt.”

Murray chuckled, “alright Casanova, keep your hair on.” 

You snorted and Steve scowled, shooting you a look that clearly was meant to tell you to shut the fuck up, but you couldn’t help yourself. 

“Murray, I’d like to think in all the years that we’ve known each other, you’d think I had better taste than to pine after Harrington,” you turned to the boy, smiling as sweet as the summer outside. “Wonder boy has enough of the fifteen year olds twirling their pigtails for him.”

“Stop calling me that.”

You ignored him, splashing his trainers with your mop instead and he kicked your bucket in return. 

“Yeah, no, this?” Murray clicked his fingers at you both, pointing back and forth at you as if you were a science experiment. “This is ridiculous. Do something about it before you both implode. I’m not having you take the entire camp down just because you’re both too horny to come to terms with normal human emotions.”

Your jaw dropped, a small noise of indignation coming from you and Steve looked completely bewildered. 

He grinned once more, smug as he shook his head, like he was the only enjoying whatever inside joke was going on. He turned to leave, not before reaching into his pocket and flicking something at Steve. 

The boy caught it instinctively and he turned to the man with wide eyes. But Murray was already walking away, a stern hand raised in the air, finger pointed to the roof as if he was giving you both some sage words of wisdom as he called out:

“Keep it clean!”

You realised he wasn’t just referring to the mess hall when Steve held up the object, face aghast and cheeks positively on fire, the square, foil packet pinched between his fingers. 

You were burning, mouth open in surprise and you panicked, batting Steve’s hand and making the condom fall into the sudsy water you had both already spilled onto the floor. 

You definitely preferred Hopper’s way of punishment. 

“Put that in the trash, right fucking now,” you demanded, staring at the offending object like it was a ticking time bomb, waiting to blow. 

“Christ, settle down, princess priss,” Steve huffed, “it’s not gonna bite.”

But for once, he did what you asked, the highs of his cheeks still tinted pink as he snatched the silver packet from the floor, stuffing it deep into the trash bags you’d both been equipped with. He didn’t look at you. 

You both worked in silence as the late afternoon turned into dusk, the sky outside the window a pretty lavender, the clouds over the lake turning the water tangerine and it was so quiet. 

Most of the kids would be in their bunks by now, some excitedly making their way over to one of the older cabins where Eddie would organise a game of Dungeons and Dragons for them all. Nancy would be in Hop’s office, going through the next week's schedule and Jonathan would be hidden in his makeshift darkroom, a small shed that was once used for bikes. 

You were almost certain Billy would be skulking the woods, looking for a ritual sacrifice or some lone kid to blow his shrill whistle at. Either option seemed likely. 

Robin would probably already be back in your shared cabin, music on, one of Eddie’s free joints hanging from her lips and you wondered if Steve would normally spend his down time alone, or if he liked to wander the collection of bars the next town over had to offer. If he brought some girl back to his cabin, if he pressed her down onto his stupid bunk that probably smelled like sunscreen and his cologne. 

Your stomach twisted ugly at the thought and you slammed the soaking mop down onto the floor harder than you needed to. 

You were positively glowering at the streaks of leftover over pudding some kind had smeared across the floor, kicking the forgotten baseball cards and tiny action figures so they skittered under the stacked chairs. 

“What’s got your panties in a twist?” The boy called out. 

He was sitting on one of the long lunch tables, legs swinging with a smirk on his face. He’d hardly cleaned, you’d come to realise, but you couldn’t find it in you to care. You had other reasons to be mad now. 

You stared at him from across the empty hall, chest heaving with an annoyance that only Steve Harrington could pull from you. You let mop clatter roll the floor, uncaring as you rounded on him. 

“You,” you spat, hands on your hips and hair messy from where the late night heat made it stick to your forehead. 

“Me?” Steve asked, all faux shock and innocence with a hand pressed to his chest. He grinned, wolfish and sharp edges. “Didn’t realise I had an effect on your underwear, princess, wanna elaborate?”

There it was again, you realised. That flirting lilt that weaved its way through his usual taunts and teases, Steve’s normal bite not quite cutting as deep. Not this year, not this time. 

It made you flustered, on edge, unable to formulate the kind of barbed reply you usually kept on the tip of your tongue, just for him, and oh my god, it infuriated you. 

“You have absolutely no reason to be thinking about what’s under my shorts, Harrington,” you told him, eyes narrowed as you went about moving the stacks of chairs against the wall. 

“Bold of you to assume I’d want to, Hawkins.”

The light was leaking from the day and what was left of the sun made the shadows on Steve’s face lilac and peach. You didn’t know you’d marched over to him until you were able to reach out and touch him. 

You didn’t. You couldn’t. 

“Don’t call me that,” you snapped, “don’t call me that as if you don’t come from the same shitty, backwater town as me.”

Steve leaned forward, his hands curling around the edge of the table as he raised his brows, ready for another argument. You could feel the heat radiating from him, like he’d trapped the sun in his chest, like summer lived inside of him. 

“D’you prefer princess? The princess of Hawkins, is that it?” His voice was mocking, his eyes sarcastically soft. 

“Fuck off, Harrington,” you snarled, and you couldn’t help but lean in too, Steve’s knees pressing into the front of your thighs, your fists clenched by your sides. “At least I’m getting away from that place without my daddy paying my way out.”

“Watch your mouth, sweetheart,” Steve spoke lowly, more serious than you’d heard him before. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Ooh, did I hit a nerve, sweetheart?” You bit back. 

The boy stared at you, gaze heavy and hot in a way that made you squirm. The air was buzzing, popping and crackling like there had been a fire lit between you and suddenly, you didn’t know how you were supposed to end this fight. 

The tension was too thick to walk away from, sticky like honey, trapping you there. 

“You’re fucking impossible,” he whispered, staring at you like you were a puzzle piece that just didn’t fit. “You’re a pain in my ass, you have been since fucking freshman year.”

You scoffed, pinched and nipped by his words because you were just as aggravated by his presence as he was yours. Maybe more. And probably for longer. 

“Freshman year?” You said, surprise colouring your tone. “That’s real cute Harrington, but you’ve been getting on my last fucking nerve since seventh grade.”

“Seventh grade? What the fu-”

You sucked in a breath, preparing yourself. You’d been waiting for this moment for eight years. 

“Mrs Duncan’s science fair!” You burst out, “I worked my ass off making those vegetable batteries!”

Steve was staring at you blankly, lips parted. 

“I had my tables and all my charts, I even bought a metre to measure the voltage with just my pocket money!” You jabbed a finger to his chest, lips twisted into an almost pathetic pout but you felt twelve again and Steve Harrington still pushing your buttons. 

“And you! You waltzed in half an hour late, with a stupid bottle of coke and some mentos, claiming that you’d been the one to discover fucking CO2.”

Steve, unable to hide his amused smile, just shrugged. “I was barely thirteen, Jesus Christ princess…”

“And then your dad came in behind you,” you sniffed. “He walked right up to Mrs Duncan and handed her a piece of paper. And I remember it had a few zeros on it,” you laughed without much humour. 

The smile slipped from Steve’s face. 

“It was so weird, y’know? How that happened and then you won? And then the next week the library had been restocked and suddenly there were new bunsen burners in the science lab.”

You were genuinely surprised when Steve shoved past you, his hands a shocking heat on the dip of your waist as he grabbed at you to tug you out of his way. You didn’t know when you’d moved to stand between his legs, close enough to see the different shades of brown in his eyes, the way there was a small freckle just below his left brow. 

He was marching across the mess hall, mop and trash bag forgotten and you were so shocked that it took you a few seconds before you called out, weaker than you had previously been speaking. 

“What’s wrong, wonder boy? Don’t like it when you’re called out?”

You weren’t sure if you felt smug or concerned when he spun on his heel, stalking back towards you and moving into you, close enough that the mess of his hair brushed your forehead. But you stood your ground, your legs bumping into the back of the table he’d just left, and you watched through interested eyes as Steve’s chest heaved. 

He looked like he wanted to say something, to yell at you even. But you tilted your chin in one last act of defiance, the tip of your nose just, just brushing his and you swore on everything that was holy that you watched the fight leave him. 

He was still breathing heavily, like he’d run a mile, took a few hits in a boxing ring, got into a fight with a pretty girl and walked back in for more. You hated it when you realised your chest was moving the same, breaths leaving you in short bursts but you didn’t dare let your stare drop from the boy’s. 

You watched lips part, you watched his gaze drop to your mouth and suddenly the birds outside stopped chirping and you could’ve sworn that the world ceased spinning. It felt like the forest was waiting. 

Like it was holding its breath. 

But then the mop that Steve had left resting against the table he had crowded you against fell, clattering to the floor with a sharp echo. It startled you both, jumping apart as you shared one last breath together, eyes on the floor, cheeks burning. 

You didn’t try to stop him when he left a second time, managing to disappear out of the door and into the summer night. You watched the trees and the shadows swallow him, fireflies and leftover smoke in the air and fucking hell, you hated that you watched him walk away until his cabin door could be heard slamming shut.

Tell me what you’ve got in mind. 

By the end of the second week of camp, the staff was starting to show the stress of running after a bunch of kids twenty four hours a day. Some of the younger children in Robin's group had caught a bug, and between your friend, yourself and Joyce, you were all run ragged, hauling buckets across camp and dishing out cold compresses like sweets. 

So when Saturday rolled in, warmer than the last, you were all ready to let off some steam, meeting behind the gymnasium when the sun went down, greeted by a small fire that Eddie got going in an old trash can. He brought some pre-rolled joints, some stolen bags of chips from Bob’s secret stash and the gym was far away enough from the rest of the camp that no one heard the noise of the boombox Jonathan brought with him. 

You threw your own additions into the middle of the makeshift circle that the seven of you made, the newer counsellors still too scared to toe the line of what might get them fired. You stared at the pile of paraphernalia in the middle of the halved logs, makeshift sofas in the too long grass. 

A baggie of weed, a grinder and Eddie’s tin of joints, Billy’s favourite whisky, another bottle of vodka - loaded with cherry jolly ranchers that made it pretty and pink. A few cassettes, some homemade mixtapes, the stolen chips, some red vines and sour patch kids, the packet already open and sugar coating the grass.

You hadn’t really spoken to Steve since the mess hall incident. 

You’d rather immaturely begged Eddie to switch block sessions with you, allowing you to take your kids to the other side of camp, far from where Steve spent time with his group. You’d organised a massive arts and craft project with Nancy instead, avoiding her knowing looks and pointed questions, letting Dustin go crazy with googly eyes, glitter and neon felt tips instead. 

It didn’t matter if you’d asked the kids to make their favourite animal, you’d accept Henderson’s four eyed, sparkly green lizard looking thing over Nancy’s inquisition any day of week. You felt a little bad though, when you all discovered as a group that Will was most definitely allergic to the new type of glue sticks that Hopper had bought. 

But it meant that you’d only seen Steve during some meal times, a glance over breakfast, a small collision during one dinner, fries and a bottle of iced tea falling to the floor and everyone had stopped, stared, waited for the yells. 

They hadn’t come. 

You’d watched him argue with Max when she climbed a tree that he’d already warned her was too tall, you and your group stopping mid swim in the lake to bob around in the current, watching as the boy kicked a dead branch in frustration before scrambling up after her when Max inevitably got stuck. 

You knew he was listening in when Dustin started asking why you worked at the camp, a question he asked you every year. You always told the boy it was because you loved seeing him and the rest of the rugrats he called friends. And it always worked when he was younger, ‘cause he’d smile and let you muss up his curls, overjoyed with such an answer and a piece of bubblegum from your pocket. 

But he was older now and less believing and when you gave him the same adoring monologue, he simply raised his brows and asked again. 

“College,” you had told him simply. “Or money really. I need the cash to be able to leave Hawkins and go somewhere else.”

“Where?” Dustin had asked you, sincere in only the way kids could be. 

You were overly aware that Harrington was sitting behind you at the other table, back to back with you on the benches as he showed El how to tie her elastic just right, so that her slingshot would definitely beat Sinclairs. You didn’t have it in you to tell both of them that that kind of craft project definitely wasn’t allowed. 

You leaned into Dustin instead and shrugged, smiling softly despite the way you saw Steve in your peripheral, turning just enough so he could hear you say:

“Anywhere.”

So it was a little jarring when he arrived at your little staff get together, camp shirt replaced with one of his own, a sunshine yellow tee that made his eyes look like honey and his skin more tanned. You hated that you noticed, that you knew he looked good. 

He greeted everyone warmly, bar you, sending you a curt nod of his head over the burning fire that had Nancy rolling her eyes and Robin poking you in the ribs. Because there were no barbed wire words exchanged between either of you, no jabs, no bites, no smug smiles or sarcastic grins. 

“What is going on with you two?”

You ignored her question, giving her a warning glare that she also chose to ignore, ‘cause she went and sat next to Eddie and Jonathan instead, whispering to them behind the plumes of smoke they’d created. 

After a few drinks and several people telling Billy to shut up, the night turned darker, the sky navy and the air still stiflingly warm. The fire was more a source of light than heat at this point, or as Eddie liked to remind everyone, ‘it’s for the ambience,’ and everyone was doing their best to stay away from the flames, skin already tight and sore with fresh sunburn from that day. 

It only took the vodka bottle being emptied before Billy announced a game of truth or dare, to which everyone groaned and asked what age he was. But he tutted, unperturbed and dropped the empty glass bottle into the middle of the messy circle your bodies had made. 

“Don’t be so fuckin’ boring,” he intoned, “it’s either this or hitchhiking into Bloomington to find a chick that likes being on top-”

The girls groaned, faces pulled into disgust and Jonathan was shaking his head, a bemused look on his face. 

“-and quite frankly that seems like too much effort tonight.”

Steve scoffed, taking the joint Eddie offered him, pushing it between his lips for a hit before he turned to Billy, one eyebrow raised. 

“You mean finding a girl that doesn’t already know you’re a giant dickhead is gettin’ harder to find?”

Sometimes you wondered if Steve hated Billy more than he hated you. 

“There’s always your princess,” Billy grinned, eyeing you in a way that made you feel like you were under a microscope. “She’s gotta give into me sometime, right?”

“Keep dreaming, Hargrove,” you butted in, doing nothing to hide the disgust in your voice. You wanted to kick yourself when you realised you’d responded to being Steve’s princess, your name never even being mentioned. “I’d rather kiss Harrington.”

The wave of something washed over the group at your words, wide eyes and soft smirks, and you felt your stomach sink. Steve was staring at you, eyes lit up with something that looked akin to a challenge, a dare that you hadn’t yet been asked. 

Fuck. 

“Is that so?” Billy laughed, a harsh noise that let everyone know he wasn’t happy at your statement. But he grinned, sharp teeth and sharper blue eyes, steely on you. “You always pick dare, don’t you, sweetheart?”

“That’s not-”

“I dare you to give us all some entertainment and make out with Harrington,” Billy continued, talking over you without even blinking. “Maybe if both of your mouths are busy, we’ll get some fuckin’ peace and quiet around here.”

Nobody breathed. 

But someone must’ve picked your mixtape out of the pile, ‘cause the opening beat to ‘I Think We’re Alone Now,’ by Tiffany, started to play. You stared at Billy, shocked at his suggestion, his demand. The game suddenly felt less fun and the only sounds were the echo of your strangled scoff and the crackle of the fire. 

But then Nancy was pushing her foot into your ankle from where she sat on her boyfriend's lap, eyes glittering. 

“On you go,” she told you, and you think she was trying to be encouraging. 

“What?”

“What?” Nancy repeated, doe eyes innocent and wide, like she didn’t know what she was doing. “You picked dare!”

“I didn’t say shit!” You exclaimed, looking around at your friends for help. Robin and Eddie were cackling, faces pressed into each others shoulders, and being absolutely no fucking help to you. “Guys!”

“C’mon, Hawkins, you don’t like to lose now, do you?” Billy was grinning from where he lazed across some old crash mats, his voice a slow drawl as he chewed some gum obnoxiously. “Give Harrington a little lovin’.”

‘Children, behave… that’s what they say when we’re together.’

You turned to Steve, who was still leaning against the gym wall, his eyes finding yours even in the dim evening light. He looked unsure, nervous even, like he was ready to tell the rest of them to shut up, to pack it in. But then he watched the way you brought the bottle of wine to your lips, letting the rest of the sweet drink trickle past your lips and god, he looked at you like he was ready to fight. 

Dark brown eyes, smirk on his lips, cocky tilt of his head like he was waiting for you. 

He sucked a breath in through his teeth as he watched you stand there, thinking, weighing up your options. 

“What’s my forfeit?” You asked cautiously. 

You turned when Billy chuckled, blue eyes looking as navy as the sky. He let his head tip back, smoke slipping from his lips and into the trees before he grinned at you, far, far too happily. 

“Me,” he told you. 

So Steve sighed, overly dramatic before he spoke to the group, voice full of that easy confidence you hated so much. 

“Don’t worry princess, you can give it your best shot and I promise I won’t feel a damn thing.”

Your friends cackled and hollered around you; always thoroughly amused by the show you and Steve put on. Robin shook her head from where she sat beside Eddie, a shit eating grinning pulling at her lips and she spilled some beer as she leaned forward and called out:

“What’s that they say? It’s a fine line between love and hate?”

More laughs, whispers and knowing nudges, dollar bills exchanging hands as the group placed their bets on what would happen next. 

“I bet your dick says otherwise.”

You don’t know what made you mention Steve Harrington’s dick, but it made the boy’s jaw go slack and the rest of the circle lost it. More whistles, jeering and catcalls broke the quiet of the night, loud over the music, louder because of the vodka and you couldn’t help but set Steve with a smile and a shrug. 

This felt like a game you wanted to win. 

So you walked over to where he stood, leaning lazy against the gym wall, watching you move towards him like a predator stalking its prey. He was looking at you the same way he did when you ended up on opposite teams for a game of capture the flag, all red hot intensity, pride and confidence bubbling over. 

You were surprised when Steve’s hands settled on the dip of your waist, holding you there as you pushed up on your toes to find his lips. Your hand grabbed at his shirt, fisted at the collar to pull him down to you and something in your stomach tumbled when he obeyed.  

He didn’t make any more moves though, eyes almost closed as he looked at you through his lashes, watching, waiting, seeing if you fulfilled your dare. 

It was awfully quiet now, your friends silent, the radio and the fire both crackling and you could hear how you and Steve’s harsh breaths fell over each other’s faces. 

You’d never been this close before. And then it all happened a little too fast. 

His fingers flexed at your sides, digging into the soft there and you weren’t sure if it was out of anticipation, impatience or annoyance. There is as something screaming inside of you to move away, to take the loss, that kissing Steve fucking Harrington wouldn’t be worth the five second glory of completing a dare behind the gym hall. 

But then Steve was whispering and it fell across your lips, his breath sweet like raspberry sour patch kids and rosè wine. 

“If you’re too scared, princess, I totally understa-“

One more push was all you needed. A poke, a pinch, from him, the one person who knew how to rile you up the best. 

You kissed him with a surprising softness. Your mouths clashed rough at first, like you did it just to shut him up, to prove a point. And that was true. But your lips gave way to him with surprising ease, a push and pull that felt less like a fight than you thought it would. 

It was easy to pretend it wasn’t a dare when Steve let out the prettiest sound, a half sigh, half groan that came from the back of his throat and when he tried to move into you, to take a little more control, your hand that was still curled into his shirt pushed him back into the wall he was leaning on. 

He seemed to like that though, ‘cause you felt the curve of his lips on yours, smiling into the kiss and his grip on your waist got almost too tight, like he was planning on leaving marks on you. 

Maybe he was. 

But then it was a fight, like always, the most dizzying kind. His lips were hot and he tasted sweet, like summer and candy and too cheap alcohol. It felt nice to be kissed, it was all very nice until you remembered it was Harrington and you pushed into him a little harder, nipped at his lip and tugged on his hair. He gave it back just as good, nails scraping against your back, just catching bare skin as he lifted the shirt from your sides. 

No one said a word when you parted. Not you, not Steve, not your friends. Not even Billy. You left Steve with a small gasp, a soft noise as you finally parted, so entirely unaware of how long you’d been caught up in his kiss. You felt bruised, on fire, like you’d just stumbled away from your most heated argument yet. 

The only saving grace was that he looked as dizzy as you felt. 

—————

When a team meeting was called early the next morning, you walked into Hopper's cabin last, only to find everyone in different stages of a hangover, but all equally happy to see you. 

They were all grinning, wide, knowing smiles that set your own teeth on edge, your headache worsening when you caught sight of Steve slouched low on the sofa. 

He had a pair of Ray Bans perched on his nose and he didn’t look at you when you walked in, eyes on the floor and wincing. 

Why the fuck did you kiss Steve fucking Harrington?

“Good morning to you, darlin’,” Billy drawled from where he was leaning against Murray’s desk, smirking with tired eyes. “Sleep well? You didn’t come knockin’ on my cabin so I assume Harrington took real good care of you.”

Oh, you remembered. That’s why. 

“Fuck off, Hargrove.”

It was all you could muster when your mouth still tasted like bourbon and Steve, and Murray looked thoroughly interested when he took to the middle of the floor, clipboard in hand. 

“I don’t know what went on last night,” he chuckled, “but I’m sure your hungover asses will be pleased to know that it’s hike day.”

Please for the love of god, no. 

Everyone groaned, faces dropping in upset and Robin, who had already been sitting on the floor, her back to Nancy’s legs, slumped over, cheek pressed to the old carpet and she made a noise that was akin to a wail. 

“Lucky for most of you, we already have sign ups,” Murray crowed gleefully. “Harrington, Hawkins número dos, have a great day.”

Your mouth fell open in protest - hypocritical, you knew, considering you went through the training for hiking safety last summer, but you weren’t on the schedule until next week. 

You stared at Nancy who was flicking through the rota with confusion knitted into her features and when she caught your eye, she just shrugged. 

“No, no, no,” you told Murray, a strange laugh bubbling in your throat that sounded like panic, “I’m not taking my kids out until next weekend, with Robin!”

Murray shrugged, not looking like he really cared and he crossed his arms, nodding his head towards Eddie. 

“No, I know,” he told you in a voice he probably thought was soothing. “But Eddie Munster here-”

“Um, it’s Munson actually.”

“Whatever - your idiot colleague here decided that the road less travelled was the best way home last night.” Murray grinned and pointed down to where Eddie’s foot sat on a small stool, his ankle wrapped tightly in a haphazard bandage. “He’s sprained it.”

You gaped at the boy and Eddie had the right to look sorry, his teeth bared in an apologetic grimace and he mouthed “sorry” at you from beside Steve. His bunk mate hardly stirred. 

“Can’t someone else go?” You asked, spinning back to Murray and you didn’t even care that you sounded desperate. “Like, literally anyone else?”

But Murray kept smiling, his clipboard clasped to his chest like a schoolgirl with a secret diary and he sighed dramatically at you before shaking his head. 

“No.”

“But Hopper specifically said  that we’re not allowed to group together anymore!” You tried, gesturing wildly to Steve who barely answered with a groan. “Not after summer eighty three when he almost drowned me.” 

“Okay that’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

You rounded on the boy, hands still flapping around yourself. “Oh, he speaks! Don’t you have anything to say about this?”

Steve peered at you from over the top of his sunglasses, brown eyes weary behind them. He groaned, frowned and pushed his head onto Eddie’s shoulder. 

“Yeah, no, I’m too tired to argue right now, princess.”

Murray looked entirely too amused and he crooked his finger in air quotes when he snorted and said, “sure, tired, gotcha.” He turned back to you, still grinning obnoxiously. “Anyway, chief isn’t here today and I figured there isn’t any boating equipment for either of you to break out in the mountains.”

The group tittered. 

“So hop to it,” he clapped his hands, board tucked under his arm and everyone leapt to their feet when the older man made a move to grab the whistle that hung around his neck. “The kids are finishing breakfast and I want both your groups at the meeting point for a safety debrief before nine.”

—————

You were busy smearing another layer of sunscreen on Will’s nose when Dustin appeared at your side. 

The two groups had made it halfway up the trail, the sun lazy and warm, the way it could only be on an early morning hike. The sky was still hazy, a soft blue lavender that made the clouds in the sky seem dreamlike. The kids were still quiet with sleep, trailing happily behind each other, trading secrets and sips of water with their assigned hike buddies. 

It was nice. Apart from Steve leading the way with a scowl on his face. 

“Are you and Steve fighting?” Dustin asked, curls stuffed messily under a Camp Upside Down hat. 

You finished patting at Will’s forehead as you turned to the other boy with a soft frown. But the two kids stared up at you expectantly, as if waiting for some sort of answer. 

“Uh, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Henderson,” you laughed softly, “but Harrington and I fight all the time. Argue, I mean. Hitting is bad.” 

Will rolled his eyes as he fell back into step beside you, the three of you continuing up the path a little behind the rest of the group. But Dustin tugged at your shirt sleeve, clearly not finished with the conversation, nor satisfied with your answer. 

“But that’s the point,” he proclaimed and you huffed as you pulled him out of the way of a fallen branch, his attention focused too much on you to notice it in his way. “You haven’t been mean to each other all morning.”

“Or called each other names,” Will pointed out from the other side of you. 

“That’s because name calling isn’t nice,” you tried to protest, but your voice sounded weak even to your own ears. 

“You call each other names all the time.”

For the love of god. 

Suzie Bingham had appeared beside Dustin, coke bottle glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose as she set you with a knowing look. Dustin grinned at the girl's appearance, cheeks pink as their shoulders brushed together on the narrow path. 

“That’s not the point,” you told her, grappling for an explanation. You glanced up ahead, over the crowd of children’s heads to see Steve bickering with Lucas and Mike, Max poking him in the back with a long stick as she trudged behind them. “We’re adults.”

All three kids stared at you, expressionless and less than impressed. 

“Have you and Steve ever kissed?” Will suddenly asked, letting the words burst out from his chest like he knew he shouldn’t have asked. 

You tripped over a branch, the same fallen sticks that scattered the trail that you’d pulled Dustin away from. You turned to look at the boy so fast that your neck protested, your eyes wide. 

“Because Steve looks at you like he wants to kiss you all the time.” 

And then you were on the ground, gravel stuck to your bare knees and dirt on your hands and shins, swearing at the forest floor because all you could think about was the press of Harrington’s lips on yours, the way he dug his fingers into your sides like he couldn’t let go. 

Fuck. 

“Shit!” You cried out, hot, frustrated tears brimming at your lash line and you winced when you tried to stand back up. 

Suzie dropped to the trail beside you, eyes worried as she took note of the blood that slipped down your leg, a nasty gash on your knee that looked like it came from the jagged piece of bark that lay beside you. 

“Someone get Steve,” she started to say, a small hand on your shoulder that brought a little comfort. 

But Dustin was already cupping his hands over his mouth and positively hollering over the line of kids that were oblivious to what was going on behind them. 

“STEVE!” 

You groaned, “Dustin, no, I’m fine, honest.” 

“You’re bleeding!” Will protested, looking rather sickly at the sight of the red line that was quickly seeking into the white of your sock. 

“STEEEVE!”

“Kill me,” you whispered to the ground, “just kill me.”

You saw Steve’s trainers before anything else, the soft thud, thud, thud of his soles on the dirt as he pushed his way through to you. You managed to shove yourself back, your knees protesting before dropping to your ass, inspecting your bloodied leg, wincing. 

“Shit, are you okay?”

No comment about your clumsiness, or how you were dumb, or how your dirty, cut up knee looked gross. No, Steve’s voice was shockingly soft with concern as he dropped down on his haunches to inspect your injury. 

“M’fine,” you muttered, cheeks warm because he was almost as close as he had been last night, smelling like leftover cologne and sunscreen, the strawberry smoothie you’d watched him grab at breakfast. 

“Really?” He mused, his tone disbelieving. “‘Cause that looks pretty nasty, princess.”

His hand moved to cup the back of your sore knee, fingers tucked into the sensitive skin there as he went to inspect the scrape. You jolted at his touch, body electric underneath him and you watched the way Steve’s eyes widened at your reaction. 

“Shit, did that hurt?”

“What? No, yes, fuck,” you were panicking, you could hear it in your voice and from somewhere behind you, you heard the distinctive sound of Max Mayfield’s laugh. “Just, Christ, don’t touch me.”

“I’m trying to help, idiot,” Steve snarked but he backed off scowling. You watched how he flexed his hand after he let go of your leg, like his skin was burning the same way yours was, like he’d been scalded. “You need to go get that cleaned.”

You hated that the boy was right but you didn’t give him the satisfaction of agreeing out loud. Instead, you wrestled to your feet, grunting as you did so, wiggling your ankle to make sure you hadn’t suffered the same fate as Eddie. It seemed fine, nothing crunched at least, but the sting around your split skin screamed at you. 

Another slide of red rushed from your cut and down your leg as you moved it and beside you, Will groaned, quickly moving into the crowd to find Mike, his head pushed into his friend's shoulder and his hands clutched at his own stomach. 

A chorus of “eww’s” came from the kids and you weren’t fairing much better, your expression pitiful as you watched your white converse turn crimson. You held your leg out awkwardly, hardly balancing on your good one and every time you pushed your foot to the ground, you hissed. 

It stung like a bitch. 

But then Steve was clapping his hands, well into camp mother mode as he demanded the kids attention. To his credit, everyone looked at him, waiting for further instruction. Well, everyone except Max, who’d found a larger, longer stick and was holding it, javelin style. 

“Okay, let’s go,” he announced, his eyes still on you, and you were still surprised to see worry knitted in the space between his brows. “Turn it around gremlins, everyone in front of us and take your time going back down, okay? Stick with your buddy.”

The kids obeyed, muttering between themselves about how much blood was on your leg and would Hopper let them go to the lake now instead? But they trailed back down the path, two by two, and you and Steve waited for the last pair to pass you before he turned, grimacing.

“Put your arm ‘round me.”

You baulked, staring at the boy as if he’d suddenly grown another head. 

“What? No,” you hated that you sounded so nervous, and you wondered if he could tell.

“Christ, woman,” Steve rolled his eyes, offering a hand out to you, the warmth of it hovering close to the small of your back. “Can you swallow your fucking pride for a second and let me help you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you sniffed, but you wobbled on your one good leg and Steve didn’t try to hide his smile.

“Stubbornness, then,” he mused, eyes on you and his hand still hovering over your back as you started down the hill, an uneven step that had you swearing and muttering to yourself. “Spite, maybe?”

“Fuck you, Harrington,” you told him plainly, hardly any heat behind it for once due to all your attention focused on the pain you were in. Your poor sock was ruined.

Steve’s shoulder bumped yours, his body too close, acting like a buffer in case you fell again. You huffed every time you touched, bare arms brushing, hips grazing and his damn hand still an almost touch on your spine. You could feel the warmth radiate from him. 

“Is that dare, princess?” He was smirking. 

You stumbled, swearing profusely as you had no choice but to reach out and grab the boy. Steve was already halfway to you, his arm resting at your waist, his other hand catching yours as it grappled for purchase on something. His fingers curled around yours and you were surprised to realise, that aside from the night before, this was the most you had touched the boy in all the years you had known him. 

It was dizzying. But maybe that was the blood loss. His palm was even warmer where it was pressed against your back, the dip where the band of your shorts sat, fitting into the curve rather nicely. Steve guided you down the trail, taking more of your weight when the ground became rockier, the gravel under your soles making you slip, your side falling into Steve’s.

“We’re not talking about that,” you told him, teeth clenched as your knee bent at a funny angle, a new kind of pain nipping at you. 

“Oh, we’re not?” Steve asked, voice annoyingly light. You could feel his grin without having to look, like you knew the way the air changed when he smiled, everything warm and dizzying around you.

“Nope!” You declared, your tone leaving hardly any room for argument. Luckily for Steve, he always liked a challenge. “In fact,” you crowed, “it didn’t even happen.”

The boy snorted, a soft sound that you felt through your body, half of your back pressed into his chest as you both toed your way down the steepest part of the mountain. He held you to him, careful not to let you drop your weight onto your leg, one hand still curled large around your own, the other holding your waist now.

You swallowed, throat tight.

“It didn’t happen, huh?” Steve asked, voice low in your ear as you approached the back of the kids, Lucas and Suzie’s ears pricking up at the idea of eavesdropping. “That’s what we’re doing?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you repeated again, voice airy, nails digging into the back of Steve’s hand, a warning, another fight blooming in your chest. 

Another snort, a tighter grip at your waist, as if he was trying to remind you of the way he held you last night, calloused fingertips pushing at the cotton of your t-shirt, barely touching the skin underneath. 

You were so much warmer than when you were climbing up the mountain.

This waiting ‘rounds killing me. 

The third week went by in a blur, your incident on the hike leaving you with a nasty cut on your knee that Joyce had to dig gravel and dirt out of, and a sudden overwhelming awareness of where Steve Harrington was at all times. 

Your body lit up like a warning light every time he was near, a new agitation at the sight of his stupid hair and his stupid sunglasses and his stupid, stupid smirk. 

He didn’t try to talk about the kiss again, he wasn’t that idiotic. But the energy between you both was a little different than before. It was still fiery, buzzing with tension and an electrical current that kept you on your toes, but it was different. 

You weren’t sure if you liked it. 

The week led up to the annual game of hide and seek, the entire camp split into two teams, the cabins turned into bases, the inside of the old gym a ghost town. No one was surprised when Murray declared you and Steve team leaders - one seeking, the other hiding - the camp cheering and whistling as you both took your new shirts, both with ‘captain’ printed on the back. 

You’d barely led your team away from the middle of the camp before you heard Steve declare:

“Okay listen up, we need to win.”

You appraised your own squad with the same focused stare that Steve had, your gaze settling over Eddie and Nancy, the gaggle of kids that were all smearing face paint over their friends. War stripes on their cheeks, bandana’s wrapped around their foreheads and Dustin had even gone as far as to don a green ski mask.

You squinted at him, wondering if you should ask where he got such a thing but you decided against it, voice endearing as you said, “Dustin, sweetie, I don’t think you’re going to be able to see very well out of that.”

And before he could argue his case, Eddie pinched the top of it, whipping the fabric from his head, curls spilling out messily. The boy pouted, but he didn’t argue, instead standing still enough to let Lucas smear blue lines over his face.

“You gonna force me into the smallest corner you can find?” Eddie had turned to you whilst Nancy handed out some bottles of water, hushing the trash talk that was starting to get out of hand between Lucas and Suzie. 

You grinned, looking at Eddie with an easy smile, shrugging, “maybe. You’re pretty flexible, right Munson?”

The boy snorted, shoulder nudging into yours, “like a fucking gymnast, sweetheart.”

You fell into a soft conversation with Eddie, a rare occurrence in the craziness of the camp, all gentle laughs and hands pushed to arms, cracked jokes and the promise of a joint after the game was over. And then Steve was there, almost too close, brows knitted together as he watched the way his bunkmate pressed teasing fingers into your ribs, making you squeak.

“Are we flirting or are we playing?” He snapped, shoulder brushing yours. But Steve wasn’t looking at you, his stare heavy and trained on Eddie. “Hey dude, didn’t Joyce tell you you’ve got to stick with Will?”

Eddie could read his friend like a book. He smirked, unable to help himself when Steve was making it so obvious, but he nodded, moving away from you to tussle at Will’s hair. 

“Sure am, Harrington,” the longer-haired boy smiled good naturedly, “little Byers and I are gonna find the best spot, right kid?”

Will nodded enthusiastically, inhaler in hand and Mike at his side. But Steve was still scowling, eyes finally meeting yours before he turned suddenly, marching back to his team as if he couldn’t bear to be around you for any longer. 

And that was fine with you. Totally fine. 

From then, it was chaos, carnage across the camp with kids running riot, wrestling for the best hiding spot as Hopper and Murray watched from the office window, cups of coffee in hand. 

It went the way it always did, with Mike and Will caught first, the latter giving away their hiding spot way too soon because his allergies made him sneeze, the other boy refusing to split from his friend. 

Eddie trailed behind them, lazy and unbothered about being out of the game so early, a cigarette tucked behind his ear, waiting for Murray to stop watching. 

The kids spread around the camp in clusters, hiding in beached kayaks, under the dock, squeezed between the crash mats in the gym. Max was caught out in the open - after being refused sanctuary in Hopper’s office -  scowl on her face, El dragged behind her, grinning as you laughed.

“Hit the benches,” Steve had told them both, watching as they took their consolation s’mores from Joyce and sat with the rest of the captured kids around the fire. 

Steve’s team took out the other kids one by one, screams and laughter heard across the forest, campers crawling out from underneath decking and out of trees, covered in mud and nettle stings, but so, so happy. 

And then there were hardly any players left. 

But Steve bypassed Dustin and Lucas, the two boys snickering underneath an overturned canoe, and he headed to the gym instead. The old building was empty, his footsteps echoing on the linoleum and the lights were off, the sun that was starting to set just barely shining in the high set windows. 

It painted stripes of light and shadows on the floor and the air seemed golden. Steve kicked at the crash mats that were stacked and  

pushed against a wall, his movements playful and throwing dust mites into the air. They caught the light, floating, glittering and Steve saw a pair of shoes sticking out from behind the ball cage and he grinned. 

If you heard him walking over, you didn’t show it, stubbornly standing your ground until Steve rounded the corner, eyes bright on yours. 

“You’re losing your edge, princess, that was far too easy.”

You were scowling at him and you pushed yourself away from the cage, the wheels squeaking as you rounded the other side, eyes on the boy. It was familiar, that feeling, that push and pull, a chase, a challenge, a dare. 

“Don’t kid yourself Harrington, I’ve been waiting here for about an hour now.”

Steve followed, eyes trailing over your bare legs, the swell of your ass in your shorts, freckle on your thigh, the silver scar on your knee from the hike. You noticed, brows raised and you snorted when he shrugged, unapologetic in a way you hadn’t seen before. 

He didn’t care if you caught him staring. Steve Harrington had always been the first to call you annoying, stubborn, a thorn in his side. But he’d never tried to deny that you were good to look at. 

“That’s only ‘cause I was enjoying the peace and quiet,” Steve shot back and you smiled at him, eyes narrowed, overly fake. “But it looks like I win, who would’ve thought?”

But you were still moving, stepping around the pile of mats, the cold material brushing against your shins and the light from the window made you glow, eyes too bright, smile sharp. 

You stared at the boy from across the crash pads, voice sticky sweet when you asked, “don’t you have to tag the other opponent before they’re out?”

Steve stopped, level with you across the hall and he grinned. And fuck, he looked pretty like that, standing in a sunbeam, freckles on his nose, hands on hips and eyes burning on you. 

You weren’t arguing, not quite, not yet. But it still felt fun. 

Steve looked around, eyes conspiring, and he smirked. “There’s no one here to say I didn’t, princess.”

And then you were moving again, circling each other, smiling a different kind of playfulness and you tutted, pushing your hands into the back pockets of your shorts and you smirked when Steve followed the movement of it. 

“Cheating? C’mon now, wonder boy, you’re above that. Daddy’s not here.”

Steve twisted his lips, ran a hand through his already messy hair and made it flop into his eyes and he pretended to think, just for a second or two, as if he didn’t already know what he was gonna throw back at you. 

“Usually,” he told you, voice low, a little rougher than before. “But I think you owe me one, princess.”

You quirked a brow at him, standing still, one knee lifted and pressed to the mats to steady yourself. 

“Is that so?”

There was a fizz in the air that hadn’t been there before. 

“You got to win your little dare ‘cause of me,” he told you and god, something shifted. Maybe the sun dropped, maybe the shadows got darker, maybe the air got heavier. “I saved you from the clutches of Hargrove.”

You scoffed, turning and going back to walking around the mat, hiding the way your cheeks burned.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, remember?”

But Steve just grinned, that wide, bright kinda smile that showed off the dimples you almost forgot he had. He looked boyish like this, handsome in a pretty way, soft and full of sun. Maybe it was because he was looking at you without the lines between his brows, the downturn of his lips. 

“Oh but you do, don’t you, sweetheart?” 

‘Sweetheart’ was starting to sound less like an insult, less like a jab, when Steve said it. His voice was softer, a teasing pitch to it, that sounded so much different than you’d heard and you decided that you didn’t hate it. 

Not at all. 

But the boy was talking about the kiss and he was looking at you like you both shared a secret, despite the very public location it happened in. He was acting as if he liked it, as if he wanted you to admit that you did too. 

You stopped, converse digging into the wall the mats made, eyes wary on the boy because Steve kept walking. He found one side, then the other, only pausing when you were a foot away from him. He mirrored you, hands shoved into his own pockets as he watched you through messy hair. 

“What d’you want me to say, Harrington? Huh?” you smiled, sardonic, lips twisted to the side and gaze careful. You didn’t want to give anything away. “You want me to tell you that I liked it, is that it?”

Steve smirked, enjoying your tone, the teasing, the push of the taunt, the bite to your voice. He knew it so well. 

“You want me to tell you that you’re a good kisser? Does wonder boy need a little ego boost?”

“Oh princess, I don’t need anyone to tell me that.“

Steve’s voice was a drawl. Heavy, warm, sticking to you like the summer heat, all low, hot sun and sweetness. 

You were too warm, a tumble low in your stomach, a flush across your chest. 

“I’m good at a lot of things,” Steve continued,voice far too casual, as if he wasn't making you think about the dirtiest things imaginable. 

“You’re a pig.”

“You love it.”

“You fucking wish, Harrington.”

“Now you’re just flirting with me, princess.”

You weren’t sure when you’d moved closer. Neither was Steve, really. But you were once again in your favourite position with the boy, toe to toe and your chin tilted up defiantly to stare at him. He looked too happy, excited even. 

“I’m not playing your games,” you narrowed your eyes at him, hands on your hips in an arrogant display, trying your best to prove that you weren’t as affected by the boy as you actually were. 

The toes of his shoes brushed yours and you could smell his cologne, the forest on him, campfire smoke and pine, leftover rain and something minty. 

“No?” Steve asked and his eyes were tracing the features of your face, the length of your lashes, the dip of your Cupid’s bow, the curve of your lip. “Not even if I pick dare?“

You swallowed, hard. 

You weren’t sure what this was. Not anymore. Because it didn’t feel like the arguments you usually had, the poking and pushing and pulling at each other until something snapped and the yelling started. In fact, you were sure this was the quietest you’d ever been around Steve Harrington. 

Except for the thundering of your heart. It beat against your ribs, a drumming sound that you wondered if Steve would hear. It made your body vibrate, it made your chest feel fit to burst and you couldn’t help but part your lips under his stare, sucking in a breath that you suddenly so desperately needed. 

Steve did the same, an instinctual response to watching you, his tongue wetting at his bottom lip, his eyes heavy and hooded. You didn’t remember taking another step towards him, but you don’t recall Steve moving either. It was all a slow lean, a curl into each other’s bodies, slower and softer than the first time. 

Your hand was on his chest again, fingers splayed across his shirt rather than fisting it in your palm and god, you still really weren’t sure if it was to encourage him closer or shove him away. 

But then his touch was at your waist and the sun finally dipped below the windows and the hall went dark. The shadows sparkled as you got used to the lack of light, Steve’s face a pretty palette of lilacs and navy, the rosy tint of his lips looking deeper and closer to you than ever. 

The slide of your nose against his, stuttering and a little clumsy, unsure and nervous. Everything in your body was screaming at you. To push him away, to pull him towards you, to chew him out, to devour him. 

Steve fucking Harrington made you want to yell, to fight, to roll your eyes and rant for an hour and a half. Steve fucking Harrington made you want to be slammed against a wall, pushed down onto a bed, lips on your neck and kisses that were all tongue and teeth. 

His breath huffed against your cheek, slow and careful like he was still deciding what to do too. Steve was cherry cola and the heat of an argument, cedar and spice and bad decisions. Steve was a hot touch on your waist, a white hot burn through your shirt and a tight grip that was sending you to another level of frustration. 

Then light flooded the gym, a bright burst of it coming from the main doors as the very last of the low setting sun leaked through as they slammed open.

The noise of them hitting the wall made you both jump, the angry squeak of the hinges bringing both back to the harsh reality of who you were about to kiss. You stumbled and Steve tripped, falling backwards onto the crash mats with a soft “fuck” as you turned to see Nancy and Robin standing in the doorway. 

No one spoke, not for a few seconds and the quiet was painful. 

But then Nancy cleared her throat, a smirk on her face that she covered with her hand and Robin grinned. 

“Um, all the kids have been found,” she told you both, glee in her voice that she couldn’t cover and god, you were burning with a new kind of heat. “We’re doing story time.”

“And uh, one of you needs to take over,” Nancy explained, still smothering a laugh under what she thought was a serious expression. “Billy started talking about demogorgons and made Will cry, so…”

“Again?” Steve muttered from his seat on the mat. “I thought Eddie told him that it was all made up.”

You didn’t dare look down at him, your body still overly aware of his, his shoulder brushing against your thigh as he moved and when he clambered to his feet, you were spurned into motion, your legs carrying you quickly across the gym. 

Your shoes squeaked on the floor and your heart was still racing, leaving you feeling like a hormonal teenager who was out of control and unable to handle some stupid boy being too close. Grabbing Robin’s hand, you mumbled some sort of thanks to Nancy and then made up a lie about feeling sick, and how you needed to go back to your cabin now. 

Looking at your flushed skin and glassy eyes, no one could really argue with that. So you left Steve with the responsibility of the nightly campfire story and ignored Robin’s husky laughter as you pulled her through the trees and the dark until you got back to your shared bunk. 

You flew into the cabin like a bat out of hell, doing everything in your power to get away from the boy as quickly as you could. Robin was close behind you, still cackling before she slammed the door, just as you dumped yourself onto your bed, groaning. 

The other girl braced herself, back against the wood, facial expression scandalised as she stared at you wide eyed and through messy bangs. 

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but it looked like you and Harrington were about to rail each other on those fucking crash mats.”

You spluttered, the sound of protest getting caught in your throat as you tried to sit up, pushing yourself onto your elbows so you could glare at Robin, trying your best to look appalled. 

“What?!” You choked out, and you knew you were beetroot, you could feel the heat in your cheeks, the flush over your chest. “No we weren’t!”

“You know,” Robin mused, head tilted to the side as she looked at you, “your summer could be a lot more fun if you just admitted you don’t hate him as much as you claim to.”

Another noise came from your throat in response, strangled and panicked as you paced the cabin, old floorboards creaking under your feet. 

“I do hate him,” you insisted, turning your back to the girl to fuss over a pile of clothes you’d left on your dresser after laundry day. You wondered if she’d be able to see the lie on your face, if she could hear it in your voice. “Harrington is a pain in my ass, he has been since-”

“Seventh grade, yeah, yeah,” Robin interrupted, her voice bored and impatient, and she waved a dismissive hand at you. “Science fair, vegetables, Steve and mentos and his dad, I know.”

You glared at her, clothes abandoned, clean shorts dropping to the floor, your arms now crossed. You hated that you were pouting. 

“He didn’t look like he was causing you too much grief when you had him up against the gym wall the other week…”

“That was a dare!” 

“And now - in the gym again actually - do you have some sort of kink?”

“Robin…” you were groaning, pleading. 

“Is it a competitive thing? It gets you both going?”

“Nothing happened! We were- we were arguing!”

The other girl smirked, eyebrows raised and her back still pushed against the doorway. “Yeah, but babe, that’s foreplay for you.”

“I hate you,” you lied and there was no heat behind it, in fact, it only made your friend grin wider. 

“As much as Steve?” She asked, voice sweet. “Should I light some candles? Pop a mint?”

“You’re a dick,” your voice was mulish but you couldn’t find it in you to care. 

“You’re in denial,” Robin shot back, still sounding far too happy about the discussion. “Don’t you think all that pent up frustration could be easily solved?”

You rolled your eyes, knowing where this was going. The girl was moving towards you, eyebrows wiggling as she ran her hands over her chest in what you assumed was supposed to be a suggestive manner. 

“Y’know, there’s other things your mouths could do instead of arguing.”

You pretended to gag, face scrunched up at the thought of it and you went back to sorting through your laundry. “You sound like Murray.”

“I knew he was a sensible man,” she told you and you scoffed because you’d watched Murray Bauman light a firework with the end of Billy’s cigarette last summer. 

“But seriously, you’ve got to be attracted to him, right?”

“Murray?” You asked, all faux innocence, “he’s a bit old, no? Hopper, however-”

“You’re disgusting,” Robin snorted, grabbing at the pile of clothes you were hoarding, taking some of her own shirts to fold as she levelled you with a stare. “And you’re not fooling anyone. I’m very much gay - like, with a capital ‘G’ - and even I can say Steve is easy on the eyes.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” you tutted, “his head will get bigger.”

“Oh absolutely not.”

You fell into an easy silence then, clothes folded and sorted on your beds and you were surprised when Robin - perpetually messy - even went as far as to make her bed from that morning. 

It gave you too much time to think. About how the boy had been almost nice to you at some points this summer, helping you when you fell, teasing instead of scathing, always too close, always nearby. It made you notice him too much, made you far too aware of him. 

Like how his skin tanned so easily, new freckles every other day, how blue and yellow looked good on him, how when he got too close you noticed he had some green in his eyes. You knew he liked a smoothie for breakfast, he turned softer and quieter when speaking to Will, he encouraged Max to run faster, jump higher, swim deeper, that it was okay to be a little scared sometimes. 

You stopped, a choked breath of complete indignation leaving your lips and dropped the pyjamas you’d been folding and marched to the door. 

“Uh, where are you going?”

“To tell fucking Harrington that I know his game,” you seethed, “and that it’s not fucking working.”

Robin looked startled. “What?!”

You flung the door open and cringed when it hit the wooden wall behind it but you barely paid it any mind. The woods were dark, the sky inky and it smelled like rain was coming. 

“His game!” You urged, and god, you sounded a little manic, didn’t you? “He’s trying to get me to like him. And it’s not happening, he’s not winning!”

“Winning what?” Robin was almost yelling, confusion colouring her tone and she squinted at you. 

“I don’t know!” You told her, mouth agape because Jesus Christ, you really didn’t know, but you’d be damned if you let the boy think he had some kind of one up on you. 

“Babe, curfew is in like, ten minutes.”

 One glance at the clock on the wall told you that Robin was right, but stubbornness won out over sensibility so you made a strangled sound and shrugged, closing the door behind you a little too loudly and you made your way over the carpet of pine needles, heading towards the other cabins. 

—————

Eddie answered when you knocked, wearing an old, Metallica hoodie that was too big, his long curls pulled messily back into a bun and he grinned, arms crossed and leaning against the doorframe. 

“Now, I’m pretty certain you’re not here for me,” he told you, voice all light and full of a humour that you didn’t appreciate, “but there’s absolutely no fucking way you’re here for Harrington.”

You scowled.

“Is he in?”

Eddie cackled, pushing himself away from the door as he called out over his shoulder, looking thoroughly entertained. 

“Hey, big boy, you’ve got a lady caller.”

This was starting to seem like an incredibly bad idea. Your irritation had waned slightly as you’d marched across the dark forest, the fresh air soothing your anger just a touch. But before you could change your mind, Steve appeared at the door, barefoot and shirtless, his hair messy and wearing nothing but a pair of low slung grey sweats. 

For the love of fucking god. 

He had a towel thrown over his shoulder, like he’d planned on taking a shower, but he seemed content to stay and talk to you, his body leaning lazy on the door frame like Eddie had. 

“Princess,” Steve greeted, sounding bemused, “is this a booty call?”

From inside the cabin, Eddie snorted and you both made a point of ignoring him. 

“Absolutely fucking not,” you told him, outraged at the idea of it. But you were warm again, tongue feeling clumsy and too thick in your mouth and you started to wondered when the fuck Steve Harrington made you feel nervous. “And that’s the reason I’m here, actually.”

Steve simply raised his brows, crossing his arms over his chest. He tilted his head, a small smile on his lips. 

“Oh?”

“Mhmm, yeah,” you were stalling, trying to remember why you were actually standing outside with Steve at nine o’clock at night. His arms were entirely too distracting, the muscles there tensing and flexing as he moved. “I know what you're up to, Harrington.”

“You do?” Steve smirked, entirely entertained the way your gaze landed on his shoulders, his bare chest. “What am I up to, exactly?”

“This shit, that you keep pulling,” you told him, gesturing between the two of you. The space there crackled, it popped and buzzed with something unseen and electric, and you swore Steve felt it too. He had to, right? “This flirty, ‘lemme help you walk down the mountain’ crap.”

Steve was staring. And from inside, on his bed, Eddie was cackling again. 

“Would you rather I’d left you to hobble down by yourself?” Steve asked, lips twisted to hide his amusement. Your eyes were flashing with annoyance, and you’d leant against the porch fence for support, back to the wood and hands curled around the ledge. “Let a mountain lion get you?”

“There aren’t any mountain lions in Indiana,” you replied scathingly. 

“A bear then,” Steve shrugged, and Christ, he was grinning again, dimple and all. “Anyway, you think I’m flirting with you, princess?”

You stared, suddenly speechless. 

“I’d have more luck getting Munson into bed with me than managing to have a pleasant conversation with you, sweetheart.”

But then Eddie was yelling from inside the cabin, a pillow hitting Steve’s back as he called out, “ready when you are, honey.”

Steve ignored him, eyes still on you. “If you think that I’m flirting with you, you’re sorely mistaken.”

He oozed too much confidence, sarcasm and charm. 

It pissed you off. 

“Well then stop it!” you growled, pushing yourself off of the porch fence and moving towards Steve. You stared up at him, stubborn, face tilted up to him, eyes defiant. You couldn’t help but push a finger into his bare chest. God, he was warm. “Stop doing-”

“Stop doing what? Huh?” Steve was smiling. Why was he smiling?

You stumbled over your breath, it hitched in your throat and honestly it only caused more anger to bubble in your chest. Was it anger? Annoyance? Frustration?

“Stop - stop, getting all close to me all the time, stop calling me princess and stop doing this thing where you’re clearly trying to distract me.”

Steve raised his brows, looking down at the small space between the two of you. He tilted his head, smirk dripping with amusement and you knew you could argue anymore. You’d moved to him, chests almost brushing, warmth radiating off of him to you, sharing the same air. 

Fuck. 

“Do I distract you?”

The facade dropped. The game, the challenge, the fight - whatever it was - it stopped. Genuine surprise coloured the boy's tone and he uncrossed his arms, leaving his chest open and more space between you both. He was so warm, you could feel it from his skin, like the sun lived in his chest and he swallowed the summer. 

Steve looked shy, all of a sudden. Face flushed, eyes bright and wide and his lips dropped into a pretty ‘o’. Even in the dark, you could make out the pink of his cheeks, the tips of his ears and he was looking at you like an entirely different kind of challenge. A puzzle maybe, a new type of game. 

“What?” you were panicking inside. That white hot flash of embarrassment ran up your spine, blooming over your chest until blood rushed loud in your ears. “What? No, I didn’t say that.”

“You definitely just said that.” There it was, that smile again. 

“I didn’t,” you scoffed, eyes searching anywhere but his. You stared at the door behind him, groaning when Eddie waved from his bed, grin wider than Steve’s. 

“You did,” Eddie added to the conversation, all soft smiles and messy curls. “I heard you.”  

Suddenly you had had enough of boys. 

“Oh for fuck sake.”

You stormed away from Steve with more swears mixing in with the night air, your frustration taken out on the stairs as you stomped back down them, trainers kicking up pine needles and fallen acorns as you made your way back to your own cabin, completely done with Steve fucking Harrington.

PART TWO

[lurkymurker-deactivated20221030]

don’t wanna fall in love

Synopsis: Dustin has a cool, new friend (you). Steve’s feeling threatened, perhaps even a little jealous. The fact that all he really wants to do is kiss you doesn’t help.

Warnings: enemies-to-lovers, cursing, a little angst, more than a little fluff, some hurt/comfort, kissing!

Word count: 10.3k

a/n: very excited to share this one 🥹

You’re hidden in a sea of plastic.

Cellophane, the technicolour kind, iridescent, blushing teddy bears, precariously balanced stacks of gift boxes and novelty items. Artificial bouquets saturate the counter in front of you, their thick, resin coat scintillating rays of sunshine.

You wrap a large, reduced-to-clear sticker around a bunch as you pick them up, offensively red letters bright enough to induce a headache.

You sigh, then, bringing your fingers to your temple on instinct. Gentle pressure, though the dull ache permeates. Like the static that buzzes through the air before a storm; a forewarning, a bad omen, a harbinger of disaster.

And then, a pocket-sized distraction enters the gift store.

“What do you have for me?” The boy asks in lieu of a greeting, his mess of bronze curls secured underneath a baseball cap.

“Hello to you too, kid,” you say mildly. He’s a ball of energy, as per usual; everything from his backpack to his knobbly knees bouncing as he walks. The former rocks against a sparkly card stand, a table decorated with breakable vases, expensive candles. You sigh, again. You add, “Would it kill you to be careful?”

The space between the boy’s thick eyebrows creases. He places one of his hands on the front counter firmly, cutting you one of those shrewd, almost-glares that say, “not the time”, and perhaps also, “really?”

“What do you have for me?” He repeats impatiently, his free hand fishing for spare change in his overalls. When he removes it from the front pocket, it’s to scatter a suspicious number of quarters onto the counter. A fair bit of dusty lint, too, some lonely pennies that burn ochre in the sunshine.

You hazard a guess at the amount of money he’s offering, landing somewhere between needing your staff discount and just plain stealing. “Fake flowers?” You offer hesitantly, waving the fluorescent bouquet in the air.

He frowns thoughtfully. He picks at the reduced-to-clear sticker tacked to the green stem. “How much?”

“Free,” you answer easily, though there’s a lilt to your tone, bright eyes twinkling mischief as you lean in a little close. “On one condition.”

Over the past few weeks, the young boy has frequented the store more often than every other patron combined. Whether to purchase a tacky postcard or novelty teddy bear, he’s perused the stacked shelves enough to stir your interest.

He owes you an explanation, introduction notwithstanding.

The curly-haired kid groans, he mutters a fair few, carefully chosen expletives, and then, he flashes you a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. When he speaks, it’s through gritted teeth, features pained as though he hates you.

He doesn’t. He’s a second away from disregarding every single thing he thought he knew about teenagers. About almost adults; people Steve’s age (he loves Steve), people Eddie should have graduated with (he worships Eddie), you.

“Name it,” he says finally, albeit begrudgingly.

You raise your eyebrows at his tone, taking a pause to search his features. The silence stretches, and his irritation piques, as though each second that passes is ageing him faster than it is you. Dustin Henderson is incapable of maintaining a poker-face. You find yourself strangely endeared by this revelation.

“First,” you start primly, relaxing your expression. “Your name.”

“Dustin,” he answers impatiently, tapping his fingers on the wooden counter. He’s fidgety. It’s mildly amusing. “That it?”

“No,” you say then, “tell me about the girl you’re buying these for.”

And perhaps it’s the genuine warmth you radiate, the soft, almost reverent way you say the words. Perhaps it’s the way your smile lifts your cheeks. You’ve dipped your head to eye-level, now, and perhaps it’s the way all your attention is on him.

Whatever it is, Dustin feels impossibly at ease. He deflates his lungs of expired oxygen, and when he takes a breath in, it’s in preparation of release. “So,” he starts, making a split second decision to tell you absolutely everything, “I met Suze at summer camp.”

You realise fairly quickly that Dustin Henderson is a force of nature. Once you get him going, there’s really no way of stopping him, and the weeks that follow your formal introduction are clear evidence of this fact. Biweekly visits become twice daily, minimum, filled with long-winded stories, questionable detours with no end in sight. And you learn several things about him, along the way; the kids he hangs out with, that one game he plays. The group of freaks (his words, not yours) that created his favourite school club, his girlfriend, his mom, everyone in between.

The latter of which includes Steve Harrington, apparently. As in — the same “King Steve” you’d shared classes with at Hawkins High; been ignored by, dismissed, promptly forgotten about after graduation.

You’d be lying if you said Dustin’s relationship with him didn’t perplex you. Steve Harrington didn’t seem the type to entertain dorky freshman — especially not to the extent that the young boy often described. Rides to the arcade, free candy and girl advice; he seemed as invested in Dustin’s life as you were, and perhaps a secret part of you felt a little threatened by his presence.

Like a few minutes ago, for example, when Dustin’d entered the store with a — “Just came from Family Video, and you won’t believe what Steve found tacked to the front window.”

You’d tuned him out on realising you weren’t getting a word in, though perhaps it was time to tune him back in.

“…so, anyway,” he continues, on the tail end of an hour long rant. Something about the constituents of the cinematic experience; instead of listening, you’ve been counting the number of times he uses the word ‘ambience’. “We’re planning on checking it out tonight. See if the open air gets us some more ambience,” you add another line to your mental tally. “You in?”

“Hm?” You mumble on instinct, tearing your eyes away from the greeting cards you’ve been organising. There’s a thick sheen of glitter coating your forefinger and thumb, raising iridescent dust as you bring your hand to your neck. Kinking slightly, you give your shoulder an absent squeeze. “In for what?”

Dustin scowls. “Weren’t you listening?”

“I was,” you lie, nodding your reiteration for good measure. “Movies. Ambience.”

“Fucking hell,” Dustin mutters, sending you a pointed glare. “Drive-in. Tonight. Steve, the gang, me.”

You pause, replacing a tattered anniversary card with another that’s newer, emblazoned with brilliant gold and silver. “Right.”

“So?” Dustin presses, edging forward impatiently. His forearm brushes against the stack of cards, nudging them into a pocket of lemon sunshine. “You in or what?”

“In?” You echo, eyes widening with surprise. “To come with you guys?”

Dustin’s never sought your company outside of shop hours. Especially not with all of his friends, with —

“But what about Steve?” You add then, worrying your bottom lip.

“What about him?” Dustin asks, raising his eyebrows bemusedly. There’s a pause as he studies you, the kind of sticky silence that stretches. And the concentration creasing his brows, the thoughtful way he tilts his chin, it’s as though he knows the answer to his own question before you say it.

Except that he doesn’t. He’s caught you in a dreadful, embarrassing, misunderstanding.

“Oh,” he enunciates, his mouth creating a loud oval. “No, no, don’t worry about Steve, he won’t try anything with you — he’s nothing like he was in high-school. Trust me.”

You resist the urge to grimace. Dustin doesn’t appear to notice.

“Think it’s all the minimum wage jobs,” he adds thoughtfully, stroking his prepubescent chin. “Totally humbled him. He’s like, super lame-o now, hangs out with us more than he does guys his own age.”

“Dustin,” you say carefully, shaking your head, “I don’t mean — he —”

You falter, letting out a tired sigh. “— I know he isn’t going to hit on me,” you finish awkwardly. “I just wanted to — uh, he won’t mind? Me coming?”

Dustin frowns, features taking on a confused expression. “Of course he’ll hit on you,” he says matter-of-factly, “you’re like, textbook out of his league.”

“Dude,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “You know we graduated in the same year, right? We even had math together. Didn’t even look at me, let alone flirt.”

“No, listen,” Dustin urges, practically climbing onto the counter in an effort to edge forward. His elbow knocks over the delicate stack of cards you’ve created, showering the wood with polychromatic glitter. You wince. Dustin doesn’t notice. “That’s cause he wasted high-school pining over the wrong girl,” he adds, nodding his head loyally, “he like, definitely would’ve noticed you if he hadn’t, and —”

“Dustin,” you interrupt, looking toward the fallen stack reproachfully. “I don’t care. Have you asked your friends — asked Steve — if they’re alright with me coming tonight?”

“Why wouldn’t they be alright?” Dustin returns smoothly; he thinks you won’t notice that he hasn’t answered your question. Cheeky motherfucker. “They’re going to love you. Drive-in’s at seven, but for the love of God, get there early, alright?”

—

Steve watches Dustin amble down his porch steps, backpack swinging, mildly amused by the way he’s scrubbing the lipstick off his sunburnt cheek.

“You’re making it worse,” he greets genially, watching the red stain bloom brighter with the heat of his palm. “Relax.”

“My mom’s the one who needs to relax,” Dustin mutters, hard set scowl on his features. “Seriously, what’s with the makeup when she’s staying in?”

“Oh cheer up, Dusty,” he teases with a grin, watching him fish his walkie-talkie out of his backpack, sending a whoosh of static through the air. “Pretend it’s Suze’s, or something. Surprise visit.”

Dustin pauses, nodding thoughtfully. “You know, Harrington,” he says then, reaching forward to fiddle with the car radio. “You’re not as dumb as you look.”

Steve narrows his eyes, fixing Dustin with a pointed glare. “Ever heard of humility, Henderson?”

Dustin smiles with teeth. “That’s a big word,” he says, and though Steve’s about to open his mouth in protest, he knows any argument he makes’ll be fruitless.

Because Dustin’s managed to sort through the static of his walkie-talkie, by then, tuned into the frequency him and the gang always use.

“Venkman?” He starts, bringing the contraption to his mouth conspiratorially. “Venkman, do you copy? Over.”

“Copy,” says a deeper voice then, thick and authoritative, “Over.”

“Hey,” comes another, and Steve can here an edge to it, albeit crackly. “C’mon, dude, we’ve been through this. I’m Venkman.”

“Shit, okay — fine. We’ll both be Venkman, alright?”

“But —” a sigh, a rustle, the second voice tries to deliberate, “— alright, I’m Venkman #1, and you can be Venkman #2 —”

“What? Why do you get to be Venkman #1 —”

“Holy shit,” interrupts Dustin, pinching the bridge of his nose frustratedly. “We do not have time for this. Stop. Mike, do you copy?”

“Copy,” grumbles the second voice again.

“We’re picking you up first, alright?” Dustin says, “Lucas, you’re next. Be ready. We can’t be late.”

He pushes down the springy antennae before they can respond, tapping the walkie-talkie against the edge of the window impatiently.

“Oi,” Steve scolds, reaching over to halt his movements. “You’re going to fucking break the glass. Stop.”

Dustin ignores him. “Will you step on it, Harrington?” He urges, eyes darting toward the sinking horizon. “We can’t turn up late after I told her to make sure she’s early.”

Steve furrows his brow, confusion flickering over his brown irises. “Who? Robin?”

“What?” Dustin asks distractedly, waving a dismissive hand in the air. “No, you idiot. Robin’s not even coming anymore. I invited gift shop girl, remember? I told you about it, her name’s —”

“Giftshop girl,” Steve repeats, setting his jaw firmly. “Of course.”

He isn’t sure why you bring forth such unease. The first time Dustin’d mentioned your name in passing, Steve’d thought it sounded vaguely familiar — someone he’d went to Hawkins’ High with. A beautiful someone, no doubt, who knew him as king Steve; as the cocky, insensitive guy he’d once been.

Not present day him; gentler, kinder, more patient. Perhaps a part of him resented that your presence tethered him to his former self.

Never mind the fact that Dustin Henderson acted as though the sun shone out of your ass; he adored you, point-blank worshipped you, and so what if this irritated Steve to no end? Sue him. He couldn’t help but succumb to jealousy rearing it’s ugly head.

Dustin raises his eyebrows at Steve’s hardened expression, gaze falling to his iron-clad grip on the wheel. “What’s that face?”

“What face?” Steve scoffs intently, feigning nonchalance. “There’s no face.”

“There’s definitely a face,” Dustin decides, scrutinising Steve’s features with narrowed eyes. “If this is about —”

“It’s not,” Steve interrupts, sending him a warning glance. “Drop it. I definitely don’t care that you invited her.”

“I never said you did,” Dustin answers carefully, eyebrows soaring.

“Whatever,” Steve mutters, drumming his hands on the wheel impatiently. “I don’t care that she’s really fucking cool and likes to listen to you talk about all of that nerdy crap,” he lowers his voice several decibels, words coming out a quick hiss, “or how she gives way better girl advice than me, apparently, because I’ve suddenly stopped hearing about Suze, and how the two of you are doing — but whatever. It’s fine. Totally cool with it. Drop it.”

Dustin doesn’t quite catch all of Steve’s rant; it’s barely perceptible, something about not caring (said in a voice that definitely cares), Suze’s name and girl advice and ‘nerdy crap’ thrown in there.

“Right,” he says after a pause, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Uh, Steve?”

“What?” Steve bristles, sending him an irritated glare.

Dustin raises his arms in surrender, nodding toward the stretch of suburbia to his left. “You missed the turn to Mike’s.”

Steve forces out a breath through gritted teeth. “Should’ve got giftshop girl to pick you up.”

—

The air is thick with the scent of forget-me-nots, sweet honeysuckle bathed in gelatinous humidity. The sweltering, Hawkins’ heat has burnt the grass into neat, brown patches; they make the field far easier to navigate, create pockets of drive-in goers with spaces in between.

Although, you probably don’t need them to find Dustin. He’s loud as ever, wildly unabashed; you can hear his animated voice all the way from the carpark.

Steve’s back is turned. It’s the first thing you notice as you near the group; thick, chestnut hair and broad-looking shoulders. He’s wearing a swim-team jersey that’s blue and red, it hugs his biceps, his firm torso, slightly frayed at the edges like it’s well worn in. It probably smells like him. Faint musk, spicy cologne, overwhelming chlorine; it’s one of the few things you remember about him, having sat behind him in a few classes, back at Hawkins’ High. He used to be on the swim team — that’s another thing you remember. The tips of his hair, fresh and damp, dripping beads of water onto the back of his chair, the edge of your desk.

You falter, blinking several times. Perhaps you’d seen more of Steve back in high-school than you’d let on.

“There she is!” Dustin exclaims then, forcing you out of your reverie. He bounds over to you with a wide smile on his face, dragging you right into the heart of the huddle. He diligently introduces you to each of his friends — gangly Mike, shy Will, confident Lucas and his coolly disinterested girlfriend, Max. He ends with Steve, almost strategically. You aren’t sure whether this makes you want to thank him, or throttle him for it.

“…and this is Steve,” he finishes smoothly, jerking a thumb toward the older boy beside him. “He, uh… you know Steve, right? Graduated the same year as you?”

“Right,” you say with a nod, smiling awkwardly.

Steve doesn’t return the gesture right away. The frayed edge of his jersey is far more interesting, the scuffed tips of his sneakers, the steely keyring in his hand. It’s a bottle opener. He shoves it into his front pocket and straightens, feeling overly self conscious all of a sudden.

“Oh, yeah,” he begins coolly, only then allowing himself to really look at you. You’re startlingly beautiful up close, he realises fairly quickly, a beat passing, another, as he takes you in. There’s a shyness to the way your lips curve upward. Steve’s eyes fall to the column of your throat, lower still to the osculate where your collarbones kiss. He blinks. He begins to seriously doubt his perception of time and space.

“Hey, again,” you greet.

Steve’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows. “Hey,” he returns.

“It’s — you probably don’t remember me,” you add quickly, mostly because his response sounds more like a question than a salute. He doesn’t remember you; why would he? He’s Steve fucking Harrington, king of Hawkins’ High, and you’re — “I was pretty low key when we were at school. No biggie.”

Steve knows he shouldn’t take your explanation so personally. All you’re trying to do is diffuse the tension; he’s the one who’s at a loss for words, staring down at you like he’s forgotten how to speak. You’re really pretty. Why did you have to be so, very, pretty?

“What?” He defends, voice uncharacteristically gruff, “Of course I remember you. We, uh — we had that one class together in senior year, first period with… or, wait, was it third? The one Mrs Garcia taught, you sat right behind me with the —”

“— math?” you supply helpfully.

Steve frowns. “I was getting there.”

“Right.”

“I’m not —” he falters, letting out a frustrated sigh, “— why wouldn’t I remember you? We graduated the same year. We took similar classes.”

You raise your eyebrows pointedly, cocking your head to one side. “You’re King Steve. We didn’t run in the same circles.”

“So?” Steve scowls, folding his arms across his chest. You don’t remember his biceps being so broad. He’s worn this jersey on several occasions, in the past, and you definitely don’t remember the sleeves being this tight. “That means I’m not capable of being a decent human being? Remembering all the people in my graduating class?”

You frown. “Okay,” you say then, looking to Dustin for support. “Now I’m definitely confused.”

“Well, I’m not that guy anymore,” Steve responds, a finality in his tone that hadn’t been there before. “You don’t — you don’t know anything about me, alright? So don’t act like you do.”

“Dude, c’mon,” Dustin intervenes, sending him a reproachful glance. “Be cool.”

“I’m just saying,” Steve mutters, unfolding his arms to comb his fingers through his hair, “she doesn’t actually know me —”

“You know I have a name, right?” You interrupt, raising your eyebrows.

“Right, gift shop girl doesn’t actually know me,” Steve corrects, speaking over your irritated sigh. “So she should stop acting like she does, like — like she understands the dynamics of the group, or who I am, or who I might know, or might not know, or —”

“Harrington,” Dustin cuts in warningly, “we get it, alright? Drop it.”

He turns back toward you just as the crowd hushes, flashy, movie lights painting his grimace meek, apologetic.

“Sorry,” he whispers, tugging you down onto the picnic blanket. The rest of the group busy themselves settling in, Steve’s large figure perched near the edge, beside Max and Lucas. “He’s not usually like that, I swear.”

“Don’t apologise,” you murmur, smiling softly.

Dustin’s sweet to think your exchange may have gone any other way. Sure, you hadn’t expected as much hostility as you’d received, but you’d known not to anticipate anything more than mild pleasantries. Steve Harrington didn’t waste his time on girls like you, even when he kind of, almost, shared a joint custody agreement with them.

“No, seriously,” Dustin urges, unwilling to take no for answer. He shuffles closer noisily, toppling over a bag of sour patch kids as the opening credits roll. “He’s being a total dingus. Maybe — shit, maybe he’s playing hardball because he’s into you, or something; the other day — you remember, right? When Suze was going on about that asshole computer whiz in her neighbourhood — he told me that I needed to ‘play it cool’, or —”

“Holy shit, Dustin,” Max hisses, fixing the back of his head with a pointed glare. “Shut the fuck up, will you?”

You bite back an entertained smile, reaching down to give his shoulder a pat. “Dustin,” you whisper then, shaking your head bemusedly. “Think it’s a pretty safe bet that Steve Harrington isn’t into me.”

“Why?” Dustin questions with a frown, turning around to send Steve a momentary glance. “You guys are both, like, old. And boring. And hang out with kids half of your age — so like, definitely sad and lonely —”

“Hey,” you interrupt, trying to mask your amusement. “It’s not so much that we hang out as I’m the glorified babysitter you come to for help —”

“Details,” Dustin dismisses easily, and you’re really laughing now. Steve’s been eavesdropping on your conversation ever since all of you sat down, but you’re laughing, now, and the sound hits him square in the chest. It’s the sort of gooey, heart-squeezing sensation that travels to the tips of his fingers, his toes; Steve watches your lips part, hears the laugh bubble through, and he realises that he’s in serious trouble.

You’re like, really really pretty, have a pretty laugh, too, and now he’s thinking about how it’d feel to kiss you.

It’s confusing. He should probably stop staring.

“Dude, stop. You’re embarrassing yourself,” Max mutters on queue, as though she can read his mind. (If that were true, and Steve was in trouble before, he can’t even begin to imagine the carnage that’d ensue.)

“Whatever, Mayfield,” Steve grumbles in response, tearing his eyes away from you laughing, glowing, looking suspiciously iridescent. “I don’t get embarrassed.”

“You should,” she responds mildly.

Steve narrows his eyes; he knows exactly where this is going. “Don’t,” he warns, as if that’ll make any difference.

“I — I like — of course I remember you,” Max mocks, adopting an almost caveman-like register. “I, king of Hawkins’ High —”

“Mayfield,” Steve forces through gritted teeth.

“Uh, it’s not like I’m being a total dingus on purpose,” Max continues gruffly, ignoring him. “It’s just — I’m Dusty’s best friend and I’m the one he always sits with, and —”

“Alright, enough,” Steve interrupts, fixing her with a stern glare. His eyes dart to Lucas’ figure for support, receiving nothing more than a grimace and an apologetic shrug.

“Sorry, dude,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “That was pretty painful to watch.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Steve insists.

“What was with all the,” Lucas pauses, brow furrowing as he gathers his thoughts, “‘you don’t know me’ bullshit?”

Steve frowns. He realises that he isn’t sure himself. “She doesn’t,” he says lamely.

“And all the crap about the dynamics of the group…” Lucas continues, trailing off to cut Steve a look of clear exasperation, “…seriously?”

He allows for a meaningful pause, raising his eyebrows. “Dude, we’re all, like, textbook losers. I don’t think we get to be picky about who joins the group.”

“Whatever,” Steve mutters, stealing another glance at you and Dustin. He’s close enough to you that his shoulder knocks yours, eyes glued to the screen as he whispers something in your ear. Something that Steve’s on the receiving end of, usually; a minuscule detail within the movie scene, a prop he swears been put in place deliberately. And when you nod along, murmur your approval, Dustin glows, and Steve feels another twinge of jealousy.

He’s meant to be the super suave, role model slash friend. So he adds, “I’m the fucking babysitter,” because times like this one, it feels as though they’re all he has left.

—

“We’re closed,” Steve calls, having heard the rusty bell above the entrance door chime. He holds a neat stack of returned tapes to his torso, deciding whether Risky Business, near the top of the pile, deserved a spot on the chic flick shelf. (It does, he concludes after several moments of deliberation. Not only is it a total classic amongst the ladies, he has a pick-up line ready for the ones who frequented Family Video.)

“Cut the shit,” comes Dustin’s response, the young boy trudging over, walkie-talkie in hand. “This is serious.”

Steve raises his eyebrows, surveying Dustin’s figure with mild amusement. “Tone, Henderson.”

“I need a ride,” Dustin says then, choosing to ignore his sentiment. As usual.

“Dude,” Steve frowns, glancing down at the generous looking pile at his hands. “You’re gonna have to wait, alright?”

Dustin shakes his head vigorously, jerking a thumb toward the exit. “Suze drama. Like, now. Need you to take me to the gift shop before it closes.”

“The gift shop?” Steve repeats, narrowing his eyes. “I’m giving you a ride right into gift shop girl’s arms?”

“Harrington,” Dustin groans, dragging a hand down his face. He mutters a few expletives under his breath, digressing when he’s sure he’s lamented his dramatics. “C’mon. Not the time for you to get all jealous on me. Let’s go.”

Steve narrows his eyes, taking pause to survey Dustin’s body language. He’s antsier than usual — shifting from foot to foot every five seconds, fidgeting with the walkie-talkie antenna, different knobs, and, on closer inspection, his bottom lip is chewed raw. Steve sighs. He says, “Seriously, you fucking owe me,” and he replaces the tapes in his hand with his car keys.

No bottle opener keyring.

He threw it away a week ago, at the drive-in movie, somewhere between trying to ignore you and memorising the faint bergamot, hint of lavender in your perfume.

“Alright,” he says once they’re both buckled in. “What’s the Suze sitch?”

Dustin winces at the question, glancing down at his walkie-talkie sheepishly. He mumbles a response so soft it’s barely audible, something about an anniversary with suspicious ties to “the L-word”.

Steve doubts that it’s a big deal. His mind wanders to reciprocity, to love confessions, and perplexingly, to you, and then he begins doubting whether he knows what does and doesn’t constitute a big deal.

If there were ever a Universe where he said the L-word to you (not that he could L-word someone who’s stealing his favourite kid from him — it’s just your stupid laugh and your stupid smile, the stupid way you make his heart flip-flop), he probably wouldn’t want you to forget the anniversary of it.

“You — alright, hold on,” Steve says slowly, looking over at Dustin. “You forgot the I-love-you anniversary?”

Dustin winces, again. “Yes,” he groans, burying his head in his hands. “And it’s all your fault, you know that?”

Steve turns into the complex the gift shop belongs to, parking his car right opposite the front of the store. “What?” He asks, frowning bemusedly. “How the hell is this my fault?”

Dustin unbuckles tersely, practically running into the shop. The clock on Steve’s dashboard clicks forward, a minute before five just as he catches up.

“Well?” He presses, allowing the door to shut behind him. The store is artificially fresh, as though someone’s blasted an old, air conditioner for hours, and smells disarmingly familiar, soft bergamot and faint hints of lavender. He hinges near the doorway. He tries not to think about whether the job comes with a cute uniform.

“You’re the one who told me to play hardball,” comes Dustin’s voice from a sea of trinkets, effectively breaking him out of his reverie. “You know — after that whole thing with Dave from computer camp?”

Steve furrows his brow, unsure how this relates. “So?”

“So,” Dustin repeats, sighing frustratedly. “It’s led to me forgetting our I-love-you-versary. I mean, shit, what do you even get someone to say sorry for that?”

“That’s a little unfair,” Steve frowns, taking a tentative step forward. “I never told you to forget about —”

“Give her some space, you said,” Dustin continues, voice thick with accusation. “She’ll come running back to you, you said —”

“Oof, pulling back like that when you’re already in a relationship?” Says another voice then, far sweeter than the last, though Steve doesn’t want to think about that. “Rookie mistake.”

“How?” He argues stubbornly, heading toward the source. “Playing hard-to-get always works. That shit is like, foolproof.”

You’re leaning against the side of the front counter when he appears, hip pressed into the smooth, wooden edge. “Maybe for you,” you counter, raising your eyebrows pointedly. Somewhere behind you, there’s a concerning sounding ruckus, no doubt Dustin toppling items as he makes for the discount bin. “Dustin, dude, relax.”

“Right?” Steve says then, agreeing with you despite himself. “That’s what I’m saying. The little shit needs to calm down about this Suzie thing.”

“In the store, yes,” you say, raising your eyebrows meaningfully. “In general, no.”

And whilst half of you really does mean that — the L-word is a big deal, after all — the other half of you just really wants to disagree with everything Steve’s saying.

Maybe his dismissal at the drive-in had cut deeper than you’d initially anticipated. Maybe you wanted to make certain he knew you weren’t interested in being friends, being more, with him, either.

Steve cocks his head to one side, folding his arms across his chest. “I don’t get it.”

His gaze travels to the apron tied to your neck, the plain, white t-shirt you’re wearing underneath it. It’s sitting a little funny on your torso at present, favouring your left side so your right’s a little exposed. There’s a sliver of bare skin between your waist and hip, soft and unblemished, shaded from the heat. Steve unfolds his arms.

“I mean, I’m of the opinion that the L-bomb drop’s a big deal,” you answer, shrugging easily.

Steve doesn’t want to agree. The hem of your t-shirt has ridden up from the movement, tiny sliver becoming a far more devastating rectangle. Steve blinks. You angle back a moment to free your skin from the shade, sunlight bathing you aureate, and Steve almost agrees, anyway.

“Me too,” he says carefully, clearing his throat. “But — c’mon, no way him forgetting is my fault.”

“You told him to play hardball,” you accuse.

“Not with this, though.”

“Still,” you insist, frowning stubbornly. “You’re the reason the sweet kid’s gone off his game —”

“He didn’t have any game to begin with,” Steve interrupts, scoffing his exasperation.

“Hey!” Dustin calls indignantly, voice muffled a little by the novelty items that surround him. “Uncool, dude.”

Steve grimaces. “Sorry,” he calls, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. He’s wearing a Family Video vest that’s a size too small, with strong arms that’d cover yours barely covered themselves. He looks overwhelmingly solid, rugged, handsome in that Hollywood way that’d get you a “Most likely to be a movie star” in the senior yearbook. The room shrinks. You can feel the heat radiating off his figure (as if that’s fucking possible); has he always been this close?

You frown, feeling a perplexing set of butterflies erupt within your stomach. “He’s a sensitive kid, you know,” you murmur pointedly, attempting to change the subject.

“Of course I know,” Steve responds irritatedly. “I’ve known him longer than you have.”

“So you should know,” you say then, raising your eyebrows at his tone. “That he really does care about your opinion.”

You pause, stepping forward so you’re closer, so you can cast over every crease, every wrinkle on his forehead. “Don’t know why, exactly, but he does. So maybe don’t give crap advice that’ll lead him to me with like, five pennies and a dime?”

Steve scowls, inching forward subconsciously. “What do you mean ‘don’t know why’?” He asks, fingers raised in air-quotes as he narrows his eyes. Large fingers. “Why wouldn’t he come to me for girl advice?”

“Shit, I don’t know,” you respond sarcastically, “maybe because you tend to treat girls like objects?”

Steve winces, shaking his head. “Used to.”

“Still,” you bristle, still harbouring some petulance over the way he treated you at the drive-in, at the way he ignored you back at Hawkins’ High, at the way he’s acting like he never did. “You were all Skull Rock and parties and locker room make-out sessions back then.”

“This is what I was fucking talking about before,” Steve sighs frustratedly, running his fingers through his hair. “You — you don’t know me, alright? Just because you’re familiar with some version of me, from back in high-school, doesn’t mean you can waltz into my life and act like you’ve got me all figured out.”

You let out an indignant scoff, and Steve’s gaze falls to your mouth momentarily. You’re so close, now, that he can see silver specks on your lips, cosmetic grade glitter hidden within a thick gloss. It looks freshly reapplied, untouched. Steve tries not to think about how many kisses you’d need for it to wear off.

“And,” he adds; you purse your lips then, pressed tight and almost puckered, and he really really tries not to think about it. “You also don’t know anything about me and Dustin, how we roll, and all the shit we did before you came along. Like — the gift shop is cute and all, but —”

“Guys,” Dustin interrupts, his panic rendering him oblivious of the fight that’s ensuing. “How about this?”

You turn to him just as he holds up an assortment of waxy candles — citronella, cedar and fir, fresh pine, old spice, pineapple. Steve’s right behind you, the groan he lets out under his breath rumbling through his chest, into your shoulder blades. It’s fleeting, it’s a tendril of warm touch, but it’s electric.

“Summer camp smells,” he explains, looking between the two of you expectantly. “Well?”

Your gaze softens. Steve’s becomes a touch more pained.

“It’s perfect,” you gush, just as Steve says, “pathetic.”

You frown, deciding against turning around and demanding he explain. (Mostly because he’s so close it’s like standing near a furnace. You can feel the breadth of his torso behind you, hot static that’s raising goosebumps along your skin. It’s a nice feeling, perplexingly. If you fainted, right now, he’d had no trouble taking your weight. Maybe even carrying you to safety, strong arms squeezing you tight and promising stupid things about never letting go. Steve’s big. He’s really, really close.)

“Dustin,” you reiterate, shaking your head slightly. “It’s perfect. Seriously.”

You’re exactly the right height. He realises, as he glances down at you, that there’s a perfect amount of space between your head and his chin. There’s fire in your gaze, bottom lip jutting out obstinately, and Steve focusses on that instead of how perfectly you slot together. Except, that you look unfairly beautiful when you’re annoyed, and now Steve doesn’t know what he’s meant to focus on, if not that.

“Don’t listen to her,” he mouthes, shaking his head several times. “Lame-o move.”

“But why?” Dustin asks out loud, oblivious to Steve’s pointed glare.

“Why what?” You echo bemusedly.

Steve closes his eyes, letting out a defeated sigh. “Because,” he answers, and you shift ever so slightly in front of him, surface of your knuckles brushing his jeans pocket. The tips of his toes warm. “It’s way overboard. She’s gonna run the other way.”

You furrow your brow in disagreement, turning a little more so you can look up at him properly. “I don’t think so,” you say. His eyes are disarmingly brown, rich molasses that lightens in the sun. “I think it’s sweet.”

“Kid like Dustin, though?” He mutters, voice so low only you can hear. “Can’t afford to be sweet. Gotta build up the heart-breaker rep before you can go all soft. That’s like, page one of how to get the girl.”

“But he’s already got the girl.”

“And she has him wrapped around her little finger,” Steve explains, protective streak shining through. “C’mon — you have to admit that the kid does way more for her than she does him.”

You falter then, chewing your bottom lip thoughtfully. “Hm. Guess I never thought about it that way.”

Steve furrows his brow, surveying your features carefully. He doesn’t know whether he’s imagining the subtle shift in your demeanour; your voice is softer, gaze a little crestfallen. “Right.”

“Like, I don’t know. I guess I just give him the advice I wish my exes had been given,” you continue, muscle memory prompting you to provide an explanation. “I forget that Suze isn’t me, and Dustin isn’t them.”

“I get it,” Steve says slowly, fighting the overwhelming urge to hug you. He’s scared that if he does, he won’t know when to let go. “I’m guilty of that too, for sure. He —”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Dustin interrupts impatiently, “I’m not you, either. Candles, people. Yes or no?”

There’s a beat before either of you say anything, a beat where you just look at each other, wonder whether the other person’s feeling the same way. There’s static in the air that surrounds you, it kisses goosebumps on your skin, something more in your heart. Your chest feels funny. You wonder whether Steve’s feels the same.

“Maybe just one,” you say finally, maintaining eye-contact with Steve as you do so.

“Yeah,” he affirms after another moment, one more. “Just one.”

Dustin nods his approval, deliberating over the hefty pile in his hands. “Good idea,” he agrees, deciding on sweet citronella. “Compromise.”

—

The diner’s busy, busier than usual for a Thursday afternoon, but you’re still able to hear the sound of your own slurping.

You leave a ring of pink gloss on the straw as you pull away. Condensation drips down it’s thick, plastic surface.

“I’m going to go grab us some napkins,” you say awkwardly, flashing him a smile you hope doesn’t appear as pained as you feel.

It doesn’t matter. Your date — some kid named Richie who slid you his number, half-smudged on a piece crumpled paper — isn’t really listening.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” he says distractedly, eyes glued to the small TV propped up above the Jukebox.

You sidle out of the booth with a small sigh, taking your time walking toward the front counter.

“Wait a minute… no way, scoops, is that you?”

You stumble to a halt, lips parting in surprise. Her voice is a little hoarse, just as you remember it, and the nickname —

“Buckley?” You ask; it’s rhetorical, you can already see the grin on her face.

“No fucking way,” she reiterates, pulling you into a tight hug as soon as you’ve turned to face her. “When’d you get back to Hawkins?”

“A few weeks ago, actually,” you answer, smiling wide as you draw back. “How are you?”

“Fine, whatever,” Robin replies airily, separating to wave a dismissive hand in the air. “Same old. How are you? How’s college? How’s being back? How’s everything?”

You let out an endeared laugh, shaking your head bemusedly. “Good, great, the lamest, okay.”

The clouds outside free the sun as she nods, and light streams through the window, painting her brown hair softer ochre. “Noted,” she says, linking her arm in yours. “Listen, who’re you here with? Maybe you guys can join me and Steve at the booth by the Jukebox? He’s being totally absent because there’s some stupid game on, or something, so we’ll have a good chance to catch up without him interrupting us.”

“Steve?” You echo, faltering. “Like… Harrington?”

“Oh, shit, yeah,” Robin responds, eyes widening sheepishly. “I forget that you’ve gone so long. Yeah. Yes. I’m friends with King Steve Harrington now. I know, right? Me? Steve?”

She takes a pause, clocking the skepticism transforming your features. “No, listen, trust me,” she adds then, shaking her head reassuringly. “He’s like, a completely different guy —”

“I’ve heard the Steve spiel already,” you interrupt, frowning. “From Dustin, from him — it’s whatever.”

“From… huh?”

“It’s a long story,” you sigh, raising your eyebrows meaningfully. “Listen, don’t worry about it, we’ll have to catch up another time and —”

“Dude,” comes another voice then, far deeper. Your chest begins to feel funny. You don’t want to recognise it as quickly as you do. “Come on — what’s the hold up? Are they ‘out’ of strawberry syrup again? Because, swear to God, if that stoner manning the cash register told you that —”

“Steve,” Robin interrupts, mostly because he’s about to crash into her. “Stop.”

Only then does he finally tear his eyes away, having made the walk to the front counter with them glued to the TV screen.

“What?” He asks, sending her a bewildered glance. Beside her, a blur of gold, amber hues, a stranger bathed in soft sunlight, wearing a pretty dress. She’s out of focus at first, but the familiarity of her perfume draws him in. Faint bergamot, patchouli, remnants of drive-in petrichor; he’d recognise that smell anywhere.

“You?” He adds candidly, turning to you then. “What are you doing here?”

What are you doing here in a dress with spaghetti straps, low cut neck that he’s trying his best not to stare at? What are you doing here with lipgloss on, curly lashes, sparkly eyeshadow on that brightens your irises? What are you doing here, in this stupid, mundane diner, and why are you doing it whilst looking so, so pretty?

Your brow furrows at the question, and Steve’s fingers itch to smooth out the crease it forms on your forehead. It’s annoying, almost unfair, the effect that you’re having on him. Steve knows what you’re doing here. Why aren’t you doing it with him?

“Uh,” you start awkwardly, rocking back on your heels. “Grabbing a milkshake?”

Robin raises her eyebrows knowingly, scanning the row of hidden booths behind you. “With who?”

“No one,” you answer, entirely too quickly.

“Stop it,” Robin gasps, eyes widening excitedly. “You’re on a fucking date?”

Steve tenses. His vision blurs around your figure, tunes in on subtle movements, tiny changes in your expression. Your bottom lip tucks between your teeth, pert nose flaring as you sigh your defeat. There’s a shyness to the way your grimace. Robin’s right. Steve feels an ugly pang of jealousy.

“It’s going terribly,” you concede finally, features twisting into a grimace. “He’s more interested in the game than he is me.”

“Pretty good game,” Steve reasons, feigning nonchalance.

You roll your eyes, scoffing your exasperation. “Right. Of course it is.”

“Ditch him?” Robin offers, gesturing toward her table. Steve’s wallet and keys rest on its weathered surface.

“I shouldn’t,” you sigh, sending your own booth a reproachful glance. “He’s nearly done with his shake, anyway.”

“Why shouldn’t you?” Steve asks with a frown, clearly bewildered. “He’s being a total ass to you.”

“It’s called being polite,” you say pointedly.

“Screw polite,” he scoffs. “Any loser that’s ignoring you on a date doesn’t deserve polite. Ditch him.”

Your lips part in surprise, momentarily disarmed by his honesty. “Oh,” you nod, chewing your bottom lip absently. “Right.”

Steve resists the urge to grimace, blush blooming across his cheeks. “I just — you know what I mean.”

“I do.”

“Good,” he says, shoving his hands into his front pockets. He can feel Robin’s eyes burning holes into his side; he rocks back on his heels, he halts, he tries not to fidget.

He fails.

“Good,” you echo, watching him fiddle with the frayed hem of his crew neck.

“And, listen,” he adds then, deciding to bite the bullet at the last possible moment. “The other day, the gift-shop with Dustin…”

He trails to a pause, letting out a breath of air. “…for what it’s worth, I don’t think you give him bad advice. I’m just protective of the kid, you know? Don’t want to see his feelings hurt.”

You nod, swallowing slightly. Steve’s eye contact holds an intensity that’s almost devastating; it hasn’t wavered, not once, and it’s turning your knees to jelly. The way he’s looking at you, now, it feels as though you’re the only girl in the world. If you asked Steve why, he’d tell you it’s because he means it.

Because you are, to him.

—

The arcade is a sea of fluorescence, bold yellow, indigo, green mixed with brighter cherry. The different games whir loudly, obnoxiously from overuse, the sounds they make juxtaposed by people yelling. Lots and lots of yelling — when they win, when they lose, when they’re almost there, not quite, when they’ve made it to the next level; even when they haven’t.

Dustin Henderson is very easily the loudest. You could find him in a crowd, with your eyes closed, if you wanted to. (To your credit, they very nearly are, at present, what with the overhead lights strobing at such an offensive speed.)

“Henderson!” You call, cupping your mouth with your hands. “Come on!”

Dustin’s eyes widen as he recognises your voice, and he searches the crowd blindly before finding you within it. “Come here,” he mouthes, beckoning you over urgently.

“No,” you mouth back, frowning stubbornly. “Headache. Come on.”

Dustin groans. “But I’m not done!” He yells, jerking a thumb toward the game.

You’re halfway to responding, mouth open in protest, when a familiar, broad figure sidles in beside you.

“Hey,” he greets, sending you a swift smile. “What’re you doing here?”

You crinkle your nose slightly, nodding toward Dustin. “What do you think?”

Steve frowns then, confusion transforming his features. His figure shifts a little as he angles toward you, the solid expanse of muscle on his arm knocking yours in the process. The tendril of touch sends your nerve-endings aflame, shoots up into your shoulder, your chest till you’re shivering.

“What?” He asks, furrowing his brow for good measure. “But he asked me to pick him up.”

“He — what?” You echo, eyes darting toward Dustin. “No, he definitely asked me. Just the other day.”

You pause then, forehead creasing as you gather your thoughts. “Friday, 6pm sharp, don’t be late —”

“— because my mom expects me home at 6.30pm so she can call grandma and get me to talk to her,” Steve finishes reciting, pinching the bridge of his nose frustratedly. “That little shit. I’m going to fucking kill him.”

As if on queue, Dustin (who must’ve been lip-reading from a distance) chooses that moment to amble over, features a little meek.

“Hey, guys,” he starts awkwardly, rocking back on his heels. “So… funny story —”

“Nope. You’re walking home,” Steve interrupts, shaking his head with a perplexing amount of finality. There’s something strangely maternal about his disappointed expression; you aren’t sure whether you’re supposed to find it this attractive. Your shoulders brush, again, the edge of his knuckles to your elbow as he folds his arms across his chest. Heat radiates off his figure, and you can feel his muscles vibrate as they tense. Okay — yeah, he’s definitely attractive.

He looks down at you expectantly, catching the tail-end of a pain induced wince.

“Hey,” he murmurs, faltering. “You good?”

“Headache,” you answer dismissively, pressing your fingers to your temple. “No biggie.”

“See what you’ve done, Henderson?” Steve reprimands, fixing him with a pointed glare. “You’ve given her a headache.”

“That wasn’t me!”

“Even worse, then,” Steve corrects, tutting his disappointment. “You made her come all the way here with a headache when she definitely didn’t have to.”

Dustin grimaces apologetically, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, about that —”

“Don’t want to hear excuses, bud,” Steve interrupts, again. “Apology would be great, though.”

“Right,” Dustin agrees, nodding his head vigorously. “Or — or even better, a punishment. I have to, like, walk home, or something.”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “I said that already.”

“Exactly,” Dustin says quickly, turning back toward his huddle of friends. “So — yeah. I’ll do that. I’ll walk home.”

“Dustin, no way, Steve was kidding,” you insist, shaking your head. “We’re not letting you walk.”

“You have to. You — you have to like, teach me a lesson —”

“Okay, stop,” you frown, searching his terse features carefully. “What’s going on?”

Dustin shifts from one foot to the other. He toys with the clasp of his overalls, scuffs the tip of his sneaker on the sticky linoleum.

“I —” he pauses, squeezing his eyes shut as though he’s gathering the right words to say. “— alright, so like, I came with the gang, right? And I asked you guys for a ride, like I always do, but then Eddie and the Hellfire Club got here, and like half of them can drive too, so I just thought… you know — I don’t know — maybe one of them could —”

“Dustin Henderson,” you scold, cutting him a reproachful glare. “You dragged both of us out of our respective houses, and now you’re saying it was for nothing?”

“I don’t want to leave yet,” Dustin half-explains, half-pleads.

And Steve’s about to argue when you wince again, fingers flying to the knot of wrinkles between your eyebrows.

“Alright, you know what? Whatever,” he decides, unfolding his arms and letting them rest at his sides. The one beside yours twitches closer. “We’re leaving.”

His fingers intertwine yours before you can so much as process the exchange, tugging you into his side before turning on his heel.

Above you, the fluorescent lights change again, an abrasive flash of colour that shoots right into your forehead. The ache within it intensifies ten-fold, and you find yourself leaning against him on instinct.

“Is it the lights?” He asks, unclasping your hand to wrap a strong arm around your waist. He’s a solid expanse of muscle, firm torso juxtaposing the gentle way he holds you. You tuck into his side with entirely too much ease; feel almost feather-light, though perhaps that’s because he’s carrying all of your weight. He uses his free hand to shield your eyes from the strobe lights, feels your forehead creases soften as you find temporary relief.

“Mm-hm,” you manage, nodding your head ever so slightly.

“Almost out,” he murmurs, a few beats from the exit. “There we go. How does that feel?”

Significantly better, though you almost don’t want to admit it. You’re thoroughly enjoying being pressed up against Steve, his calloused fingers on your waist, his warm breath on your hair. His crew-neck is cotton soft, smells like familiar musk, math classes and drive-in movies and all those Steve things you’ve committed to memory. You wouldn’t mind being held like this forever. A little less clothing, a little more touching, and you definitely wouldn’t mind being held like this forever.

“Better,” you answer after a beat, peeling away from his figure reluctantly. “Uh, thanks.”

“Oh, yeah. No big.”

His sincerity makes you smile, and you do so, softly. “Anyway,” you say then, reaching into your front pocket. “I better head back home, try sleep this headache off.”

“What?” Steve’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head in quick, terse movements. “No way. You’re in no state to drive. Let me take you home.”

As though on queue, another pang of pain shoots down your forehead and settles within your eye sockets.

“But,” you protest lamely, “my car.”

“We can get it tomorrow,” Steve insists, already wrapping his arm back around your figure. “Come on. I’m taking you home.”

Above you, the velvet sky is moonless. The sun has long since sent, dark ink bleeding through gentler orange; it’s a welcome relief from the lights inside, soothes the miserable ache in your head.

“Just ‘round here,” Steve says gently, guiding you through the carpark and toward his pickup. “You live on that cul-de-sac by Maine Street, right?”

You’ve been squinting at your feet (not quite on the ground; Steve’s like, really strong) for the better half of the walk, though the question’s enough for your head to snap back up.

“What? How do you know that?” You ask, eyes widening bemusedly.

Steve halts as he nears the passenger’s side, grip loosening some so he can fish his keys out of his back pocket. The loss of support prompts you to lean against the door, cool metal sending a shiver down your spine.

“Oh, I —” Steve falters, having shifted his gaze from his keys back up to your face. There’s an inch, maybe two, of space between you; your eye contact is startlingly ardent, something sticky, almost electric in the air. You lean further back into his car, and your expression grows softer as the silence stretches. You’re glowing. There’s no moon in the sky, barely any stars, but fuck if Steve needs them; you’re almost iridescent.

“— from high-school,” he finishes finally, rubbing the back of his neck. “I used to see you go for walks along there.”

You raise your eyebrows, lips curving into a sweet smile. “You remember that?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, grinning sheepishly. His insides feel warm and gooey, all of the sudden; you’re smiling, at him, and he doesn’t want it to end, ever.

“That’s…” you trail off slowly, looking up at him through thick lashes, “…I didn’t expect that. That’s sweet.”

Steve feels himself blush, feels his heart bloom several sizes. “Alright, alright,” he says then, clearing his throat till he’s all business. “Enough about all that.”

He wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you back into his torso, reaching around your figure to unlock the door for you.

The movement’s so quick you brace your hands against his chest on instinct. You try to control your breathing; try not to focus on his heady cologne, the warmth of his skin, how it appears to vibrate.

“There, alright, get in,” Steve says hastily, acutely aware of the hand you rest over his heart. He tries to control how quickly it beats; tries not to focus on the feeling of your body, this close, your lavender shampoo, the sliver of bare skin above your waist.

You both fail.

“Thanks,” you answer, pulling away reluctantly. He buckles you in once you’re settled, jogging over to the driver’s side to do the same.

“Maine Street?” He asks, turning on the ignition. The radio must’ve been blaring on his way here, because the action blasts loud bubblegum pop through the speaker. Steve winces his disdain, clicking it off before turning toward you worriedly. “Shit, sorry, did that just make it worse?”

Your heart squeezes. He cares. “No, no, you’re good,” you smile, pressing your head back into the headrest. “Yeah, right by Maine Street. Geraldine Pass.”

—

Steve’s holding a half-eaten sandwich when you stir, having spent the better half of the last hour not quite sleeping, but not quite awake.

“Shit, hey, how’re you feeling?” He asks softly, settling on the edge of your bed as you sit up.

“Better,” you answer with a smile, nodding. You rub two fingers against your temple, eyeing the empty plate in his hand hopefully. “Hungry.”

“Oh — yeah,” Steve agrees, standing back up as you amble out of bed. Sleep creases the unblemished expanse of your neck, the contour of your cheek, the soft edge of your forearm. The pain meds have done you well; you aren’t wincing, anymore, and this brings him great relief.

After dropping you home, Steve insisted he stay with you. He isn’t quite sure why, but an irrational part of him told him he had to; had to help you up to your room, dim the lights, get you some pills and water, too. What if you couldn’t manage yourself? What if something happened to you in his absence?

Steve would die. He knows that sounds unreasonable, kind of crazy, but he would.

“Sorry, I —” he pauses, glancing down at his sandwich sheepishly. “— I hope you don’t mind, kinda helped myself —”

“Totally fine,” you dismiss, smiling. “What’s in it?”

Steve’s eyes light up, a roguish grin transforming his features. “Why don’t I make you one?” He asks, nodding toward the exit. “You can guess.”

You raise your eyebrows, narrowing your eyes suspiciously. “You’re gonna poison me, huh?”

“Oh shut up,” Steve laughs, turning around to head back down. “C’mon.”

When you re-enter the living room, Steve insists you wait for him on the couch.

“No peeking,” he warns, waggling his forefinger at you. “Just, like, chill. I’ll be out in a sec.”

You frown stubbornly, though you oblige, all the same, collapsing back into the cushions with your hands folded neatly in your lap.

It doesn’t take him long to make another sandwich. He comes back into the living room with a proud-looking plate in hand, placing it into your palms before settling down beside you. He sits really, really close; thigh pressed into yours, shoulder almost tucked into your back. His eyes are an alarmingly deep brown, but a hairsbreadth away, you can see burnt orange within them, lighter yellow.

“Alright,” his breath smells like sandwiches and mint. You wonder whether that’s how his lips taste. “Try it.”

You stare down at the sandwich for several moments before picking it up. When you do finally bring it to your mouth, the first bite is small, tentative as you try to gauge how it’ll taste. Salty pickles, prosciutto, a burst of sweet pineapple. Burger sauce, maybe tomato sauce, too.

“Shit,” you curse through a mouthful, closing your eyes as each flavour hits your tastebuds. “This is good.”

Steve grins. “See?” He teases, knocking your shoulder playfully. “Gotta trust me sometimes.”

You know the phrase doesn’t have a double meaning, but the more you mull it over, the more you realise you can’t ignore it. You don’t want to.

“I know,” you nod, angling your body toward him. There’s a disarming amount of sincerity in your eyes. You add, “I get it. The whole… you changing, thing, I get it.”

Steve swallows, and your gaze falls to his Adam’s apple momentarily. There’s a shadow of stubble on his jaw, his chin; rough and rugged in a way that juxtaposes his gentle smile.

“Look,” he says then, shaking his head slowly. “We got off on the wrong foot. I didn’t — I mean, sure, I was a little jealous of how much Dustin worships you, but I think a big part of me just…”

He trails off, wincing. “… just didn’t want to face someone who knew me as King Steve. Who hasn’t seen all the shit I’ve been through the past few; who hasn’t seen me grow out of that douchebag I was.”

“Steve,” you whisper, softening considerably. “I didn’t mean —”

“No, it wasn’t you,” he interrupts. “At the drive-in movie, you were being nice. I was the one who screwed it up. I don’t blame you for giving me the same energy right back.”

You nod, chewing on your bottom lip absently. “For what it’s worth, I was only being rude ‘cause I didn’t want you to think I was like, pathetic or something.”

There’s more you want to say, and the silence stretches as you gain the courage to do so. “I mean… you’re not the only one who’s changed since high-school. We — we’re both way different now, and that’s probably for the best, huh?”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, watching you take another bite of the sandwich. Remnants of orange, burger sauce stick to the side of your mouth.

“So we’re good?” You ask then, gazing up at him through thick lashes.

“Mm-hm,” Steve answers, eyes trained on the corners of your lips. “Uh, here,” he adds awkwardly, reaching forward to wipe the sauce away. It’s fleeting contact, but your breath catches, anyway; you can feel every rough, callous on his pad of his finger, feel the warmth of his touch long after he pulls away. His lips are probably softer than his hands. They’re probably hotter, harder, more impatient.

“Burger sauce,” he whispers lamely, fingers frozen mere inches from your face. He’d leant in to wipe away the orange substance, but this close, he isn’t sure he’s capable of pulling away. Your noses are a beat away from touching, his breath intermingling with yours, a little heavy.

“Right,” you mumble, feeling a little lightheaded. It’s probably the fact that you’re not breathing, anymore. Steve moves a little closer. His warm forehead presses into yours.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks softly, tucking his fingers underneath your jaw. It’s a gentle pressure, wonderfully firm, and he inches closer, gives you an almost, butterfly kiss.

“Yes please,” you manage to answer; your noses touch then, and you can feel his thumb caress the soft expanse of skin beside your lips.

Steve doesn’t kiss his Skull Rock girls like this.

It begins as a barely there brush of his lips; careful, soft, as though he’s testing tentative waters. But when he feels you melt against him, feels your lips part obligingly, he presses harder, firmer, less gentle, teeth-scraping kisses that have you gasping for air. He tastes faint mint on your tongue, strawberry milkshakes and drive-in movies, and he slips his hand under your shirt, then, covers the smooth expanse of your waist, your hip. He kisses you like he’s trying to memorise you. Like he isn’t sure whether you’re real, and he’s trying to convince himself through your lips. They’re softer than he imagined, as if that’s fucking possible, and he’s broad and wide and could swallow you whole and a secret part of you almost wants him to.

When he pulls away, it’s to catch his breath. Your fingers have tangled themselves in his floppy, brown hair; your eyes are still half-closed, lips bruised by the phantom of his.

Steve wonders fleetingly whether you understand the effect you have on him.

“Wow,” you mumble after a beat, and he grins, caressing the soft contour of your cheek. “I take it back.”

“Take it back?” Steve echoes, searching your features in earnest. “Take what back?”

You open your eyes then, bright irises scintillating mischief. “The whole ‘you’ve changed’ thing. You totally haven’t.”

Steve cocks his head to one side, raising his eyebrows questioningly.

“C’mon,” you tease, crinkling your nose playfully. “Taking advantage of pretty girls when they’re super high on pain meds? Total King Steve move —”

Steve shuts you up with another, firm kiss, lips descending on your jaw, the spot beneath your earlobe, your neck. “Shut up, shut up, shut up,” he mumbles into your skin, over and over. “Count yourself lucky that this is happening in your living room, and not at Skull Rock.”

“Ha ha,” you half-laugh, half-sigh, bruising kisses leaving you a little breathless. “You could never.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, lips on your collarbone now, dangerously close to the neckline of your t-shirt. “You’re right. Not with you.”

—

tags: @milkiane @goddamnbabysitter @thesimpletype

[starkeystights]

damn this is some good writing!

[jellyfishbeansontoast]

jealous jill

summary: a jealous steve - req

this isn’t edited but i believe it should be gender neutral if there’s any slip ups pls let me know!

Steve - the hair - Harrington was jealous. It wasn’t a problem he usually faced, in fact it was often the other way round. It hadn’t gone unnoticed by him the way girls fawned over him, or his hair. He’d noticed how they’d come into Family video, hovering by the horror section, the area that had the best view of the tills, with no intention of getting the Poltergeist.

But it was different when you came in like clockwork every Friday afternoon. Robin had guessed Steve had a thing for you pretty quickly as always. Every Friday he’d anxiously wait at the tills, usually being sent to do some random job Robin made up as he was too preoccupied to do his job properly.

The first time you’d come in Steve had been tripping over his feet to get to the till before Robin. Usually he was cool in front of girls he liked but something about you just made him stumble over all his words. Robin watched from the back, holding in a laugh when he forgot how to even work the till.

Since then he’d managed to hold conversations with you - barely. Finding out that you came every week to pick a film for your weekly film night. Steve almost wished he could score an invitation.

That was the usual Friday routine, until one time you didn’t show. Robin had teased him endlessly as he watched the door like a lost puppy. When closing time arrived Steve was slumped over the counter dejected.

“Steve” Robin whined, poking him in the back “I need you to help me shut up.”

“What’s the point when love is dead.” He mumbled, throwing a hand in the air.

Just as Steve had managed to pick himself up off the counter the bell rang, signalling a customer.

“Sorry guys we’re -” he was cut off by the sound of your voice, when he looked up the sight made him wish he hadn’t. Your hand was grasped firmly in that of Eddie Munsons. He felt like he’d been stabbed, you weren’t even together yet somehow he felt cheated on.

“Is it okay if we look for five minutes?” You asked, normally if it had been anyone else Steve would have been pushing them out of the door but he always made time for you.

He nodded reluctantly, shooting a withering look to the long haired boy next to you. Your excitable chatter echoed through the small shop, your conversation indistinguishable but he could tell whatever you had found was good.

“Just this, Stevie” you beamed up at him. He blushed at the nickname, heat rising up his neck, he clears his throat awkwardly before completing your order.

“Enjoy,” he waves his hand between you and Eddie “whatever you’re doing.” You make your way to leave and Steve’s head falls into his hands.

“That was painfully awkward, Harrington” Robin pats him on the back, her voice strangled with laughter.

“Love is dead” he repeats, slumping back onto the counter.

“Calm down jealous Jill.”

The week passes slowly and despite the gnawing feeling in his stomach that you’d much rather spend your time with Eddie he still looks forward to your visit.

Once the time has come Steve is unusually irritated and no longer looking forward to seeing you after one two many jokes from Robin.

“For Munson?” He snaps as you pass him the film at the counter. His voice is sharper than he intended and he recoils internally, “sorry, ignore that.”

But the damage is done, he’s shown he’s jealous. You lean across the counter, resting your chin on your hands. “And would you have a problem with that, Stevie?” A sly grin features on your face, Steve finds himself staring at your lips for too long, his eyes tracing the curve of your Cupid’s bow. God how he wished he could kiss that stupid grin off your face. He shakes his head, clearing the thoughts.

“Not at all, enjoy with whoever you want.” He plasters on a fake smile.

You narrow your eyes coyly, a hint of laughter sparkling in them, “So you won't mind if this is for Eddie” you hold up the film in your hand, the cover of ‘Sixteen Candles’ displayed on the front.

“Didn’t realise Munson was the Chick flick type”

“No, but maybe you are?”

“What are you trying to say?” He asks with a grin.

“They’re asking you out, stupid” calls Robin from the back. Steve slams the door to the back room shut, his cheeks flaming red.

Your eyebrows are raised questioningly, “so?”

“I’m more of a Footloose kinda guy” he smirks, “but that’ll do.” He takes your hand in his, leading you out of the shop, leaving Robin to shut up alone but she’ll allow it just this one time if it ‘stops you moping around every week till friday.’

tagging some people who might be interested but no pressure to interact: @x-lulu @sortagaysortahigh @thisismynerdyself

[starkeystights]

JEALOUS STEVE JEALOUS STEVE JEALOUS STEVE JEALOUS STEVE

[reawritesthings]

part of your world | jj maybank

summary: chasing the blonde beauty all the way to the cut was one of the best ideas you ever came up with.

words: 3.8K

a/n: it’s been a hot minute since i have written for obx and i’m totally excited to share this little piece with you. i’ve always wanted to do a little mermaid inspired, and i’m low-key nervous with the fact that i’m posting for the fandom! feedback is much appreciated!! thank u too @bigassnocash for proof reading this!!

Confined in an affluent lifestyle with no real experiences, you sat comfortably on your window pane overlooking the rich polychrome orange sky. Although the objects around you gave you some indifference to the other kids living on the lot, it wasn’t anything meaningful. It was an act of good behaviour, missed birthdays and business deals. 

Keep reading

[starkeystights]

GAHHHHH I LOVE THIS SO MUCH

[theepoguelandia]

y’all i HATE when people gatekeep things and all… but tiktok is really stressing me out with these new Drew simps-

i think i might be toxic

[twinklelilstarkey]

Sunburnt - Rafe Cameron

Words: 20.6k+

Type: Angst, Smut

Summary: Spending a weekend at Cameron’s house and swimming in their pool doesn’t sound all that bad. Expect when you hate your best friend’s brother and the both of you get sunburnt.

Warnings: Fem!Reader. Slow burn story. Non-canon ages - Rafe is just a year older than the Reader and Sarah, who are of age (!!). An age gap of one year. Arguing, insults. A lot of smacking each other. Mentions of alcohol consumption and getting drunk. Eavesdropping. SMUT (minors DNI; Oral sex - female receiving; Unprotected sex; Spanking; Biting; Risk of getting caught; Praise Kink; Orgasm denial, etc.).

Hate is a big word. 

Yet you’re not scared to use it when you describe your relationship with Rafe Cameron. 

You two have known each other for years, and that feeling has never changed. Oh, well, to be fair, when you first met him, you had a crush. It is a secret you still believe you will be taking to your grave. You’re embarrassed for ever feeling that sort of way towards him, but what can you say? You two were just kids.

Keep reading

[starkeystights]

20.6k+ of pure perfection!