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SERIES
As Steve Harrington
• Façade | 76,5k | Steve abandons her after a night of stolen kisses in fear of the Upside Down catching up on him and ruining everything, but what if she gets involved either way? What if she gets stranded, alone, hurt, left to mend for herself? 18+ only / slow burn / angst / hurt late comfort
ONE-SHOTS
As Steve Harrington
• dɏing on the inside | 2.3k | Steve’s grief has been on the same stage for months : denial. He just can’t do it. Living without her is just impossible. | 18+ only / angst
• WIP
[This material falls under @takemetothelakes-poets’ property. I do not give permission for this material to be copied, modified, reproduced, displayed and used in AI without my written permission. The original characters belong to their original creators, are used in fair-use and are protected by International Copyright Law.]
S: Steve abandons her after a night of stolen kisses in fear of the Upside Down catching up on him and ruining everything, but what if she gets involved either way? What if she gets stranded, alone, hurt, left to mend for herself?
W: fem!reader with she/her pronouns, no physical description unless necessary and no use of Y/n, deaths, blood, gore and violence, references to mental health issues, references to sexual themes, very introspective, 18+ only, angst, slow burn, hurt/late comfort
COMPLETED | word count: 76.5k
PART I
PT, ONE : THE HEARTBREAK | 3.4k
PT, TWO : THE PORTAL ON THE HIGHWAY | 1k
PT, THREE : THE UPSIDE DOWN | 7k
PT, FOUR : THE FOUR CHIMES | 18k
PART II
PT, FIVE : THE MORNING AFTER | 4.5k
PT, SIX : HAWKINS’S PARTY | 5.1k
PT, SEVEN : THE SPY AND THE SPIED | 5.6k
PT, EIGHT : THE BATTLE OF HAWKINS | 8.9k
PT, NINE : THE THUNDER IN OUR HEARTS | 4k
EPILOGUE : “still loving you, i need your love” | 18.7k
[This material falls under @letfromthelakes's property. I do not give permission for this material to be copied, modified, reproduced, displayed and used in AI without my written permission. The original characters belong to their original creators, are used in fair-use and are protected by International Copyright Law.]
I cannot believe that it's almost been a year since I finished writing façade (what literally took up 3 years of my life), how time flies oh my god. I haven't gotten any inspiration nor motivation to write since then (that final chapter literally took more than a year to write okay) but I'm thinking about it so, hopefully it'll come back?
♡ Steve touches you as if he can press the truth directly into your skin.
Warnings : 18+ / MDNI! • Enemies to lovers, hurt/comfort, angst (blood/injuries, fear of losing someone), smoking (cigarette), smut (unprotected sex, fingering, semi-public ie outside), emotional vulnerability, protective Steve Harrington, praise kink(?) with themes of trauma, self-worth, and comfort throughout
Pairing : Steve Harrington x impossible girl!Henderson!reader
Word count: 7.3k
Summary: After yet another failed crawl leaves you trapped beneath collapsing concrete, Steve Harrington finally snaps. Forcing you to confront what you really mean to him.
Chef’s Note: yes, the glasses stay on. Send any tips to this customer @roseswebcorner (Order in comments) ♡
The 1,000 followers menu
Rain spits against the windows of the station, turning the parking lot outside into a smear of neon reflections and black asphalt. The ‘WSQK’ sign buzzes red against the storm, flickering ominously over puddles and the van which Steve had abandoned at an angle near the curb, one wheel half up on the pavement.
Wind rattles the broken gutter overhead, and through the rain-streaked glass you can just about make him out, standing beneath the awning. Barely sheltered.
Head tipped back against the brick. White t-shirt damp beneath his cord jacket where the rain had soaked through. Hair curling at the edges, pushed back off his forehead evidently from running his hands through it. His wire-framed glasses catch the red every few seconds, briefly obscuring the exhausted look underneath them before the light flickers away.
Steve.
Steve with blood drying across his knuckles.
Steve with a cigarette between his fingers despite the fact he told the others he’d quit months ago.
You push open the station door and step out into the damp night air, the storm immediately swallowing you whole. Instinctively wrapping your jacket tighter around yourself.
He spares you the briefest of glances when you step out, closing the door behind you. His eyes catch yours; sharp for half a second before he drops his gaze back to the cigarette between his fingers, jaw tight behind the slow curl of smoke.
You cross the narrow space between you and lean against the wall opposite him, back against damp brick. Rainwater drips steadily from the edge of the awning between you, hitting the pavement in uneven taps.
Neither of you speak. Steve just takes another drag; choosing to focus on that and not the fact that you followed him out here.
“You know those things kill you, right?” you say eventually, voice so uneven you're not sure you sound like yourself.
He lets out a humorless huff through his nose. “Think I’m aware.”
The stick glows orange between his fingers. You just watch his hand.
Swollen knuckles.
Split skin.
A faint smear of blood slowly drying near his wrist.
Without really thinking about it, only really to distract yourself from the way your stomach twists, you reach forward and pluck the cigarette from between his fingers.
Steve’s eyes flick to you, but he doesn’t move to stop you.
You take a drag before you can think it through, the smoke burning harsh down your throat. For a while no words pass between you. Just the cigarette.
Until eventually you realise you haven’t stopped staring at his hand.
The way his fingers keep clenching and unclenching at his side. The almost imperceptible wince every now and then that he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it.
“You should probably clean that up.”
His jaw flexes.
“Yeah?” he says flatly. “You think?” The way he looks at you when he says it—tired, angry, something rawer underneath —makes you swallow harshly.
Steve takes the cigarette back from you, shoulders tenser than you’ve ever seen them. Then, quieter but just as sharp, he adds, “Maybe you should stop giving me reasons to punch things.”
“There it is.” You knew that was coming. The blame. Is it warranted? Probably. Do you want to hear it? No.
You tilt your head back against the brick, forcing your voice to be lighter than you feel, forcing yourself to say your next words. “That wasn’t my fault.”
His head lifts slowly, eyes finding yours before skirting over you just as slowly. Rain-dark hair plastered messily around your face. Mud streaked across the knees of your jeans from where you hit the ground. The tiny cut near your cheekbone you hadn’t bothered cleaning.
Something sharp flashes across his face so quickly it looks physical.
He grits his next words out. “You ran in there alone.”
Your jaw tightens instantly. “I had it handled.”
Steve actually laughs out that. Cutting. Slightly mocking. “You did, did you?”
A flashlight beam disappearing around the corner before he could grab your hand. Your voice crackling through the radio—I’ll be fine, just cover the other side—
Then static.
You flinch. You don’t need reminding.
The floor giving out beneath your feet. Rust and concrete collapsing inward. Your shoulder slamming hard enough into the wall to make your vision spark white.
You force yourself to shrug anyway. “But I got out.”
“Because of me.” Steve steps forward as he says it, the words sharper and louder than everything else he’s said tonight before he visibly catches himself.
His voice lowers again, words scrapped raw. “You got out because I got to you in time.”
His eyes lock onto yours and don’t move. Don’t even blink.
And for a second neither do you. Like you're in a trance.
Rain continues to hammer down around you. Neon red flickers across the sharp line of his jaw, catches against the lenses of his glasses, turns his soaked white t-shirt pink for half a heartbeat before fading again.
You look away first.
Your jaw aches from how hard you’re clenching it. Steve’s breathing hard now, not from exertion but from whatever ugly thing he’s been trying to hold down since you all came back up.
“You know what I heard?” he asks.
You don’t answer. He doesn’t give you time to.
“You telling me to shut up, a loud crash—” His voice catches suddenly, wavering around the next part like he physically hates saying it out loud. “You scream.”
His eyes lock back onto yours, he swallows, hard, before continuing. “And then nothing.”
The words hit harder than they should.
Because, yes, you remember it too.
The static swallowing your voice mid-sentence. The sick drop in your stomach when the tunnel floor gave out beneath you. The impact. Dust choking the air so thick you could barely breathe around it.
And then silence.
Deafening. All-consuming. Terrifying.
Steve drags a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through every little move he makes. “Do you have any idea what that was like?”
You hate this.
Hate the way he’s looking at you. Hate remembering the panic clawing up your throat beneath all that concrete. Hate remembering how helpless you felt down there. Hate the fact he saw you like that.
So you default to the only thing you know how to do in a moment like this: deflection.
“I’m standing here, aren’t I?”
Steve’s expression hardens instantly. “That’s not the fucking point, Henderson.”
You cross your arms tighter over your chest like a shield; voice raising to match his. “Then what is?”
For a second he just stares at you like he can’t actually believe you’re asking. As if he genuinely cannot comprehend how you don’t get this. And in your rational brain, maybe you do. A little. But understanding something and letting yourself feel it are two very different things.
He just laughs, again. This time it’s softer. Not quite so mocking anymore.
In fact it sounds a little wrecked.
Actually, it sounds completely and utterly wrecked.
“I found you trapped under concrete,” he says, rough and low, every word a struggle for him to say. “And you were still trying to joke with me.”
Your stomach twists, you feel your hands grow clammy and shake by your side because suddenly you’re back there.
Steve dropping to his knees beside you so hard the impact echoed through the building. Blood already running over his knuckles from the door he’d punched and kicked through to reach you. His hands shaking while he shoved broken debris away from your leg.
And you, dizzy and hurting and terrified in a way you didn’t want to name, still forcing out:
“Took you long enough, Harrington.”
Steve had looked at you like the joke physically hurt him.
And now, eyes glassy behind rain-speckled lenses, cheeks flushed, his jaw flexes the exact same way.
“You looked at me like-like it was no big deal—“
You swallow harshly, cutting him off. “It wasn’t—”
“How can you say that?” His voice cracks this time. Barely, but you hear it.
“Jesus Christ, do you think I wanted to not be able to fucking answer Dustin when he’s screaming down the radio that you’re not answering? Cause I didn’t know why you weren’t. Cause you had decided to go off alone. Again.”
Rain rattles violently against the metal awning overhead. Steve looks away suddenly, dragging a hand over his mouth before shaking his head once.
“Do you think I wanted to be the one to tell him that you—” His voice catches hard enough that he has to stop. “That you…”
He can’t say it.
You realise with a horrible twisting ache that he physically cannot force the words out. Like saying them aloud might make them real. Might drag you right back beneath the rubble where he found you.
The storm presses in around you both, so loud now that it almost feels intrusive. Like the night itself is listening.
Steve stares out into the rain, chest rising hard beneath the damp white t-shirt, cigarette long forgotten.
You don’t know what to do with this version of him.
Steve annoyed? Easy.
Steve sarcastic? Easy. Typical.
Steve looking at you like losing you would’ve broken him? That hurts.
In a way you don't understand. In a way that makes your chest actually ache.
“He would’ve been okay,” you say quietly, and you almost believe yourself.
But Steve’s head snaps toward you so fast you instantly regret it. “What?”
You shrug even though the motion feels stiff. Defensive. False. “Dustin. He would’ve been okay.” You nod as you say it; like that will make it true.
For a second Steve just stares at you.
Then something furious flashes across his face.
“No,” he says immediately. “No, he wouldn’t have.”
You open your mouth to say-to say—you don’t know. You don’t know what to say, what to do, where to look.
“No.” Steve shakes his head once, sharp and disbelieving. “No.”
You look away on instinct—the look in his eyes, the rawness of his voice suddenly all too much. You try to make yourself smaller somehow. Fold inward. Retreat back behind the walls that usually keep people out before he can force his way through them.
But he won't let you. Not anymore. Not after today.
He’s moving before you can.
One second there’s space between you. And then the next there isn’t.
Rain clings to his lashes. His glasses sit crooked from where he shoved a hand through his hair moments earlier. His chest rises hard beneath his soaked t-shirt as he steps into your space like he physically cannot stand this distance anymore..
And then before you can even blink his hand is grasping your jaw. Firm. Unwavering. His fingers curl against your skin and drag your face back up until your eyes are on him. Only on him.
No chance to run. No chance to hide from this. From him.
“Harringto—”
Your voice doesn’t sound like your own. Too thin. Too breathless. Like you’re begging for something you can’t even name. For him to stop. For him not to stop. For him not to make you stand here and let him see you like this.
“No. You’re not listening to me.” His thumb presses sharply against your jaw as frustration bleeds through every word. “You keep saying this shit like people would just get over it. Like losing you wouldn't-wouldn't mean anything.”
Your pulse stumbles hard against your ribs.
“You think Dustin would’ve been okay?” he says incredulously.
“You think your brother wouldn’t spend the rest of his life wondering if he could’ve stopped you from running in there alone? That if he had done even the slightest thing differently that you would still be here. Going over and over and over it in his head wondering where he fucked up?”
“You keep acting like you’re expendable,” he says, voice cracking around the last word. “As if it wouldn’t matter if you didn’t come back.”
You try to pull away instinctively, discomfort clawing up your throat too fast, but Steve’s grip tightens slightly before immediately softening again when he realises it.
Not letting you go. Not letting you disappear.
“And me?” It’s not only his voice that has broken but his expression, as he struggles to speak. “You think I would’ve been fucking okay?”
He’s staring at you like he needs you to understand this. Like it matters more than his pride. More than winning any argument. More than whatever this thing between you has become.
It's almost like he’s trying to show you something in his words, in his face, in the desperation in his voice. Something he’s been trying to show you for a long time now and you just keep refusing to see.
If he can just make you see it—really see it—maybe he can stop you from slipping through his fingers next time.
Your breath catches painfully in your throat. Because the worst part is—
Some part of you thinks you do see it.
That maybe you always have.
And that is infinitely more terrifying than pretending you don’t.
“Why?” you croak out before coughing lightly and trying again. “Why?”
The question seems to knock the air out of him for a second. His brows pull together hard as he almost spits out “What?”
“Why would you care?” You mean for it to sound sharp. Defensive. Detached.
Instead it comes out small. Confused.
Steve, for all his frustration and anger, just stares at you.
It’s still raining heavily, wind now pushing cold mist beneath the awning, but all you can feel is the warmth of his body standing so close to yours.
Then he laughs once under his breath. But it's devoid of any humour.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, swiping the hand not cupping your jaw down his face and through his hair, shaking his head. “You really don’t know.”
Immediately your defenses slam back into place. “Know what?” you say quickly, trying for sarcasm mixed with anger and missing completely. “All I do is annoy you.”
“We fight constantly,” you cut in, words tumbling out faster now because if you stop talking you might actually have to hear what he’s trying to say—what he’s been trying to say for years now. “I drag you into insane bullshit, I nearly got myself killed tonight, I got you injured, I make your life harder basically every time I—”
Suddenly you’re cut off.
Not by more words.
But by a forceful pressure.
Specifically, Steve's mouth on yours.
He crashes into you. Moving like he's been holding this in for years—like if he doesn’t do it now, he’ll drown in the weight of it. Like he cannot stand hearing one more terrible thing leave your mouth.
It's not soft. Not careful.
It’s desperate and angry and messy, his lips pressing hard enough to bruise, his fingers digging into your jaw to keep you there.
You gasp against him, and he takes full advantage, slanting his mouth over yours again, teeth scraping, breaths mingling sharp with the almost addictive combination of nicotine and rain.
You stumble back a step, shoulders hitting the wall, but he doesn’t let you retreat. He uses his body instead of his words to cage you in, one hand still gripping your jaw, the other braced against the wall beside your head. His glasses dig into your cheekbone, the frames cold where they press against your skin, but you don’t pull away. You are not sure you could.
You finally snap out of the shock of it, and in that moment all you want is him closer than humanly possible. Your hands fist in the damp cotton of his shirt, dragging him closer with a desperation that surprises even you. .
Steve lets out a ragged moan against your mouth, the sound muffled by the sharp press of teeth and lips—half frustration, half surrender—before he mutters a broken, "Fuck," against your skin.
It’s all hands and teeth and the dizzying press of bodies.
His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, gripping just tight enough to tilt your head back, exposing your throat to the scrape of his stubble.
You gasp at the feeling, and he fully takes the opportunity given to him to deepen the kiss, tongue hot and insistent, like he’s trying to rewrite every argument, every sharp word, every moment you’ve spent at each other’s throats.
All in this one kiss.
“You think I don’t care?” he murmurs against your mouth before kissing you again immediately. “Jesus Christ.”
Another kiss.
Another sharp inhale.
His lips drag against yours slower this time, but no less desperate.
“I punched through a fucking door for you,” he says hoarsely, words breaking apart between kisses. “When I heard you scream—” His voice catches roughly. “When I saw you trapped down there alone I-I couldn't breathe.”
Your chest aches so hard it feels unbearable.
“Not till I knew you were okay.” His hands are still shaking even as they hold onto you.
Steve kisses you again before you can speak, like he already knows you’ll try to argue your way out of this too.
He’s not wrong.
“No,” he mutters against your lips, thumb trembling where it rests beneath your jaw. “No, you don’t get to do that anymore.”
Steve touches you like he can press the truth directly into your skin; then you might finally believe him. “You matter to me,” he breathes against your mouth.
And then, quieter. Rougher. “So fucking much.”
Another kiss, slower now, but somehow just as devastating.
“More than you’ll ever know,” he says hoarsely against your lips. “More than you ever could.”
Your throat tightens dangerously. And for the first time all night, maybe ever, you don’t call him Harrington.
.“Steve…”
The name leaves you like something fragile, like it physically hurts you to let him hear it.
Hearing his name said by you, like that—soft, fractured, stripped bare—destroys whatever last shred of restraint he’d been clinging to.
Steve’s breath stutters against your lips, his grip tightening in your hair reflexively. The sound of his name in your voice—not Harrington, not king Steve, not something thrown at him in anger or challenge–does something violent to his chest.
He doesn’t just kiss you this time—he devours you.
He drags you impossibly closer, his teeth catching your lower lip hard, his tongue sweeping in long before you can recover. There’s absolutely nothing gentle about it—this is Steve memorising your mouth like it's proof you’re real.
That he didn't lose you before he ever got the chance to have you.
“Been trying not to do this for so long,” he admits roughly against your mouth
Surprisingly, that brings a smile to your face—a real one, small and disbelieving but there—and you feel the tension in your chest loosen just enough to breathe. Maybe it’s the adrenaline still humming in your veins, or the way Steve’s hands are trembling where they’re tangled in your hair, but suddenly you can’t help it.
You tilt your head back to break the kiss, lips brushing his as you murmur, “You’re telling me Steve Harrington, King Steve, has been pining after Henderson’s big sister? All this time?”
Steve freezes.
For a second, he just stares at you, rain dripping from his lashes, mouth slightly parted like he can’t decide whether to strangle you or kiss you again. Then his grip tightens in your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp.
“You’re fucking impossible,” he grits out, but there’s no anger left in it—just exasperation, fondness, something raw and aching beneath the words.
The grin tugging at your mouth only widens. “You need to work on your moves.”
Steve blinks at you, mouth not even an inch away from yours.. “Excuse you?”
“You heard me,” you murmur, lips still brushing his. “That’s a little bit embarrassing, don’t ya think? And not for days, or weeks—years.”
Steve lets out a disbelieving laugh.
“You made me your enemy when really you just wanted to have me.”
Steve goes absolutely, completely, still.
For one glorious second Steve Harrington actually looks completely and utterly, beautifully speechless.
The wind changes direction causing the rain to hit the both of you. Rainwater slides down the side of his face as he stares at you, jaw flexing hard—actively trying not to react to that sentence the way he wants to.
You can practically feel the moment his patience snaps—his fingers twitch, his jaw sets, and his gaze narrows. “You,” he grits out, thumb tapping your chin, voice rough, “are pushing your luck.”
You grin up at him, tilting your head to make his grip shift. “Am I?”
His thumb presses into the hinge of your jaw, tilting your face up further. “Yeah. You are.”
There’s a beat of silence—then you hum, deliberately slow, eyes flicking down to his mouth and back up. “I don’t think I am.”
Steve exhales sharply against your lips, the heat of his breath mingling with the chill of the rain still dripping down his face. His fingers twitch where they’re tangled in your hair, grip tightening just enough to make it hurt. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” he mutters, voice rough—half protest, half plea.
You meet his gaze, eyes innocent—unaffected—rainwater catching on your lashes. “Then stop.”
His jaw flexes. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
His thumb drags slowly along your jawline, pressing just shy of painful when it catches on the curve of your chin. Then it traces your jawline, slow and deliberate, before his fingers drop lower. Curling into the damp fabric of your shirt, then dragging downward until they catch on the waistband of your jeans.
His gaze locks onto yours, challenge burning behind rain-speckled lenses. "You wouldn't care?" he murmurs, voice rougher than the storm overhead.
You tilt your head, feigning indifference even as your pulse kicks violently against your ribs. "Mm?"
He flicks the button open, fingers hovering over the zip. "So if I just—"
His gaze is locked onto yours, daring you to stop this. Daring you to stop him.
The zipper rasps open under his touch, cold air biting at exposed skin as his hand slides in. His fingers trace the dip of your hipbone, rough and warm against the bite of the wind.
"You wouldn’t care if I went back inside?" he murmurs, voice scraping low.
Your breath hitches. You should push him away. Should say something sharp, something defensive but all you can manage is a shaky exhale as his fingers dip lower, skimming the edge of your underwear.
Steve watches you with a focus that borders on predatory. His fingers pause, testing, waiting for you to bolt or shove him back. When you don’t, his lips twitch—not quite a smirk, but something darker. Something hungrier.
"Guess that answers that," he mutters, and then his hand is sliding fully into your pants, palm hot against your stomach.
Steve’s fingers slide beneath your underwear with a precision that shouldn’t be possible given how badly his hands were shaking moments ago. His fingers dip lower, finding you already wet—impossibly so—despite the cold, despite the argument, despite everything.
His breath hitches against your throat. “Fuck,” he mutters, half to himself, half to you.
You gasp, sharp and involuntary, your hands scrambling for purchase against his rain-damp jacket as your legs threaten to give out entirely.
Steve doesn’t give you the chance to collapse.
His free hand slides around your hip, fingers digging into the curve of your ass, hauling you up against him like you weigh nothing. Your thigh instinctively hooks around his waist as he pins you against the brick wall.
All the while he doesn’t stop, his fingers working you with a rhythm that borders on punishing, his palm grinding against your clit with every upward stroke.
You bite down on a moan, forehead dropping against his shoulder, nails raking down the front of his jacket, his neck—really anywhere you can reach. .
The angle is awkward: the wall digging into you, his glasses still digging into your cheekbone, but none of it matters. Not when his thumb circles once—hard—and your vision whites out for a second, hips jerking against his hand.
“Fuck—Steve—” The name tears out of you, ragged and broken, as his fingers curl just right, pressing deep.
Your gaze catches briefly on the split skin across his knuckles where his hand grips your hip. “Careful,” you breathe instinctively. “Your hand—”
Steve lets out a rough, disbelieving laugh against your throat, forehead dropping briefly to your shoulder like the concern physically hurts him. “Don’t care,” he mutters.
Before sinking his teeth into the curve of your neck hard; claiming the space between your pulse and your collarbone. Then his tongue follows, slow and hot, soothing the sting in a way that makes your knees threaten to buckle again.
All the while, his fingers don’t stop moving inside you; dragging a choked, alien noise from your lips.
“Still think I don’t care?” he mutters against your skin. His thumb circles your clit again, deliberate, relentless, and you choke on absolutely nothing.
You don’t get a chance to answer—not that you could even form words right now—because Steve’s mouth is back on yours. Fingers working you faster, rougher, until your breath comes in sharp, uneven gasps against his mouth.
He continues, this time his breath fans your ear, “Still think I hate you?” he repeats.
You whine–it’s high, desperate and pathetic—in the back of your throat. His palm grinds against your clit; everything is too much and not enough all at once.
“Honey—” Steve’s voice cracks around the word, rough with something that isn’t just frustration anymore. “I could never hate you.” His fingers curl inside you, pressing deep enough to punch out another pathetic whine.
“You annoy the absolute shit out of me,” he admits hoarsely. “You drive me insane. You never listen to me, you throw yourself into danger without a single thought about yourself, and every time you do I just wanna grab you and shake some sense into you.”
His thumb strokes your cheek almost unconsciously as he says it. The softest he has ever touched you–by far.
“But hate you?” Steve lets out a breathless laugh, the idea utterly ridiculous to him. “Jesus Christ.” He cuts himself off with a ragged exhale, forehead dropping against yours as his thumb circles your clit in slow, deliberate strokes.
“You walk into a room and suddenly I can’t think properly.”
Your stomach flips violently.
“You argue with me about everything.”
“I do not—”
“You’re literally about to,” he says immediately, kissing the corner of your mouth when you glare at him.
It pulls the smallest unwilling laugh from you but you still can’t help but roll your eyes.
Steve’s expression softens at the sound instantly. And then more seriously, even more sincerely:
“I know what kind of mood you’re in by how hard you slam a door. I know when you’re lying by the scrunch of your nose.” His jaw tightens slightly.
“I knew you were in trouble tonight before anyone else even realised something was wrong.”
Your chest aches.
Steve swallows hard, eyes flicking over your face like he’s trying to make you understand something impossible. “You’re not forgettable,” he says quietly.
The words hit harder than they should.
His thumb brushes your cheek almost absently, tenderness bleeding through every movement now.
“You walk into a room and people look for you when you leave it.” His voice roughens slightly. “You’re loud and difficult and stubborn as hell and somehow you still make everything feel…” He breaks off with a frustrated breathless laugh, shaking his head once. “Fuck.”
Your pulse stumbles beneath his hand.
Steve presses his forehead against yours again before finishing quietly:
“You’re everything.”
Your breath catches to the point where you think you might stop breathing.
He closes his eyes briefly as if he didn’t mean to say that part out loud. But when he looks at you again, he doesn’t take it back. He doubles down.
“And I need- I need you to believe that.”
“I tried not to—” He cuts himself off with another rough laugh. “I really fucking tried not to do this.”
“But then you smile at me,” he says softly, almost accusingly. “Or you say my name and suddenly I’m done for.”
You stare at him speechless.
Steve brushes his nose against yours gently before kissing you again, nowhere near as frantic this time but somehow all the more intimate for it.
“So no,” he murmurs against your lips. “I don’t hate you.”
A pause.
Then, quieter:
“I think-” he pauses, taking a deep breath, his fingers slowing, “I think-I’ve been in love with you for a really, really long time.”
You whine—high-pitched and completely broken—as Steve’s fingers thrust just right, pressing deep, and suddenly the world fractures.
Your back arches off the wall, thighs clamping tight around him, nails biting into the damp fabric of his jacket as pleasure crashes over you in waves so sharp you actually can’t breathe.
And Steve? Steve doesn’t let you ride it out in peace. His mouth finds yours again, kissing you through the aftershocks. His tongue licks into your mouth just as his thumb circles your oversensitive clit, dragging a sob from you that he swallows greedily.
"That's it," Steve murmurs against your temple, lips brushing damp skin as your hands scramble clumsily over his shoulders. "Good girl."
The praise sends yet another shudder through you, legs still trembling from the aftershocks. You're barely lucid, fingers twisting in his soaked shirt as you press impossibly closer with a whine—high and needy, the sound muffled against his collarbone where your mouth rests.
"Steve—" Your voice cracks around his name, raw from earlier shouts now reduced to breathless pleading. "Please—"
"What, baby?" His fingers stroke gently through slick heat, coaxing another weak jerk of your hips. Rainwater drips from his hair onto your flushed cheeks when he leans down. "What do you need?"
You can't answer—not coherently at least—just rut against his hand with a broken noise, oversensitive but desperate for more after he just gave you the best orgasm of your life.
His chuckle is dark, warm against your ear as his free hand slides up to your jaw, cradling it. “Gonna need you to say it baby.”
The words shouldn’t wreck you the way they do. They absolutely shouldn’t send heat coiling low in your stomach all over again—but they do.
They absolutely do, and Steve absolutely knows it. You can see it in the way his eyes darken behind his glasses, in the way his thumb presses just under your chin, tilting your face up slowly.
“Say it,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Tell me what you want.”
You swallow hard, your throat working around nothing, because god, this is torture.
The way his fingers are still inside you, curled just enough to tease but not enough to give you what you need. The way his breath fans over your lips, warm and uneven, like he’s barely holding himself together. The way his glasses are fogged beyond repair, rainwater clinging to his lashes, his hair a mess from where you’ve dragged your hands through it god knows how many times.
You hate the way you sound—whining, desperate, voice cracking around his name like some lovesick idiot—but god, you don’t care. Not now. Maybe later.
"Steve," you murmur again, hands fisting desperately in the soaked fabric of his shirt, vying to drag him closer even though there’s not an ounce of space left between you.
He hums, considering, like he’s weighing whether to give in—and for one stupid, hopeful second, you think he will. But then he pulls his fingers out of you with a slow, deliberate drag that makes your hips jerk forward instinctively— chasing the loss, the sudden emptiness—only for his free hand to press flat against your stomach, holding you firmly against the wall.
He lifts his fingers to his mouth, tongue curling around them in a slow, obscene lick that elicits a moan from your throat before you can stop it.
You could kill him. You will kill him. Later. After.
His gaze locks onto yours, dark and unreadable behind rain-speckled lenses, as he cleans every last trace of you off his fingers with agonising precision.
Your face burns, your thighs twitch, and somewhere in the back of your mind you know you should be embarrassed—should really shove him away or snap something sarcastic—but all you manage is a weak, "Fuck."
Annoyingly causing Steve’s mouth to lift into a smug little smile.
“Want you,” you whisper helplessly, forehead knocking lightly against his shoulder. “Idiot.”
"That’s not very nice, now is it, baby?" Steve murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
You huff, fucking hell–what more does he want for you?
His thumb presses into the delicate skin beneath your jaw, tilting your head back until you have no choice but to meet his gaze. ”Calling me an idiot," he continues, voice dropping lower, "after I just let you come?"
His other hand slides up your side, slow and deliberate, until his palm rests over your hammering heartbeat. "You’re such a brat," he mutters against your lips, breath uneven. "Always have been."
Steve exhales sharply before he relents. His hands dropping to his belt in rough, jerky movements. The buckle clinks too loud, his fingers fumbling slightly with the button of his jeans before he finally shoves them down just far enough to free himself.
He doesn’t give you what you want, though, not quite yet. Instead, he presses the hot, heavy length of himself against your thigh, rocking forward just enough to make you gasp at the contact, the friction maddeningly light.
"Say it," he murmurs, lips brushing yours as his fingers tighten on your hip—not guiding, not forcing, just there, holding you in place while his cock twitches against your skin. "Say you believe me."
You bite your lip hard enough to taste blood, hips jerking involuntarily against nothing, desperate for more. For him.
Steve doesn’t let you. His forehead knocks clumsily against yours, his breath coming in ragged bursts between kisses that are more teeth than anything else..
"Say you’ll think twice next time," he growls, dragging his mouth down your jaw to nip at your pulse point. His hips roll forward again, the head of his cock catching against your clit for one devastating second before he pulls back, leaving you gasping. "Say it."
You whine, nails scraping down the skin of his neck as you try to pull him closer, but Steve resists, his grip ironclad.
His laugh is dark, uneven, his lips curling against your throat while you buck against him fruitlessly. "Nuh-uh, sweetheart. Not until you—fuck—"
His words cut off abruptly when your teeth sink into his shoulder, his hips stuttering forward instinctively before he wrenches himself back with a muttered curse.
His grip tightens in your hair, tilting your head back until you have no choice but to meet his gaze. "You think this is a joke?" he murmurs, thumb brushing your swollen lower lip.
"You think I don’t fucking mean it when I say I can’t lose you?"
You arch toward him instinctively, but Steve doesn’t budge. Just watches you with that same unreadable expression.
"Tell me you believe me," he whispers, voice rough with something that isn’t just want anymore. "Tell me you know how much I—" He cuts himself off abruptly, fingers flexing against your hip like he’s physically restraining himself from finishing that sentence.
But it’s the look in his eyes that finally undoes you.
Not the way his hands shake where they grip your hips, not the ragged edge of his voice when he says your name—no, it’s the raw, unfiltered fear behind those rain-speckled glasses. .
Steve Harrington, who’s spent years pretending he doesn’t care about anything, looks at you like you’re the only thing left in the world that matters.
And something inside you finally breaks.
Your hands move before you can stop them.
You grab his face hard enough to push his crooked glasses further up his nose, fingers cold and shaking against rain-damp skin as you drag him down toward you.
“Hey,” you whisper, voice cracking badly enough that Steve immediately stills. “Hey.”
Your forehead presses against his.
And for the first time tonight, you stop trying to pull away from what he’s giving you.
You let yourself feel it.
The fear.
The relief.
Him.
Your eyes burn suddenly, embarrassingly, and you let out one sharp, frustrated breath that sounds dangerously close to a laugh.
“I’m here,” you whisper brokenly, trying to convince the both of you.
Steve makes a wrecked sound at that. His hands tighten on your hips almost painfully. “Yeah,” he breathes instantly, nodding quickly. “Yeah, you’re here.”
Your throat tightens so hard it hurts.
And suddenly, the words are there before you can stop them.
“I do.”
The confession slips out in a whisper, barely audible over the storm, but Steve goes utterly still.
His breath catches audibly, fingers twitching against your skin like he’s been shocked. For one terrifying second, you think he might pull away—might bolt like a spooked animal—but then his forehead drops against yours with a shuddering exhale.
“Say it again,” he rasps, voice cracking. His thumb traces your lower lip, smearing rainwater. “Please.”
“I do,” you whisper again, voice cracking. His breath stutters against your temple, his fingers trembling where they grip your thighs—like he’s afraid you’ll take it back.
Then he moves.
There’s no finesse to it, just raw emotion.
Just Steve’s hands gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise as he presses into you with a ragged groan that gets lost in the rain. The stretch burns briefly before giving way to a fullness that steals your breath.
The sound punched from your throat is half-sob, half-laugh, the words spilling again without thought: “I do.”
Steve’s hips jerk uncontrollably at that, his breath hitching like the confession is a physical blow, and then he’s moving in earnest. No rhythm, no ounce of control, just raw, shuddering need.
Every snap of his hips drives the words from you again, fractured and breathless: “I do—Steve—I do—” His name cracks on a moan as he angles deeper, one hand sliding up to fist in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat. His teeth finding your pulse point, biting down just shy of pain as his pace turns punishing, the wet slap of skin lost beneath the storm’s roar.
You’re babbling now, nonsensical; repeating it like a mantra between gasps, each thrust wringing the words out like he’s starving for them.
Steve’s grip tightens, his other hand splaying over your ribs like he’s counting each ragged inhale, each stuttered “I do” that spills from your lips.
The world fractures as pleasure crashes over you in waves so violent they steal your breath.
Your back arches off the wall, thighs clamping around Steve’s hips, nails biting into his shoulders as you shatter with a sob he swallows greedily.
Steve follows with a groan so broken it barely sounds human, his forehead dropping against yours as his hips jerk erratically, his fingers tightening in your hair.
For one suspended moment, there’s nothing but the ragged sound of your breathing, the rain still hammering against the awning above you, Steve’s pulse thundering beneath your lips where they rest against his throat.
Then reality rushes back in all too quickly—the cold brick against your back, the damp fabric of your clothes clinging uncomfortably to your skin, Steve’s glasses digging into your cheekbone where they’ve been knocked askew.
He doesn’t pull away.
Neither do you.
Instead, his hands slide up your back, slow and unsteady, smoothing over the rumpled fabric of your jacket. “You’re okay,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. Whispered so quiet you know he doesn't mean for you to hear it.
One hand rises to card through your tangled hair, fingers gentle where they work through the knots. “You’re okay.”
The words are less a statement than a plea, repeated like a prayer as his breathing gradually slows.
When you tilt your head back to look at him, his glasses are fogged beyond recognition, rainwater and sweat streaking down his flushed cheeks. He looks wrecked. Beautiful.
Your fingers rise to push his glasses up his nose, clumsy with exhaustion, and Steve catches your wrist before you can.
His thumb brushes over your racing pulse, his gaze dropping to your swollen lips, then lower—to the mark blooming on your collarbone, the rumpled state of your clothes. Something dark flickers in his eyes before he exhales sharply, forehead dropping to rest against yours again.
“‘M okay,” you murmur softly, fingers brushing back his rain-damp hair where it’s plastered to his forehead.
Steve exhales sharply—half laugh, half sob—his breath warm against your lips as his hands slide up to cradle your face. His thumbs trace the hollows beneath your eyes with a reverence that makes your chest ache.
“You’re not,” he counters, voice cracking, glasses still crooked, but you can still see the raw fear lingering in his gaze.
His fingers tighten fractionally, like he’s physically willing you to understand. “You were under a building, you idiot.” The words crack on the last syllable, his forehead dropping to rest against yours as his breathing stutters.
You can feel him shaking—fine tremors running through his arms where they cage you against the wall, the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath your fingertips when you touch his throat. It’s unnerving. Steve Harrington doesn’t tremble. Steve Harrington doesn’t falter.
But he is now.
Under your fingertips.
His glasses slip further down his nose when he tilts his head to press a kiss to your temple—clumsy, unpracticed, achingly tender. “Christ,” he mutters against your skin, voice thick. “You scared the shit out of me.”
Your chest aches at the honesty of it.
Steve Harrington—loud, stubborn, impossible Steve Harrington—standing here shaking in your arms because of you.
Your sworn enemy.
The bane of your existence.
The boy who could rile you up with nothing more than the arch of an eyebrow and one stupid smug look.
And yet here he is, holding you like losing you would’ve destroyed him.
Slowly, carefully, you reach up and straighten his glasses for him. It’s the smallest thing. Basic decency, really.
But it hits him anyway.
You see it happen in real time—the way his breath catches softly, the way his eyes lose some of that frantic edge as they search your face. As if he can’t quite believe you’re touching him so gently.
Steve’s gaze drops briefly to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again, softer now than you think you’ve ever seen it.
“C’mere,” he murmurs quietly.
This time when he kisses you, it isn’t desperate.
No teeth.
No frantic grasping.
No fear.
Just warmth.
His hands cradle your face carefully, thumbs brushing your cheeks while your fingers curl into the damp collar of his jacket. The kiss is slow enough that you can actually feel it this time—every soft press of his lips, every shaky exhale against your mouth, every lingering second of him choosing you.
Like coming home after being lost for a very long time.
And for once—
you don’t fight it.
You let yourself be held.
P.S. I do not recommend engaging in this type of behaviour after having a building collapse on you. Please seek medical attention first. Lots of love, the chef ♡
♡ You hold it in your eyes until you can hold each other
Warnings: 18+ / MDNI! • Established but secret relationship, semi-public sex (car), fingering (f receiving), oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, slight exhibitionism, dirty talk, soft dom!Steve, praise
Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!Henderson!reader
Word count: 5.5k
Summary: It starts in the rearview mirror. In stolen glances, almosts, and everything you don't let the others see.
You and Steve are good at keeping things quiet, careful, hidden in plain sight. Right up until you’re finally alone...
Author’s note: Inspired by this post
The WSQK van—Steve’s latest ride—isn’t exactly a babe magnet.
There’s always something on the floor that shouldn’t be there—crushed candy wrappers, a stray cassette case, the kind of mystery debris no one ever claims or throws away.
The seats are worn from too many bodies piling in and out, the air permanently carrying a mix of sugar, soda, and, unfortunately, BO. And there’s almost always at least one of the kids hovering somewhere nearby, like the van itself has become less of a vehicle and more of a moving meeting point Steve can’t escape.
It’s loud. It’s chaotic. It’s never just his.
But lucky for Steve—he doesn’t need it to be.
Because he has you.
And God, does he love you.
It shows in ways no one else seems to notice. In the way his eyes find the rearview mirror more often than they need to, in the split-second pauses where his attention lingers just a fraction too long when you’re talking or laughing or simply being before snapping back to the road.
In the small, quiet adjustments: turning the music down when you start talking, remembering things you said hours ago when no one else was listening, asking if you’re okay like it’s second nature.
No one else sees it—or if they do, they don’t understand it.
To them, it’s just Steve—driving, talking, half-laughing at whatever chaos fills the van, slipping easily into the caretaker role he’s known for so well.
To you—
it’s something else entirely.
Because you see it from the only place that matters.
The rearview mirror.
You've just endured yet another failed crawl, another round of your brother and Steve at each other’s throats over something stupid, another stretch of hours spent pretending—carefully, convincingly—that there’s nothing between you.
Like you don’t go home to him.
Like you don’t spend your nights tangled up in each other.
You’re not really part of the conversation anymore. Not fully.
You watch the mirror.
It’s an easy thing to do, subtle enough to pass as nothing. Everyone looks forward when they talk, glances toward the driver without thinking. It doesn’t mean anything. It shouldn’t.
Steve’s eyes flick up as he checks the road, quick, automatic. They pass over everything like they always do—windshield, side mirror—rearview.
You.
It’s nothing. Over as soon as it happens, his attention already back where it should be—hands steady on the wheel, one thumb tapping lightly to the music.
You look away anyway.
The van lurches slightly as he makes a sharp left, and Eddie groans from somewhere behind you about reckless endangerment, immediately followed by Dustin arguing that he could drive better, which is objectively untrue and loudly proven so. The noise fills the space easily, naturally, giving you something to hide inside.
When you glance back up, it’s just the mirror again.
Just Steve, driving.
Just the road behind you.
It stays like that for a while. Nothing sticks. His eyes flick up every so often, brief, functional, never lingering long enough to call attention to it.
Except once.
It’s small. Easy to miss if you’re not already looking.
And this time, when his gaze catches yours in the mirror, it holds for a fraction longer than it should. Just long enough for something in your chest to tighten before you can stop it.
You drop your gaze.
“Oi, you even listening?” Dustin nudges your shoulder from beside you, halfway through some explanation you definitely missed.
“Yeah,” you say, because it’s easier than asking him to repeat it and having to hear him complain about you not listening the first time. He accepts it immediately, because why wouldn’t he? You're his sister you wouldn’t lie to him… would you?
You don’t look at the mirror again for a few minutes after that. You tell yourself you won’t, that it doesn’t matter. It would be easier if you could believe that.
When you do look again, it’s not by accident. The van idles at a red light, everything briefly stilled.
His eyes are already there. Not waiting, he’s not that obvious, but not surprised either. Like he expected it, like he knew you would eventually look back.
Something settles between you—quiet, thin, sharp as a pulled thread.
It’s not accidental anymore.
The moment stretches, too long, too quiet before Steve blinks and glances back at the road after the light turns green. His fingers flex around the wheel, knuckles whitening just slightly before relaxing again.
The next few times, you feel it before you see it—the way his posture shifts, the almost-imperceptible pause before his gaze lifts. You start catching it as it happens, like you’ve both fallen into the same rhythm.
Eddie leans forward between the front seats, oblivious as always, cutting off your line of sight. “Okay, but if we’re dropping off Dustin first, does that mean we’re swinging back toward the video store after? Because I told Gareth I’d—”
Steve cuts him off with a sharp click of his tongue. "No, we are not swinging back toward the video store. Drop-off order is Henderson, then Robin, then you—" His fingers tighten on the wheel again, briefly. "Then home."
Dustin groans, flopping back against the seat hard enough to make a loud thud. "That’s literally the opposite of efficient," he mutters, but Eddie just laughs, kicking his feet up onto the centre console.
You turn your head toward the window, watching the streetlights smear past in long, soft streaks.
The third time your eyes catch in the mirror, it’s different. There’s not an inch of pretence left—just the raw, aching want that’s been building for days, simmering beneath every careful glance and casual touch.
Steve’s grip tightens on the wheel, his jaw ticking. You bite your lip, pressing your thighs together under Eddie’s discarded jacket. The van suddenly feels too small. The air thick with something unspoken.
The way the last week has stretched too long, crowded out by work and obligations and too many people in too many rooms—every almost-moment cut short.
Not just in the quiet, passing way but in the kind that sits low and constant, a dull ache that flares sharp every time he looks at you like this.
When you glance up and catch him already looking at you, his expression softening in a way that makes you blush, you know he’s thinking the same thing you are—God, I miss you.
But it has to stay like this. Contained to stolen glances and half-seconds no one else notices.
Not now—not when Hawkins is closed off to the outside world, when Max lies in a hospital bed with machines doing the breathing she can’t, not when your brother and Steve can barely be in the same room without something snapping tight between them.
And still—you look anyway.
Robin’s voice cuts through your inner spiral. “Uh, hello? Earth to Steve?” She snaps her fingers in front of his face, and he jerks his attention back to the road with a muttered curse.
“You just missed Henderson’s street,” she points out, rolling her eyes. “Jesus, what’s with you tonight?”
Steve exhales through his nose before flashing Robin a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. "Sorry, Buckley. Too busy admiring you."
Robin groans, kicking the back of his seat. "Gross. Try that line on someone who hasn’t seen you eat an entire bag of Cheetos in one go.”
Your eyes flick up before you can stop them, catching his in the mirror. There’s the faintest shift at the corner of his mouth, something quieter, softer than the grin he just gave her.
Because you have.
And it still worked.
And it would again. Without a doubt and without shame.
Dustin makes a show of gathering his backpack, deliberately slow, like he’s hoping someone will argue for him to stay.
The van idles outside your house, the engine a low, impatient rumble beneath Steve’s tapping fingers. "You know," Dustin starts, shifting in his seat to face Steve, "if you just—"
"Nope," Steve cuts him off, popping the p with a finality that brooks no argument. "Out."
Dustin squints at him, then suspiciously glances over at you. “Wait—aren’t you getting out?”
You don’t hesitate. “No. I’m staying at my boyfriend’s tonight.”
“Oooh,” Robin leans forward immediately, interest sparked. “The mystery boyfriend.”
“Still haven’t met this guy,” Eddie adds, dragging the words out, grinning. “Starting to think he’s made up.”
Dustin looks at you, completely clueless. “Yeah, seriously. Who even is—”
Your eyes flick up automatically—to the mirror.
Steve’s hand drags across his mouth like he’s trying to hide it— but it doesn’t quite work. The hint of a smirk still there, still tugging at the corner of his lips.
You shoot him a quick glare.
He clears his throat, the smirk disappearing just as quickly as it came, his expression snapping back into something neutral— a little too neutral—but luckily Eddie and Robin are too busy arguing and Dustin is too busy sulking.
“Door, Henderson.” He jerks his head toward it, already reaching to unlock it, tone a little too sharp to be casual.
Dustin huffs but climbs out anyway, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Fine, fine, but—” he mutters, but the door shuts in his face.
Not even half a second later—
Steve’s pulling away.
Dustin’s muttering fades behind you, swallowed up by the hum of the engine and the quiet stretch of road ahead. For a second, no one fills it.
Then—
“Okay,” Robin says, twisting in her seat to look at you properly now, eyes narrowing with interest. “We’re circling back to that. You can’t keep just casually dropping boyfriend like that and expect me to let it go.”
Eddie snorts. “Yeah, no, I’m with Buckley on this one. You’ve been holding out on us.”
You shrug, aiming for nonchalant, even as your gaze flicks—just briefly—to the mirror again. “There’s nothing to tell.”
Steve doesn’t look up this time. His fingers tap once against the wheel. Then again—restless, giving him away if either of them bothered to look.
But they don’t.
They’re too busy dissecting you; every micro-expression under a microscope.
“Maybe he’s shy,” Eddie offers, to which Robin hums deep in thought. “Or imaginary. I’m still leaning imaginary.”
You huff out something that might pass for a laugh, shaking your head. “You guys are so dramatic.”
“Name,” Robin presses. “At least give me a name.”
There’s a pause.
You could say anything. Instead, you glance up again.
This time, Steve’s already looking.
It’s quick, barely there, but it lands all the same, something sharp and knowing passing between you before he looks back to the road like nothing happened, though you can tell by his fingers tapping against the wheel that he’s nervous.
Your stomach flips.
“Not happening,” you say, a little too quickly.
Robin groans, dropping back into her seat. “You’re the worst.”
“Agreed,” Eddie adds easily. “Absolutely no respect for your audience.”
The van slows as you turn onto Robin’s street, the familiar line of houses coming into view. Steve pulls up to the curb, shifting the van into park, but leaves the engine running.
Robin unbuckles, still eyeing you. “This isn’t over,” she points, narrowing her eyes like she means it. “I will find out.”
You smile, all innocence. “Good luck.”
She huffs, grabbing her bag and sliding the door open. “Night, losers.”
“Night, Buckley,” Steve calls, easy again, matching her salute.
The door shuts and Steve doesn’t wait a second. The van lurches forward as he pulls away, a little too quick, tires crunching against the curb before he straightens out onto the road.
Eddie leans forward immediately, filling the space she leaves behind. “Alright, so...new theory. Secret boyfriend is either—”
“Munson,” Steve cuts in, sharper this time, not looking back. “You’re next.”
Eddie pauses, then grins slowly. “Touchy tonight, Harrington.”
Steve’s jaw tenses; just a fraction, barely noticeable unless you’ve spent months memorising his face. Which you have.
Eddie catches it too, because of course he does. His gaze slides from Steve to you, eyebrows lifting in a slow, exaggerated arc that screams get a load of this guy.
You press your lips together, forcing a small, careful smile—just enough to play along. Eddie just grins wider, completely oblivious to the tightness in your smile, like he’s won something.
Your eyes flick up to the mirror before you can stop yourself—just in time to catch Steve’s gaze already fixed there, his expression tight with something halfway between frustration and exhaustion. You press your lips together in a silent apology, tilting your head slightly.
The effect is immediate: his shoulders drop an inch, the tension around his eyes softening as he exhales through his nose. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth—small, private, just for you—and you bite your cheek to keep from grinning back like an idiot.
“—which, by the way,” Eddie cuts back in, louder, still oblivious, “if he is imaginary, that raises a much bigger question... where the hell are you going every night?”
He leans forward further, fully invested now. “Because I’m thinking... option one, you’ve got some secret hideout. Like, full spy setup. Code names. Rendezvous points.”
“Option two,” he continues, ticking it off on his fingers, “you’re actually sneaking off to join some underground fight club we don’t know about.”
“Option three—” he squints at you, grin widening, while holding up four fingers instead of three, “you’re a vampire. Which, honestly, would explain the mystery, the nighttime disappearances—”
“Fight club,” Steve cuts in casually, like he’s barely listening, eyes fixed on the road. “That one tracks.”
You blink. “What?”
Eddie lights up. “See! Thank you!”
You turn toward Steve fully now, incredulous. “You think I’m sneaking off to fight people?”
Steve glances up, catching your eye in the mirror. There’s a hint of a smirk there, soft around the edges, his gaze warmer than anything he’s letting on out loud.
He shrugs. “Wouldn’t rule it out.”
You stare at him. “You’re unbelievable.”
That only makes it worse. The smirk lingers, quieter now, softer—something just for you. Something that makes heat curl low in your stomach.
Eddie groans dramatically, flopping backwards. “Oh my god, you two are the worst. I’m trying to solve a mystery here.”
Steve shifts gears, turning onto Eddie’s street. The van slows, rolling to a stop outside the familiar trailer. Eddie doesn’t move.
Steve sighs, drumming his fingers against the wheel. “Munson.”
Eddie huffs. “Fine, fine but this conversation isn’t over.” He grabs his bag, swinging the door open, pointing at you just like Robin did earlier. “I will crack this case.”
“Uh huh,” Steve deadpans. “Good luck with that.”
The door shuts, finally, and Eddie’s silhouette disappears into the dim porch light. The van idles for a second longer, the hum of the engine the only sound left in the sudden quiet.
Steve pulls away, quick, turning the corner before slowing again. Just out of sight.
Then—he stops.
Steve exhales like he’s been holding it in all night, before reaching forward and turning the key. The engine cuts off abruptly, plunging you into silence.
For a second, neither of you moves.
Then—he turns.
Not to the mirror.
Fully.
His hand comes out first, finding your waist like it’s instinct, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. His voice is lower, stripped of everything he’s been holding in.
“Come here.”
You don’t hesitate. You never do—not with him.
You scramble over the centre console, your elbow hitting the horn with a sharp honk. Steve swears under his breath and grabs your waist, hauling you fully into his lap.
His hands press into your sides and squeeze. You exhale shakily, forehead dropping to his, fingers twisting into his shirt.
“Missed you,” his words rough against your lips, barely audible.
You huff a soft laugh, breath catching. "You've been with me all day."
Steve exhales against your neck, the warmth sending a shiver down your spine, his lips brushing just below your ear—not quite a kiss, just the ghost of one—before he murmurs, “not like this,” and you smile, fingers curling tighter in his hair.
"Haven’t been able to hold you. Kiss you." His thumb brushes the bare strip of skin where your shirt’s ridden up.
You sigh, letting the week settle between you. His hair is soft between your fingers, longer than he usually keeps it, falling just past his ears in messy waves. You push it back gently, curling a few strands behind his ear, your thumb brushing the sharp line of his jaw.
He leans into your touch, his eyes closing briefly before flickering back open, dark and intent.
“Missed you too,” you murmur, a small, soft smile pulling at your mouth.
"Fuck," he mutters, voice rough. "Every time I looked in that damn mirror—"
He exhales, shaking his head once.
“—couldn’t think about anything else.”
His mouth crashes into yours. Your breath catches as your fingers tighten in his hair and he pulls you closer. His tongue brushes against your lower lip, and you part for him instinctively, letting him deepen the kiss until you’re breathless, until the world narrows to the heat of his mouth and the scrape of his faint stubble against your chin.
“Wanted to just stop the car—jump over the damn console,” Steve murmurs against your lips, hands dragging down to grip your thighs.
"Don’t think Dustin would’ve appreciated that,” you murmur, struggling not to smile against Steve’s lips, breathless, fingers still tangled in his hair.
Steve huffs—a sharp, impatient sound—and pulls back just enough to fix you with a look. Equal parts exasperation and fondness.
"Don’t talk about Henderson when—" He drags you forward until you’re straddling him properly, and you chuckle, arching into him as his lips find the curve of your neck.
"Say more," you murmur, tipping your head back to give him better access, fingers threading through his hair to keep him close. "Tell me what you would’ve done, baby."
Steve exhales against your pulse; he loves baby, or really any nickname as long as it's from you. "Would’ve pushed you into the backseat where no one could fucking see—" His grip tightens. "Told you to keep quiet while I got my mouth on you."
You pull in a sharp breath when his palm presses firm between your legs, the friction sudden through the thin fabric of your jeans. His grin is wicked against your throat, all sharp edges and barely contained frustration.
"Wouldn’t have been gentle," he adds, nipping at your jaw. "Not after all of this time of you making me wait.”
Heat curls low in your stomach as his hand presses harder, fingers just enough to make your breath hitch and then he’s kissing you again, deep and messy, his teeth catching your lower lip when you gasp.
His other hand fists in the back of your shirt, dragging you closer, until you’re grinding down against him, the friction unbearable and perfect all at once.
"What’s stopping you?" you murmur against his jaw, pulling back just enough to smirk at him: a challenge, a dare, the kind that’s been simmering between you for days.
One he takes immediately.
You barely have time to blink before he’s moving you off his lap, one arm looping around your waist to steady you as you scramble to move over the centre console.
Your knee catches the gearshift and he swears under his breath—not at you, never at you—just frustration as he steadies you.
The van’s rear bench creaks as Steve guides you back onto it, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs.
The mirror rattles faintly with the movement, still angled from before; no longer catching your eyes, just the shape of you, close enough to blur together.
You laugh—a breathless, giddy sound—as he follows you, pulling you with him until you're on top of him, knees on either side of his hips, his back pressed into the seat. The impact knocks the air from his lungs in a quiet huff, but he doesn't let go, fingers digging into your waist like he's afraid you'll vanish if he loosens his grip for even a second.
"Watch the—ah, shit—" Steve grunts when your elbow jabs into his ribs, but he's grinning, all sharp teeth and boyish delight. His laugh is warm against your neck as you shift your weight, grinding down just to feel his hips jerk under you.
"Christ—"
His hands slide up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones as he pulls you into another kiss, slower this time. You feel his tongue drag against yours, unhurried, fingers tangling in your hair as he tugs—pulling a soft whimper from you, your back arching into him.
Something digs into your calf and you break away with a grimace, twisting to glare at the culprit: a half-crushed soda can wedged between the seat cushions. Steve follows your gaze, blinking dazedly for a second before snorting.
"Classy," he mutters, swiping it up one-handed and chucking it toward the front without looking. His attention snaps back to you, hands sliding down to grip your hips as he pulls you flush against him.
The space is too cramped, but that doesn't matter when he finds the curve of your collarbone, teeth scraping lightly before his tongue smooths it over.
“Time to swap places, baby,” he murmurs, voice rough as gravel, hands already guiding you back—not asking, just moving you.
You go willingly, letting him shift you down onto your back against the bench, his body following until he’s settled between your legs, braced over you.
His hands don’t stop. Fingers quick at your jeans, popping the button and dragging the zipper down. You arch off the seat when he hooks his thumbs into the waistband, dragging them down your hips along with your panties in one smooth motion. The fabric catches at your ankles, and Steve huffs out a frustrated sound before kicking them aside.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his gaze dragging over you before he leans in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh.
“Missed this,” he adds, voice low, before dipping his head again.
When his kisses move higher, your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging lightly in warning. Steve chuckles against your skin, the vibration sending a fresh wave of heat through you, but he slows instead. Pressing lazy, open-mouthed kisses along your inner thigh; his breath hot, his stubble scraping just enough to make you bite your lip.
Steve notices anyway. His grip tightens on your hips, pinning you in place as he finally presses a kiss where you need him most.
You pull in a sharp breath, arching off the seat but he holds you down, his tongue flicking against you once, twice—before settling into a rhythm that has your toes curling.
His fingers dig into your hips as he works, keeping you right where he wants you. His free hand slides up your waist, fingers spreading over your ribs before moving higher, thumb brushing over your chest in a slow pass.
The next stroke pulls a sharp breath from you, your fingers twisting in his hair hard enough to make him groan. “Jesus—” The word punches out, half-broken.
The moment his hands slide under your shirt, tugging at the fabric like it’s personally offended him, you know this isn’t going to be slow.
His fingers skim the bare skin of your waist, sending a shiver up your spine, and then he’s pushing the material up, up, until you have to lift your arms to let him peel it off completely.
The van’s windows are fogged, the street outside quiet, but the risk—the possibility of being heard, of someone passing by—only sharpens everything, coiling tighter in your stomach.
Steve’s grip tightens, pressing into your skin as he drags his tongue over you again, slower, savoring it. You feel his smirk when your hips jerk.
“Like that?” he murmurs, breath hot, voice rough with satisfaction.
You don’t get a chance to answer before he’s back on you. Your thighs tremble around him, heels digging into the seat as you try, and fail, to keep still. Steve hums low, as his fingers slide down and press inside, curling oh so right.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, lips brushing with every word. His free hand slides up your stomach, skimming over your ribs to palm your breast, thumb brushing your nipple in slow, lazy circles.
The moment you feel it building—that coiled, inevitable pressure low in your stomach—you know he knows. His tongue flattens against you, dragging over your clit before circling it with just the right amount of pressure.
Your breath snaps in, your back arching off the seat, fingers twisting in his hair hard enough to make him groan but he doesn’t stop. If anything, he presses harder, lips sealing around you as his fingers curl just right inside you.
Your thighs clamp around his head, heels digging into the seat as you tip over the edge with a muffled cry, fingers tugging at his hair. Steve doesn’t let up, working you through it with steady strokes of his tongue until you’re squirming, breathless.
You drag him up by his hair—gentle but insistent—his lips parting against yours before he’s even fully pulled away from your thighs. He goes willingly, letting you guide him, his mouth warm and slick as it meets yours, the taste of yourself faint on his tongue.
His hands slide up your sides, steadying himself against the wobble of the van’s bench seat, but you don’t let him linger there. You catch his wrists, pushing them down as you lean up to nip at his lower lip.
Steve exhales sharply through his nose, letting you manhandle him, his pulse jumping under your fingers as you trail them down his arms. His shirt is wrinkled from the drive, the fabric sticking to his skin in places where the summer heat clung to him all day.
You hook a finger into the collar, dragging him closer as your other hand finds the hem, pushing it up over his stomach—slow, teasing, your nails scraping lightly along his skin.
Steve shivers when you tug the fabric over his head, breath catching as you toss it aside. You lean back just enough to smirk at him, watching his throat bob.
"Still overdressed," you murmur, fingers skating down his chest to the button of his jeans.
Steve exhales sharply when your fingers finally undo his jeans, the button popping open. His breath hitches when you drag the zipper down slowly, the sound unbearably loud in the quiet of the van. He leans in, chasing your mouth again, but you tilt your head back—denying him with a grin.
His hands tighten on your hips, fingers pressing into skin still humming from his touch, and you finally take pity on him. Leaning up to catch his lower lip between your teeth, tugging lightly before soothing it with a slow kiss.
The moment Steve presses you back against the seat, his weight settling between your thighs, something shifts. The frenetic energy between you softening into something deeper.
His hips slot against yours with a familiarity that steals your breath, skin warm and damp where your chests press together as he braces on one forearm, the other hand sliding up to cradle your jaw—thumb brushing your cheekbone, soft against the force of his kiss.
"You ready, honey?" Steve murmurs against your temple, his voice ragged with restraint as his fingers trace idle patterns down your bare thigh.
You nod. The van's bench seat creaks under your shifting weight, the leather warm against your back. Steve hesitates, his palm hovering over your hip, giving you one last chance to change your mind. One you’d never take.
You arch up into his touch, your fingers finding the familiar notch at the base of his spine, pulling him down until there's no space left between you.
The first slow press of his hips draws a ragged exhale from both of you. Steve's forehead dropping to yours with a quiet thump, his breath hitching when you tilt your hips up to meet him.
"Christ," he breathes, voice wrecked already, fingers tightening on your waist as he sinks deeper.
The stretch burns in the best way, familiar and perfect, and you dig your heels into the backs of his thighs, urging him closer. Steve groans in your ear, his hips stuttering forward instinctively before he catches himself, forcing himself to slow back down.
His lips find yours again—softer this time, lingering—as he begins to move in earnest, each rolling thrust punctuated by the quiet catch of his breath against your mouth.
You can feel every shift of muscle beneath his skin, every tremor he tries to suppress when your nails scrape down his back. The rhythm builds between you, steady and sure, until the only sounds left are the creak of the seat and your breaths catching between kisses.
"Sweetheart," he breathes against your mouth, the endearment frayed at the edges, his hips rolling in a slow, maddening rhythm that has your fingers digging into his shoulders. "You feel that? How good you take me?"
His voice drops to something lower, rougher, as he drags his lips along your jaw. "How fucking perfect you are?"
You drag your nails down his back, arching into him and that’s all it takes for his restraint to snap. His pace turning frantic as his hands slide up to cradle your face, kissing you messy and uncoordinated.
"Love you," he whispers between kisses, the words muffled but unmistakable, each syllable pressed into your skin like a prayer.
"Love you so mu—" His hips jerk forward once, twice, his whole body shuddering as he comes with a quiet, broken sound against your lips.
You follow him over the edge not even a second later: his thumb brushing your clit just right, his hips still rolling against yours in slow, uneven circles as he draws it out. The pleasure crests sharp and sudden, stealing your breath, your fingers twisting in his hair as you bury your face against his shoulder to muffle the cry that punches out of you.
Steve stays there for a second, his forehead pressed to your shoulder—your fingers still tangled in his hair, softer now, absent-minded, grounding instead of grasping. The van is quiet again.
No voices. No chaos.
Just the two of you.
Steve exhales before finally shifting, easing himself out of you like even that feels like too much distance. His hand slides up your side, thumb brushing idly against your skin.
“Hey,” he murmurs.
You hum in response, eyes still half-lidded, not quite ready to move.
He presses a kiss to your shoulder—then your collarbone, your chin, your nose—soft, lingering, one after the other until a quiet laugh slips out of you.
And for a second—
he just looks at you.
And you at him—eyes free now, unhurried, able to take each other in without interruption, without your noisy friends, without your too-smart-for-his-own-good brother hovering somewhere between you. Just this—clear, open, yours.
Your hand drifts from his hair to his cheek, thumb brushing lightly along his jaw. “You okay?” you murmur.
A quiet huff of a laugh leaves him, softer than usual. “Yeah,” he says. Then, quieter—“I’m okay, Honey. You?”
You smile, nodding once and he mirrors it without thinking.
Neither of you rush to move.
Eventually, Steve shifts again, easing off you so he can reach blindly toward the front seat, fumbling for something—his jacket, a discarded shirt, anything within reach.
He comes back with his jacket a second later, draping it over you without a word. Then he settles beside you, close—so close he barely leaves any space at all.
You follow without thinking, tucking into his chest, your hand slipping to idly play with the soft hair there.
He huffs out a quiet breath that almost turns into a laugh, his chin tipping down toward you, something warm and easy settling into his expression.
“So…” he starts, a little smug. “Round two?”
You glance up at him, catching the look on his face—all cheeky, self-satisfied, like he already knows the answer and just wants to hear you say it anyway.
You flick his chin lightly.
“Shut up.”
In the same breath you add—“I love you.”
His arm tightens around you, pulling you in properly this time, his cheek brushing against your hair as you settle into him.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, softer now. You nod against his chest.
And then, after a beat, like he couldn’t possibly not say it back—
“I love you too.”
You settle into him, his arm wrapped warm around you. Conversation drift—slow, easy, about nothing at all—your fingers tracing absent patterns as his thumb moves idly against your arm.
Your gaze lifts without thinking, catching on the rearview mirror where it’s still angled from before.
For a second, you don’t even realise you’re looking at it—just the shape of the van behind you, the dim blur of the street—
and the two of you in it, the glass faintly fogged with heat, softening the edges, close enough to read as one shape instead of two. His arm around you, your head tucked into him.
You don’t say anything.
You just let your eyes drop again, your hand sliding back across his chest as he pulls you a little closer, his fingers sweeping through your hair, his mouth lingering at your forehead like there’s nowhere else he wants to be but right here—with you, in the back of this van.
P.S. Hi 👋🏼... okay bye 👋🏼
P.P.S. Just kidding hehe. How are we? Trying to get out of this writer's block one oneshot at a time 🫶🏼
Summary: Every summer, Steve's freckles come back. And every summer, his girlfriend falls a little bit more in love with them.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, fluff, kissing, physical touch as a love language, praise, steve being adored (lmk if i missed anything)
W/C: 4.1k
Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]
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The afternoon is one of those rare summer days where neither of you has anywhere particular to be.
The back garden is quiet save for the steady drone of bees drifting lazily between the flower beds and the occasional rustle of leaves overhead whenever a warm breeze wanders through the trees. Somewhere nearby, a neighbour is mowing their lawn, and every so often the faint laughter of children carries over the fence before disappearing again beneath the gentle hum of the afternoon.
Steve is stretched out across one of the old sun loungers with a paperback balanced open across his stomach, sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose, one ankle hooked loosely over the other. Every few minutes he turns another page with the sort of concentration that suggests he's become completely absorbed in whatever mystery novel Robin had insisted he borrow.
You, meanwhile, are supposed to be reading your own book.
Supposed to being the important part.
Instead, your attention keeps drifting back to him.
At first, it's subconscious. A glance over the top of your page. Then another a minute later. Then another.
Eventually, you realise you've read the same paragraph four times without taking in a single word.
Steve doesn't look up immediately, but the corner of his mouth twitches all the same. "...What?"
"Hm?"
"You keep staring at me."
"I am not."
"You absolutely are."
He finally lowers the book just enough to peer over the top of it, an amused smile already beginning to tug at the corners of his mouth. "What's going on in that head of yours?"
You pretend to think about it. "I'm conducting research."
"...Research."
"Mhm."
He closes the book completely now, folding one arm behind his head as he looks at you with quiet curiosity. "And what's the subject?"
"You."
A soft laugh escapes him. "I don't remember signing the consent forms."
"You'll manage."
He rolls his eyes in that fond, long-suffering way he always does whenever you say something utterly ridiculous, before settling back into the sun. "Carry on then."
You do.
For another minute or so, you simply look at him. Not because you're trying to make him squirm. Just because you've noticed something.
Slowly, you reach across the space between your loungers and tap the bridge of his nose with the tip of one finger.
He blinks. "What?"
"You've got more freckles."
"...I do?"
"Mhm."
You lean a little closer, squinting with exaggerated concentration. "Definitely more."
Steve instinctively goes cross-eyed trying to look at his own nose. "I can't exactly see them."
You laugh. "I know."
He reaches up to push his sunglasses onto the top of his head instead, humouring you completely. "Go on then."
"What?"
"The research."
You smile to yourself before tracing your fingertip lightly across the bridge of his nose, careful enough that it almost tickles.
"There's one here." Another tiny tap. "And one here." Your finger moves to his cheek. "Oh..." You lean in another inch. "I don't think that one was there last week."
Steve watches you with an expression that hovers somewhere between bewilderment and affection.
"They move?"
"They don't move."
"They're multiplying?"
"They're appearing."
He frowns thoughtfully. "...Should I be worried?"
"No." You smile so softly it almost catches him off guard. "I think summer's back."
For a moment, he simply looks at you.
Then he gives the smallest shrug. "Huh."
"That's all you've got?"
"What else am I supposed to say?"
"I don't know."
You brush your thumb gently across the top of his cheekbone. "I just thought you'd want to know."
"I've honestly never noticed."
That, for reasons you can't quite explain, makes your chest ache a little. "You've never noticed?"
Steve shakes his head. "They just kind of... happen."
He says it so casually. As though it isn't remarkable at all. As though the tiny constellation scattered across his nose and cheeks isn't one of the loveliest things you've ever seen.
Without really thinking about it, your gaze drifts lower. Another cluster dusts the tops of his shoulders where the collar of his T-shirt has slipped sideways. One or two have appeared along the outside of his upper arm too, so faint you probably wouldn't have spotted them if the afternoon sun hadn't caught them just right.
"There are more."
He follows your eyes. "Where?"
"Everywhere." You reach out again, this time brushing your fingertips lightly across the freckles scattered over his shoulder.
"So that's why you've been staring at me?"
You nod. "I was trying to work out why you looked different."
"And?"
"And then I realised."
"What?"
Your smile grows almost impossibly fond. "...I think you're even prettier in the summer."
Steve actually laughs. "Oh, come on."
"I'm serious."
"You call me pretty at least three times a week."
"Probably not enough."
Colour creeps slowly into his cheeks. "You are unbelievable."
"So I've been told."
He shakes his head, but there's no conviction behind it anymore. If anything, he shifts a fraction closer, tilting his shoulder almost imperceptibly towards your hand as though inviting you to carry on tracing those tiny sunlit freckles for as long as you like.
You don't need asking twice.
The following morning arrives bright, warm and already promising another cloudless day.
By the time the two of you have finished breakfast, the garden is bathed in sunshine, the air carrying that familiar scent of freshly cut grass and warm earth that always seems to belong exclusively to July. Steve has already changed into an old pair of shorts and a faded Hawkins High T-shirt that's seen enough summers to be almost impossibly soft, and the two of you are lingering by the back door gathering everything you'll need before heading out for the afternoon.
He catches sight of the bottle of sunscreen on the kitchen counter before you do.
"Oh, right."
He reaches for it, gives it a vigorous shake, then immediately squeezes what can only be described as an alarming amount into his palm.
You stare. "...Steve."
"What?"
"You use way too much."
Without looking remotely concerned, he rubs his hands together. "You burn."
"I tan."
He pauses just long enough to glance over his shoulder. "You absolutely do not."
"I become..." You pretend to consider it very seriously. "...lightly toasted."
He laughs under his breath. "That's just another way of saying you burn."
"It isn't."
"It definitely is."
"It sounds much cuter."
"I don't care if your sunburn has good branding."
You snort, shaking your head while he dutifully rubs sunscreen over his arms with all the enthusiasm of somebody who has accepted this as an unavoidable part of summer.
"Your turn."
You hold your hands out, expecting him to pass you the bottle. Instead, he simply steps in front of you.
"You missed a spot yesterday," he says.
"I did not."
"You did."
"I would've noticed."
"You didn't."
He tips a little more sunscreen into his hands before gently smoothing it over your shoulders, every movement slow and careful despite the fact that the two of you have repeated this exact routine countless times before. His thumbs linger briefly where your neck meets your shoulders, rubbing the lotion in with absent-minded circles that have nothing to do with practicality and everything to do with the fact that he likes touching you whenever he gets the chance.
"There." He smiles, quietly pleased with himself. "Protected."
You lean up to kiss the corner of his mouth. "My hero."
"I know."
Eventually, you retrieve the bottle from his hands and gesture for him to turn around.
"Your back."
He obeys without question, lifting the back of his T-shirt over his head and dropping it onto the nearest chair before presenting you with his shoulders.
For a moment, you simply stand there.
"What?" he asks, still facing away from you.
You don't answer immediately.
A generous stripe of sunscreen lands across the tops of his shoulders, but instead of rubbing it in straight away, your hand stills.
The freckles are back. Not just across his nose and cheeks like yesterday. They're scattered everywhere. Tiny warm-brown flecks dust the tops of his shoulders, trail lazily down the back of his arms and disappear beneath the line of his shoulder blades, so faint in places they only appear when the sunlight catches them just right. They look less like marks on skin and more like somebody has sprinkled handfuls of tiny stars across him.
"What?" he asks again, glancing back over one shoulder.
"You've got freckles here too."
He twists a little further. "...Where?"
You smile almost to yourself. "Everywhere."
Instead of immediately rubbing the sunscreen into his skin, you lift one finger and begin absent-mindedly tracing between them, joining one tiny freckle to the next in slow, wandering lines that don't really create any recognisable pattern.
It's entirely pointless. You love doing it anyway.
Steve waits for a few seconds before looking back again. "...Whatcha doing?"
"They're pretty."
He laughs softly. "They're freckles."
"I know."
"They're not exactly exciting."
You actually stop.
Slowly, he turns just enough to see the expression on your face. It is one of genuine offence.
"Steve."
"What?"
"You're beautiful."
The words leave your mouth with such effortless certainty that they don't even sound like a compliment. Just a fact.
Colour blooms almost instantly across his cheeks. "...Stop."
"I will not."
"You say stuff like that on purpose."
"What, because it's true?"
He ducks his head, laughing in that slightly bashful way he always does whenever you catch him off guard, and rubs a hand across the back of his neck. "You make me blush."
"Good."
You resume tracing the little constellations scattered across his shoulders, finally working the sunscreen gently into his skin as your fingertips drift from one freckle to the next. "I don't think you realise how pretty you are."
He gives a quiet, disbelieving huff. "I think you're in a very exclusive club."
"No."
"No?"
"I think I'm just paying more attention than everybody else."
Something in his expression softens.
For a moment, he doesn't answer.
You finish rubbing the sunscreen carefully across his shoulders before reaching for another little blob, smoothing it over the backs of his arms with the same quiet concentration.
Steve watches your hands from the corner of his eye. "...You really like them, don't you?"
You look up, almost surprised by the question. "Your freckles?"
"Mhm."
You smile immediately. "I love them."
Not they're nice. Not they're cute.
I love them.
The words hang comfortably between you. Steve looks away for a second, the faint pink across his cheeks deepening despite himself.
"Nobody's ever looked at them the way you do."
"Well." You press one impossibly soft kiss against the top of his shoulder before smoothing the last of the sunscreen into his skin. "That's their loss."
He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head to himself as though he still can't quite believe you're serious.
The ridiculous thing is... You are. Completely.
You screw the lid back onto the sunscreen, setting the bottle down on the garden table before reaching automatically for his hand.
Steve intertwines your fingers with yours without hesitation, still smiling to himself in that shy, almost disbelieving way that always appears whenever you manage to compliment him enough that he genuinely runs out of ways to argue.
He never quite knows what to say.
You're beginning to suspect he likes hearing it anyway.
Over the next few days, it quietly becomes part of your relationship.
Not a conversation. Not even something either of you consciously decides to do. Just... another small habit that somehow slips into the spaces between all the others.
You're watching television one evening when your fingers wander absent-mindedly to the bridge of his nose, tracing lightly over the freckles scattered there. At the same time, your attention remains fixed on whatever film Jonathan had insisted the two of you borrow. Steve doesn't comment. If anything, he shifts a fraction closer until his shoulder is pressed comfortably against yours, eyes never leaving the screen.
The following morning, you're waiting in line for coffee when he finds himself standing in front of you instead of beside you, and before you've even realised what you're doing, one fingertip is lazily following the tiny constellation across the back of his arm where the sleeves of his T-shirt stop.
Later that afternoon, the two of you are reading together on the sofa in complete silence, Steve stretched out with his head resting in your lap while you absent-mindedly card one hand through his hair. Every so often your fingers drift lower, tracing softly across the freckles scattered over his cheekbone before disappearing back into his curls again.
It becomes so instinctive that neither of you notices it happening anymore.
If you're sitting together, your hand somehow ends up on him. His shoulder. His forearm. The back of his neck. The bridge of his nose. Anywhere the summer sun has left its tiny marks behind.
And Steve starts unconsciously gravitating towards it.
He'll be halfway through telling you a story before his shoulder brushes against yours, offering itself up without either of you thinking about it. He'll wander into the kitchen while you're making tea and somehow end up leaning against the counter beside you instead of across the room, close enough that your fingertips automatically find the freckles scattered along the outside of his arm while you wait for the kettle to boil.
Sometimes he doesn't even realise he's done it until he's already there. It isn't something he asks for. His body simply seems to decide, long before his brain catches up, that wherever your hands are is probably where he'd quite like to be.
One rainy afternoon, the two of you are curled up on the sofa while Steve attempts to read aloud from the mystery novel he'd been insisting was "about to get really good" for the better part of three chapters.
He's halfway through a sentence when your finger begins slowly tracing little circles across the freckles on his shoulder.
His voice falters.
"...And then the detective..." He pauses.
Silence. You glance up from where you've been staring rather intently at his shoulder.
"What?"
He blinks. "I forgot where I was."
"You were reading."
"...Right."
He tries again. Makes it another sentence before your thumb drifts absent-mindedly across the top of his shoulder.
He stops for a second time.
You smile. "Am I distracting you?"
"A little."
"You want me to stop?"
Steve considers the question with all the seriousness of a man making a life-changing decision. "...No."
You laugh quietly and carry on exactly as you were.
It isn't until Dustin drops by later that week that either of you becomes aware of quite how obvious the whole thing has become.
He lets himself into the house without knocking, calling out that he'd brought takeaway, only to find the two of you exactly where he'd expected: tangled together on the sofa beneath an old blanket despite it being far too warm for one.
Steve is in the middle of explaining something about work.
You're only half listening. Your entire attention is fixed on the tiny freckles scattered across the top of his forearm, your fingertip wandering lazily between them in little invisible patterns that don't resemble anything at all.
Dustin watches in silence for a full thirty seconds.
Then he clears his throat. "...Steve."
"Hm?"
"You know she's been drawing on you with her finger for, like, five minutes?"
Steve looks down at his arm for what appears to be the first time. "...Has she?"
"You didn't notice?"
He thinks about it. "...No."
Dustin stares at him.
"So you just... sat there?"
Another thoughtful pause. "...Yeah."
He gestures helplessly towards the two of you. "You are literally being used as a colouring book."
Steve glances at you, where you've already resumed tracing little invisible lines across his skin, entirely unbothered by the interruption.
He looks back at Dustin. You pause your movements.
A beat passes. "...Don't stop."
You dissolve into laughter.
Dustin gags theatrically. "Oh, you two make me sick."
Steve smiles to himself, leaning just a fraction closer until your shoulder bumps his.
Neither of you says anything.
Your hand never leaves his arm.
A few evenings later, the two of you find yourselves back on the porch almost by accident.
Dinner has long since been cleared away, the washing up abandoned until tomorrow because neither of you can quite bring yourselves to go back inside while the evening is still so warm. The air has finally begun to cool after another hot day, carrying the scent of jasmine from somewhere further down the street, and the neighbourhood has settled into that quiet lull that always seems to arrive just before sunset. Somewhere nearby, a sprinkler ticks rhythmically across somebody's lawn, while the distant sound of children playing gradually gives way to birdsong as they’re called in for the night.
Steve is sitting beside you on the old wooden steps, one knee drawn up towards his chest, absent-mindedly turning a bottle of beer between his hands while the two of you talk about nothing in particular.
Or rather, he talks. You stopped listening a few minutes ago.
Not intentionally.
The sun is low enough now that everything has taken on that soft golden glow photographers are forever trying to recreate, and it catches Steve's face in a way that almost steals the breath from your lungs.
His freckles have always been there.
But in this light, they seem to glow.
The tiny scattering across the bridge of his nose. The handful dusted over the tops of his cheeks. Even the faint little cluster near his left temple that you'd only noticed a few days ago catches the light as he turns to say something, illuminating his skin as though summer itself has decided to leave little reminders of where it found him.
You don't realise you've been staring until he catches you.
He smiles without looking away. "...What?"
"Hm?"
"That's the same face you made the other day."
"What face?"
"The one where you're looking at me like you've discovered a new species."
You laugh quietly. "I don't think that's it."
"No?"
You shake your head. "No."
He waits.
Eventually, you say it so softly you're not entirely sure you meant to say it aloud. "You're so pretty."
Steve's smile widens immediately. "You've said that."
"I know."
"You tell me I'm pretty at least once a day."
"I know."
He chuckles, taking another sip of his beer. "I think you're biased."
"I'm definitely biased."
"There you go."
"But I'm also right."
That makes him glance across at you properly, and something about your expression gives him pause. The smile remains, but softens around the edges.
"What?"
You hesitate, searching for words that somehow never feel quite big enough. "I just..."
Slowly, you lift one hand to his face. Your thumb brushes gently across his cheek before your lips follow, pressing one impossibly soft kiss against a tiny freckle beside the bridge of his nose.
Steve goes completely still.
When you pull back, you're still smiling. "I don't think you know how beautiful you are."
For a second, he simply stares at you. Then he laughs, though it comes out quieter than either of you expected. "Baby-"
"I'm serious."
"You've definitely got heatstroke."
"I don't."
"I think the sun's finally cooked your brain."
You shake your head with quiet certainty. "I just really love your face."
He lets out another little laugh, but this one is almost embarrassed, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards as a slow flush begins creeping across his cheeks. "You say stuff like that like it's normal."
"It is normal."
"It isn't."
"It is when it's true."
Steve looks away towards the garden for a moment, rubbing absent-mindedly at the back of his neck in that familiar gesture he always falls back on whenever he doesn't quite know what to do with himself.
"You know..."
"What?"
"I think you've ruined me."
"How?"
"I caught myself looking in the mirror this morning."
You smile stupidly up at him. "And?"
"I was uhh..." he trails off, almost embarrassed, "...Checking if there were any new ones."
You beam up at him, sheer elation behind your eyes, because he's finally beginning to see himself the way you do.
"You know," you lean in closer to him, like you're about to share a very important bit of information, "They're not just freckles. Not to me."
He looks back at you. "What are they to you?"
You don't even have to think about it. "They're my favourite thing about summer."
The words seem to knock every reply straight out of him.
For a long moment, Steve simply looks at you, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and something softer, something that almost resembles being overwhelmed.
Then, with the smallest, shyest smile you've ever seen on his face, he leans forward until his forehead rests gently against yours.
"You really mean all this, don't you?"
You smile. "Every word."
His eyes close for a moment.
When he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper. "...Nobody's ever looked at me the way you do."
Your chest aches.
You reach up once more, kissing the bridge of his nose, then one cheek, then the other, as though every tiny freckle deserves to be greeted individually.
Steve laughs breathlessly somewhere between the second and third kiss, blushing so fiercely that you suspect you've probably added another splash of colour to the very face you've spent the last week admiring.
"You are," you murmur, smiling against his skin, "the prettiest person I've ever met."
He makes the sort of quiet, flustered noise that suggests you've finally complimented him past the point of speech.
For once, Steve Harrington has absolutely nothing to say.
You rather like him like that.
The years pass quietly.
Not in the dramatic, life-changing way people always seem to write about, but in the gentle accumulation of ordinary days that somehow become a life before either of you notices. Summers arrive. Summers leave. Winters give way to spring, spring to autumn, and then, almost without fail, another July morning appears on the calendar.
And every single year, the same thing happens.
The first properly hot day arrives after weeks of rain, Steve spends the morning complaining about the humidity before insisting it "isn't that bad," and somewhere around lunchtime, while the two of you are sitting in the garden or walking through the park or waiting in line for iced coffees, you stop mid-sentence.
"There they are."
Steve barely even has to ask anymore. "What?"
"Your freckles."
He still looks faintly puzzled every time, lifting a hand to his face as though he might somehow feel them beneath his fingertips. "...Again?"
You smile. "They always come back."
He glances at you, the corners of his mouth lifting into the same smile you fell in love with years ago. "So do you."
The first few times he said it, it caught you completely off guard. Now, it's simply part of the ritual. He reaches automatically for your hand. You squeeze his fingers.
"You know..." he trails off.
"What?"
"You were right."
"About?"
"There are more this year."
You look at him, stunned. "You noticed?"
"...I noticed them before you did."
"You did?" you ask excitedly.
Steve smiles. "Guess your research's rubbing off."
You step a little closer before lifting one hand to his face, your thumb brushing lightly across the bridge of his nose. "I'm glad they come back each year."
He looks at you with quiet curiosity. "Why?"
Instead of answering immediately, you lean in and press a feather-light kiss against the cluster of freckles you've loved for years.
"'Cause now," you murmur, smiling against his skin, "every time they come back..." Another kiss settles against one cheek. "...I get to fall in love with them all over again."
Steve doesn't say anything. He never really does when you catch him like this.
Instead, he closes the last few inches between you until your foreheads rest together, his eyes slipping shut as the familiar blush begins spreading slowly across his cheeks. Even now, after all these years, after hearing you call him beautiful more times than he could possibly count, he still wears that same soft, slightly overwhelmed expression every time you mean it.
Eventually, he lets out a quiet laugh. "...You're weird."
"I know."
"You've always been weird."
"I know."
A comfortable silence settles between you, broken only by birdsong somewhere overhead and the distant sound of somebody mowing their lawn a few streets away.
Then Steve tilts his head just enough to nudge his nose gently against yours. "...Keep tracing them."
You smile. "I wasn't planning on stopping."
He hums contentedly, already leaning into the touch before your fingertips have even found his cheek again.
Some people measured the passing of time in birthdays, anniversaries or photographs tucked away in old albums.
You measured it in freckles.
In the tiny golden constellations that returned to Steve's skin every summer, and in the quiet certainty that, somehow, each time they did, you found one more reason to fall hopelessly, helplessly in love with him all over again.
♡ He makes you come like he’s dragging you back from the dark.
Warnings: 18+ / MDNI! • unprotected rough sex, multiple orgasms, squirting, overstimulation, possessive language, post-Upside Down trauma, emotional intensity, crying during sex
Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader
Word count: 3.1k
Summary: The Upside Down doesn’t follow you home but the anger does. Steve comes back wired tight, furious at a world he can’t control, and you offer him the one thing he can hold onto: you.
Author’s note: I said I was accepting less-than-PG requests. This anon said “bet.” Say thank you to anon ♡
Your house feels so very quiet compared to the version sitting in the Upside Down.
Too still. Too normal. The walls don’t breathe here like they seem to there. The lights don’t flicker with that sickly red pulse. There’s no distant shriek echoing through the bones of it. Just the hum of the fridge. The faint sound of your own breathing — too fast, too loud in your ears.
The silence presses in until you’re really glad you’re not claustrophobic.
Steve closes the door behind you, and the click of the lock sounds final in a way that makes your chest ache. You both just stand there for a second, covered in grime and dried blood and adrenaline that hasn’t figured out the danger isn’t present behind these doors.
He looks at you like he’s still counting.
From head to toe, checking for injuries you’ve already told him about. For ones you don’t have.
“You’re shaking,” he says quietly.
“So are you.”
He huffs out something that might be a laugh, but it doesn’t quite land. His hands come up, hover for half a heartbeat like he’s asking permission without words, then settle on your waist. His thumbs press in just enough to feel your warmth through the fabric.
You lean into him before you even realise you’re doing it.
Down there, everything felt unstable — like the ground could split at any moment. Like if you were to reach for him you’d come up empty.
Up here, he’s solid. Breathing. Real.
“You’re here,” he breathes, almost to himself.
“I am. We both are.”
The words seem to steady something in him. He pulls you flush against his chest. You can feel how hard his heart is pounding. You’re not sure if it’s mirroring yours or causing it.
He kisses you without buildup.
It isn’t sweet. It isn’t slow. It’s hungry in that specific way that comes after fear — when your body hasn’t decided whether to cry or fight or cling.
You cling.
His mouth is warm and insistent, hands sliding up your back like he’s memorising the shape of you. Every time you gasp for air, he follows, not giving you space to drift too far from him again.
It’s not about impatience.
It’s about certainty.
He needs to feel you respond. Needs to feel your hands in his hair, your nails in his shoulders, your breath catching when he presses closer. The more you react, the steadier he becomes.
You back into the wall without meaning to, and he follows seamlessly, bracing one hand beside your head. His forehead rests against yours for a second, both of you breathing hard.
“I thought—” he starts, then shakes his head. A stubborn strand of hair falls in front of his eye, and you thread it back through his messy hair.
His eyes flicker all over your face, like he’s still seeing flashes of that other place layered over you: red light, tearing ground, the second your hand slipped from his before he grabbed you again.
You kiss him before he can finish the thought. Hoping to erase whatever image is replaying in his mind.
For a moment, he kisses you back with that same urgency but then something shifts. He pulls back abruptly, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to physically shake it off.
He steps away from you.
And then he starts moving.
Pacing. Left. Then right. Then again. His jaw is tight, shoulders rigid, hands flexing like he’s still holding his bat.
“This is bullshit,” he mutters, shoving a hand through his hair, way too aggressively for your liking. “It’s never over. It’s never actually over.”
You watch him, chest still heaving from the climb back through the gate. There’s grime streaked along his cheekbone. A smear of something dark at his collar. He looks furious.
And you can’t say you blame him.
“I’m so sick of it,” he snaps, turning toward you. “Sick of it touching everything. Sick of dragging you into it. Sick of—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching hard enough it almost looks painful.
You step into his space before he can spiral any further. He’s actually vibrating with it now — frustration, fear.
“Steve.”
He looks at you, wide-eyed, and it breaks your heart. “I should’ve gotten you out faster.”
“I know, baby.”
It throws him for a second. You see it in his eyes — the way his hands still, the way his mouth opens and then closes just as fast. You reach up, thumb brushing over the tight line of his cheek, stroking slowly. Trying to pull him back to you. Your palm cups his jaw, warm against his skin.
“I know you’re pissed,” you continue, brushing your thumb under his eye, over the faint smear of grime there. “You’re angry. You’re frustrated. You have every right to be.”
His breathing falters just slightly.
You drag your thumb across his cheekbone again, slow, deliberate, eyes locked on his.
“Take it out on me.”
It’s not taunting. Not reckless.
It’s exactly what it sounded like — permission.
And he takes it. It’s not half a second later that he’s on you again, pulling you flush against him like he needs the impact.
The kiss that follows is deeper than before, edged with all that swallowed rage. Not cruel. Just intense in a way that steals the air from your lungs.
He presses you back into the wall again, mouth hot against yours, breath uneven.
Every time you respond — every little sound, every shift toward him instead of away — something steadies in his movements. The anger funnels into focus. Into the way he holds you. Into the way he kisses you like he’s reclaiming something the Upside Down tried to take.
You feel the shift as it happens. The storm in him finding somewhere safe to settle.
“Baby, you don’t get to say that,” he practically pleads against your lips, “and think I’m not going to—”
You cut him off with your lips and that’s all he needs. His lips never leave yours as he walks you further into your house. You feel the backs of your knees hitting your mattress before you can even register how you got from the hallway to here.
And by the time you both sink into your bed, the fear has burned into something softer. His arm wraps around you immediately, holding you close.
“I hate that place,” he mutters.
“I know.”
“I hate that it touched you.” His hand stills at your hip, thumb tracing a slow line over the slither of skin peaking out of your top.
Heat simmers beneath the exhaustion and adrenaline you both share. His lips graze the curve of your jaw — not quite a kiss, more like a reminder. “I love you.”
“God, I love you.”
One of his hands cradles the back of your head while the other strips away the last layers between you. He swallows a gasp you don’t remember letting out, his tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that leaves you dizzy.
When he pulls back, his pupils are blown wide, lips slick and parted. “I need—”
He cuts himself off, dragging his palm down your thigh, pushing it up and out of his way. The rough pad of his thumb brushes over your clit through damp fabric, and your hips jerk involuntarily.
He takes that as a sign to hook his fingers into the waistband and pulls it down in one sharp motion. Cold air kisses your skin but only for half a second before he’s there again, mouth at your pulse, hand sliding between your thighs.
He groans against your throat, the vibration sending a shudder down your spine.
“Fuck,” he breathes, dragging two fingers through you before curling them inside without warning.
His gaze locks onto you, like if he looks away you might disappear. “That's it," he murmurs, dragging his tongue over your collarbone when your thighs start trembling.
"Stay with me."
His fingers crook harder, hitting that spot inside you that always makes your vision blur, and suddenly you're coming—hard, his name tearing from your throat as your body clenches around his hand. He keeps moving, needing to feel you respond.
When you try to squirm from the overstimulation, his hand catches your hip holding you there. “I’ve got you,” he breathes.
Even when your legs shake violently, when you gasp out a broken “Steve—” and your fingers twist in his hair, he keeps his eyes on yours. Dark, yes — but searching.
Not watching you come apart. Making sure you’re still here.
“Look at me,” he murmurs, softer now. You blink up at him through the haze. “Hi, baby.”
By the time he finally stills his fingers, you’re boneless beneath him, chest heaving, skin slick with sweat.
His hand stills against your thigh.
For half a second, the slick shine on his fingers looks darker. Thicker.
Red.
His breath catches.
“Steve?”
The sound of your voice snaps the room back into place.
No red. No blood.
Just you. Warm and alive.
His fingers, still glistening with your slick, trail down your thigh before gripping hard enough to leave marks. “Look at you,” he mutters, voice thick with something possessive. “My girl.”
He shifts, giving you barely enough time to catch your breath before he’s stripping off his own clothes with rough, impatient movements. Releasing his cock, hard and flushed against his stomach.
Steve braces one forearm beside your head, his other hand guiding himself into you — one sharp thrust that knocks the air from your lungs. You arch into him, legs wrapping tightly around his waist as he sinks deeper, your body still fluttering from the aftershocks of your last orgasm.
He groans, low and rough, his forehead dropping to yours as he bottoms out, hips flush against yours. “You’re still so tight, honey.” His voice catches.
Steve moves with urgency immediately, like momentum is the only thing keeping the panic away, driving into you in sharp, deep strokes that leave your toes curling against his lower back.
At this moment, you don’t care that his grip may leave bruises on your skin. Not when this is the first time in hours that he’s looked at you without checking for blood. Not when he’s moving like he’s trying to burn every memory of the Upside Down out of both of you.
"You feel that?" he growls against your lips, pushing you up the mattress until your shoulders hit the headboard.
His rhythm only stutters when your breath hitches wrong. His eyes snap to yours immediately, “You okay?”
When you nod — when you pull him back down with an all-consuming kiss — he exhales. Only then does he move again.
“Look at me. Let me know you’re here with me.” You nod frantically, words failing you. But he shakes his head, catching your chin to force your gaze to his. "Say it."
“Need you to say it, baby,” he repeats, voice thick with need, fingers tightening at your jaw.
His hips snap forward again, and the sensation knocks the words out of you — "I’m here," you gasp, nails biting into his shoulders as he drives into you with a groan. "Fuck, Steve—"
Whatever else you were going to say dissolves into a moan when he shifts slightly, angling just right, and suddenly every thrust hits that perfect spot inside you. Your muscles lock as pure pleasure fractures through you. But Steve keeps his pace even as your body convulses around him.
And then you feel it — a rush of heat between your legs, spilling over him, soaking the sheets beneath you. The sound is loud in the quiet room.
Your breath catches when his movements falter, something shifting in his expression, pupils blown wide with something deeper than lust.
You shift like you’re about to apologise, and he tightens his hand, shakes his head once, eyes locked on yours. “Don’t,” he murmurs. “Jesus. Don’t.”
His palm spans your hip, thumb pressing deep into the curve like he’s anchoring himself there, his eyes following the slick that drips down your thighs.
You whimper when he thrusts again, overstimulation making your nerves sing. His hand slides higher on your hip, holding you steady. "Please," you gasp, hands scraping at his chest hair. "Let me—"
You can’t help the whine that cuts you off when he pulls out almost completely—just to shove back in with a rough snap of his hips. His teeth graze your pulse point as he growls, “That’s it, honey.”
You press your palms against his chest and give him a small push. He taps your thigh in warning, but you bite his lower lip in response before murmuring, "Let me ride you."
Steve goes still above you. His fingers twitch against your hips. "You sure, baby?" he murmurs, voice rough with restraint. His thumb brushes over your hip — slow, questioning, steady.
You answer by pushing as hard as you can against his chest - which admittedly isn’t very hard but he pretends and lets you sit atop him. "Yeah," you breathe, nipping at his jaw. "Want to feel all of you."
His cock brushes heavy against your stomach, slick with your arousal, and you both watch as you guide him back inside.
You sink down slowly, letting yourself feel every inch stretch you open until your thighs press flush against his.
You both sigh at the stretch, his fingers tightening at your waist as you roll your hips forward once before lifting again. His next groan is broken, his head tipping back against the pillow when you repeat the motion.
The pace you set is deliberate — maddening. Your hips roll in slow, fluid circles. Every time you lift yourself almost to the tip of him, his hips jerk upward, chasing the heat of you, but you deny him, sinking back down at your torturous pace.
"Baby," he grits out, gripping you like he’s barely holding back from flipping you back over and taking control.
But then — something shifts.
He looks up at you and for a heartbeat, you don’t know where he’s gone.
The bedroom is no longer your bedroom. It’s red. Breathing. Wrong.
His hold on your waist turns iron-tight, like he’s scared you might vanish.
“Steve.” You cup his face, forcing his gaze to yours.
“Look at me. I’m here.”
The red fades.
His grip softens immediately, his thumbs tenderly brushing over the slight red marks he left.
His arms slide around your waist, pulling you forward as he sits up until your chest presses against his, your thighs bracketing his hips in a way that changes the angle, deeper somehow. The shift makes you gasp, your nails scraping against his shoulders as he holds you there, his mouth hot against your collarbone.
He guides your hips into a slower, grinding rhythm that has you seeing stars.
The embrace is almost suffocating, his chest pressed flush against yours, his breath hot and ragged against your neck. "You're so fucking perfect," he mutters, voice wrecked, lips brushing your pulse point with each breath.
"My perfect girl—god—" His words dissolve into a groan when you clench around him, your thighs trembling against his sides.
You bury your face in the crook of his neck, fingers twisting in his sweat-damp hair as he rocks into you, slower now but somehow even deeper.
"Steve—" You cry, half-moan, half-plea, and he responds by somehow holding you tighter, one hand splaying across your lower back.
"Y’know what you do to me?" he murmurs, lips skimming your jaw.
You whimper when his hand slides between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit with unerring accuracy. "That's it," he breathes, pulling your hair to see you clearly. "Wanna see you, honey."
You realise he’s not chasing the orgasm. He’s chasing proof.
The pressure builds low in your stomach, coiled tight like a spring wound too far. You gasp his name into the sweat-damp hollow of his throat as his cock drags against that spot inside you again and again and —
"Close," you pant, the word fracturing into a moan when Steve bites down on your shoulder, his hips thrusting upward with desperation.
His voice breaks when he murmurs, “Let go, honey.”
Your body obeys before you can think. Your back arches as pleasure pulls you under, vision blurring at the edges. This time you hear it before you feel it — the wet rush of heat.
The slap of skin is drowned out by your choked cry as your body convulses around him.
Steve groans — low, guttural.
Your body pulses around him in slow, rhythmic clenches, and his thrusts turn erratic, breath breaking against your lips.
"So beautiful," he grits out, the words rough. Sounding like they’ve been ripped from somewhere deep inside him.
His mouth finds yours in a messy, open kiss, teeth knocking, the taste of salt and sweat and something desperate between you.
When he finally comes, it’s with a shuddering gasp of your name against your lips, hips grinding deep as he spills inside you. He holds you like you might slip through him.
"Fuck, I love you so much."
His lips brush your cheekbone, your temple, the corner of your mouth. Tears shine at the corners of his lashes, catching the dim light as they fall. You feel the wetness against your cheek before you see them as he buries his face in the crook of your neck.
"I’ll never let anything hurt you," he rasps. His arms close around you like he could shield you from every horror this town has conjured up.
His fingers slide into your hair, cradling the back of your head with a gentleness that contradicts the bruising grip he’d had moments before.
“I promise.”
"I know," you murmur against his temple, your fingers threading through his sweat-damp hair as his shuddering breaths warm the hollow of your throat.
Steve brushes his nose against your pulse point. You can feel the rapid flutter of his heartbeat against your chest, the uneven rise and fall of his shoulders as he struggles to steady his breathing.
When he finally lifts his head, his eyes are red-rimmed, lashes clumped together with moisture, and something in your chest cracks open at the sight. You brush your thumb beneath his lower lash, catching the dampness there, and he leans into the touch like a man starved.
“I love you, Steve.” You punctuate the words with a kiss, catching another tear at the corner of his eye before it can fall. You press your foreheads together, the heat of his skin seeping into yours, his breath mingling with yours in the narrow space between your lips.
“Say it again,” he murmurs.
His nose nudges yours, the gesture almost shy despite the fact his body still covers yours completely, his cock still inside you.
“I love you, Steve Harrington. I always will.”
He exhales like he’s been holding that breath since the moment the ground split beneath you.
You don’t think he will ever fully stop looking for blood.
But for now, he’s looking at you.
And in the quiet of your house — too still, too normal — he finally lets himself rest.
P.S. @harringtons-cupid showed me how to do gradient font so please prepare yourselves as I will be overusing this immediately.
Summary: Soft skin, slow kisses, and a truth that doesn’t need words. A morning too honest to hide from, and a warmth that makes everything after this impossible to undo.
Author’s note: This is Part Two to All That the Night Allowed but it can be read as a standalone. Part One was based on this lovely request.
Morning doesn’t feel real.
It feels borrowed. All too soft, too golden, too good.
Sunlight filters through Steve’s blinds, gentle and gold, tracing the edge of his shoulder where the sheet’s slipped low. He’s still asleep, one hand open in the space between you. You stare at it like it’s a question you already know the answer to.
You should get up. You don’t.
You should move. Let him know you’re awake. You don’t.
It’s disarming, seeing him like this. Seeing yourself like this, still here.
So instead, you watch him breathe. The small rise and fall that shouldn’t matter so much, and yet somehow does. Last night still hums beneath your skin, soft and electric. Every confession, every kiss, replaying in the quiet.
You think about how easy it was, how natural. How terrifying that is.
Maybe the night gave you something too good. Maybe the morning’s here to take it back.
Your fingers twitch toward his hand, hesitant, almost afraid. When your palm finally brushes against his, his fingers tighten around yours without even opening his eyes. That small, unconscious pressure sends a warmth through you you didn’t know you needed.
“Mornin’,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep, and you can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips.
“Morning,” you whisper back, though your heart is racing in a way words can’t touch.
He shifts slightly, rolling toward you, until his chest presses lightly against yours. His arm snakes around your waist, pulling you closer.
The weight of him is comforting, grounding as if somehow having him this close makes last night less fragile, less like it could disappear if you blink.
Something in you unclenches — not fully, but just enough that you can breathe again.
You can feel his smile in the gentle kisses he leaves wherever he can reach, his head nuzzled into the curve between your shoulder and neck.
And it should feel easy. It should feel safe.
But it doesn’t.
Your chest seizes, tight in a way that makes you want to pull back, like the quiet voices in your head are whispering that you’re too much, or not enough, or that this—this softness, this warmth—couldn’t possibly last.
Steve doesn’t pull away. His hand drifts over your back, small, grounding pressure that says I’m here. His thumb brushes over your skin, slow, steady, as if trying to press all the fears out of you.
Steve’s breath is warm against your collarbone when he finally speaks again, voice softer than the morning light.
“Hey,” he murmurs, like he can feel the way your mind is spiralling. “You okay?”
You swallow, but the words stick. Your fingers tighten faintly around his. “Mm… Just thinking.”
He hums, and the sound is warmer than the light peering through his blinds.“Dangerous,” he mumbles, teasing softly.
But the joke doesn’t land the way it usually does.
Your chest is too tight. Your throat too warm.
At your lack of response, he lifts his head just enough to see you. His hair is a mess, eyes heavy with sleep, worry starting to edge in.
“Talk to me,” he says quietly. Not a demand but an invite. “Whatever’s going on in there… you don’t have to deal with it alone.”
He taps your forehead gently with one finger, a boyish smile trying to coax you back to yourself.
Your breath catches. You meet his eyes and feel something click into place.
“I didn’t think waking up next to you would… feel like this.”
It lands between you — soft, scared, honest.
For a moment he doesn’t say anything, just looks at you like he’s memorising the shape of the thought, the way it sounds coming from your mouth. And then his thumb drags slowly across your waist, grounding and warm.
“I wanted you here.”
He says it simply, like it’s the easiest truth in the world.
Your chest tightens again — different this time. Too full.
He shifts up onto an elbow, leaning over you, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek with a touch so gentle it nearly breaks you.
“I’m not the kind of guy who… has someone stay the night and regrets it when the sun comes up,” he murmurs, thumb grazing along your jaw. “Not with you. God, especially not with you.”
You look at him then, really look, at the way morning light softens everything about him. No bravado. No nerves. Just Steve, in all his terrifying, devastating sincerity.
“I don’t want last night to be something you worry about or overthink,” he adds, voice dipping into something sure and steady. “I meant every word I said. Every. Single. One.”
His forehead presses to yours, his voice a low promise in the space between you.
“You don’t scare me,” he whispers. “Loving you doesn’t scare me.”
Your heart stutters — too hard, too hopeful.
“Steve…” you breathe, barely a sound.
He smiles, soft and crooked, brushing his nose against yours like he’s trying to soothe the tremble in your voice.
“I know. I know. It’s a lot for 9am.” His fingers find yours under the covers, threading through them and squeezing gently.
“But I’m not going anywhere.”
Steve’s breath brushes your cheek as he leans in again, lips pressing a slow kiss to the corner of your mouth. Not rushed. Just… sure. Certain. Like he’s memorising you.
You melt without meaning to, a tiny sound catching in your throat.
He smiles against your skin. “There it is,” he whispers.
You swat lightly at his chest, embarrassed, but he just catches your hand and brings your knuckles to his lips.
“Don’t hide from me,” he murmurs, lips soft where they touch. “Not now.”
The room is warm, the sheets tangled around your legs, his thumb tracing slow circles on your hip where his hand has settled. Every slide of his fingers is casual and intimate at the same time. The kind of touch you feel long after it ends.
Your voice is quiet when you speak. “You’re really not freaking out?”
He huffs a soft laugh, shifting even closer so your legs brush under the blankets. “Only freaking out in a good way,” he says, nudging your nose with his. “The I-can’t-believe-I-get-to-wake-up-next-to-you way.”
Your cheeks heat; you can feel it, warm and stupid and uncontrollable and Steve bites back a grin like he can’t help himself.
“See?” he teases gently. “You get all shy and cute and I’m supposed to not lose my mind?”
Your stomach flips, ridiculously. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re stuck with me,” he says, dropping a kiss just under your jaw — slow, lingering, a little too warm to be innocent.
His breath fans over your throat. “Sorry. Not sorry.”
Your fingers curl against his shoulder without thinking, pulling him in just a little. He groans softly; a quiet, surprised sound and his hand settles more firmly on your waist.
The laughter fades slowly, softening into something warmer — something close.
The heat between you builds, slow and steady, like sunlight creeping across a bedspread.
He kisses your neck again, then your jaw, his mouth brushing the corner of yours like he’s waiting for you to meet him halfway.
You do.
The kiss is soft at first, morning-slow, tender until he exhales against your lips, hand sliding up your spine, pulling you into him like he’s been wanting to for hours.
When you break apart, breath warm and shared, his forehead rests against yours.
“Stay,” he murmurs again, fingers tracing the back of your waist beneath the sheet and over his borrowed sweater. “Stay for breakfast. Stay for… everything.”
You laugh quietly. “What’s ‘everything’?”
He grins, eyes half-lidded, voice dipping low. “Coffee. Pancakes. Me kissing you against the counter while the pan burns.”
You snort, burying your face in his chest. “You’d burn pancakes on purpose just to kiss me?”
“No,” he says, smirking. “I’d burn ‘em because I suck at cooking. The kissing part is just an added perk.”
Steve kisses your neck one last time — slow, lingering — before he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. There’s a warm, crooked smile tugging at his mouth.
“C’mon,” he murmurs, tapping his thumb on your hip. “I promised you breakfast.”
You make a faint noise that’s not quite a yes and not quite a laugh, and he grins like he heard both. He takes your hand and tugs you gently out of bed, sheets falling away in a warm tangle.
The hallway is cool beneath your feet, sunlight pooling in strips across the floor. Steve keeps your hand in his the whole way, thumb brushing over your knuckles; a quiet reassurance in every step.
In the kitchen, he moves around like he’s still half-dreaming, opening cabinets, mumbling something about pancake mix.
You lean against the counter, watching him with a fondness that sneaks up on you, warm enough to scare you a little.
“Well,” he says, eyes lighting up in a way he can’t hide, “that’s not fair.”
“What isn’t?”
“You,” he says, gesturing with the spatula he somehow already found. “Looking like that. In my clothes. Expecting me to focus.”
“You’re the one who wanted breakfast.”
“Yeah, and I’m starting to regret that choice,” he mutters, turning to the stove.
You lean against the counter, watching him fumble through pancake mix like a man fighting for his life. The fondness hits you warm and terrifying beneath your ribs.
He glances over his shoulder, catches you staring, and smirks. “What?” he asks. “Never seen a man wage war on a frying pan before?”
“You’re cute when you struggle,” you tease.
“Cute?” he echoes, offended. “Sweetheart, I’ll have you know I’m—”
He flicks on the stove, the pan immediately sputters, and he winces.
You laugh, soft and helpless, and the sound melts something in him. He steps over, reaches for your waist, and lifts you upward with warm hands until you’re perched safely on the counter, legs brushing his.
“That’s better,” he murmurs, hands settling on your thighs. “Now I can actually see you.”
Your breath catches because he’s looking at you the way he did last night. The way that makes everything inside you go quiet and loud all at once.
“You’re staring,” you whisper.
“So are you.” He leans in, brushing his nose against yours. “It only seems fair I reciprocate.”
The kiss he gives you is soft, sweet, morning-slow but it shifts quickly as his fingers curl gently higher along your thighs. The kiss deepens; your breath catches on a small, helpless sound.
Steve freezes for half a second, like the sound hit him square in the chest.
Then he groans — low, surprised, unbearably warm — and pulls you closer, his hands anchoring you against him.
“God,” he breathes against your mouth, “you’re… you’re gonna kill me.”
You laugh, breathless, but it dies when he kisses down your jaw, slow and hungry, tracing a path along your throat. Your fingers curl in the hem of his shirt; he goes willingly, stepping between your legs like he belongs there.
“Hey,” he murmurs against your skin, voice a little shaky, “you okay?”
You nod, pulling him back up to you. “I’m okay. Are you?”
His answering smile is soft and devastating. “Yeah,” he says, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “More than.”
The kiss that follows is deeper, heat curling between you, everything slow and wanting. His hands grip your waist, sliding you closer to the edge of the counter until your knees bump his hips.
The coldness of the counter bites against your bare legs but with him this close you don’t even notice.
He breaks away just long enough to rest his forehead against yours.
“Okay,” he whispers, breath unsteady. “This is—this is getting dangerous. If we stay in here, I’m gonna—”
The pan on the stove pops loudly.
Both of you jump.
Steve stares at the stove like it personally betrayed him.
“…yeah, nope. Breakfast is dead. Time of death: 9.15.”
You snort, covering your face with your hand. “Steve—”
“Nope. I’m serious.” He takes your hand, tugging you forward, your legs wrapping instinctively around his hips.
“We’re going back to bed before I set something on fire.”
Your pulse stutters, not from nerves this time, but from how effortlessly he pulls you close.
You cling to him without meaning to, laughing breathlessly as he lifts you off the counter, hands firm under your thighs.
The movement is easy, natural - like he’s been carrying you like this his whole life.
“Steve— the stove—”
“I’ll turn it off on the way,” he insists, kissing you once, quick and eager. “I can multitask.”
“You absolutely can’t multitask.”
“True.” He kisses you again — deeper this time, dizzying — before half-stumbling toward the hallway. “But I can kiss you and carry you, so I think that counts.”
“Doorframe,” you warn.
He immediately bumps it.
You bury your face in his neck, laughing into his skin as he mutters an apology to the drywall. His hands tighten around you, secure and warm and wanting.
By the time he gets you back to the bedroom, both of you are breathless, flushed, smiling like idiots, and the morning feels unreal all over again.
He lowers you onto the bed with ridiculous care, leaning over you with that soft-morning, hungry-late-night look in his eyes.
“Okay,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb across your lips, voice dipping warm and low. “Now I can focus.”
And when he kisses you again — slow, deep, sure — the world falls away all over again.
Something inside you loosens, unwinds. The kind of unwinding that feels like trust, like recognition, like coming back into your own skin with someone who knows how to hold it gently.
His hand slides along your side, warm through the fabric of his sweater you stole, fingers tracing you like he’s trying to memorise where you begin and end. Every touch is unhurried, almost reverent.
The moment stretches, warm and certain. Not rushed. Not fragile. Chosen.
He kisses you like he’s afraid to rush a single second of this, like morning might break if he moves too fast.
You breathe his name, barely a whisper, and it changes him. He softens and sharpens all at once. His lips slow, lingering, his forehead brushing yours just long enough for him to steady his breath.
“You okay?” he murmurs again, gentler this time, like the question is a hand extended rather than a check-in.
You nod, but your fingers clutch at him like they have their own language. “Yeah… I just—” You swallow, the emotion warm and thick in your throat.
He smiles. Not cocky, not teasing. Just… warm. Grounded. His thumb strokes your cheek, and he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth.
“Me too,” he murmurs against your skin, like he knows exactly what you are feeling without you having to say it. “God, me too.”
He shifts closer, the weight of him settling over you, slow enough that you feel every inch of him choosing you.
His hand slips beneath the hem of the sweater, fingertips brushing the bare skin of your waist.
You inhale sharply — not from surprise, but from the tenderness of it. The way he touches you like he’s holding something precious, something breakable, something he’d never let fall.
Your legs draw him closer without thinking. His breath catches, warm against your jaw, and he laughs quietly — breathless, disbelieving.
“You’re gonna make it really hard to take this slow,” he whispers, like a confession pressed into your throat.
“Who said I wanted slow?” you breathe, though your voice trembles with something softer than desire — something fuller.
His eyes lift to yours, and for a moment the room goes impossibly still. The sunlight, the warmth, the morning hush: everything funnels into the way he’s looking at you, like he’s seeing every crack, every fear, and choosing you anyway.
“Then just tell me what you want,” he says, voice low but steady. “I don’t want to guess with you. Not today. Not ever.”
His honesty hits harder than any kiss.
You cup his cheek, your thumb brushing the faint stubble along his jaw. “I want you,” you say, quiet but certain. “Just you. Just… here. With me.”
His breath leaves him in a slow exhale, his eyes softening in a way that feels like being held.
“Yeah,” he whispers with a small nod. “Yeah, I can do that.”
He leans down again, kissing you differently this time, still warm, tender, but deeper, threaded with a kind of ache that pulls at your chest. His hand slides along your ribcage with a cautious, steady curiosity; your own fingers tangle in his hair, tugging him closer until there’s barely space to breathe.
He groans softly into your mouth, not from urgency, but from relief, like finally being allowed to feel this much.
Your body curves into his, fitting together in a way that feels accidental and inevitable all at once. His lips find the line of your throat, your collarbone, your shoulder, each kiss slow enough that you feel the intention behind it. The room feels warmer, the world smaller, edged in sunlight and his breath syncing with yours.
“Lift,” he breathes, and you do, letting him strip your shirt off completely.
He stops. Looks at you, really looks. His thumb traces the curve of your waist, slow and awed.
“Fuck, sweetheart… you’re killing me.”
You tug him down by the waistband of his sweats, pulling him flush against you. His breath breaks into a quiet, helpless moan, hips rocking down into yours without hesitation.
Clothes come off with that perfect half-rushed, half-laughing chaos that only happens when you’re too into each other to be coordinated.
He groans when your hands finally slide up his bare chest, fingers tracing the lines of muscle and old scars. His skin is warm, his heartbeat wild against your palm.
“Jesus,” he breathes, dropping his forehead to yours. “Tell me if—if you wanna stop, okay? Any time.”
You nod, squeezing your fingers around his wrist, pressing his hand flat against your chest where your heart beats fast and sure.
“I know,” you whisper. “Same for you.”
His exhale is ragged, grateful. His forehead bumps yours again in rough affection before he kisses you, deep and consuming, his body settling between your thighs with a slow, deliberate roll that steals your breath.
The groan you both make is almost embarrassing — low and wanting and perfectly in sync.
His hands brace against the mattress, muscles trembling with restraint as he rocks into you again, slowly, letting you feel every inch of him. The stretch is sweet, aching, perfect.
“Look at me,” he rasps, voice wrecked already.
You do. His eyes are darker than you have ever seen, locked onto yours with an intensity that makes your chest tighten.
“Still good?”
You nod, biting your lip as he sinks deeper, your legs tightening around his waist. “Yeah… yeah, keep going.”
He exhales sharply, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second before he lifts himself back up on shaking arms. “Fuck, okay… just—just tell me if—”
“Steve,” you gasp, arching into him, nails digging into his shoulders. “Shut up and move.”
His laugh is rough, breathless. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
And then he does.
No rush. No hurry. Just slow, deep rolls of his hips that feel like coming home. Every stroke pulls a quiet moan from one of you, soft and breathless in the morning air.
Your fingers clutch at his back, his shoulders, his hair; basically anywhere you can reach, as he murmurs broken praises against your skin.
“So fucking beautiful… God, the way you feel—”
“Can’t believe I get to touch you like this.”
You whimper, arching into him, and his rhythm falters for a second before he groans, burying his face in your neck.
“Shit— sweetheart, I’m not—I’m not gonna last if you keep—”
You roll your hips up to meet his next thrust, and he curses, gripping your thigh tighter as he speeds up just slightly. The shift sends sparks up your spine, your body tightening around him in a way that makes him groan your name like a prayer.
“Close,” you gasp, clutching at him. “Steve, I’m—”
“Yeah,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “Me too. Come on, sweetheart… let go for me.”
One more deep thrust, his fingers finding where you’re joined, and you shatter — gasping his name as pleasure rips through you in slow, endless waves. He follows a second later with a broken moan, hips stuttering as he spills into you, pulse after pulse, breath hot against your collarbone.
The world narrows to the weight of him, the warmth of his skin, the way his heartbeat thuds against your chest.
For a long moment, neither of you moves — just breathing, tangled together, sweat-slick and sated.
Finally, Steve exhales shakily, lifting his head just enough to meet your eyes. His lips quirk in a sleepy, satisfied smirk. “So… breakfast, huh?”
You laugh, breathless and warm, swatting lightly at his shoulder. “Shut up.”
He kisses you, slow and lazy, before rolling off to collapse beside you with a groan. “Worth it,” he declares, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Pancakes are overrated anyway.”
You curl into his side, tracing idle patterns on his chest as he pulls you closer. His heartbeat slows under your palm, steady and sure.
And for the first time since you woke up, the quiet doesn’t feel fragile. The morning doesn’t feel borrowed.
It feels like yours.
Yours and Steve’s.
P.S. Smut that isn’t tangled in angst or hurt/comfort… who is she and why is she in my drafts??
P.P.S. Requests are open and I have posted request guidelines ie who I write for 🫶🏻✨
♡ If I ever got to build something real, I’d want it to be with you.
Warnings: Emotional themes, past trauma, and mentions of having/wanting children. Friends to Lovers. Fluff.
Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader.
Word count: 1.8k
Summary: A still October night. A confession that feels too real to take back. And the kind of silence that changes everything.
Author’s note: Based on this lovely request. There will be a Part Two — All That the Morning Promised (18+) — coming soon.
It’s late—so late the streets have gone still, and the air carries that first bite of October. The kind of late where defences soften and the weight of the past year—the mall fire, Billy, the Russians – feels momentarily lighter.
The kind of night Hawkins only gets after summer finally gives up, where the pavement’s still warm but the wind brushes cool against your skin.
You and Steve sit on the hood of his car, parked at the lookout just past Forest Hills—the one that gives you a clear view of Hawkins spread out below. Scattered lights glow like embers in the dark.
A half-empty bag of chips rests between you, the radio murmuring something low and distant, its static curling around the quiet.
Steve has been talking for a while—about Robin’s college applications, Dustin’s latest science fair trophy, Nancy’s internship in Indianapolis—and there’s a restless edge to his voice, like he’s running his hands over the walls of his own life.
He kicks a loose pebble into the dark. “Everyone’s got somewhere to go,” he says quietly, staring at his hands. “And I’m just… here. Still working a minimum-wage, dead-end job.”
You nudge his shoulder with yours. “You’re here,” you remind him softly. “That counts for something.”
“That counts for everything.”
He glances at you, a ghost of a smile touching his lips before he looks away again. The golden light catches in his eyes, making him look both vulnerable and incandescent.
He looks softer in this light—freckles scattered across his nose, hair mussed from his restless hands. His shoulders are looser than usual, like he’s not trying to prove anything. Just Steve.
Your Steve.
Well… not really. Not literally.
Just Steve, who helped you get your job at Family Video after you lost your old one in the fire at Starcourt. Steve who made you laugh when you wanted to cry. Steve who somehow always showed up whenever you needed him.
Steve, who you first met fighting off Demo Dogs, hair a mess, heart somehow bigger than his baseball bat—standing there like he could take on anything.
That was then. This is now. And somehow, he’s still standing.
He’s Steve freaking Harrington—‘King Steve’—and he’s talking about how everyone else seems to have it figured out. A feeling you know too well.
You shift on the hood of the car, the night air brushing cool against your skin, and for a moment, neither of you says anything. The night stretches around you, quiet and still, the hum of Hawkins threading through the silence.
Just the radio humming, the distant buzz of a streetlight, and the weight of unspoken understanding settling between you.
Then Steve exhales, a quiet sound, almost like he’s testing the night for courage. “Y’ever think about the future?” he asks, voice low, hesitant.
You glance at him, the glow of the streetlight catching the last golden highlights of his hair—the remnants of summer still clinging stubbornly to him, warm against the cool October night.
“That’s a big question for midnight,” you tease softly.
He laughs, but it’s quiet, thoughtful. “Yeah, I know. I just… I dunno. Everyone else seems like they know what they want and how to get it. Like they have this blueprint of what their life should be, and I’m still trying to figure out what pen to use, y’know?”
The way his shoulders slump, just enough to let his guard down, makes him look like someone who’s finally allowed himself to breathe.
You nudge him again, playful but warm. “Maybe your blueprint doesn’t have to look like anyone else’s,” you say softly.
“Maybe you don’t need to have it all figured out yet.”
Steve picks at the label of his bottle, eyes still fixed on some distant point out past the parking lot. Almost as though the future might just appear if he squints hard enough.
“I used to think I wanted the whole cliché,” he says after a beat. “Big house, white picket fence, couple of dogs, too many kids yelling over each other at breakfast.”
“Just… noise everywhere,” he adds, voice somehow even softer. “Kids running around. Someone to come home to.” He pauses, glancing at you.
“I think I’d be good at it. Teaching them dumb stuff, laughing with them for spilling cereal… holding them when they cry.”
You smile, just a little. He’s not exactly concealing the hope in his voice.
“I thought it was just what people were supposed to want,” he continues, voice barely above a murmur. “But the older I get… the more I think I actually do want it. Not because it's the dream everyone talks about, but because I wanna do it differently”
Your brows lift slightly. “Different how?”
He pauses, then lets out a breath — the kind you let out when you’ve been holding something in too long.
“My parents weren’t bad,” he says, eyes distant. “But they weren’t around. Not really. I grew up in a house full of silence and rules. Everything had to be perfect.”
He pauses, jaw tightening just slightly.
“There was never any room for real,” he adds, quieter now. “No room to be imperfect. No room to breathe. To mess up. To just... exist.”
The confession settles between you—quiet, heavy, and heartbreaking.
He drags a hand through his hair, the motion restless. “I spent so long trying to be the version of me they’d actually see. The one who smiled at the right time, wore the right clothes, dated the right girl. I don’t want that for my kids.”
His voice wavers slightly on kids, and your chest aches in a way that’s hard to name.
“I want to be the kind of dad who’s there. Who listens, even when it’s hard. Who makes a mess and laughs about it. Who loves loud.”
He hesitates, voice barely above a whisper. “Who never makes them wonder if they’re enough.”
He swallows. Then glances at you — really looks at you.
“Y’know, sometimes I think about what they’d be like,” he says softly. “The kids, I mean. What they’d look like.”
You can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “You, a family man. Didn’t see that coming.”
But even as you say it, you don’t quite believe yourself. You’ve seen the way he checks Dustin’s seatbelt twice before driving off, the way he listens when Robin spirals, the way he fills every quiet space with warmth until it feels like home.
He shrugs, a little sheepish, a little proud. “Yeah. Doesn’t exactly fit the image you have of me, huh? But I can see it. And… they’d have my hair. Or- well, hopefully not too much of it. But your smile. Definitely your smile. Maybe your stubborn streak too… God help me if they get that.”
You tilt your head, a smirk tugging at your lips. “My smile, huh”
It takes a second for it to register for him. You see it- the instant his brain catches up with his mouth. His eyes widen - dramatically.
“I-uh-yeah, I mean, you do have a nice smile,” he stammers, hand flying up to rub the back of his neck. “I just thought it would be nice if a kid-”
“A kid?” you echo, grin spreading as you watch the familiar, heartwarming sight of a flustered, floundering, red faced Steve.
“Yeah - our - my kid. Shit—okay, I think we are way off topic now. Let’s—” His hands fumble as he searches desperately for a lifeline—one you definitely don’t plan on throwing him.
You laugh softly, nudging his shoulder again. “Nope. I think we’re perfectly on topic.”
Steve looks at you like he’s trying to figure out if you’re messing with him — like if he blinks too fast, this whole thing might disappear.
Your grin fades, just a little, replaced by something quieter. Something real. “You’ve been thinking about it?” you ask, voice soft. “Not just the house and the dogs and the kids… but me?”
He exhales — a shaky, half-relieved breath — and nods.
“Yeah,” he admits. “More than I meant to. More than I probably should’ve.”
There’s a beat of silence, but it doesn’t feel empty. It feels full—of everything you haven’t said, and everything you’re saying now without meaning to.
He shifts beside you, close enough that your knees almost touch. His voice, when he speaks again, is quieter. More certain.
“You make everything feel… lighter. Even the hard stuff. I think if I ever got to build something real… I’d want it to be with someone who makes me feel how I do-.”
He glances at you again, eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them. “When I'm with you.”
You feel it in your chest — a quiet bloom of something that’s equally warm as it is terrifying.
You don’t look away. “Tell me I’m not the only one who’s been thinking about this.”
His hand finds yours again, slower this time, deliberate. Fingers curling around yours like they’ve done it a thousand times already — in another life, or maybe just one you haven’t let yourself believe in until now.
You exhale, the sound trembling between you. “You’re not,” you whisper — and the words come out smaller, truer than you expect. Like they’ve been waiting their turn.
For a second, neither of you moves. Then Steve’s thumb brushes over the back of your hand, a small, grounding motion that feels like both a question and an answer. When you meet his eyes, the world narrows to that one look—hope, disbelief, want.
And then he leans in.
It’s tentative at first, almost like he’s afraid to break whatever spell the night’s been holding. His lips catch yours in a slow, uncertain kiss that deepens only when you tilt closer — when your hand finds his jaw, when he exhales against your mouth like he’s been holding his breath for months.
The world goes quiet.
Even the radio fades into static, like the night itself knows better than to interrupt.
And in that heartbeat—in the warmth of him, the taste of salt and October air—you see it all. The house with the creaky porch. The dog that always steals his socks. The kids with his eyes and your smile. The life you never dared to imagine, and him—always him—by your side.
When you finally pull apart, his forehead rests against yours. His breathing still uneven, smile unsteady but real.
“Guess we’re way past off-topic now,” he murmurs, voice rough around the edges.
You laugh softly, still dizzy. “Yeah,” you whisper. “But I think I’m okay with that.”
He presses another kiss to your temple — not rushed, not hungry, just sure — and it feels like a promise neither of you are ready to name.
The night stretches around you, alive with quiet possibility. Somewhere in the distance, Hawkins hums—broken, rebuilding, but alive.
And right here, on the hood of his car, under the October sky, Steve Harrington isn’t looking back - he’s looking right at you.
♡ Because loving you? That’s the easiest damn thing I’ve ever done.
Warnings: Emotional themes, past trauma, angst (?) with a happy ending, hurt/comfort and fluff. Friends to Lovers.
Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader.
Word count: 2.5k
Summary: A small wedding, a slow song, and the quiet miracle of being loved when you never thought you could be.
Author’s note: Based on this beautiful request ♡ Writing this healed me and broke me in equal measure.
Hopper and Joyce’s wedding isn’t big or fancy. But it is perfectly them.
A few strings of lights, an arch covered in the wildflowers that El and Max picked that morning, a couple of folding tables draped with borrowed tablecloths.
The night is soft and golden. Laughter rings loud, like the sound itself is glowing — clinking glasses, old songs, people who have earned their happiness a hundred times over.
You try to hold onto that feeling—really, you do.
Watching Joyce spin under Hopper’s arm, her laugh catching the light while Max leans against Lucas’s shoulder nearby—it’s all so painfully real. It’s all borrowed warmth.
Steve sits beside you, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, hair somehow still perfect; looking every bit like he walked out of a dream. Your dream to be precise.
His arm rests easily on the back of your chair. He’s telling some ridiculous story about Dustin, and you’re laughing—until you catch yourself and realise how easy it is to laugh with him. How easy it is to be yourself around him. Your true self.
And that’s when the ache starts.
You’ve always been good at pushing it down—that hollow place where love is supposed to live.
You’ve learned how to survive without it, how to mistake usefulness for belonging. But nights like this, surrounded by people who are brave enough to love out loud, it stings worse.
Then the music starts.
Some old love song, slow and scratchy through the speakers, and couples start swaying under the fairy lights. Hopper and Joyce, Nancy and Jonathan, even Robin dragging Eddie out with a grin.
Everyone's smiling and teary-eyed and safe.
Robin’s laughing too loud at Eddie’s two left feet, Dustin’s dramatically spinning Suzie, and Steve… Steve’s beside you, off to the side of the makeshift dance floor.
When he catches your eye, he grins that crooked grin that always knocks the air out of your lungs. The one that's equal parts sunshine and mischief.
“C’mon,” he says, offering his hand. "Just one dance.”
You laugh. “You hate slow songs.”
“Yeah,” he says, eyes glinting, “but I like you.”
And maybe it’s the lights or the champagne or the way he’s looking at you like there’s no one else around, but you take his hand.
It’s awkward at first: his hand finding your waist, your other hand hovering uncertainly on his shoulder. You don’t look at him. You focus on the rhythm, on not tripping, on pretending this doesn’t mean anything. But then he pulls you just a little closer, and something inside you cracks open.
The world goes soft around the edges: laughter blurring, fairy lights turning hazy in the summer air. The song is slow, and for a while, it’s fine.
You can do this. You can sway and smile and pretend that your heart isn’t pounding because you’re too close.
Steve’s hand settles low on your back during the next song, fingers brushing bare skin where your dress dips. The touch is barely there, but it sears — gentle, grounding, impossible to ignore. His thumb traces an idle circle, and you feel the air leave your lungs.
He leans down, voice brushing against your hair. “Never seen Hop smile like that.”
You manage a small smile, though it feels wobbly. “Joyce’ll keep him in line.”
“God, I hope so,” he murmurs. His breath fans your temple, cologne mingling with smoke from the far-off bonfire Jonathan and Will started. The scent is summer and safety and something that feels dangerously close to home.
You close your eyes—just long enough to memorise it: his warmth, the music, the quiet hum beneath your ribs. But then you make the mistake of looking up.
He's already looking down at you, eyes soft, searching—smiling like he’s seeing something you can’t. “You look beautiful tonight,” he says softly.
You freeze. When you don’t look away, he adds, even gentler:
“You are beautiful.”
His words feel like warm honey pouring into your chest—sweet and suffocating. Because you know deep down that belonging isn’t yours to keep. It’s borrowed. Like Joyce’s tablecloth draped over the folding chairs. Like Hopper’s rented suit jacket.
You flinch as if stung, your hand sliding off his shoulder. “Sorry,” you choke out, stumbling backward. “Need air.”
His hand catches the empty space where yours was a second ago. “Hey—where are you going?”
You don’t answer. You slip past the lights, down toward the darker edge of the yard where laughter fades into the hum of crickets. Your chest feels too small, your dress too tight.
You’ve spent a lifetime earning scraps of love: by being good, useful, quiet.
You know better than to think it comes for free. But on nights like this, when love is loud and easy, it hurts to know that warmth like that is never meant for you.
You stop near the trees, the music thinning into something faraway. The fairy lights don’t reach this part of the yard; everything is half-shadow, half-moonlight.
Footsteps crunch on the grass behind you. He finds you anyway. Of course he does. You should have expected nothing less.
“Hey,” he says, voice low, a little breathless. “You okay?”
You keep your eyes on the grass. “Yeah. Just— needed some air.”
“You left in the middle of a song.”
“It’s not a big deal, Steve.”
He exhales through his nose, that overly familiar mix of concern and irritation ghosting across his face. “You always do this.”
“Do what?”
He laughs under his breath—low and rough—then runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back like he’s trying to gather himself. “You pull away. Every time it gets close, every time it feels like we’re finally—” He stops, swallowing hard, shaking his head. “God, I don’t even know why I keep trying to say it.”
You blink, stunned. “That’s not—”
“It is,” he cuts in, voice breaking a little. “You pull away when it gets good. When it gets honest. You smile and make it all a joke so I don’t say what I actually want to say. What you know I want to say.”
His words land heavy, each one sharp enough to draw blood-or break your heart. Take your pick.
“You don’t get it,” you whisper. The words come out thinner than you mean them to.
He steps closer, slow but certain, until you can feel the warmth rolling off him. His voice drops to a hoarse whisper—not angry, just tired. Frayed.
“Then make me get it. Please. I’m right here, and you keep running like I’ve already hurt you. Just tell me what I’m doing wrong. I’ll fix it—I’ll do whatever it takes.”
When his voice cracks on the last word, he doesn’t even try to hide it.
You blink hard, throat burning. You’ve seen Steve bruised and bloody before, but this—this looks like it hurts worse. His hands flex uselessly at his sides, like he’s trying not to reach for you again.
“You’re not doing anything wrong,” you manage, but it sounds small. Hopeless.
“Then why do you keep running from me?”
The question hangs there—raw and trembling, like he’s barely holding himself together.
You shake your head, because you don’t have the words. You never have the words. Your throat feels tight, your chest even tighter. It's like everything you’ve spent years keeping locked down is clawing to get out.
“Because,” you choke, “people don’t love me, Steve. They just—they like what I can do for them. They like me when I’m quiet, when I’m helping, when I’m not too much. But not me. Not for who I am.”
Your voice trembles; it’s barely more than a whisper now.
“And I can’t—” The words splinter apart in your mouth. “I can’t watch you turn into one of them.”
You can’t look at him. You stare down at the grass instead, hands shaking at your sides. “You’d get tired of me eventually. They all do. And I don’t think I could survive that. Not from you.”
For a long moment, all you hear are the crickets and the dull thump of the music from the yard. Then Steve exhales—a rough, disbelieving, broken sound that cuts straight through the quiet.
“Jesus,” he says softly, and you can hear the hurt in it. “You really think that about me?”
“No.” You whisper immediately, your voice cracked and quiet. “I think that about me.”
He takes a step closer, and when he speaks again, it’s a vow, not a plea. “Then let me prove you wrong.”
You look up, startled. The fairy lights don’t quite reach this far, but they catch on the wetness in his eyes—not pity, not anger. Just hurt. And you think.. maybe… love?
“Steve—”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “You don’t get to decide what I feel”
His voice wavers, but he steps closer. “You don’t get to tell me you’re impossible to love and expect me to just agree.”
He drags in a shaky breath, like he’s trying to keep it together, and then everything just spills out. “I love that you hum when you’re nervous. That you always double-check the oven even when you didn’t use it. That you talk to stray cats like they understand you.” He laughs once, low and broken.
“I love that you care about people who never notice it. That you look at me like I’m worth something, even when I’m not.”
You blink, stunned, half-laughing through the disbelief. “You don’t mean that.”
“Yeah, I do.” He steps closer. “You think you’re too much, or not enough, or whatever the hell they made you believe. But you’re wrong.”
“I love you,” he says, like it’s something he’s been holding in for years.
“I love you when you’re quiet. When you’re mad. When you don’t know what to say. I love you when you shut down and pretend you don’t care, even when I can see right through it. I love the way you overthink everything because it means you care.”
His breath trembles. He drags a hand through his hair and lets out a shaky laugh. “God, I love everything you think makes you hard to love.”
You don’t mean to cry, but your vision blurs, stinging with it. You press the heel of your hand against your mouth, trying to swallow it down, but he’s still talking—still unraveling—like he’s afraid if he stops, you’ll run.
“You don’t have to be easy,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.
“You just have to be you. Because loving you? That’s the easiest damn thing I’ve ever done.”
That breaks something open in you. Something that’s been locked up for years. You make a sound that’s half laugh, half sob, and before you can think, you’re moving.
Your hands find his shirt first, twisting in the fabric. His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up, and for a heartbeat you just stare at each other—both of you breathing hard, waiting for the other to flinch.
Then he kisses you.
It’s messy—teeth and salt and trembling hands. You miss each other’s rhythm at first, but then he exhales into it, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck, the other still fisted in your dress like he’s terrified you’ll slip away.
You taste the salt of your tears on his lips, feel the shiver that runs through him when you kiss back. The world tilts and softens, air humming with music, crickets, and your uneven breathing.
When you finally pull apart, you’re both still trembling. His forehead rests against yours, noses brushing, breaths mingling in the space between you.
“You’re going to regret saying that.”
“Not a chance,” he murmurs back. His thumb traces your cheek, slow and reverent.
The sounds of the wedding drift faintly through the trees—laughter, the end of another song—but here, everything feels still. Like the world’s holding its breath just to make room for this.
You close your eyes, leaning into his touch. For the first time in your life, love doesn’t feel like something you have to earn. It just is.
For a while, neither of you moves.
You should probably go back. You should probably do a hundred things that don’t include standing here, your pulse still stuttering from the way he said I love you.
Steve shifts first, the corner of his mouth twitching into something small and crooked. “Hey,” he murmurs. “We never finished our dance.”
You let out a shaky laugh. “There’s no music.”
He shrugs. “Don’t need any.”
“Of course you don’t.”
He just grins—that soft, boyish kind that never fails to make you both roll your eyes and blush—and holds out his hand. You hesitate, then take it.
He pulls you close, one hand finding your waist, the other guiding yours to his shoulder.
It’s clumsy at first—the ground uneven beneath your shoes, your heartbeat still wild from everything that’s just happened. But then he starts to move.
It isn’t graceful. It isn’t perfect.
It’s imperfect. Terrifying. Real.
But it’s yours.
“You’re ridiculous,” you whisper.
He grins against your hair. “You like that about me.”
You roll your eyes, but he’s not wrong. The warmth of his chest, the slow sway, the quiet steadiness of it all; it’s too easy to just sink into.
He hums under his breath—some half-remembered tune that doesn’t quite match the rhythm—and you can’t help smiling.
“That’s not even close to being in key.”
“Didn’t say I was serenading you. Said I was dancing with you.”
You glance up at him and immediately step on his foot.
He winces. “Ow. Okay, that’s gonna bruise my ego more than my toes.”
“Oh my god, I’m sorry—”
He huffs a quiet laugh, his breath brushing your hair, pulling you impossibly closer. “It’s alright,” he murmurs. Then softer, closer—right against your temple: “Still love you.”
Before you can respond, he presses a gentle kiss there, lingering just long enough for your chest to tighten. Then he rests his chin on the top of your head, swaying with you again, slower this time.
You close your eyes, the world narrowing to the sound of his heartbeat and the faint echo of music from the yard.
It’s imperfect. Terrifying. Real. And somehow, that feels like enough.
P.S. To those waiting for The Warmest Lie chapter seven it is in the works - this just momentarily distracted me.
♡ Every almost. Every maybe. Every chance he thought you might finally see him — led to this.
Now, deep in the lungs of a dying world, Steve finally breaks.
Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader
Word count: 1.5k
Warnings: Angst (but with a happy ending), hurt/comfort, jealous Steve
Author’s note: Couldn't decide between canon or non-canon, so I wrote both...
The Upside Down was never quiet. It groaned, a low, ceaseless rumble that seemed to come from the bones of the world itself. The air hung heavy, glowing faintly in its perpetual twilight, particles drifting like ash that never settled.
Every breath burns in your lungs, thick and sour, and every step felt like walking through the lungs of a dying beast.
Branches curled overhead like veins, walls pulsing faintly with life that shouldn’t exist. Somewhere far off, the echo of screeches carried through the gloom, but here, now, it was just the four of you—Steve slumped against the ruined ground, Eddie hovering with nervous jokes, Robin pacing to keep herself steady, and you with bloodied hands pressing cloth to Steve’s side, trying to keep him here, keep him whole.
“You’re fine,” you whisper, more to yourself than him. “You’re fine, Steve.”
He tries to smile, but it falters. “Yeah. Just a flesh wound.”
Behind you, Eddie clears his throat. “More like a flesh buffet. Bats sure had their fun, huh?” His grin is weak but still present, and somehow—somehow—you let out a laugh. Not a big one, not even close, but it’s enough to make your shoulders shake and the corners of your mouth curve.
And it’s enough to break Steve Harrington.
“Do you have to laugh at everything he says?”
The words snap out of him before he can stop them. Too sharp. Too raw. They hang between you, cutting through the heavy air.
The sudden venom in them makes you freeze, fingers still pressed against the soaked fabric. His eyes—dark, furious, wounded—aren’t looking at Eddie. They’re fixed on you.
Steve’s jaw clenches, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “Every damn thing he says,” he rasps, the words scraped raw. He tries to look away, but his gaze keeps dragging back to you like it physically hurts him not to.
“I just—God, it’s killing me. Watching you with him. Like he’s got this… this easy way of making you smile, and I…” His voice cracks, the words scraping out of him. “What if I never get the chance? What if you never even know how I feel?”
The silence stretches, thick and stunned. You blink, startled. “Steve?”
His chest is rising way too fast. Not from the blood loss but from something else entirely. “Sorry. Just—forget it. Laugh it up, it's fine. Seems like you two have a real thing going.”
His gaze flicks to Eddie, then back to you—a look of betrayal so stark it steals your breath. It’s not just about the laugh. It’s every shared glance, every inside joke whispered while all he could do was watch you give pieces of yourself so easily to someone else—pieces he’d spent months coaxing out and seconds falling for.
But you don’t move. You don’t forget.
“I don’t—Steve, I—” Your eyes flick desperately between Robin and Eddie, searching for some kind of anchor, but neither of them moves. The air feels thick, pressing down on your chest. You lean in, voice dropping to a whisper meant only for him.
“Steve… I don’t understand.”
Your words tremble, equal parts confusion and fear, because you’ve never seen him like this—never seen him crack open like the world around you. His eyes search yours, wild and aching, as if the fact that you don’t understand is the cruelest cut of all.
“Of course you don’t,” he whispers back, voice fraying at the edges. “Because I’m a freaking idiot. Because I’ve been trying and waiting and hoping and you—” His voice catches, and he swallows hard, eyes squeezing shut. “You never saw it. Any of it.”
Lover’s Lake. The air was cold, sharp with the smell of water and damp earth, and the group was arguing—who should dive, who should stay, who could be trusted. Steve didn’t think—he just snapped: She’s with me.
The words landed like a rock in still water, ripples spreading through the group. You’d blinked at him, confusion tugging at your brow, but you didn’t argue. You just fell in step beside him, shoulders brushing as the others shifted uncomfortably. Steve’s chest burned. Everyone had heard the edge in his voice—what it meant. Everyone but you.
Later, in the RV, his hands clenched the wheel, jaw locked. He told himself to focus—but his eyes kept drifting to the rearview. To you.
To how you leaned into Eddie, shoulders brushing, whispering something that made you both laugh—soft, bittersweet. Steve’s throat went dry, a bitter taste coating his tongue. Every laugh felt like it chipped away another piece of him. You hadn’t noticed his knuckles. You hadn’t noticed his eyes. You never had.
Later that night, his voice had gone soft as he spun a dream of six kids and a partner by his side. He’d risked it then—risked a glance your way, hoping, begging you to hear—to see—what he couldn’t say out loud. But your gaze had been on the window, lost somewhere else entirely. Eddie had caught it. You hadn’t.
And all the hundred other times he’d looked too long, lingered too close. The moments where his hand brushed yours and he’d let it stay a second longer, waiting for you to notice. The nights he’d walked you to your door, heart hammering, ready to say it—but you’d just smiled and thanked him, slipping inside without a clue.
Every almost. Every maybe. Every chance he thought you might finally see him.
You hadn’t.
The Upside Down presses back in all at once—the air thick, damp, alive. The squelch of distant vines. Robin’s restless pacing. Eddie’s uneasy silence. Steve’s chest heaves under your hands, blood seeping through the cloth you’re holding tight. His laugh cracks jagged in his throat, bitter and broken.
“You didn’t see any of it,” he says again, softer now, as if admitting it steals the last of his strength. His eyes find yours, desperate and raw. “And I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending it doesn’t kill me. That losing you-.”
Your throat tightens. “Steve…” His name is all you can manage at first, shaky and small.
You lean in closer, brushing damp strands of hair back from his forehead with trembling fingers. He’s burning under your touch, whether from fever or fury, you can’t tell. His eyes flicker shut for a second, like even that simple touch threatens to undo him.
“I don’t understand,” you whisper again, softer this time. Your hands press harder to his side — not just to hold the wound. To hold him here. To anchor him. “But you’re not losing me. Not here. Not now. Not ever”
The words are soft, steady, a tether meant to ground him. But they tear something open instead. Steve lets out a shuddering breath, eyes blazing when they find yours again.
“You don’t get it,” he rasps. His voice cracks, low and ragged. “I’m not scared of losing you down here. I’m scared of losing you to him. To anyone. To… to everything that’s not me.”
Your heart stutters. “Steve—”
“I can’t stand it.” The words tumble now, unspooling like he can’t hold them back. “The way you laugh with him, the way you lean into him, like he’s the one who makes you feel safe. It drives me crazy, because all I’ve ever wanted—” His chest heaves, a broken laugh rattling out of him.
“All I’ve ever wanted is for it to be me. Because for me? It’s always been you. Always.”
The Upside Down groans around you, but it might as well be silent. The words hang in the heavy air, raw and bleeding between you. His hand twitches against the ground, like he’s fighting to reach for you even now.
His name leaves you like a prayer, fragile and breaking. Your chest feels tight, crushed under the weight of everything he’s just laid bare.
You lean closer, voice trembling but sure. “You idiot,” you whisper, a tear slipping hot down your cheek. “It was never Eddie. It was never anyone else.” You swallow, your throat raw.
“It’s you for me too. It’s always been you.”
His eyes widen, disbelief flickering into something softer, something dangerous.
Hope.
And when your forehead presses gently to his, the air between you feels less like the lungs of a dying beast, and more like the first breath you’ve been waiting for.
The silence holds, trembling and fragile—until Eddie clears his throat.
“This is great and all,” he says, his voice way too loud in the thick air. “Honestly, I’m positively thrilled you kids sorted yourselves out- love is beautiful, yada yada. But, uh… maybe save the heart-to-heart until after we’re not sitting in literal monster guts?”
Robin lets out a sharp laugh that sounds almost hysterical, and for the first time since you touched Steve’s wound, you smile. Steve groans, half in pain, half in exasperation, but his eyes don’t stray from yours.
Not here.
Not now.
Not ever.
... but what if things had gone differently? What if there had been no monsters—just jealous Steve and a chance at something real?
P.S. For the full slow-burn payoff (protective Steve, flustered Steve, jealous Steve—basically all the best Steves), the non-canon one-shot It’s Always Been You is waiting for you… (and me to finish writing).
You know I have a thing for end of the worlds and desperate declarations of love/care 💅 Whatever it is you have under your WIP section of this story I'm all for it babe
♡ Sometimes the people we claim to hate are the ones who see us most clearly
Warnings: 18+ / MDNI! • Enemies (ish) to lovers, smut (unprotected, semi-public (at work)), themes of trauma and insecurities, angst, hurt/ comfort and touches of fluff.
Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader
Word count: 5k
Summary: A reluctant fascination becomes something raw and unguarded — and forces you both to confront what’s been buried under years of bite, bark, and bruises.
Author’s Note: Look, I’m not saying this is a glasses kink fic... but I’m also not not saying that. I’m also not not saying there might be more — if people want it.
(Or even if they don’t. Honestly, I’ve already started.)
Steve hated his glasses. Hated the way they slid down his nose when he leaned over to rewind tapes. Hated the constant pressure behind his ears and he especially hated way they reminded him—always—of the headaches that never really went away.
Worse than the irritation was the message they carried: a silent broadcast of his weaknesses. The King Steve armour, once polished to perfection, had been swapped for wire frames and corrective glass.
You, however, loved his glasses. You did however hate the fact you loved them.
Hated the traitorous flutter in your stomach every time Steve shoved them back up his nose with that familiar, frustrated groan.
Hated how the lenses caught the fluorescent lights of Family Video, turning his eyes into deep, liquid pools you wanted to dive into.
Most of all, you hated how they softened him. How they revealed the vulnerable, bruised kid beneath the hair and bravado—a glimpse you weren’t supposed to find SO appealing.
Not after years of mutual disdain, barbs traded like currency from the halls of Hawkins High to the dark of the Upside Down.
Steve caught you staring again. Not the sharp glare you usually threw his way – this was different. Lingering a fraction too long near the wire frames perched on his cheekbones. His jaw tightened, a defensive reflex he had honed to perfection after meeting you.
"What?" he snapped. Sharper than he intended, echoing slightly in the quiet store. He instantly regretted the edge but he didn’t rush to correct it.
“Nothing,” you said quickly, jerking your gaze away. But the damage was done — heat was already crawling up your cheeks. You turned back to the stack of VHS returns, suddenly fascinated by the cracked plastic covers.
However, Steve wasn’t done with you. “You were staring,” he pressed, not letting it go. “Again.”
“I wasn’t,” you muttered, too defensive, too fast.
“You were. And I know I look stupid in them, so can we just mo—”
“You don’t,” you blurted, then immediately wished you could snatch the words back out of the air.
He blinked. “What?”
You swallowed. “I said… you don’t look stupid.”
He stared at you like you’d grown a second head. “You literally called me Four Eyes non stop last week when I told you I had to get them.”
“That was before,” you said, quieter now. “Before I realised you would—” You shook your head. “Never mind.”
Silence stretched between you, heavy with the weight of unsaid things and years of bite and bark. Steve didn’t move. His eyes searched yours behind the glare of his lenses.
“Before you realised what?” he asked. His voice had dropped a little, that cocky sharpness fading into something softer and scarier than any threat you had faced.
Your heart thudded like it wanted to punch its way out of your ribcage. You didn’t answer.
He stepped closer. Not much—just enough to close the gap, just enough for you to notice how his cologne clung to his vest. It smelled clean, warm, stupidly safe, and you hated how much you noticed.
“You like them,” he said slowly, eyes narrowing—not smug, just surprised. “You like them.” His voice took on a teasing twang the second time.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you said, though your voice came out breathless, traitorously weak. Your eye roll not nearly as dismissive as you intended it to be.
“Too late,” he said, stepping into your space now.
You took a step back. He took another forward. A standoff now, until your back hit the counter. You pushed out your chest—aiming for a look of defiance, maybe even indifference—but instead all you achieved was giving him a better view.
His eyes dropped, just for a second, to the rise and fall of your breathing, and when they flicked back up, something in them had changed. Darkened.
"Real intimidating," he said, but his voice had dipped lower now, rougher. “Almost had me.”
You hated how your body responded to that tone. How the heat pooled low and steady beneath your skin. How you couldn't look away from the way his lips curved—not into a smirk, not quite—but something unreadable. Curious. Dangerous.
“I mean it,” you said, even though you didn’t sound convinced yourself. “I don’t like them and I don’t like you-”
His fingers brushed the counter beside your hip. “Sure. That’s why you can’t stop starting at them. Even now.”
You wanted to deny it. Should’ve. But the truth was obvious. Your breath had gone shallow. Your skin was hot. And Steve fucking Harrington was standing close enough for you to see the faint freckle beneath his jaw and the tiny smudge on his glasses.
You swallowed hard. “You’re really full of yourself, you know that?”
“And you’re not?” he said, smiling now—slow, wolfish. “You’ve been looking at me like you want to bite.”
Your face flamed. “I do, actually. Just not the way you're hoping.”
He leaned in, just a breath from your ear. “I’m hoping for all kinds of things.”
Silence fell between you again. You didn’t realise how close you’d leaned until your lips almost brushed his cheek when you turned your head.
And then you did something stupid. Or brave. Or long overdue.
But definitely stupid.
You kissed him.
Not soft. Not gentle.
Hungry.
His hand slammed against the counter beside your hip, steadying himself — or maybe anchoring you. For half a second he hesitated, like he couldn’t believe this was happening, then he kissed you back hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs.
The kiss hit like static—sharp, startling, inevitable. You’d meant it to be brief. Just enough to shut him up. But then his hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you there, and it stopped being a kiss you started.
It became a kiss you couldn’t stop.
His mouth was hot, insistent. Yours answered, traitorous. His glasses bumped your cheek, cool against the flush of your skin, and the ridiculous detail made you gasp. He swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss.
You broke away just long enough to mutter, “This is a mistake.”
“Big one,” he agreed, breathless—before dragging you back in.
The edge of the counter dug into your spine, sharp but grounding. His hands bracketed your hips, warm and solid, keeping you caged.
You should’ve ended it. Should’ve walked away. Instead, your fingers fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, desperate to get to the heat beneath.
You froze for half a second—both of you did—just staring. Breathing hard. His lips wet, your heart hammering, the air sharp with everything unsaid.
Then you were on him again, fiercer this time, like that pause had only poured gasoline on the fire.
His laugh vibrated against your throat as he found your pulse with his mouth, his tongue tracing fire along its rhythm.
The gasp had his grip tightening. His knee nudged between yours. His mouth trailed lower, over the curve of your collarbone, and for the first time you heard him—really heard him—groan. Low. Unsteady.
It shouldn’t have thrilled you. But it did.
The glasses should’ve been in the way, to be honest they were, but you didn’t care. You gripped the front of his vest and yanked, dragging him impossibly closer.
He groaned into your mouth, low and gravelly, and fuck, you’d never heard a sound more desperate. Your fingers went straight for the frames, not to pull them off, but to hold them steady, pushing them up the bridge of his nose as your lips broke apart for a gasp.
“Don’t,” he muttered, breath hot against your jaw. “Don’t take them off.”
You froze for a second. Then smirked: “Wasn’t planning on it.”
He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes. His cheeks were flushed, lips swollen, pupils blown wide behind those damn lenses “Good,” he paused, “I like when you look at me like that.”
God, he had no idea what he was doing to you. Your hands slid up his chest, slow and deliberate, fingers tracing the edges of his shirt's collar until they met bare skin just beneath. He was warm. Solid. Real.
“I hate you.”
“Sure you do,” he said, mouth dragging down your neck, finding the spot just below your jaw that made your knees buckle.
“You always kiss the people you hate like that?” Your laugh turned into a gasp as he hoisted you onto the counter with startling ease, your thighs parting instinctively to let him fit between them. The cool laminate kissed your skin, but the heat radiating from Steve more than made up for it.
His hands were now on your thighs below the hem of your skirt, thumbs dragging slow circles over your bare skin-making your brain combust.
“Thought you hated me, too,” you said, breath catching as he slipped your shirt out of your skirt and coasted his fingers across the bare skin of your waist.
“I do,” he murmured, lips ghosting down your collarbone. “That’s what makes this so fun.”
And then he bit. Not hard, just enough to make you gasp and arch into him.
Suddenly it was all heat and hands and desperation. You yanked his silly little green vest off, the one you refused to wear, and fumbled with the buttons of his shirt like they were actively responsible for keeping you apart.
“Jesus,” he hissed, your nails scraping lightly down his chest. “Not into taking it slow, huh? Good to know.”
“Years of pent-up rage, Harrington. I’m just getting started.”
“Good,” he growled, finally slipping his hand under your skirt. “Let’s see what all that anger tastes like.”
You didn’t have time to come up with a smart-ass response because his hands were all over you—hot, deliberate, confident in a way that made your stomach flip.
His fingers curled around the collar of your top, and when his eyes met yours, he hesitated. “Okay?” he asked, voice low, rough.
You nodded, throat dry. “Yeah.”
That was all he needed.
He pulled the collar of your top down roughly, exposing your breasts. The cool air hit your skin, making your nipples tighten instantly.
Steve’s gaze dropped, dark and hungry. He didn’t speak—didn’t need to. The way he looked at you said it all. His eyes dark and lips parted like he’d just seen something sacred.
He didn’t touch you yet—just stared, his breath catching audibly. “Fuck.”
His teeth grazed skin—not gentle—before his tongue soothed the sting. You arched against him, fingers tangling in his hair, knocking his glasses askew. He then pulled down the cups of your bra. His thumb brushed over one nipple, feather-light at first, then circled it slowly, deliberately.
A sharp gasp escaped you, and he smiled—a wicked, knowing curve of his lips. “Fuck,” he breathed, leaning down to take your nipple into his mouth. Hot. Wet. Perfect.
His tongue flicked against you, and you arched off the counter, fingers twisting in his hair. He groaned against your skin, the vibration sending shocks straight to your core. You didn’t know what to say—couldn’t speak—so you just pulled him closer, grinding against the hard ridge of his jeans.
He hissed, biting down gently on your nipple before lifting his head to kiss you again, deep and messy. “Tell me,” he demanded against your lips. “Tell me you hate me.”
“I hate you,” you gasped, hips arching into his touch. And maybe you did.
You hated how he knew exactly where to touch.
Hated the press of his glasses against your skin as he kissed lower.
Hated how his groan echoed through you when you tugged his hair just right. But most of all, you hated how much you didn’t hate any of it.
“Liar,” he whispered, placing featherlight kisses across your collarbones.
You arched into him without meaning to.
“Someone’s impatient,” he muttered against your skin, his tongue tracing a teasing line along the swell of your breast. The sound it pulled from you was sharp, your hips shifting toward him on instinct
“You’re one to talk,” you managed, fingers fisting in the front of his shirt. You made quick work of the buttons, dragging the fabric down his arms until you could finally touch the skin beneath.
And god, he felt like heaven. Warm, solid, every inch of him thrumming with tension and restraint. Your palms skimmed over his chest, down the trail of hair leading below his waistband. He caught your hand just before it went lower. Not to stop you—just to look at you.
“You sure?” he asked again, quieter this time. Like he needed to hear it once more, just to be safe.
You leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Steve,” you whispered, “shut up and fuck me.”
That did it.
He surged forward, lips crashing into yours, and everything after that blurred. Hands everywhere. Teeth. Tongues. Breathless moans swallowed between kisses. He shoved your skirt up over your hips, growling low in his throat when he felt just how ready you were through the damp fabric of your underwear.
“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he muttered, dragging the cotton aside and slipping two fingers between your thighs. You gasped, head falling back as he found your rhythm instantly—like he already knew what would undo you.
“Still hate me?” he asked, smug, voice rasping against your neck as he curled his fingers just right.
“More than ever,” you gasped, thighs trembling. “Fuck. Don’t stop.”
He chuckled—low, wrecked—and kissed you hard. Then he dropped to his knees in front of you like it was nothing. Like it was everything.
His glasses were still on—slightly fogged now, barely hanging on—but you didn’t care. You didn’t want him to take them off. You wanted to see his eyes, every flicker of hunger and reverence as he looked up at you from between your legs.
He kissed the inside of your thigh slowly, deliberately. “Say it,” he murmured, breath hot. “Say you want this.”
You met his gaze, wide-eyed, chest heaving.
“I want you.”
And then his mouth was on you.
Everything else—coherent thought, old grudges, Family Video—ceased to exist. It was just Steve.
His hands pinning your hips to the edge of the counter. His tongue dragging slow, devastating circles until you were clawing at his hair, sobbing out broken sounds you didn’t know you were capable of making.
When he finally stood back up, mouth slick, eyes wild, you pulled him in and kissed him like you were starving. Because you were. For him. For this.
You fumbled with his belt, unzipping his jeans as he pressed you down against the counter, your thighs still parted around his hips. He lined himself up, and for one suspended second, he just looked at you—face flushed, jaw tight, glasses still crooked on his face.
“Last chance,” he murmured, voice shaking now - his restraint fraying. “Tell me to stop.”
You didn’t. You reached up and pulled him down by the collar of his shirt, lips brushing his as you whispered:
“Don’t you fucking dare.”
The stretch of him filled you fast, deep, perfect. You cried out, clutching at his shoulders as he moved inside you with a pace that bordered on feral—like he was trying to make up for every year you hated each other. Like he was trying to fuck the tension out of both of you.
“God, you feel…” he breathed, lips pressed to your neck. “Fuck. I’ve wanted this—”
“Shut up,” you gasped, digging your nails into his back, the tenderness in his tone scaring you. “Just—don’t stop.”
He didn’t.
Every thrust pushed you closer to the edge, your name falling from his lips like a prayer. When you came, it was with a broken cry and your body shaking, stars behind your eyelids. He followed seconds later, burying his face in your neck as he groaned through clenched teeth, hips stuttering against yours.
For a long, breathless moment, neither of you moved. Just the sounds of panting, trembling limbs, and the buzz of the store’s shitty fluorescent lights.
Your hands slid down his chest, greedy for every inch of him, that’s when you felt it—the raised ridge of another scar cutting across his ribs. Your breath caught. Before you could stop yourself, you leaned in and pressed your mouth to it.
Steve froze, mid-breath, like no one had ever touched him there before. Not like that. Not like it meant something.
He let out a shaky laugh, almost disbelieving. “You’re… kissing my scars now?”
You didn’t answer. You kissed another, higher on his shoulder, then another along his forearm where the skin was rough. Each touch was softer than anything you’d given him before. Each one an apology and a promise.
His hand came up to cup the back of your head, not to stop you, but to steady himself. “No one’s ever…” he started, then trailed off, his throat working around the words.
You lifted your face, just enough to meet his eyes, and whispered:
“Guess there’s a first time for everything.”
Steve didn’t pull away. He wrapped his arms around you instead, pressing his forehead to your shoulder.
“You okay?” he murmured.
You laughed—a real one this time. “Better than okay.”
You were still catching your breath when the silence settled. Not quite awkward—just quiet, dense with everything that hadn't been said - that should’ve been said - before you tore each other apart.
Steve’s hands hadn’t moved from your waist after he pulled your skirt back down and your top back up. His thumbs stroked small, absent-minded circles against your skin like he hadn’t realised he was still touching you.
Then, gently, he reached up and swept some of your hair off your shoulder—an absent-minded motion, almost tender, reverent in a way that startled you. His knuckles skimmed the edge of your collarbone, a touch so light it barely felt real.
That’s when he saw it.
The way your top had shifted left the scar just barely visible, curved and pale against your skin.
His gaze lingered. Not startled. Not invasive. Just… stilled, as though the world had narrowed to that one mark.
“When did this happen?” he asked softly, fingers hovering inches away, the way someone might reach for a flame—both drawn and afraid to touch.
You froze for half a second. Considered lying. Then answered, low and careful. “Tunnels. Before we found Dart. I slipped. Landed on some rebar.”
Steve didn’t speak right away. Just reached out—slow, deliberate—and traced the line with one knuckle, featherlight. Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he leaned down and pressed his lips to it.
A kiss so soft it barely registered, but it stole the air from your lungs.
“You always made it seem like nothing ever touched you,” he said. “Like you didn’t come out marked.”
You let out a quiet breath. “I didn’t want to give anyone another reason to think I was weak.”
He shook his head slowly, eyes never leaving yours. “No one ever thought you were weak.” He paused, “I never thought you were weak. ”
You glanced up at him, and that’s when you noticed it—the shift. The slackened jaw. The way his mouth parted like he wanted to speak but didn’t know how. His glasses had slid down his nose, hair mussed, a faint flush still painted across his cheeks.
And his eyes… God. His eyes were searching. Not your body this time - it felt like they were searching for something more.
“I know this isn’t how things usually go between us—y’know, honest, earnest,” he said, barely above a whisper. He paused, swallowed, then—softer, like it cost him something—added, “but… I do like how you look at me.”
Your chest ached. Not in the dizzying, lust-drunk way it had ten minutes ago—but in that terrifying, irreversible I might actually care about you way.
“Steve,” you started, but he shook his head, a humourless smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“You don’t have to say anything. I just… I didn’t think anyone would ever look at me like that again. Not after…” he gestured vaguely, but you knew what he meant. The Upside Down. The blood. The trauma. The scars you both stopped counting.
Your gaze softened. You reached up and gently adjusted the glasses on his face, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your other hand drifted over the faint line slashed across his neck.
“I’m not looking at you despite anything,” you said quietly. “I’m looking at you because of it. Because you’re still standing. Because you kept standing.”
He stared at you for a long time. Then, for the first time since this whole messy thing started, Steve Harrington looked shy.
“I still hate you, you know,” you teased, nudging your knee against his to try and break the tension.
“Sure,” he said, voice a little hoarse now. “But maybe you don’t just hate me anymore.”
You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you let your fingers trail lightly along his forearm, feeling the faint ridges of another scar that was usually hidden by a sleeve.
He noticed. Of course he did.
“That one was from a demodog,” he said quietly, not looking at you. “Tore through my arm when we were trying to get out of the tunnels.”
You glanced up, brows drawn.
“Didn’t you say it was just a ‘scratch’?”
He gave a short laugh, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “Yeah. That’s the kind of thing you say when you’re trying to keep a bunch of terrified kids from losing their shit.”
His hand tightened slightly on your thigh. Not possessive — steadying.
You nodded slowly, then shifted, nudging him to sit beside you on the counter. He did, reluctantly, legs dangling off the edge like a kid who didn’t quite know what to do with himself.
“We’re a matched set, huh?” he said quietly, turning his hand to show you the one across his knuckles. “You’ve got one on your arm, I’ve got one on mine.”
You gave a weak laugh. “Twisted kind of romantic.” A pause.
“I didn’t know it messed you up this bad,” you admitted softly. “The headaches. The vision.”
He tapped the side of his glasses with one finger. “Yeah. Surprise. Steve Harrington’s human.”
You studied his face — the faint bruising still lingering beneath one eye, the pale pink scar at his temple, the curve of his nose where it looked like it might’ve once been broken.
“You always were,” you murmured.
He turned to look at you then — really look — like he was waiting for you to flinch, to look away, to take it all back.
But you didn’t.
Instead, your hand slid across his abdomen, following the edge of his shirt where it hung open after he had thrown it back on. That’s when you felt it — something deeper. A scar, long and rough, ridged like it had once split him wide open.
You moved the hem carefully, revealing the line carved just above his hip.
He stilled beneath your touch. “That one…” he started, voice low, “that was from a demobat. Tore through my side.”
You glanced up, jaw clenched. “Didn’t you say that was just a scratch, too?”
He laughed again, quietly. “Yeah. Had a whole playbook of bullshit lines back then.”
Your thumb traced the scar, reverent. “You didn’t want them to worry.”
“You know,” he said, voice lower now, “sometimes I look in the mirror and I barely recognise myself. Feels like I left a part of me in that other world and came back with... this.”
He motioned to himself — not just the glasses, but all of it. The quieter voice. The edge behind his eyes. The exhaustion.
You reached out and gently touched the frame of his glasses again, pushing them back into place.
“You came back with a version of yourself you had to fight to become,” you said. “That’s not weakness, Steve. That’s survival.”
He blinked. Swallowed hard.
“You really like the glasses, huh?” He chuckles, nudging your shoulder softly.
You smirked. “I mean, they make you look smarter. Less like a cocky asshole.”
“Wow. Almost a compliment.”
You leaned in, kissing the corner of his mouth — softer this time. Lingering.
“I don’t just like the glasses,” you whispered against his skin. “I like you. This version. The one who made it out.”
His breath hitched.
And then — slowly, carefully, tentatively — he rested his forehead against yours. Not because he was trying to kiss you again, but because it was the only way to get close enough without falling apart completely.
“I wish you could see yourself the way I do,” you whispered.
He blinked — like the words had winded him.
“That’s funny,” he said. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
His forehead stayed pressed against yours for a few heartbeats—neither of you daring to break the quiet. It wasn’t empty; it was full. Full of everything left unsaid, of scars and hope tangled together.
You could feel the steady rhythm of his breath against your skin, the way his pulse fluttered beneath your fingers. For once, the noise of the world faded into the background—just you, him, and this fragile, trembling space between you.
Steve let out a slow breath, then shifted, sliding off the counter. His sneakers hit the tile with a soft thud. For a second he just stood there, hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.
Then he reached out. Not cocky, not commanding — hesitant. His fingers hovered in the space between you, palm up.
“C’mon,” he said quietly.
You blinked at him. “C’mon where?”
He gave a half-shrug, eyes darting anywhere but your face. “Just… out of here. My place. Or, uh— yours”
He scratched the back of his neck with his free hand, a smile threatening to be released. “We don’t have to. I just… don’t wanna pretend like nothing happened.”
You stared at his hand. Big, warm, a faint scar running across one knuckle. You weren’t used to seeing Steve Harrington like this — stripped of swagger, waiting patiently… for you.
Slowly, you slid off the counter too, your shoes touching down right in front of him. His hand was still there, patient.
You took it.
His thumb brushed across your knuckles — a nervous tell he probably didn’t even realise he had.
“Okay,” you said softly.
He exhaled, shoulders loosening just a fraction, and for the first time since the Upside Down, you saw something on his face you hadn’t seen since. Not the mask. Not the armour. Relief.
It was barely perceptible—an almost imperceptible shift in the set of his jaw, the way his eyes softened. But it was there. And it made something inside you shift, too.
You swallowed, the air between you suddenly thicker, full of words that hadn't been said yet. “You... you really meant it all, didn’t you?”
He blinked, caught off guard by the question, but then nodded, slow, deliberate. “Yeah,” he muttered, voice rough. “I did.”
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. Just your breathing. The faint hum of the world outside. But the space between you pulsed with something different now.
No longer just banter or jokes or that lightness you used to hide behind. This... this was real.
You could feel your heart pounding, too loudly in the quiet. The weight of what was unspoken—the way this had cracked open something between you both, something neither of you were quite sure how to patch up or fix.
“So,” you whispered, fingers still tangled with his, but now with a new kind of steadiness, “what now?”
Steve tilted his head, eyes dark but softer than you’d ever seen. He didn’t answer right away. He just leaned in, resting his forehead gently against yours, his breath warm against your skin.
You closed your eyes at the tender touch, your pulse thumping in your chest as if the world had paused, just for this.
The soft pressure of his forehead against yours, the way his thumb brushed lightly over your hand again, felt more grounding than anything you’d felt in weeks. Years. Ever.
“Now?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. “We go home and figure this out.”
It was simple. Quiet. But it was everything.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, your chest full but not quite heavy. He wasn’t running. You weren’t either.
And then he grinned, that familiar, slightly goofy smile tugging at his lips. “We’re really doing this, huh?” he muttered, half-awkward, half-relieved.
You chuckled softly, the tension slipping away with the sound. "Guess so. You good with that?"
“I mean, I’m still getting used to the fact that you’re not running for the hills,” he said with a quiet laugh, almost to himself, like he couldn’t quite believe it. “But yeah. I think I’m good. You?”
You studied him for a second, then shrugged with a small smile. “Yeah I’m good,” you paused, your soft tone taking on a teasing edge. “Didn’t think we’d over get here though, if I’m being honest.”
Steve’s eyes softened, and that usually guarded expression he wore around you slipped away, leaving something far more vulnerable. “Me neither.” His voice was quieter now, as if admitting it out loud made it more real. “But... here we are.”
His lips brushed the top of your forehead, lingering just a moment too long, like a quiet promise without words. And though your chest tightened with the weight of everything unspoken, the touch settled something deep inside you.
A simple promise without words.
There were no more words, no more need for them. His thumb, absentmindedly tracing circles over your knuckles, was more than enough.
You didn’t need him to say it. You didn’t need him to promise anything. You could feel it, in the way he was holding you, in the way his breath mixed with yours.
And somehow, you knew that for now, that was enough.
P.S. Requests are open 🫶🏼
P.P.S. This was purely inspired by the fact I love Joe's glasses and there will be more where this came from...
OH ❤️🩹 —You're so good because the smut is so good, the tension is excellent, the angst and the yearn is chef's kiss, and the aftermath is gentle oof. I want this. I love this.
♡ Some wishes don’t fade — they just bloom somewhere softer.
Summary: A quiet spring afternoon, a flower crown made between pages, and the kind of love that was never new — just finally blooming.
Author's Note: Just a soft little fluff piece I wrote while trying to get past some writer’s block. Because let’s be honest, if anything can get me out of this rut, it’s loverboy Steve. It can be read as a part two to Dandelion Wishes, but it doesn't have to be.
Pairing: Steve Harrington x childhood best friend!reader, established relationship (unusual for me, I know)
Word count: 2.5k
The gingham blanket you pulled out of your bag is thin enough that you can feel the warmth of the ground through it; spring is just starting to blossom, the grass soft and a little uneven beneath you. The air carries that fresh, grassy smell that only shows up this time of year.
Steve is stretched out between your legs like he belongs there.
Head resting back against your bare thigh, one arm flung lazily across his stomach, the other hanging off the edge of the blanket like he ran out of energy halfway through moving it. His eyes are half-closed, not quite asleep, just… existing. Happy. Blissful.
You know because his expression is the mirror image of yours.
There’s a lazy half-smile on his face, moles on full display, his skin already starting to catch the sun.
You’ve got a book open in one hand, the other tangled loosely in his hair.
It started absentminded—just something to do while you read—but Steve leaned into it almost immediately, shifting until your fingers could properly reach, until your nails were scratching lightly along his scalp.
A quiet, pleased hum escapes him.
You don’t even look down. “You’re so predictable.”
“M’not,” he murmurs, nudging his face closer into your thigh, like he could just hide there, voice warm with sleep and sun. “Just… appreciating the moment.”
Your fingers tug gently at a golden lock. “You mean you like being spoiled.”
He cracks one eye open, glancing up at you. “By you?” His mouth tilts into something softer, fond, like the answer’s obvious. “Always.”
You huff a small laugh, attention drifting back to your book, thumb holding your place as you turn the page. There’s a beat of quiet; just the rustle of leaves overhead, distant birds, the slow rhythm of Steve breathing.
And then—
“Baby,”
You hum in response, glancing down at him as he squints up at you. “Can you read it to me?”
You blink. “What?”
He tilts his head slightly, looking up at you properly now. Eyes fully open, warm honey-brown in the sunlight, a little hazy, like he’s still half-lost in the moment but all there for you. “Your book. Read it out loud.”
“You hate my books.”
“I don’t hate them,” he argues, which is a clear as day lie. “I just… don’t understand why everyone’s always thinking so much in them.”
You smile faintly, still not looking away from the page. “They’re the same in this one, honey,” you murmur, a quiet warning.
“Yeah, well.” He shifts again, settling deeper against you. “Can you read it anyway?”
You hesitate, but your hand never stops moving through his hair. “…fine,” you say eventually, softer now, and start from the top of the page.
At first, you read a little self-conscious, voice quieter than usual, stumbling slightly over a line you hadn’t practiced out loud, but Steve doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t tease. He just… listens.
Every now and then, he asks a question.
“Wait—who’s that again?”
“The brother.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, I don’t like him.”
“You’re not supposed to, baby.” You reassure him, brushing a strand of hair away from his eye as he looks up at you.
“Good.” He gives a small, satisfied nod against your leg as he settles back down.
Your fingers drift from his hair to his temple, tracing slow, absent patterns there, then back again. He melts under it, eyes fully closed now, a soft smile tugging at his mouth.
You don’t notice how much time passes.
The sun shifts. The air warms. The page turns again and again.
Steve goes quiet.
Not asleep—just listening in that heavy, relaxed way where his whole body feels loose, like he’s sunk into the moment completely.
You’re halfway through a sentence when he suddenly moves.
Not much, just enough to reach blindly beside him.
He doesn’t say anything. Just lifts his arm, offering whatever it is up toward you without even opening his eyes.
You pause, lowering your book slightly. “…what’s this?”
“Made it for you,” he mumbles, voice softer than before, almost shy, a faint flush creeping up the back of his neck.
You take it from him, and your chest does that soft, unexpected tightening thing it’s always done around Steve. Even when you were just kids with scraped knees and tangled laces. Even when everything between you was easy, undefined, and somehow still everything.
A flower crown.
It’s a little uneven. Some of the stems twisted too tight, others loose enough that you’re surprised it’s holding together, but it’s careful. Thoughtful. Small white and yellow flowers woven together with surprising patience.
You pull your eyes away to look down at him.
“When did you—”
“While you were reading,” he says, like it’s obvious. Like of course he’d just casually make you something while half-asleep in your lap.
You smile. “Steve…”
He finally opens his eyes, just enough to glance up at you.
“Put it on, honey,” he says, softer this time.
There’s no teasing in it. No joke.
Just that quiet, simple sincerity he falls into sometimes; the one that, no matter how many times you hear it, never quite stops catching you off guard.
You set the book down, shifting slightly so you can put on the crown, but before you can lift it fully, Steve moves—suddenly changing his mind.
“Hey—” you start, but he’s already moving up, turning so he’s half-kneeling between your legs, close enough that you feel the warmth of him even though you're no longer touching.
“Lemme,” he murmurs.
There’s something quieter about him now. More focused. Careful. He takes the crown from your hands like it’s something delicate, something that matters, and for a second he just looks at it, like he’s checking it over, making sure it’s good enough.
Then his eyes lift to you.
And they soften completely.
Not in that playful, teasing way he does sometimes. Not smug, not cocky. Just… so very soft and open.
You go still without meaning to.
For a second, it feels like he might kiss you.
Steve leans in slightly, one hand hovering near your shoulder as he gently lowers the crown onto your head, adjusting it so it sits just right. His fingers brush your hair, slow and deliberate, careful not to tug.
“Okay,” you say, because it feels like you’re supposed to say something.
He doesn’t answer right away.
His gaze lingers, tracing over your face like he’s memorising it. The flowers. The sunlight catching on your skin. The way you’re looking at him.
“…yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Yeah… okay.”
His hand doesn’t drop.
Instead, his fingers lift again, gentler this time, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face. He tucks it carefully behind your ear, knuckles grazing your cheek — light, lingering, like he doesn’t want to pull away.
You can feel your heartbeat in your throat.
Steve swallows, subtle, but you catch it.
“Looks…” He exhales softly, almost a laugh under his breath, like he’s trying to play it off and not quite managing. “…looks really pretty, honey.”
And somehow you know he isn’t talking about the crown; maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you, like he can’t quite believe you’re real, that makes you so sure.
The air shifts, warmer and heavier, not overwhelming. Just enough to make everything feel more real. For a second, neither of you moves.
Then his thumb brushes once, absent and soft, just beneath your ear, like he’s grounding himself there.
“God…” he exhales, quieter now. “I’m so goddamn lucky, baby.”
It’s quiet. Almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. Then he leans back just enough to settle down again, easing himself between your legs like before.
But if it’s even possible, he's closer this time.
His head finds your thigh easily, like it always does, his arm draping loosely over your knee, fingers hooking just slightly into the fabric of your clothes like he needs something to hold onto.
You pick your book back up, even though you’re not really feeling like reading anymore.
Your other hand finds his hair. Your fingers slide through it, slower now.
Steve lets out a quiet breath, eyes slipping closed, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “Keep reading, honey,” he murmurs.
Like nothing just happened.
Like everything did.
So you do.
Your voice is softer now, a little less steady, even as your fingers keep moving through his hair, grounding yourself in the motion.
His hand shifts slightly where it rests against your leg, fingertips brushing absent patterns along your skin—slow, idle, like he’s not even thinking about it. They trace over your knee, then lower, following the curve of your calf before drifting back up again.
And this time, when your hand drifts just slightly lower, brushing near his temple, Steve turns his head opening his eyes a smidge—pressing a quiet, absentminded kiss to the inside of your wrist, lingering for just a second.
It’s gentle. Unthinking.
Like he didn’t even realise he was going to do it.
Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
His thumb grazes over one of the small moles on your leg as he settles again, tracing it lightly, then another. Lazy, affectionate, like he’s mapping something familiar.
You falter for half a second; just enough to lose your place.
But he just settles again, lazy half-smile back in place.
And after a beat, you start reading again.
Even if you don’t take in a single word.
You don’t realise how quiet it’s gotten until the words in your book start to blur together.
The breeze has softened, the sun dipping just slightly lower, everything washed in that warm, golden light that makes the world feel slower. Softer.
Steve shifts a little between your legs, not enough to move away—just enough to reach out into the grass again, fingers brushing through it like he’s searching for something.
You barely glance away from the words on the page. “What’re you doing?”
“Hang on,” he murmurs.
There’s a beat.
Then—
“Got it.”
And even if you never heard him, you know the exact second he finds it. His face lights up into that boyish smile you adore, cheeks turning just a little pink like he’s quietly pleased with himself.
You lower your book completely.
Steve pushes himself up again, turning toward you, something small and fragile pinched carefully between his fingers.
A dandelion.
Soft, white, delicate — ready to fall apart at the slightest breath.
One dandelion in a field of daisies.
Your chest tightens before you can stop it.
“…Steve.”
He shrugs, but there’s that look again. That quiet, almost shy sincerity he never quite knows what to do with, like he’s offering you something bigger than it looks.
“Thought you might wanna—” He hesitates, then huffs a soft breath, a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “You know. For old time’s sake.”
Back when you were kids, sitting cross-legged in the grass, making wishes on every dandelion you could find—him insisting they worked, you pretending not to believe him while wishing for him anyway.
You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you, even as something deeper settles warm in your chest. “Still believe in that?” you tease gently.
He looks at you like that’s the easiest question in the world.
“Yeah,” he says, softer now. “Yeah, I think I do. Got me you.”
Your fingers brush his as you take it from him, careful not to disturb the seeds.
For a second, you just hold it there.
Between you.
Something shared.
“Go on,” Steve nudges quietly. “Make a wish.”
You glance at him.
At the way he’s watching you—not expectant, not pushing. Just… there. Steady. Hopeful in that quiet, unspoken way.
You lift the dandelion, bringing it just beneath your lips. And for a moment, you think about all the things you could wish for.
Everything that’s changed.
Everything that hasn’t.
Then you blow.
The seeds scatter into the air between you, catching in the golden light, drifting slow and weightless.
Steve watches them go, then looks back at you. “…you gonna tell me what you wished for?”
You shake your head, smiling softly. “If I tell you, it won’t come true.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, leaning in just a little closer. “Pretty sure I could make an exception.”
“Steve,” you warn, but there’s no bite to it.
His gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then back up again, something warm flickering there.
“…was it a good one at least?”
You tilt your head, pretending to think about it.
Then, softer—
“Yeah.”
His smile lingers, slower this time. “Yeah?” he murmurs, a teasing glint slipping in.
“Was it about me?” he asks, a little softer now. You don’t answer—just give him a look that is answer enough.
The moment stretches, quiet and golden and full.
And then—almost like he just can’t help himself—Steve leans in.
It’s just a quick peck at first. Soft, a little tentative, like he’s testing the space between you.
You barely have time to react before he does it again.
And then another.
And another.
“Steve—” you start, breath catching into a laugh as his lips press to your cheek this time, then the corner of your mouth, then your other cheek.
“Just—” he murmurs between kisses, grinning against your skin, “—one more—”
“Steve!” you laugh properly now, trying to lean back as he follows you, all warm and insistent and *ridiculously *affectionate.
He presses another kiss just beneath your eye, then another to your cheek.
“Okay, that was the last one,” he promises.
You narrow your eyes at him, already smiling. “You said that two kisses ago.”
“…this one counts,” he argues, immediately leaning in again.
You let out a breathy laugh and swat at him lightly with your book, the edge of it bumping his shoulder. “You’re so annoying.”
He finally pulls back, but only just, still close enough that you can see the way he’s smiling—soft and a little crooked and completely unapologetic.
“C’mon,” he murmurs, quieter now, softer. “Just one more… please?”
You roll your eyes, but it’s fond, your hand catching lightly in the front of his shirt to steady him.
“Fine,” you say, like you’re giving in. Though you both know you never really could say no to him.
He doesn’t rush it this time.
Just leans in slow, pressing one last, gentle kiss to your lips—soft, unhurried.
He stays there for a beat, forehead resting against yours, the same way all of your kisses seem to end—drawn out, reluctant, like neither of you ever wants to be the one to pull away.
After a few moments, he pulls back, easing himself down between your legs again, the grass shifting softly beneath you as he settles in.
His hand finds yours without thinking. Fingers slipping easily between yours like they’ve done a hundred times before. Probably because they have.
Like they were always meant to.
And in that moment, with his hand in yours, you realise maybe some wishes were never really wishes at all—just something quietly waiting to bloom.
P.S.I’ve been a little stuck with writer’s block lately, but I’m finding my way back to it 💛
This is breaking my heart in the purest form there is, because this is so sweet, so cute, so pure, so passionate that it's the most calm and peaceful form of love there is 🥹 I wish I could have that (it almost made me tear up because loneliness is a bitch) 🥺
♡ Some wishes don’t fade — they just wait for the right time to come true.
Summary: A lifetime of memories, and now something new — your first date.
Author’s Note: Based on this lovely request.
Pairing: Steve Harrington x childhood best friend!reader
Word count: 1.8k
You’d known Steve Harrington forever. From scraped knees and juice boxes to awkward acne phases and prom night, he’d been stitched into every part of your life. The two of you were irreversibly interlinked, tangled together in ways that never seemed to unravel. Every big moment in your life, he had been there — grin wide, eyes holding something too big for you to understand back then. Maybe even too big to understand now.
He was the boy who dared you to climb the highest tree in the neighbourhood, then wrapped you in his arms when you inevitably fell. The teenager who draped his jacket over your shoulders when the rain came down too hard and held your hand as you both sprinted home.
And now, somehow, he was the man standing on your doorstep — a bunch of your favourite flowers in hand, jacket pressed, cologne just a little too strong — waiting to take you on your first date.
You stepped out onto the porch, nerves twisting in your stomach, only to find Steve staring at you like he was seeing you for the very first time.
You’d always prided yourself on being the practical one — list-maker, plan-ahead, triple-check-the-locks practical. But standing here, with Steve looking at you like you were made of starlight or something, you felt like the girl who once wished upon a dandelion that he’d kiss you in his treehouse.
His lips parted, a laugh caught somewhere in his throat as his hand dragged through his perfectly gelled hair. You preferred it messy, anyway.
“Wow,” he breathed, and for once, Steve Harrington — The Steve Harrington, King Steve, Smooth-Talker Steve — looked utterly lost for words.
Your cheeks warmed, but you couldn’t stop the smile blooming on your face. “You clean up pretty good yourself, Harrington.”
And just like that, the moment stretched — golden, awkward, sweet. A little cheesy, maybe. But then again, so were you and Steve. Always had been.
He’d planned everything. A reservation at Hawkins’ nicest restaurant - Enzo’s - on Hopper’s recommendation. A clean shirt, ironed even. A cassette mix he’d spent hours putting together. Tonight was supposed to prove Steve Harrington wasn’t just the guy who used to be “King Steve.” He wanted to show you he could be more. Give you more.
But when the hostess shook her head and said his reservation had “unfortunately been given away,” Steve swore the floor dropped out beneath him.
“Wait, what? No, I called. I spoke to—look, is there anything, anything open?”
“Sorry, sir. We’re completely booked.”
Steve’s shoulders sagged, and he muttered under his breath, “Great start, Harrington.”
Your hand brushed his arm, steady and soft. “Hey. It’s fine.”
Fine? His throat tightened. How could this be fine? This was supposed to be the first time he showed you he was serious, that he could give you something better - what you deserve.
But then you smiled, eyes warm, voice light with amusement. “Come on. Remember Benny’s Diner? We basically grew up there. I’d take greasy fries and a milkshake with you over fancy food any night.”
Steve blinked. For the first time in the past fifteen minutes, he breathed. You weren’t disappointed. You were… happy. Maybe even more than happy.
He grinned, boyish and relieved. “Yeah? Okay. Yeah, Benny’s it is.”
The neon sign over Benny’s buzzed faintly, casting a warm glow across the parking lot. Sliding into the red vinyl booth felt like stepping into an old memory, one you’d lived a hundred times before — but never quite like this.
Steve didn’t even glance at the menu. “Two cheeseburgers, fries, and one chocolate milkshake,” he told the waitress. Then he leaned back, smirking at you. “To share, obviously.”
You laughed. “Obviously.”
It was easy after that. Easier than either of you expected. You teased him about the time he tried to chug two milkshakes back-to-back in seventh grade to impress a girl, only to end up sick in the parking lot with you holding back his hair. He countered with the memory of you tripping over your untied shoelaces and dumping an entire tray of sundaes into some poor guy’s lap.
And then, mid-story about the time he tried to climb through your window with a mixtape and fell into the rose bushes below, his elbow nudged the glass at the edge of the table.
The milkshake tipped. Chocolate spread fast across the table, seeping into the crisp white of his shirt.
Steve’s eyes went wide. “Oh, come on.” He scrambled for napkins, fumbling like the table had just caught fire.
You couldn’t help it — you burst out laughing, loud enough that the waitress glanced over. “Some things never change,” you managed between giggles.
Steve ducked his head, cheeks pink. “I swear, I used to be cool. Once. Ages ago.”
Still laughing, you leaned across the table and pressed a napkin gently against his shirt. “You’ve never been cool, Harrington. Not in high school, definitely not as ‘King Steve.’ But this?” Your smile softened as you met his eyes. “This is the real Steve Harrington. And I like him even better.”
For a second, the world shrank — jukebox humming low, fries sizzling in the back, your hand still on his chest. His grin twitched, boyish and nervous. His fingers lifted, hesitated, then brushed over yours where the napkin pressed against his shirt — a touch so small it made the air feel sharp, fragile.
“STEVE!”
The shout cracked through the diner like a gunshot.
Steve groaned, dragging his hands down his face as Dustin Henderson, Lucas Sinclair, and Max Mayfield marched toward your booth with fries in hand and trouble in their eyes.
Dustin plopped himself down beside you with zero hesitation. “We’re just here for fries. But also to make sure Steve doesn’t blow it.”
Steve dropped his face into his hands. “Oh my God.”
Lucas frowned. “Wait… so this is a date? Wow Henderson was right - you finally did it! You asked her out-”
Max smirked, leaning her elbows on the table and stealing one of your fries. “Took you long enough.”
You covered your mouth to stifle your laughter, but it was useless — the whole booth shook with it. Steve muttered darkly about cutting off rides, Dustin ignored him entirely, and somehow, despite the chaos, you couldn’t stop smiling.
By the time Steve finally shooed them out of the booth with promises of arcade tokens, your cheeks ached from laughing. You swirled the straw in the residue of your milkshake and looked at him fondly. “They’re relentless.”
“Relentless is one word,” Steve muttered, slumping back into the booth.
Before he could say more, Max popped her head back over your shoulder, fixing him with a sharp look. “Just so we’re clear, Harrington — if you screw this up? You’re dead.”
Steve groaned. “Enough. I’ve heard plenty of this from the others already.”
You smirked, remembering when Eddie had leaned over the Family Video counter, thinking you couldn’t hear, and said, “Don’t screw this up, Harrington — you’ve kept her waiting too long to mess this up now.”
Dustin only grinned, smug as ever. “We’re just making sure you don’t blow it, Steve. She’s too good for you.”
Steve shot him a glare, cheeks pink. “Yeah, thanks, Henderson. Really appreciate the vote of confidence.”
You couldn’t stop laughing, shoulders shaking as you reached across the table to nudge his hand. “They’re just protective. You know that.”
“Protective of you,” Steve grumbled, but the way his lips tugged into a smile gave him away. Then, quieter, like he couldn’t help himself: “Can’t blame them. I’m protective of you too.”
The drive home was quiet. The kids’ voices still echoed in your head, Dustin’s dramatic commentary replaying like a bad sitcom laugh track, but now it was just you and Steve again. Streetlights slid across his face as he gripped the wheel, jaw set like he was trying to solve a puzzle only he could see.
When he slowed to a stop near the old park — the one where you’d both scraped your knees on the jungle gym a hundred times — you turned to him in surprise.
“Steve?”
He left the car running, staring out the windshield. “I, uh… I wanted tonight to be perfect.” His voice was quieter than you’d ever heard it. “I had this whole thing planned, and then the reservation got screwed, and I spilled our milkshake all over myself, and the kids…” He groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. “You deserve better than this mess.”
He didn’t mean just tonight. Not really.
He meant the whole damn thing. The failed reservation. The milkshake. The fact that he couldn’t take you anywhere without the kids showing up and turning it into an after-school special. He meant the part of him that still felt stuck somewhere between “King Steve” and the guy he was trying to become.
He meant: You deserve someone who has their life figured out. Who knows where they’re going. Not someone still patching up the holes in his own story.
Your chest tightened, but not with disappointment — with something warmer. “Steve.” You reached out, curling your fingers gently over his on the steering wheel. He finally looked at you, and for once he didn’t have that carefully practiced Harrington grin. Just wide, nervous eyes, hopeful and unsure.
“Do you know what I remember most when I think of you?” you asked.
He blinked. “Uh… when I pushed you off your bike in third grade?”
You laughed, shaking your head. “No. I remember you teaching me how to ride a bike, insisting I could do it even after all I did was fall. I remember you staying with me after my first breakup, sneaking in through my window and refusing to leave until I smiled. You making me laugh when I thought my world was falling apart. You being there, always. And now, tonight. It felt like that. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
Steve swallowed hard. His free hand tapped anxiously against the gearshift. “So… it wasn’t a disaster?”
You leaned in, close enough to smell the faint sweetness of his cologne. “Not even close.” Then you pressed your lips against his before you could overthink.
The kiss was clumsy — your noses bumped, and Steve’s hand twitched awkwardly before finally cupping your cheek. But then it settled, soft and sure, and it felt like every milkshake, every late-night drive, every shared secret had been leading here.
When you finally pulled back, Steve was grinning so wide it hurt to look at him. “Took me long enough, huh?”
You rested your forehead against his, heart still racing. “Yeah. But it was worth the wait.”
The engine hummed, the park sat quietly behind you, and for the first time in forever, Steve Harrington didn’t feel like he had to prove anything. He was already exactly where he was supposed to be.
And you? You might not be the same girl who once wished on a dandelion for the boy in front of you — but some wishes don’t fade. They just wait for the right time to come true.
P.S. Requests are open 🌼✨
P.P.S. Why is it so hard to find happy Steve Harrington photos? Criminal, truly
♡ Even when I believed the lie, I wanted to believe you more.
Summary: Vecna gets inside Steve’s head, twisting love into a weapon—but your voice is the one that pulls him back.
Warnings: Mind control (Vecna), angst (but with a happy ending), crying, hurt/comfort. Brief mentions of Stancy .
Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader
Word count: 2.2k
Author’s note: I have no self-control. This was supposed to just be a soft little hurt/comfort piece where Steve actually gets to feel loved for once… and then Vecna showed up. 🫠
It hits like a splinter under his skin, a thread that snags and unravels everything.
One moment, he’s on the couch in the Wheeler’s basement—dust in the air, your hand brushing his sleeve.
The next breath rips it all away—the hum of the AC, the voices, the warmth of you—and he’s somewhere else
A place that smells like mildew and old fear. A house that never was. The ceiling droops like a tired mouth.
Photographs hang on the walls, twisting as he looks; faces he recognises, faces he loves, all smeared with shadow. A child’s laugh echoes and then becomes his own, but younger, terrified.
“Stevie.” Silk and knives. It slithers up his spine. He knows that voice.
You are there, in the picture frames, at the centre of every memory Vecna pulls open—only you're not really you. A caricature: small, distant, unreachable.
Your smile is soft but hollow. Your eyes slide past him, like you’re searching for someone else. You look so safe. So untouched by the horrors he had made you see.
Vecna’s whisper takes on your voice and says, gentle as a whispered sweet nothing:
“You think she’ll ever love you? Want you? Look at yourself—scuffed, busted. The one everyone leaves.”
The words hook into his ribs, pulling until it hurts to breathe. Every accusation is threaded with the same lie: you are only what you give. If you stop giving, you are nothing.
“Steve?” a voice he knows even better.
Nancy’s voice. Clear as glass. It cuts straight through him, pulling every memory to the surface—the way she once said his name like it meant something, the way she stopped, how he wasn’t enough to make her stay.
He whirls, desperate, and there she is in the warped hallway: Nancy Wheeler, hair just as it was, looking at him with that familiar softness. His chest lurches with an ache he’d long since buried.
“You let me go,” she says, flat. A fact. Like it was always going to happen.
“You weren’t what I wanted. You weren’t what I needed. You never will be.”
Her eyes harden, and her voice drops to that low, cutting register he remembers too well. “It was all bullshit. Every kiss. Every promise. You were never enough—for me, for anyone.”
The word slams into him like a brick. He staggers back. “No—”
But Nancy’s face flickers, melts—and now it’s you.
At first, your smile is soft. Your voice is steady.
“I love you, Steve.”
You say it like it’s easy. Like it’s true. Like forever. Like you could say it every day for the rest of your lives.
For a second, hope explodes in his chest—blinding, impossible. He sways toward you, choking on the words he’s never dared to say back. It feels like air after drowning. It feels real.
And then-
You laugh. Low. Cruel. Words Steve would never use to describe you. The real you.
“Did you actually think I could love you? God, look at you. You’re pathetic. Broken. Worthless.”
Sweetness curdles into venom. It’s worse than Nancy’s rejection. Worse than his parents’ silence. Because this was the one thing he secretly, stupidly wanted. And now it’s poisoned before it ever had the chance to be real.
Then the same words Nancy spoke fall from your lips, but sharper, meaner—because they’re the ones he never wanted to hear from you. The ones he’s only ever heard in his worst moments, whispered by his own doubts in the dark. His stomach drops, cold and sick.
“It’s bullshit. Those moments you replay, the ones you think mattered? Did you really think I could ever love you? You’re broken. Pathetic.”
His chest collapses in on itself, breath tearing ragged from his throat. The air around him thickens, heavy as wet cement, and the whispers coil tighter: Not enough. Not enough. She’ll leave. Just like Nancy. Just like his parents. Just like all of them.
The words sink like hooks under his ribs, yanking until it hurts to breathe. He collapses, hands pressed to his ears, but he can’t block you out.
Not you.
Not when the one thing he wanted most has been twisted into the sharpest blade.
And then the real world fractures.
Steve’s body lifts, rigid and trembling, limbs jerking against an invisible force. His eyes roll milky white. Everyone’s shouting — panic and confusion — but your world narrows to him. Just him.
Eddie screams his name. Robin scrambles for the cassette player, fingers fumbling tapes—Prince? Bowie?—her panic sharp as broken glass. Dustin shouts directions no one hears.
But you know. Of course you do. The mixtape he made you.
The one he tried to play off like a joke—“Songs That Don’t Suck, Volume One”—but you’d caught the way he hovered while you listened, desperate for your reaction. You know the track he always hums under his breath when he thinks no one’s listening.
Your hands shake. You shove past Robin, dig through the pile—“This one!”
“Are you sure?” Dustin cries, voice breaking.
“Yes!” You slam it into the deck, snapping the lid shut before doubt can creep in. The buttons stick. Your thumb slips—
Then the tape whirs. The opening notes spill out.
You grab the headphones. Shove them over his ears. Your palms cradle his face, your forehead pressed to his. His skin is clammy. His body still jerks against the air. But you hold him steady.
“Follow it, Stevie,” you whisper, fierce and urgent. “That’s you. That’s us. Come back.”
The song crackles in the air, a lifeline thrown into the dark.
The music rises. A riff he knows better than his own heartbeat. And then—
Your voice.
Not the cruel echo twisted by Vecna, but the real you. The one that laughs too loudly at his bad jokes, that rolls your eyes but stays. The one who sees all the rough edges he tries to hide—and stays anyway.
“Come back to me.”
It cuts through like light through smoke.
A single “Please.” So much desperation in one syllable.
The house shudders. Frames fall from the walls. That warped version of Nancy blinks out of existence like a dying lightbulb. The air splits open above him, a jagged, impossible seam of colour and sound, and Steve runs—legs heavy, lungs burning, but he runs.
Vecna’s voice shrieks behind him, furious. The walls bend inward, clawing, reaching—but the music is louder now. Clearer. Real.
Between the rotted wallpaper and slithering shadows, another place tries to surface. Something warmer. Familiar.
And then he sees it.
Not the nightmare. Not the twisting house or the echoing voices. But the linoleum floor of Family Video. The broken popcorn machine wheezing, the AC groaning against the heat, the air thick with that familiar, stale butter smell.
And you.
Broom in hand. Laughing. Twirling like you’re on a stage; like the world hasn’t ended a dozen times outside those glass doors. Barefoot, ridiculous, beautiful.
The store was empty. You’d taken the mixtape with a smirk, popped it in, and danced like he hadn’t just handed you his heart.
Your hips sway as the music—his music—plays over the crackling store radio. You’re singing along, horribly off-key, spinning the broom like a dance partner, mouthing the words dramatically just to make him laugh.
And it had made him laugh. He remembers that now.
You’d been ridiculous and loud and free. And you’d smiled at him like he was the only person in the world.
He’s behind the counter, watching you with an expression he recognises now: unguarded, unconditional love. This happened. It’s real. The smell of popcorn and the hum of old lights fold around him like a blanket.
You catch his eye in the memory. You smile, not embarrassed and not distant — just joyful. You reach out a hand, palm open and steady.
“C’mon, Harrington,” you tease, breathy and bright. “Don’t just stand there all broody. Dance with me.”
Now the voice is both memory and present. The version of you in front of him is not hollow, not twisted. Just you — soft and warm, eyes full of mischief and something else that cuts through the rot like a blade.
“Come back to me,” you whisper again, and this time he hears it clearly. It’s your voice now, not a trick. Not Vecna’s theft.
Steve’s chest seizes. His hands drop from his head, shaking. “Y-you’re not real,” he breathes, voice ragged.
You tilt your head, eyes never leaving his. “Neither is this,” you say, and the world trembles. Family Video flickers back toward the cursed house; shadows lick the edges of your image like burned paper. “You have to fight it,” you say gently, hand still outstretched. “You know how. You always know how.”
The chorus swells — familiar and grounding. Vecna roars, bellowing, “YOU ARE NOTHING!” but Steve turns away from the sound. He turns toward you. He reaches.
The second his fingers touch yours, the curse snaps.
The shadows shriek and collapse inward. The house folds in on itself like dying lungs. The rot peels away. The whispers vanish.
In the real world his body drops — a marionette with severed strings — and you catch him, just barely, his weight knocking the breath out of you. His chest heaves against your shoulder; cold sweat soaks his shirt. His fists clutch your jacket like anchors. You pull the headphones off gently; the tape still hums faintly on the deck.
“Steve,” you whisper, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “It’s okay. You’re here. You made it back.”
His eyes flutter open, wild, glassy. He looks at you like you might still disappear. “I saw you,” he chokes. “You left. You said—”
“I didn’t,” you say, fierce and trembling. “I wouldn’t. That wasn’t me.”
“But it felt real,” he breathes, voice cracking. “It felt like—like you meant it. Like you could never—” his throat closes, but the next word claws out anyway, raw and shaking. “Love me. Because I’m—”
The word “pathetic” trembles on his tongue. His lips form “broken.” Vecna’s echo hangs between you.
Your stomach drops. You don’t know what Vecna showed him, but you know it was cruel. You know it sounded like you. And you know if you don’t cut through it right now, Steve will believe it.
So you grab his face in both hands, forcing his eyes to meet yours. Your voice is sharp, desperate, every word a strike meant to shatter the lie.
“Stop. Don’t you dare.” You spit the words out.“Listen to me. Whatever he said—whatever he made you see—it was a lie. You hear me? A lie.”
His chest heaves, but his eyes still dart, searching, afraid.
So you cut him no mercy. You cut straight through.
“I love you, Steve Harrington.” The confession lands like a blow — short, fierce, uncompromising. You need him to believe them more than you need air.
“You’re messy, you’re stubborn as hell, and sometimes you drive me insane—” your voice cracks, but you push harder, fiercer. “But you are good. You are worth everything. And I love you. Not in some twisted way, not in some fake memory. The real me loves you. Right here. Right now.”
You repeat it once more, lower, harder: “I love you.” Because words are the only weapon you have against the kind of doubt that nearly kills.
“And I will never stop loving you.” You grasp his top over his heart - like an anchor into his chest.
His lips part, shaking, but you don’t let him answer.
“I love you,” you say again—sharper now, furious, like a stake through the lie.
“I love you,” softer this time, breaking on a sob, your forehead pressing to his.
“I love you,” a whisper, so close your breath mingles with his, like you could feed it into his lungs if that’s what it takes.
By the third time, the dam breaks. A sob rips out of him, jagged and ugly, his whole body folding toward you like he’s coming apart at the seams.
And before you can think, before you can breathe, his mouth is on yours.
It’s not graceful. It’s not careful. It’s a collapse, a gasp. Tears hot against your skin, the kiss trembling and desperate, like he’s drowning and you’re the only air. He clings to you like a man clawing his way out of the dark, fists in your shirt, lips crashing against yours again and again, broken by sobs.
You kiss him back, just as messy, your own tears slipping into the press of mouths. It’s not perfect, not clean. It’s raw and ugly and real.
And it’s him.
When you finally break apart, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling, he whispers it like a confession he’s terrified to make but can’t hold back anymore:
“…I love you too.”
His chest shudders. A sob tears out of him before he can stop it. He clings to you, arms winding tight around your waist, burying his face in your shoulder. He sobs like something heavy breaking inside him. He holds you like you are his only tether to life.
You run your fingers through his hair, trembling. “I’ve got you,” you whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.”
His voice is small, wrecked. “I… I don’t deserve you,” he chokes.
“I love you Stevie,” you say, fierce, unyielding. “Every stubborn, beautiful, imperfect piece. And nothing he said will ever make that untrue.”
He lets the sound out then—a raw, ugly, blessed release. In your arms, Steve finally lets himself believe.
Around you, the others close in, relief breaking over them—but for a long moment it’s just the two of you: the tape’s last thin notes fading, your breath and his, safe.
He’s not a shield. Not a martyr. He’s messy, stubborn—and painfully, undeniably loved.
P.S. Requests are open 💌
P.P.S. To the anon who asked for the gentle hurt/comfort where Steve finally gets to feel cared for — I promise it’s still coming 🫶🏼
