Isn't that sweet

🍑🍹🌺

[sweetlikenonsense]

Requests: Open!

♡ Delivered Love Letters

♡ Letters in Bloom ->

The Warmest Lie

"Steve Harrington is annoying, smug, and tragically tan — but if fake-dating him is what it takes to get Robin and Nancy to finally make out, then so be it."

[escapedaudios]

When I was a little boy, girls used to just do random cartwheels for no reason. Then one day, they stopped. Now that I am a man, no women randomly do cartwheels. This is because society is evil and killed the cartwheel impulse in their soul. They don't even spin horizontally anymore. It's fucked up.

[ily-a]

Stranger Things | 2.03 Chapter Three: The Pollywog

[64mpg]

does anyone even ever feel good or did they make that up

[sweetlikenonsense]

There's Always a Tomorrow (Until There Isn't)

♡ People make plans. Promises. They say 'I'll be right back' and have no reason to think they're lying.

Warnings: Angst BUT with a happy ending, Best Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Angst (fear of losing someone), Emotional Vulnerability, Canon-Typical Danger, Protective Steve Harrington, Discussions of Mortality, References to Grief (mentions of Eddie Munson's death), Confessions

Pairing: Steve Harrington x best friend!reader

Word count: 6.2k

Summary: The thing about tomorrow is that everybody assumes they'll get one. Standing in the Upside Down, watching Steve Harrington prepare to risk his life once again, you refuse to let another goodbye go unfinished.

Chef’s Note: Send any tips to this customer ♡ I wrote this, got a little carried away, and only realised while making the divider that this might be a little stronger than a mocktail...

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Everybody dies. 

It’s one of the very few guarantees we are given in life.

It’s been true since the first creatures crawled from the sea. Since dinosaurs roamed the earth. Since ancient civilisations built monuments that still stand, long after the people who carved them turned to something even less than dust.

Death has always been there. Waiting patiently. Ringing a bell every now and then to remind us that, eventually, it will be our turn.

Sometimes it comes after a long life, peacefully, at home, surrounded by the people who love you most. Sometimes it's sudden. Sometimes it's cruel. Sometimes it arrives so slowly you have time to make peace with it. Other times it steals that chance away entirely.

Some people spend fortunes trying to outrun it. Chasing miracle drugs, freezing themselves in the hope science might one day wake them up again, searching for ways to reverse the very thing so many others pray they’ll live long enough to experience.

Wrinkles.

Grey hair.

Laugh lines etched beside smiling eyes.

Proof of a life fully lived.

Funny, really. Some people would give everything to look younger. Others would give everything just to grow old. But at the end of the day it’s all the same; our time is limited. It's an inescapable, heart-crushing fact. One you have far too much experience of for someone your age. 

Your next comment, however, is more opinion than inescapable fact, but you’d be hard pressed to find someone who disagrees—who isn't an interdimensional monster anyway.

And it’s that The Upside Down really fucking sucks. 

Really, really fucking sucks. 

You’d thought, last summer, that you’d seen the last of it. That it, and Vecna, and all the horrible things that called it home, had finally taken their last victim. It was over. O. V. E. R. Over. 

That finally, after everything you’d all been through—and were still going through, one hospital trip was proof of that–after months spent trying to piece yourselves back together, it was finally over. You really needed it to be over but–

Oh boy, were you all so dead wrong.

So dead wrong, in fact, that it would have been embarrassing, had you not all been so preoccupied with being terrified. Terrified for yourselves. For your families. Max. Each other. You’re not sure you could curate a list long enough, so let’s just say you were all too terrified to be embarrassed by how monumentally wrong you all were. 

The thought that scared you most was that the Upside Down had this terrible habit of taking things from people. More specifically, your people. Sometimes it was time. Sometimes it was pieces of yourself, left behind after surviving things nobody should even have to hear, let alone survive.

And sometimes, sometimes it was your people.

After all, the last time you’d been here, Eddie Munson had been by your side. 

If you let yourself, which you rarely did, unless alone and unable to sleep, you could still see him. Leaning against the graffiti-covered wall of Hawkins High with that stupid cheeky grin on his face. Shoving your shoulder with his own. Making some joke at Steve's expense because apparently even the end of the world wasn’t enough to stop him from running his mouth.

“Hell, if Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson can be in the same room as Steve ‘The King’ Harrington, shit must really be bad, huh? 

And even though he’d joked, shit really was bad. 

Worse than any of you had imagined.

Eddie, like everyone else who woke up that day, believed it was yet another day he’d see the end of. He wasn’t naive—none of you were. You couldn't afford to be. He knew, just as well as the rest of you, even though he was new to everything happening, how bad it was. How categorically, monumentally, utterly shit it was.

But knowing you're in danger and believing today is the day you die are two very different things.

It never feels like it'll be you.

You're more likely to win the lottery. More likely to be struck by lightning. More likely to wake up tomorrow exactly as you always have.

Until one day... you don't.

He still believed. Choose to–despite the odds–hope.  

Even standing in an alternate dimension. Even with Vecna looming over all of you. Even with monsters lurking in the shadows and the end of the world breathing down your necks, he had still found a reason to believe–to joke. 

To believe in a tomorrow. 

Ninety-nine percent of people—not an accurate statistic, admittedly, but probably not far off—start their day without ever considering it might be their last. They leave home, maybe throw a goodbye, a quick and fleeting kiss to their loved one–or maybe, they leave without a word. Why wouldn’t they? They don’t know this could be their last conversation.  

People make plans. Promises. They say I'll be right back and have no reason to think that they’re lying. 

After all, if you knew the date, the minute that will be your last, would you act differently? Of course. 

You’d never let an argument run on, or a grudge take hold; you’d let a hug last a little longer, tell all the people who know you love them that you do, one more time–even tell the ones who don’t know. 

You’d say all the things you keep putting off for tomorrow. 

But you don't.

Because there's always a tomorrow. 

Until there isn't.

So they leave, and sometimes they never come back.

The worst part was that Eddie had probably said goodbye to people that morning without realising it truly was goodbye. His uncle. His friends. Dustin. He'd probably made plans. Promised to see someone later. Told somebody he'd catch them tomorrow. And meant every word. 

He’d probably gone to sleep the night before thinking he had years left. 

Standing in Nancy Wheeler's living room–well, the upside down version of it—surrounded by the people you loved most in the world, you couldn't stop wondering which of them would be next. Maybe that’s why your eyes couldn't stop themselves from finding him every few seconds. 

Actually, scratch that, they would’ve found him anyway; they had a habit of that. You weren't sure you'd ever gone more than a minute in Steve Harrington's presence without looking his way. To check. For reassurance. To admire. That was your bad habit. 

Steve had another. 

Several, actually–like any of you. Yet, the worst one by miles was the way he seemed to think his life was worth less than everybody else's. The bruises scattered across his jaw and cheekbone were proof enough of that. The cut above his eyebrow was another. The fact that he'd spent the last ten minutes pretending his ribs weren't bothering him despite repeatedly reaching for them whenever he thought nobody was looking was yet another. 

Unfortunately for him, you were looking—intently. Which was why you caught the moment his attention drifted from Nancy's plan to the front door. Despite you all agreeing to stay put. Stay together. You knew he wanted to deviate from the plan and risk his life, in his mind, in exchange for all of yours. 

A demogorgon had followed you as soon as you all got through the gate and you’d escaped, but narrowly. Together, not alone. Robin was still sporting a cut along her arm from where she'd been grabbed before Steve had thrown himself between her and six inches of very sharp, bloody teeth. Owning himself a nice gash across his ribs. At this point, the group looked one strong gust of wind away from collapsing.

You knew that look. Had seen it far too many times. The slight tension in his shoulders. The way his gaze kept flickering toward the door. The way he'd stopped paying attention to Nancy's plan several minutes ago because he'd already started forming one of his own. He was past considering his next move; he’d already made it. 

And yet despite all of this, or because of it, Steve took another step. Slow and careful–almost tiptoeing. As if you wouldn’t notice him leaving. As if you hadn’t spent the better part of the last few years tracking him unconsciously. As if he wasn't currently the source of at least seventy percent of your stress. Come on. 

The most heartbreaking part was that Steve would genuinely believe he was helping. Somewhere along the way he'd convinced himself that protecting everyone else meant doing it alone. 

Meanwhile, all that was running through your mind was Eddie.

About promises. About tomorrow. About all the people who'd genuinely believed they were coming back.

About all the things left unsaid. 

“Steve.”

It took him stopping mid-step, turning to look over his shoulder, for you to realise you’d spoken. The concern in his expression made the knot in your chest tighten—he looked at you like you were the one who needed protection. As if he hadn’t already decided that he was going to step out, alone, straight into whatever danger lurked in the dark.  

"Hey–" You cut him off. You couldn't bear to hear his explanation, his reassurances. The inevitable speech about being careful, staying put, how he'd only be gone for a minute and—you were done. Fed up. Completely over it. 

“Don’t.” you didn't need to say more: you knew what he was about to do, he knew what he was about to do and knew you knew. And yet his brow still furrowed, as if he genuinely didn't understand why you’d said it. 

The command hung between you and for half a second, something flickered across his face. Guilt, maybe. Regret, you hoped. But then he smiled. All soft and sweet and stupidly reassuring. 

"Honey, I'll be right back."

First thought? Bullshit.

Second? The words, even said in that tone of his that usually made you melt, hit like a punch. Because how could he know? Does he not think Bob thought the same? Eddie? 

"You don't know that."

Steve frowned immediately. "What?"

"You don't know that," you repeated, the words coming out steady and fast this time. "How could you? You don't even know what's out there."

"Hey—"

"No." You shook your head fiercely, already feeling your chest tighten. "Do you think Bob knew? Do you think Eddie did? Do you think anybody actually knows what they're walking into when they make that decision? Because if they did, if they actually knew the consequences, if they knew what it would cost and who it would hurt, don't you think they would've done things differently?"

The room had gone quiet around you, but you barely noticed. Your eyes never left Steve's. It was just you and him, and you were going to make him listen. 

"Nobody wakes up thinking today's the day. Nobody leaves believing they aren't coming back. That's the whole point." Your voice cracked despite your best efforts. "Eddie thought he was coming back. He had plans. He had people waiting for him. He thought there would be a tomorrow."

Something shifted in Steve's expression then, but it wasn't enough. Not when he was still standing there. Not when one fleeting look at him told you he'd already made up his mind. And it wasn’t to stay.

"We've seen what happens, Steve. We've lived it. We've buried people who all thought they had more time." Your throat tightened painfully. "And yet you're standing there acting like somehow it doesn't apply to you."

The accusation hung heavy between you.

"Like because it's you it'll be different, somehow. Like your life is the one exception to all the horrible things we've spent years watching happen." The laugh that escaped you was shaky and entirely humourless. "You don't get to make that promise."

Steve blinked. "I-"

"You don't get to stand there and tell me you'll be right back when you have absolutely no way of knowing that." Your voice dropped on the last few words. "Nobody does."

He opened his mouth but again you beat him to it, "You know that." Your voice sounds exactly how you feel. Tired, oh so painfully tired. 

"You know that," you repeated, shaking your head as your gaze finally dropped to the floor between you. "And you still say it."

You know you have an audience but to you, it's just Steve. As you practically beg him not to do this. To  himself. To them. You'd name anyone—say anything–if you thought it would stop him. 

"You say it and then just get to just walk away,” you can’t help the irritation that’s now creeping into your voice; your hand motioning with you, “and everybody else is just supposed to stand here and what? Believe you." And not wonder if that’s the last time they’ll see him like that: warm, breathing, alive. 

"It's reckless," you continued, your voice shaking despite every effort to control it. "It's selfish and it's stupid and it's—"

The word lodged itself in your throat.

You couldn't say it. Shouldn’t. You made a promise to yourself; but did life care about that? You force it past the ache sitting heavy in your chest, because saying it out loud would make it real. Would mean admitting just how much this affected you. How much he affected you.

But your heart was already saying it.

In every frantic beat. Every sleepless night. Every moment spent watching doors and waiting for him to walk back through them. So you forced the word out anyway. 

"It's heartbreaking."

If you were to describe Steve's expression after you said that, it'd probably be pretty similar to how you felt. Shattered. “Sweetheart—”

“No.”

You cut him off immediately because you knew exactly what was coming next. Once again the explanation, the reassurance only he believed–or at least, he wanted to. The promise that he understood but that he’d be careful. That he knew what he was doing and would he right back. But how many times could somebody promise they'd be careful before the promise stopped meaning anything? How many times could someone gamble with tomorrow before tomorrow finally ran out?

“You matter.” Years of frustration, fear and grief seemed to rise to the surface all at once, crashing into you hard, and then into him. Your hands landed against his chest as you stepped forward, the force of them making him rock back slightly. Had he not been so caught off guard, you knew he wouldn't have moved an inch; that only motivates you further.

“You matter too, Steve.” Your voice cracked.

Everyone in this room knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Steve would throw himself in front of any form of danger for them. Robin knew it. Nancy knew it. Hell, even Jonathan knew it.

Yet nobody had ever been able to convince him that he deserved the same kind of protection in return. That it was reciprocated—the care, the loyalty, the devotion. Everything Steve felt for the people he loved was reflected right back at him, whether he chose to see it or not. Hell, for you it was probably tripled.

Being in love with him and all.

“That pull you feel to protect us? To fight for us?” Your hands tightened against his shirt. “We feel it too.”

The words came out fierce. Immediate. You needed him to understand. Needed him to stop looking at himself like he was the expendable one. Your hands thudded against his chest once. Then again. And again.

Not at all hard enough to hurt him. Just hard enough to make your point. Hard enough that your own palms began to sting.

“You think you’re the only one who lies awake worrying? The only one who panics when somebody gets hurt? The only one who’d throw themselves in front of something if it meant everybody else got to go home?”

Before you could hit his chest again, his hands closed gently around your wrists. Not to stop you. Not to push you away. Just... To hold them?

Your throat tightened. “‘Cause you’re not.”

Steve's fingers loosened around your wrists, his thumbs absentmindedly brushing across your skin. His eyes hadn't left yours once and he’d gone completely still. He didn’t even seem to blink. Good. Maybe now he’d listen.

“Every. Single. Person. In this room would do exactly the same for you.” Your voice cracked again as you murmured under your breath. Your wrists flexed instinctively in his grasp, your body still wanting to physically make the point even though it was caged by him.

“And some of us would do even more.”

The words hung there. The only thing separating you now were two racing heartbeats and the fact neither of you seemed brave enough to say what had just become painfully obvious. You could actually feel his heartbeat beneath your palms, fast and uneven.

"Sweetheart."

The word was soft. Wrecked. And for one stupid, honestly naive, hopeful second—that you’d surely mock yourself for later–you thought you'd finally gotten through to him. Then something crashed outside.

The noise echoed through the house, loud enough to make everyone jump. Instinctively both of you looked toward the front door.

Your heart broke.

Because of the look Steve gave you.

It was so painfully Steve. Torn. Apologetic. Determined. He looked at you like he wished you hadn't made this so hard—like every word you'd said had found its mark, but hadn't been enough to change what he'd already decided because he had to do it. For whatever reason that remained unsaid he had to go. .

The conversation had affected him. You could see that. It had shaken him. Left him looking as devastated as you felt. It just hadn’t changed anything. Because of another fact you knew–Steve wasn’t doing this to hurt you. 

He wasn’t ignoring you, dismissing you, placating you. He genuinely believed this was how he kept everyone alive.

You couldn't do this again. Couldn't stand here and watch somebody you loved walk willingly toward danger while you stayed behind praying they'd come back. Couldn't spend months replaying a final conversation, wondering if one different sentence might've changed everything.

Not again.

Not Steve.

Before your brain had the chance to catch up with your heart, your hands slipped free from his grasp. They left his chest, lingering for only a fraction of a second against his wrists before they rose to cradle his face instead.

Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was long overdue. Maybe it was just pure desperation. Maybe—probably—it was all three.

You pulled him down and kissed him.

He didn’t move. 

For what felt like minutes–but was more accurately less than a second—he simply stared, frozen beneath your hands. 

Then he leaned in. Fully. 

Teeth knocking together. Your noses bumping. It wasn't smooth or practiced; it was a collision. A frantic, clumsy crash of relief, fear and years of buried feelings that neither of you had ever found the courage—or the timing—to say out loud.

You felt one of his hands slide up the side of your neck while the other settled against your jaw, holding you as though he was afraid you'd disappear if he let go. His fingers trembled beneath your ear, the tiny movement betraying him far more than his expression ever could.

It wasn’t cinematic, nor movie-esque in the slightest. In fact, the director would have called cut and probably pulled his hair out whilst screaming that it was all wrong. There was no slow-motion grace to it. No sudden hush of the world around you–expect you’re sure the others have gone quiet. 

There was only panic.

The kind of kiss that happened when tomorrow suddenly stopped feeling guaranteed.

You clung to him, your fingers digging into the warmth of his cheeks, pulling him impossibly closer as though proximity alone could keep him here. As though if you held him tightly enough, the Upside Down couldn't steal him from you too.

Steve made the smallest sound against your lips, something caught somewhere between a relieved laugh and a broken breath, and suddenly he was kissing you with every bit as much desperation as you were kissing him.

Years of almosts collapsed into seconds. Every glance that had lingered too long. Every brush of hands neither of you had acknowledged. Every moment that had been interrupted by monsters, bad timing or fear. It all found its way into this one kiss.

It was messy and uncoordinated, a frantic exchange of breath and heat in a place that felt cold and dead. In that moment, the plan, the monsters, the impossible odds waiting beyond the front door–all of it blurred into nothing. 

There was only this. 

There was only Steve. 

When he finally pulled back, it was only because breathing had become, rather unfortunately, unavoidable. Yet even then, he barely managed an inch, his forehead resting against yours while both of you fought to catch your breath. 

His eyes were blown wide, searching yours with a mixture of shock and an aching kind of tenderness. For the first time in years, Steve looked like he didn't have a single answer, his habitual controlled mask completely shattered.

"You can't do this," he whispered, his voice sounding like he’d been dragged through gravel. "You can't just... Honey."

The endearment should've comforted you. Instead, it sent your brain into a complete, and catastrophic free-fall.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

You'd just kissed Steve Harrington. Your best friend. You'd grabbed his face and kissed him without thinking, without asking, without giving him so much as half a second to process what was happening. 

What if he'd only kissed you back because he'd been too surprised not to? What if you'd just ruined everything? What if–

“I—I shouldn’t have done that,” you rushed out, the words tripping over one another in their desperation to escape. “I just panicked. I didn't—I mean, I did, obviously, but I wasn't thinking. I just... I don't know why I—”

“Hey.”

His voice cut straight through the spiral. Not sharply. Never sharply. Like he’d said it a hundred times—which he had— to calm you down from things considerably less catastrophic than accidentally confessing your feelings by kissing your best friend in the middle of the Upside Down. Actually… no. 

Now you say it out loud–in your head, in complete meltdown mode–you were pretty fucking sure this took first place. 

His thumbs brushed gently across your cheekbones, keeping you close even as every instinct screamed at you to bolt. He didn't tighten his grip. Didn't trap you. He just didn't let you run before you'd heard him out.

“Hey,” he repeated, quieter this time. “It’s okay.”

Your breath hitched. God, you wanted to cry. And scream. And run. Preferably all at once. 

“It’s not okay, Steve. I just kissed you.”

For a second, he simply looked at you. Then, to your utter bewilderment, the corners of his mouth twitched upward. It wasn't mocking. It wasn't even the sort of endearingly awkward smile someone wore when they were desperately trying not to make a situation worse.

If anything, it looked dangerously close to relieved. 

Which made absolutely no sense. 

“Yeah,” he said quietly, his smile growing by the smallest amount. “I noticed.”

Well... obviously. It was admittedly quite difficult to miss someone grabbing your face and kissing you—especially when that someone happened to be your best friend of several years.

Right. 

Brillant.

Excellent really. 

If you got really lucky there would be a gate nearby, that you could simply throw yourself into and save everybody the second-hand embarrassment. Granted, it was probably a little late for that, but optimism had gotten people through worse.

Your gaze darted anywhere but him, already preparing to launch yourself through that front door and become the biggest hypocrite in recorded history, when gentle fingers caught your chin. They didn't force you to move. They simply guided your face back towards his until your eyes met once more. 

Big mistake. Huge. 

Because he was smiling. The nerve. 

Not awkwardly in some failed but potentially sweet attempt to spare your feelings. Smiling. Softly. Warmly. Like you'd just handed him a gift he'd wanted for a very, very long time. It was, quite frankly, the sappiest smile you'd ever had the misfortune of witnessing.

God, he was beautiful.

Again, how unbelievably rude.

He just kept looking at you. Smiling all sweetly, all bashfully, all on that beautiful face of his. Like kissing him hadn't scared him half to death. Like it had almost made him... happy.

Your brain promptly gave up trying to understand any of it. “...Why are you smiling?”

That seemed to catch him off guard more than anything else that had happened in the last few minutes. He blinked once, but the smile never quite left his face.

“Because you kissed me?” He said as if it was the most obvious thing in the whole world and you were crazy to not know that. 

His thumbs brushed across your cheekbones again, grounding you in place even as your brain threatened to short-circuit once again. “You—” Your breath caught, your head spinning and no longer from the lack of air. “...what?”

Steve let out another quiet laugh, softer this time, disbelieving.

“Honey,” he murmured, shaking his head ever so slightly. “I've been thinking about you... a little—actually, a concerning amount—since way before this whole mess started.”

The words stole the air from your lungs. He watched your expression carefully, his smile slowly giving way to confusion as he searched your face.

“...You didn't know.”

It wasn't a question anymore. 

And in lieu of an answer, all you could do was stare at him.

 “Steve…”

“You really didn’t know.” He blinked, then let out another little laugh, shaking his head like the idea itself physically didn’t make sense. “I just spent the last few minutes assuming you’d finally figured it out.”

You tried. You really did. You tried to get your brain to cooperate, to line up words into something resembling coherent thought, but nothing quite stuck. You barely managed a small shake of your head.

Steve saw it immediately.

His expression shifted—softening, sharpening, all at once—as understanding dawned in slow, careful pieces. You could tell he was afraid of scaring you off. His thumb brushed lightly across your lower lip, almost absentminded in the way someone might reassure themselves you were actually there.

“Honey…” he murmured, quieter now. Breathless.

That did it. Something in you snapped back into place just enough to speak before you could lose your nerve entirely. 

“I thought there was too much going on for you to notice me.”

The words came out smaller than you meant them to. Honest in a way that felt far too exposed, even now, after everything you’d said mere minutes ago and for a second, he didn’t say anything at all. Then his brows pulled together, as if the thought genuinely didn't fit in his mind. 

“Notice you?”  His hands tightened slightly against your face. “Are you kidding?” he asked, another faint, incredulous laugh breaking through the words.

“Honey…” His voice softened on the memory, gaze never for even a second leaving yours. “I noticed you the moment you walked into Mrs Peters’ class in Hawkins Middle.”

His thumb slowed again against your cheekbone.

“And I’ve been noticing you ever since,” he added, quieter, voice certain. “Even when I really, really shouldn’t have been.”

You opened your mouth—to protest, to question, to fill the silence with something safer, or really anything at this point—but he didn’t let you.

“I notice everything about you,” he said, still gently, but just a little firmer now, like he needed you to actually hear him.  

This… This was really not how you expected today to go. Like, at all. You'd expected monsters. Running. Probably some mild-to-moderate trauma. Maybe another concussion if the universe was feeling particularly creative.

You had not expected Steve Harrington to be holding your face like you were something precious while calmly dismantling every insecurity you'd spent years building.

A horrifying thought crept into your mind.

…You’re not under Vecna’s spell, are you? 

It would certainly explain how he seemed to know every single thing you'd secretly wanted to hear for years from that gorgeous mouth. You very briefly considered pinching yourself. Then Steve started speaking again before you had the chance.

“I notice the way you chew the end of your pen when you’re thinking too hard,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing slowly across your cheek. “I notice how you always trip over that one loose floorboard in your hallway, then immediately look around to make sure nobody saw.”

Heat rushed to your face. “You've... seen that?”

“Honey.” He laughed softly. “I've seen it more times than I can count.”

Oh God, where’s that door again? 

“I notice you always carry two hair ties,” he continued, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Not because you need two. Because you know Max is going to forget hers. And even with her in the hospital, not knowing if she’ll–you still do.” 

His smile softened. “I notice when you haven't slept well, because the next morning you always ask for an extra teaspoon of sugar in your coffee. I've noticed every haircut you've ever had, every new jumper, every time you've pretended you were okay because you don't want anybody worrying about you.” 

“I notice when you're actually okay, too.” His eyes searched yours, while his thumb stroked your cheek. “And I notice every single time you look for me.”

Your breath caught. Literally–you could not breath. 

Steve smiled—small, impossibly fond. “Because,” he whispered, his forehead dropping once more to rest against yours, “I'm looking right back.”

Fuck. What could you possibly say to that? 

To the fact that he'd been paying that much attention. That he'd noticed things you didn't even realise you did yourself. Tiny habits. Thoughtless little routines. The sort of details you only learned by watching someone over and over again.

All you could do was stare. 

Stare at the boy you'd spent years convincing yourself never noticed you—not the way you noticed him. And yet here he was. Standing impossibly close, one hand cradling your face like you were something precious, looking at you like you'd hung the damn moon and every star around it.

Your throat suddenly felt very tight. "I..." You swallowed, and said the only thing you could think of. "...I notice you too." 

The confession came out so quietly you weren't entirely convinced you'd actually said it aloud, and his reaction gave you no indication to the contrary. At least not until a second later, when his eyebrows shot up.

"...You do?" The words escaped him with an enthusiasm that was almost comical.

His eyes went impossibly wide, his hair still adorably mussed from where you'd grabbed him minutes earlier, his lips pink and slightly swollen from kissing you. He looked completely, utterly caught off guard.

God, he was beautiful.

He cleared his throat immediately, attempting—and failing—to scrape up even a speck of his dignity. "I mean..." He nodded once. "Good."

Then he nodded again and blurted out another, "...Good."

Before a thoughtful little hum escaped him and, for reasons known only to Steve Harrington, he nodded a third time. "That's...that's really good."

And you just couldn't help it. A laugh slipped out before you could stop it. In your defence, it was only tiny at first—one he could only hear because you were standing so close—but then he looked at you with that hopelessly, ridiculously lovestruck expression on his face. 

That was it 

One quiet laugh became another. Then another. Until your shoulders were shaking and you had to press your lips together in a thoroughly unsuccessful attempt to contain yourself.

Not because he was being ridiculous—well, okay, maybe a little—but because somehow, absurdly, Steve Harrington looked even more flustered than you felt. Which, considering your brain had completely ceased functioning several minutes ago, was honestly impressive.

Steve didn't interrupt once. His thumb idly stroked beneath your jaw, completely content to simply stand there and watch you laugh.

Eventually, your laughter softened into the same quiet smile mirrored on his face.

For a few perfect seconds neither of you spoke. You just stood there, smiling at each other like two complete idiots who'd somehow managed to confess years of feelings in the middle of the worst place known to man.

Monsters outside. Friends definitely watching and getting ready to mock you (or at least Robin surely was). The fate of Hawkins hanging by a thread. And somehow, impossibly... neither of you cared one bit.

Well... until he decided to ruin the moment.

He cleared his throat. "So..." He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, looking almost sheepish. "Now that's sorted..."

He hooked a thumb vaguely over his shoulder towards the front door. "...I'm just gonna—"

The look you gave him stopped him dead.

It wasn't even a glare anymore. It was far past that. 

It was the face of someone who had spent the last several minutes explaining, in exhaustive detail, why he absolutely was not allowed to do exactly what he was implying. It also suggested that, should he ignore said explanation, you were more than willing to become the cause of the very death you'd just spent so long trying to prevent.

Steve looked towards the front door. Actually looked at it. Looking as if he was truly weighing up his options. Then he looked back at you.

Paused.

Took one look at your expression...

...and completely broke. This man was going to be the death of you. Fact.

"Okay," he breathed through another chuckle. "Okay."

Still smiling, he closed the tiny gap he'd created, his hand slipping into your hair, fingers combing gently through it before settling at the nape of your neck.

"What?" he asked, trying—and miserably failing—to sound innocent.

"You can't honestly think kissing me means you suddenly get to tell me what to do."

You raised one eyebrow. Nothing else. Just...One singular eyebrow.

Steve held your gaze with every intention of proving his point. His expression was wonderfully stubborn, almost smug, like he genuinely believed he could win this particular battle of wills.

He lasted all of three seconds.

His eyes flickered downward, landing squarely on your lips before he could stop them. He froze for a beat, seemingly realising exactly what he'd done, then squeezed his eyes shut with a quiet groan.

"...That," he sighed, sounding personally offended by himself, "was a terrible example."

Your smile escaped before you could stop it. His thumb caught it instantly, stroking gently along the corner of your mouth. His own smile answered yours—fond, hopeless and completely lacking the dignity he'd been trying so hard to recover.

And for a second, it was almost quiet again. Almost. Only the distant, echoing groans of the Upside Down, the occasional creak of something that definitely shouldn't have been moving, and whatever horrifying creature was politely waiting outside the front door reminded you the world was still ending. 

You found yourself almost begging for it to all shut up. Just to give you another minute. In this moment. With him. 

“…Can’t die before I take you on a date, right?” He said it lightly, though you knew he was only saying it that way to wind you up. And it worked. 

Your hand moved up before you even realised you’d decided anything. “Steve—are you serious right now?” You hit his chest. Not hard enough to really hurt him but absolutely hard enough that he definitely felt it.

He let out a soft laugh immediately, more breath than sound, and caught your hand against his chest before you could pull away. His fingers curled loosely around your wrist there, keeping it pressed to him just like he did mere moments ago. 

“Sorry, honey,” he murmured, and there it was again—that stupid softness in his voice. “I’m just… excited.”

His mouth tilted into a small, helpless pout, eyes flicking down to yours like he already knew exactly what he was doing to you. “Can you blame me?”

His entire face softened when he caught the look in your eyes–you trying to smile but it all just hitting too hard– teasing easing from his face until there was nothing left but something achingly earnest. His thumb brushed slowly across your knuckles where your hand still rested against his chest.

"I know," he murmured. "I can't promise forever." He gave the smallest shake of his head, as a tiny, humourless huff escaped him. "Hell… I can't even promise tomorrow."

The words hurt to hear, but before you could argue, he shook his head.

“But I can promise you this.” His fingers intertwined with yours, squeezing gently. “I'm going to do everything in my power to come back to you. 

His thumb brushed across your knuckles. "I'll fight to come back to you."

His forehead rested against yours once more, his eyes never leaving yours. "I'll fight for us."

You let out the smallest laugh, though it caught around the knot tightening your throat. "So.. Tomorrow?" you whispered.

For the first time since you'd met him, Steve Harrington answered without pretending certainty he didn't have.

"...Tomorrow."

Dividers by @designlikenonsense (aka my alter-ego)

P.S. I don't know what to say... but I've never not done this so... hi 👋🏼

P.P.S. @lilacdreamrxo ♡

[sweetlikenonsense]

Through the Rearview Mirror

 ♡ 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 🫶🏼

[stevefromupsidedown]

Jesus Christ 🫠

[sweetlikenonsense]

[sweetlikenonsense]

Under Your Fingertips

♡ 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.”

Steve’s expression hardens instantly. “That’s not—”

“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 ♡

[stevefromupsidedown]

Steve's "Good girl" got me like

The way that your range are my kinks 😏🫦

[sweetlikenonsense]

pure coincidence? or a sign...

[sweetlikenonsense]

If Only You Could See Yourself Through My Eyes

♡ 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...

[robin-first]

god it’s SO GOOD!!! the reveal that the reader was involved in the upside down just makes their dynamic so complex and soft and real. the desperation is so earned and the huge messy feelings. soft steve supremacy for real

[thumping-whumper]

Love going to bed with a new, good daydream scenario fresh in my mind. Like yes girl, movie night!

[sourdough-seal]

hyperfixation please stay with me long enough to complete the project. hyperfixation do not fade. hyperfixation finish what you started for the love of god

[raeprise]

me when i reach out first: ewww they hate me im annoying i should leave them alone

when people reach out to me first: YAYY THEY REMEBER I EXIST I AM KNOWN AND I AM LOVED

[naomiswilliams]

Georgina and Joe in the BTS video for MPC Paris(x)

[writingdose]

writers, instead of asking ai for help, you can always use your childhood trauma and repressed issues to help you with that fic

[dntwannabeurgirl]

[kingofscoops]

✨ Before and After Gif Challenge - Steve Harrington Edition ✨

So, it's been a while since I've done one of these. I've been stockpiling my favourite gif colouring psd's, and as you can guess, there was a lot of Steve, so he's getting his own special before and after set 💜 I'm gonna tag some of my awesome gifmaker mutuals under the cut, there's absolutely no pressure if you don't wanna take part. You can also find previous versions I've done of this challenge here 💜

@keikomivra @vinnymauro @jacksally @jackabbot @tylrgalpins @iero @emziess @jackfuckingtwist @cinematicnomad and any other gifmakers who see this and wanna take part ;3

[aftertherainstopss]

I hope you never outgrow being excited by bookstores, listening to the rain, flowers and finding the perfect mug.

[bakwaaas]

I am not immune to a hand on my lower back guiding me through the crowd