Messy - Steve Harrington x Reader
Summary: You didn't lie--you tried to tell him--loving you gets messy. But Steve Harrington makes it his mission to keep loving you, no matter how many times you push him away.
Warnings: a little angst, fluff, no established relationship, no use of y/n, sexual tension, hurt/comfort
a/n: first fanfic! i'm so excited for you all to read this, and i hope you enjoy! this fic is inspired by the song, 'Messy' by Renee Rapp. as always, stay for a while, like, comment, and reblog, it helps a lot :)
HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY! ୨ৎ
It’s late—way too late for this man to be outside of your window trying to get your attention. Glancing at your bedside alarm clock, you grimace at the red digits that tell the time: 3:47 AM. What the hell is his problem?!
Steve Harrington, King Steve, is a lover boy. You’d figured that out a month or two ago while shopping at Melvad’s General Store, standing in aisle four, looking for a pack of razors. Picking up pack after pack as your sneakers squeaked against the freshly mopped floors. “Let me know if you need any help!” Joyce, the only cashier working at the moment, had offered sweetly. You nodded, tending back to your business. And then, there he was.
Steve Harrington, rushing into the store wearing his ‘Scoops Ahoy’ sailor uniform, which you snorted at because who the hell wears that thing out in the open with no shame whatsoever? But, you had to admit, he did make it look good.
You continued to look for a certain pack of razors, grinning in satisfaction once you found them sitting on a higher shelf. Pushing yourself up on your tippy toes, you reach for the pack with your left hand. Shit, you thought. This is higher than you thought it’d be.
Ever the resourceful (and slightly thirsty) gentleman, Steve notices almost immediately and saunters over to you.
“Need any help?” He asks, as if you’re not shaking as you’re lifting yourself to grab what you need. It’s a dumb question, and the situation is even dumber. What in the rom-com movie is this?
You huff and nod your head, as if you’re about to pass up this opportunity. You’ll be able to gloat to your friends about the Steve Harrington helping you out. Stepping to the side, you flash him a soft smile. “Thanks.”
Steve nods back, the gesture both respectful and stupidly charming. He looks good like this, way better than when you remember he used to hang out with Tommy and Carol. Those two assholes always brought him down and made him look like a douchebag. Unfortunately, that’s exactly what Steve Harrington used to be.
Obnoxious pool parties in his huge backyard you weren’t invited to, simply because you weren’t interested in drinking beer all night and watching girls trip over themselves to impress Steve, and he didn’t know you existed. All those times you’d pass each other in the hallways without a second glance, basketball games at which Steve was sneaking off with Nancy Wheeler, and you were cheering on your friends on the court.
Things were normal. At least, that was your version of normal in 1983.
Then 1984 swiftly came along, the times changing as well as your “relationship” with Steve. Apparently (according to Nancy’s annoying younger brother, who can’t keep his mouth shut), Steve had gone through a breakthrough. He and Nancy were going through a rough patch, and rumors quickly spread around the school.
“Steve Harrington is a dickhead,” Some would say.
“Steve Harrington tried to work things out with Nancy, but she’s just too young and too much of a priss for him.” Others would argue, specifically girls who were bitter about the whole situation.
You? Immediately stayed out of the situation because you were graduating that year, on a one-way road to going to college and forgetting about Hawkins and its existence, until that night of Kim’s party.
Halloween, 1984. Your friends are dressed up in a variety of costumes; one of them is dressed as Indiana Jones, which you cried while laughing at because it’s a teenage party, she’s going to get eaten alive by people who were too drunk to understand what her costume even is. You went casually dressed, in a pair of cuffed jeans and a sweater.
Steve also caught the right idea and didn’t wear a costume but brought Nancy Wheeler on his arm. When you saw the two together, you couldn’t help but stare. Weren’t they broken up? Isn’t she with that weird Byers brother? It didn’t matter. You weren’t there to worry about Steve, Nancy, or any of that shit; you were there to get drunk off your mind and forget about school for the night. You’re dancing, snagging a cup of spiked jungle juice on your way to the kitchen as you migrate through the room of sweaty bodies.
Your friends had all decided to go their own ways throughout the cramped house, probably hooking up with random dudes somewhere, so you decided to do some exploring of your own.
Steve’s there, at the table, pouring himself a cup of straight-up vodka, and the laugh that escaped your lips catches his attention. He looked at you and raised his eyebrows, prompting an explanation.
You shake your head. “Just…um, that’s a lot of alcohol,” you stated, still chuckling. “Rough night, Harrington?
Steve joins you with a huffed laugh of his own as he downs his cup, and you’re not sure if he’s trying to impress you or if he genuinely had a rough night. However, you don’t stop yourself from glancing at his throat as the alcohol makes its way down and he swallows it. His jawline is strong, yet clenched.
“Yeah,” he says once he slams the cup down onto the table with more force than necessary. “Somethin’ like that.”
And once his eyes land on yours? It sends an electric feeling through your veins, and suddenly you’re falling victim to the Harrington charm. Laughing at his jokes, leaning into him when he presses his chest against your back as you dance.
You two had never even spoken before, but why does it feel like you two have known each other for years?
His hand rested on your lower hip, guiding you to grind back against him in a rhythmic motion that had you clenching your thighs together and forcing the heat blooming between them to calm itself.
Steve’s mouth was right up against your ear, and you could’ve sworn that he’d noticed the way your legs started pressing closer together. “You come to these often?” He had asked, the casual words sounding dirty as his lips grazed your sensitive skin.
You shook your head, tilting your head back and onto his shoulder to get a good look at him. “No, not really.” You’d replied.
Just as the words had left your lips, his mouth crashed against yours. It wasn’t soft or caring, or any of that shit they describe kisses to be in the movies. It’s heated and clearly filled with pent-up frustration as his tongue swiftly slips into the wet cavern of your mouth. Your hips are still grinding in time with the low music that’s playing in the background, and all you can think about is Steve Harrington and his stupidly gifted tongue.
Later on that night, he walked you to your car. He wanted to make sure you “got there safely,” but in reality? As soon as you started to open your car door, he’d pressed you against it.
“Steve.” You said his name, once, a warning.
All he did was smile and lean in, and then he was kissing you. It was way softer than last time, just a simple press of his lips against yours.
“Have an amazing night,” Steve muttered against your lips, which made you snort and gently shove him away.
You didn’t wish him a goodnight back; instead, you got in your car and drove off, back home, knowing that you definitely weren’t going to tell your friends the…intimate details as to why you snuck off that night.
And that’s only the first scenario.
The second happened a few months later, in the summertime, at Melvad’s.
Which is why you were ogling him in his outfit as he handed the pack of razors to you with that stupid smile, just a bit softer with a glint in his eyes.
“How’ve you been?” Steve asks, shoving his hands in his shorts’ pockets to keep himself grounded. He’s nervous, which is reasonable. You hadn’t spoken since the graduation ceremony, which was about a month ago.
You nod, tossing the razors into your shopping basket, and start moving down the aisle, looking at random things to avoid looking into Steve’s prodding eyes. “Fine, you?”
That’s a lie, and he knows it.
He follows, just a few steps behind, as he watches you pick up a magazine with Ralph Macchio on the cover—that damn karate kid had been everywhere since the movie had come out. “He’s too old for you,” Steve joked.
“He’s, like, 22 years old!” You countered.
“He’ll be twenty-three in November—”
“---why do you even know that? Just shut up.”
You both laugh, especially when you end up buying the magazine anyway. He walked you to your car in the parking lot, alluding to that moment back on Halloween. With the way he went quiet, you could tell he was thinking of it too.
The way he’d pressed you against the cold exterior of your car door,
How he’d kissed you softer, less urgently, than when he did earlier,
The way he wanted so much more from you, but he knew to tread lightly. You were different, he was sure.
…which is why he’s standing outside of your window on a chilly September evening, that knit sweater probably doing absolutely nothing against the fall breeze of Hawkins. But Steve knows this is worth it. It has to be.
You shuffle out of bed with a grumble, throwing your blanket off your body, the chill of your room immediately hitting your skin, therefore irritating you even more. You storm across your room and push your window up, glaring down at the man below you.
“What the fuck, Steve—” You hiss, enough to be heard but low enough not to wake the whole damn neighborhood.
He holds his hands up in surrender, that sheepish, boyish look painting his features. He’s guilty, but not enough to feel bad about what he’s doing as he looks up at you with those puppy-like eyes, and the sight alone is enough to cave in and go down there and kiss him crazy, but no. He doesn’t deserve it.
“I know,” He starts. “I know. This is crazy, and you have literally every right to be mad at me, but can we please just talk, honey?”
You roll your eyes. “I told you not to call me that.”
Steve scoffs. “Right, yeah, sorry.”
He’s not sorry in the slightest. Of course, he knows you don’t like it when he calls you ‘honey’, or ‘baby’, hell, anything that isn’t your name is deemed as disliked, and it’s not because you don’t like it when he calls you them. It’s because it feels too intimate. Too secure, too slow.
“Why are you here, Steve?” You sigh, leaning against your windowsill, waiting for an answer.
“I wanna talk. About everything. About us.” He responds.
He runs a hand through his hair with a groan, as if your words are hurting him. “Can you at least tell me what I did?”
You shrug, silent for a moment.
Your mind doesn’t let you forget about what happened in August, last month, and as much as it pains you to say this…but Steve isn’t the problem here. You are. Back a couple of weeks ago, he’d caught you at the annual Hawkins fair with your friends. The vibrant lights of the fireworks illuminate against your smile, bright and toothy. But it died down as soon as you saw him, standing all the way at the hot dog stand.
Steve thought, then and there, that maybe this wasn’t going to work after all. He’d been trying relentlessly to get you to like him, hell, just talk to him, after all of the moments you two had over the course of months. But that thought instantly disperses from his mind as he watches your friends shove you toward him.
You huffed, walking over and standing in front of him.
Following that, you two had spent the night laughing and drinking enough spiked slushies to share a kiss on the Ferris wheel, sweet and simple. So, Steve wondered, why was this so difficult for them?
You knew the answer, and it was so damn clear. You love Steve Harrington. You knew it from the moment at Melvad’s when he joked about Ralph Macchio, obviously jealous of the older boy on the magazine that held your attention rather than him alone. It was the small things that made you fall for him, and you hated yourself for it.
“I’m not Nancy Wheeler.” You blurted out before you could even stop yourself.
You immediately regret it as soon as you see his reaction—confused, conflicted, yet still here. Neither of you moves for a moment, and then you break the silence.
“I’m not her. I’m not on top of all of my classes, I’m not in every fucking club the school has to offer, and I’m just not her. I’m messy.”
Steve laughs, once, shaking his head and lowering it to the ground. He’s thinking, tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek—that “motherly” looking stance he’s picked up since he’s always around that group of kids you see flocking around him, all of the time.
“Come down.” He states, once. “Please.”
Your feet are moving before you can comprehend it, shutting the window and slipping on a robe and bunny slippers as you nearly trip down the stairs to the front door, pushing it open and seeing Steve on the side of your house, now looking at you. His hands are on his hips as he smiles at you.
“You do know that’s why I like you, right?” Steve starts, slowly walking toward you. “You’re nothing like Nancy.”
“So smart that it makes me look dumb. And come on, look at me.”
You look at him, you’ve been looking at him.
“We’re so fucking messy, honey, and that’s why I like this. Us.”
Steve’s in front of you now, looking into your eyes as his hands hover over the sides of your face. You nod, giving him permission to touch you, and he does. The warmth of his big palms on your cheeks instantly forms a melty smile on your face, and suddenly? Everything feels right. This, right here, doesn’t feel confusing.
“You don’t have to be Nancy,” Steve states, gentle and firm at the same time, as his doe eyes never leave yours. “Just be you, the girl I fell in love with.”
Those words plunge right through your jaded heart, and you let out a wet chuckle. “I love you, Steve.”
He smiles, “I love you too, honey.”
This time, you both meet each other in the middle with a kiss. Steve’s thumbs draw small, random circles on the soft skin of your cheeks as he tilts your head back, kissing you even deeper.
Yeah, Steve’s a lover boy, and he’s yours for as long as you’ll let him be.
hope you enjoyed! reblog, like, and comment, loves. ୨ৎ
