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TETHERED
Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader
Summary: A little intimate drabble of waking up at night after making love to Steve to him still being buried inside you.
Tags/warnings: 18+ only - minors DNI; established relationship; unprotected p in v (wrap before you tap!); lazy early morning sex; spooning; just two people deeply in love and needing one another's bodies; no use of y/n.
Words: <400
A comfortable warmth envelops your body. The weight of a hard week sinks you into the mattress. And yet, your deep slumber decides to crumble away. You feel a familiar stretch between your legs. Your walls clench instinctively, earning a heated sigh from the lips that rest just behind your ear.
With eyes still closed, your memory reassembles the pieces: a busy week with no time to relax, no time to really enjoy each other’s company. A busy week that culminated in heavy kisses and hands pinned to the bedsheets.
And now, the man that you love lies pressed against your back, still buried inside you—the exact position from which exhaustion had claimed you both.
The steady breaths in your ear tell you that he has not yet woken, but the shallow thrust of his hips jolts molten heat straight to your core. A moan escapes, and your fingertips grasp for his hip beneath the sheets.
He rouses then, awareness prompting a gentle apology to cascade from his lips. But he has nothing to be sorry for.
In the darkness of the early morning hours, you whisper over your shoulder and beg him for more.
His response is immediate. Sleepy kisses lave along your neck, sloped nose nuzzling behind your ear; an arm slips across your waist to caress your breast before shifting to the apex of your thighs.
The motion earns him a whimper of pleasure as he begins to match the rhythm of his hips with the pace of his skilled fingers.
Your toes curl as you continue to clench around him. Your hands fist the messy, cotton sheets when he finds that one spot that makes you see stars.
His whispered praises send your body soaring, and it's not long before your pleasure breaks with him spilling inside.
A large hand moves to tether you together, an anchor against the ebb and flow of ecstasy that mixes with raw emotion.
As breaths slow and racing hearts subside, the two of you shift face-to-face in one another's arms. I love yous mingle in the small space between bare chests before exhaustion once again creeps in, slipping the two of you back into a contented sleep.
Thank you for reading 🩵
| STRANGER THINGS MASTERLIST |
Copy room Quickie
Pairing: Coach!Steve x fem!teacher!reader
Summary: Exactly what you think it is... Reader bangs Steve after-hours in the copy room of Hawkins Middle School. (Slight spoilers for S5 E8 epilogue)
Tags/warnings: 18+ only - minors DNI; unprotected p in v (wrap before you tap!); workplace smut; semi-public sex; reference Steve's canonical big dick; slight breeding kink and size kink; no use of y/n.
Words: 1.7k
Fic below the cut or on AO3
The click of your heels echo down the hallway. Your feet throb, your back aches, and yet you still can’t go home. Seventy-two copies stand in the way of leaving Hawkins Middle School after a long, tiring day.
Reaching the copy room, you flick on the light and find the coveted machine tucked in its usual place against the wall. A stiff press of its power button makes the large machine groan to life. It rattles and churns for what feels like hours as it readies itself for use. An impatient tap, tap, tap of the toe of your pumps does little to speed up the machine.
Finally, it settles, and you feed your created assignment into the machine’s slot. A couple button presses later, and the photocopier begins chugging through its task. One copy. Two copies. Three copies. The day’s end is finally within sight!
Suddenly, the machine gives a loud clunk. It whirls and whines and then stops. No! No! No! Somewhere a paper has jammed, and now begins the time-consuming task of finding it.
You unleash an exasperated sigh before quickly bending and twisting to look over the machine. Your frustration mounts to the point where you completely miss the sound of footsteps entering the room.
“Need some help?” A deep, silky voice calls to you from behind.
Startled, you quickly spin around. You thought everyone else had gone home. And yet, leaning against the doorframe of the tiny room is Steve Harrington – coach of the baseball team and arguably Hawkins’ most eligible bachelor.
The 20-something stands there like a dream. The blue polo shirt he sports hugs his frame and accentuates his biceps, while a dark thatch of hair peeks out from beneath the V of an undone top button. Levi’s sit snugly on his hips, conforming to the contours of his lower body. Chestnut hair flops across his forehead, casting a shadow over his hazel eyes. And at the sight of you, a gentle smile comes to rest upon his lips.
For months now, you have been playing this game of cat and mouse. It started as innocent banter but soon morphed into more. Lingering gazes as you pass one another in the hall. Suggestive comments whispered when you think no one else can hear. The subtle brush of fingers while reaching for something in the staff room or holding open a door. The tension has been simmering – threatening to boil over – yet both are uncertain if they should make the first move.
“Did it jam again?” His smooth voice pulls you from your trance.
“Yeah,” you confirm, turning around to continue inspecting the device. You feel the heat radiate off his body as Steve steps up behind you.
He sets his own papers aside. “Check the lower tray. It’s usually the culprit.” Steve extends an index finger towards the machine. The gesture sweeps his taut arm against you, effectively framing you in front of him.
Your pulse quickens. Your confidence swells. Folding at your middle, you bend yourself over to reach the tray. You know the supple curve of your ass will be well outlined by your skirt as you do.
Sliding the tray open, you find a crumpled paper impeding the rest. “There it is,” you announce and pull the obstruction free. The machine comes back to life, resuming its duty.
You turn around slowly to Steve’s waiting gaze. His pupils are blown; his cheeks are tinged pink.
“Thank you,” you breathe.
“It was nothing,” he whispers, eyes locked on yours.
And the next thing you know, your hands are tangled in his hair and his lips are moving expertly against yours.
Steve’s fingers grip your ass, pressing you flush against him. You tug firmly on his hair, eliciting a low groan from his throat. You use the opportunity to intertwine your tongue with his.
Never breaking rhythm, Steve walks you backwards until you bump into the sturdy frame of the copy machine. The sudden contact makes you squeak.
Breaking away from the kiss, you stare in awe at the person in your arms. Are we really doing this? Your expression questions.
Sloping brows and kind eyes hold his answer: Yes.
Lips lock onto your pulse point, sucking on the delicate flesh before he whispers, “I’ve wanted this for so long.”
The confession sets butterflies loose in your stomach, releasing your inhibitions and baring your neck to Steve’s skilled mouth.
“Me too. So much.” Your words are lost as Steve nips under your jawline, yet your admission makes him harden against your thigh.
Your hands leave his hair and trail down to the front of his jeans. His hips jerk when your fingers brush against his growing bulge. “This okay?” you ask, staring up through dark lashes.
“God, yes!” he murmurs before giving your ass a firm squeeze. Heat pools low in your belly, and your thighs squeeze, seeking temporary relief.
Nimble fingers work down his zipper while large hands ruck up the material of your skirt.
“Shit!” you exclaim when Steve’s cock finally springs free. His long, thick length is glistening and ruddy, painfully hard, and all because of you.
Steve smirks, your reaction going straight to his head. “Don’t worry,” he coos. “I’ll take good care of you.”
And with that, Steve glides your panties down over your hips. The material drops and pools around your ankles. Hastily you kick the garment out of the way and lean back against the warmth of the photocopier. The action puts your swollen, dripping pussy on full display.
“Jesus Christ,” Steve mutters as he eyes you like a man starved.
“My eyes are up here, Harrington,” you purr, outstretched arms inviting him towards you.
Your lover wastes no time diving in for a heated kiss. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Steve fists the base of his cock, pulling it once, twice before running it along your slick folds and eliciting a needy whimper from your chest.
Steve pauses, resting his forehead on yours and forcing you to look at him. “Tell me you want me, baby, and I’m yours.”
You nod eagerly. “Need you, Steve. Please.”
The next thing you feel is a dull ache as Steve guides his cock into your weeping entrance. You both stare in awe as he pushes more and more of himself inside you; your walls stretch to accommodate every delicious inch.
You throw your head back when you feel him bottom out. You’re stuffed impossibly full, and it feels so fucking good.
Steve moans as he withdraws slowly. You clench around him, trying desperately to keep him inside. A strong hand palms your thigh, hiking it up over his hip. He doesn’t seem to care that the heel of your pumps digs into his ass.
Then Steve thrusts back into your heat; the new angle makes you cry out. “Taking me so well,” he praises, glancing down to where he’s stretching you open, setting a steady pace. Each push inside your cunt ruts his bulbous head against your g-spot, lighting your nerves on fire.
Pathetic little mewls are forced from your lips on every thrust. Steve’s hair flops back and forth across his face as he pants against your skin.
The coil inside you is winding tighter and tighter. You reach behind and grip the edge of the photocopier to steady yourself against Steve’s relentless onslaught.
“God,” he grunts. “I’m so fucking deep.” He then reaches between you, pushing up your shirt and placing a large palm over your stomach. “Can you feel me right,” he presses down firmly, “here?”
Your eyes roll back and the coil snaps. Searing pleasure washes over you like a tidal wave. Your legs shudder as you contract around his still-hard length. But Steve doesn’t let up. “That’s it,” he coaxes, continuing to sheath himself inside you with purpose. “Make a mess all over my cock.”
He groans, feeling your walls clench around him. Two hands dig into the curve of your hip. Steve speeds up his movements, fucking the tightness of your spent hole. He kisses you fast and hard for good measure.
“Fuck, I’m – ” His eyes slam shut. “Where?” he demands, teetering on the edge.
Your raspy voice replies without hesitation. “Inside.”
Steve cums with a low grunt in your ear, shoving his hips flush against yours. You feel him spasm within you, hot spurts of his release painting your insides with each shallow thrust that follows.
His weight pins you to the copier as the last sheet spits out. Hearts thunder and exhausted breaths mingle, both coming down from the high. Steve leans back then, easing your thigh down and watching his softening length slip from your heat. Fingers reach down to run across your swollen folds when his spend begins to leak from your tired entrance. Two digits gather his release and gently push it back within you. “Can’t make a mess in here, honey. Want you to keep every drop inside.”
The act is so erotic and forbidden, and yet, it makes you capture his face in your palms and plant him with a fierce kiss.
Steve smiles against your lips. “That was amazing. You’re amazing. Fucking blew my mind!”
You smile right back, threading your fingers through the sweat-dampened locks at the nape of his neck. “Blew my fucking mind too, Harrington. Coach still has a few plays up his sleeve, huh?”
Steve carefully tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “Got so many that I’d still like to show you.”
“That so?” you smirk, pressing your palms against his firm chest.
“You’ve got no idea.” A tender kiss is placed on your lips before the two of you work to straighten your clothes.
You then collect your photocopies and turn towards the door.
“Hey, where're you going?” exclaims Steve. “My copying isn’t done yet!”
Pausing at the threshold, you quirk an eyebrow in his direction. “But my work is done. I’m heading home.”
“You don’t wanna stay?” Steve’s plush lips actually curl into a pout.
Your thighs squeeze, a warm dribble between your legs reigniting the lust you have for the man before you. “How about I get a head start? Maybe put on a little dinner, and then we can revisit that playbook of yours. You know my address.”
“Fuck yes.” The curse is uttered through a breathless sigh. “I promise these will be the fastest photocopies I’ve ever made.”
“Let’s hope that the machine doesn’t jam, then.”
The click of your heels echo along the floor as you smirk and head out through the door.
Thank you for reading! Comments and feedback is loved ♡ My smol taglist! @moistcenterfolds Check out my other Steve fics here!
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And I Got You
Pairing: Steve Harrington x f!reader
Summary: You, Steve, one campervan and a dream for the future. It all seems perfect until life decides it has other plans where you won't be able to give Steve what he's always wanted.
Tags/warnings: talk of that brood of Harringtons; angst with a side of it's all gonna be okay; mentions of pregnancy complications; new dad!Steve
Words: 1312 (more of a drabble, really)
A/N: I just want Steve to find the love he deserves, okay?! He thinks that's supposed to come from a giant family of his own. But what happens if that's not possible? Steve's got a big heart. It was an idea and I vomited it onto a document. Cheers! 😘
Fic below the cut or on AO3
“We’re broke!” You argue to Steve–your tone, however, would barely even work to convince yourself.
“I know, but we’re just not broke enough to afford this.” Steve’s index finger taps against thin paper right under the classified section. He’s grinning ear to ear, eyes sparkling like water on a sunny day.
A smile parts your lips, which matches the intensity of his. He can see the wheels turning in your mind. He knows that you’re thinking the exact same thing.
“I know it’s not the big one we dreamed about, but this campervan is literally the perfect size for us right now. And the price…I think we could swing it.”
Steve and you had been married for just under a year but had been sweethearts for much longer. Being with him made you feel whole, like he was a piece you never knew was missing. The two of you were trying to build a life and make it on your own. You both worked long hours and used the hard-earned cash to pay bills. Wedding money had even gone towards covering expenses rather than extras that could be enjoyed together. It was about time that you did something for yourselves, even if this hunk of junk would be the only thing to your name.
“Ok,” you finally say, watching Steve’s pupils grow wider. “Let’s do it!”
Steve only pauses his barrage of kisses long enough to dial the number in the paper and arrange to buy the used campervan.
The two of you planned a small camping trip almost right away. The vehicle allowed you and Steve to drive to a spot tucked away from life for a while. The dream of a Winnebago and a gaggle of children had always been something you shared. When you met Steve, you knew right away he would be the one. He had the biggest heart of anyone you had ever met: so much love to give despite how little of it he received growing up. It was only logical to think that one day the two of you would have a big family of your own to love and nurture. You wanted that future for yourself, but most importantly, you wanted to help Steve’s dreams come true, too.
“This was the best purchase we could have ever made.” You smile up at the stars twinkling overhead.
Steve reaches for your hand that lies between you on the checkered blanket. His fingers thread through yours, warm like the campfire that crackles nearby. “The best,” he agrees, turning his head to lovingly gaze at you.
You shift to peer back at him, a smile creasing your lips. “Someday, we’ll fill it with those little nuggets we’ve always talked about.”
Steve’s cheeks tint, rosy and brimming with affection. “Yeah?”
You bring your joined hands up to your lips, eyes never leaving his. “Yeah. A whole brood.”
A laugh ripples through the dark forest that surrounds you. Steve’s nose scrunches, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. “A whole brood,” he echoes before leaning over top you and capturing your lips in a sweet kiss.
Nine months, several spare pennies saved, and a whole lot of happy tears later, you give birth to a healthy baby girl. Steve bawled more than the newborn, and promises of many camping trips were whispered to the infant as she lay in your arms.
Except, not long after your daughter was born, complications developed. The moments that followed were a blur of doctors and nurses, and Steve frantically asking them what was going on. The last thing you remember was him gripping your hand with a desperation you’ve never seen from him and a pleading voice saying, “I love you.”
When you woke up, your body ached, but it was the news you were given that caused the worst pain. Though your life was not in danger, your first child would be your last. It felt like the world was crumbling; the only thing keeping you from falling away was Steve’s hand intertwined with yours. Every dream you and Steve had for the future had been snatched away in the blink of an eye.
Your body tries to pull you into sleep, but the news you had been delivered keeps shaking you back awake.
Steve is by your hospital bed, gently rocking your daughter in his arms. He looks at her like she hung the moon, and your stomach twists, knowing that you’ll never be able to give him the big family he’s always longed for.
He must notice you stir and the sorrow that’s written across your features, because he looks up from the tiny bundle in his arms with furrowed brows and a heavy heart. “Are you okay, babe?”
Your throat thickens, and tears well up along your lashes.
“Hey, hey! What’s wrong?” His voice is a soothing whisper. He leans forward as much as he can without disturbing the little one's slumber.
You pinch your lips together, looking away ashamed. The IV line tugs at your hand while you drag it through your messy hair.
Seeing you become even more distraught, Steve pleads, “Look at me, please, baby. Tell me what’s wrong.”
So, you do. The tears can no longer be held back, and the salt stings your cheeks as they roll freely. “I – I can’t have children again.”
Steve’s face falls. If he wasn’t holding his daughter, he’d be wrapping his arms tightly around you. “I know, but it’s going to be okay. The doctors said you’re healthy, and that’s what matters.” His reassurance is delivered in good faith but still doesn’t soothe the guilt you feel.
“No, Steve,” you say a little firmer, locking onto his gaze. “I cannot have kids ever again.”
He nods at your words. “I know it’s upsetting and really tough to wrap your head around right now, but–”
“Steve,” you cut him off, voice shaky, afraid he’s just saying all this to put you at ease. Moisture now soaks into your hospital gown. The realization that you’ve ended Steve’s dream swallows you whole. “If I can’t have more children, you’ll never get to be a dad again. There’s no Winnebago-full! There’s no brood!”
Steve’s hazel eyes widen and his shoulders sag as the realization dawns on him. “No. Oh, baby, no!” Now tears rim his eyes. “Please don’t think like that. Look,” a hand comes up to carefully stroke back the dainty wisps of dark hair on your daughter’s head. Your gaze settles on the tiny girl in his arms. “See this?” he begins, lifting a small hand with his one finger. “Five perfect fingers,” his hand delicately moves down to your daughter’s little foot, “and five perfect toes.” Steve glances up at you. “She might never get to be a big sister, but she will never be alone. She’s got us,” he offers you a tender smile that dimples his cheeks. “And I got you. That’s more than I could ever ask for. More than I ever imagined was possible for me.”
The love held in Steve’s words washes over you, turning the sad tears into happy ones.
“Our little family is perfect just the way it is,” adds Steve as he places his lips to the infant’s forehead.
You reach out and caress your daughter’s tiny head before guiding your hand to Steve’s cheek. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Steve turns and presses a kiss into your palm.
The rest of the evening unfolds with Steve regaling you with the different trips the three of you will take. How you’ll pack into the campervan and drive around the state. How he’ll teach her to fish after you teach him to. How she’ll chase frogs by the lake. And how you’ll get to see her grow up, with you on one side of her and Steve on the other, each holding a tiny hand to guide her with love through life.
Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed! ♡ Main Masterlist | Stranger Things Masterlist
My Heart In Your Dreams
Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader
Summary: Steve Harrington used to be your best friend but things went south when the two of you started high school and the Steve you knew became someone very different. Now, after years apart, he's shown up to a business dinner hosted by your parents. Why has he come and will you and Steve be able to overcome the past?
Tags: canon adjacent (post S4/pre-S5), flashbacks (in italics), former best friends, friends to lovers, hurt/comfort/angst/fluff, mention of child neglect (Steve's dad is an a-hole), mention of class differences, mutual pining, no use of y/n, reader has a gap in her teeth, self-consciousness, some cursing.
Words: 10,825 (oops)
A/N: This one goes out to all my fellow gap-tooth girlies! The idea for this one came about when Djo first performed "Gap Tooth Smile" live. I appreciated this song so much because it was finally a piece of media that painted this unique feature in a positive light. It gives people like me me a new reason to be proud of our smiles. The fic began as a single scene born from the positivity of the song, and kept growing the more I filled in the gaps (pun intended)! It's been a long labour of love, and I hope you enjoy reading it just as much as I did writing it 🩷
Fic below the cut or on AO3.
Summer 1988
“Oh.”
“It’s definitely…unique.”
“Has it always been that wide?”
“Ever thought about getting it closed in?”
Staring at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, like every other time, you can’t help but notice it too. The way that it always seems to be staring back at you.
There was a time when you stubbornly refused to even think about it in a negative way. It was a feature so uniquely you that a swell of pride would rise in your chest when you saw it. It was something that helped set you apart from all those snooty high school peers during a time when being different was your badge of honour.
That was then. Since, you’ve grown up and have gone on to college. And suddenly you are engulfed by a world where all your precious differences have mutated into your greatest insecurities.
In the mirror, you observe your styled hair and mascara-coated eyelashes, but as you part your lips to tint them in a soft pink hue, its presence seems to dominate over all the other effort you’ve put into your appearance.
“It” being the three-millimeter gap between your two front teeth. You force a smile, wondering for the umpteenth time whether it’s too large. Sure, it’s symmetrical and straight, but all those comments your brain has accumulated over the years get pushed to the forefront each time you catch a glimpse of it.
Those comments war with your confidence, flip-flopping you between pride and self-doubt. After all, you’ve been painfully single for your entire twenty-one years on this planet, and perhaps it has something to do with your smile. Maybe you open your mouth and guys high-tail it in the opposite direction the minute they get a view. After all, a gap-tooth smile surely doesn’t fit the college girl norm. No, all the girls you see are petite with perfect smiles, and attached to their arms are the most handsome guys on campus. The evidence is clear, and it’s hard not to let the insecurities wreak havoc when you definitely do not meet the conventional beauty standards on display around you.
Blinking once, twice, three times, you cram your eyes shut to perform a hard reset on your brain. There’s no time for wallowing in self-pity. The Harringtons, a family that prides themselves on wealth and appearance, will be arriving downstairs any minute for dinner.
The worn carpet on the stairs scratches on the pads of your toes and the aroma of fresh bread and roast beef floods your senses as you reach the bottom landing.
“Oh, there you are, sweetie! Can you come set the dinner rolls out on the table, please! They’ll be here any minute!” Your mom whirls past you, scurrying to perfect the place settings in the dining room. Your father is at the counter, furiously hiding away any loose dishes that cause too much clutter.
Earlier you had helped too, dusting and vacuuming, chopping vegetables and polishing the fancy utensils. The fact of the matter is that dinner with the Harringtons always stressed your little family out.
Right around the time you were born, your father took a job with Mr. Harrington’s business branch. It allowed your dad to work close by and provided a decent wage for his young family. The downside was that Mr. Harrington was his boss. And as Mr. Harrington climbed the corporate ladder, your father had stayed firmly in the same position for nearly his whole career. To make matters worse, included in this working relationship are the “business” dinners.
Except, these business dinners always had a similar outcome: either the Harringtons hosted, allowing them to flaunt their wealth, or your parents hosted, causing this.
“Done, mom,” you say, adjusting the two wicker baskets of fluffy white dinner rolls on the table. You try to peek around for any slight imperfections that may still need correcting. “Is there something else I can do?”
“The begonia!” she exclaims suddenly, looking absolutely horrified as she wipes down the counter, again.
The sad little potted flower sits on your living room windowsill. It doesn’t get as much love as it should with both of your parents working all the time, yet somehow, just like your family, it hangs on.
The reason a silly little houseplant has your mother so worked up is due to how years ago, at a dinner just like this, Mrs. Harrington spotted it looking like its usual wilted self and felt it necessary to comment. The dinner was delicious, the house was immaculate, yet the most minute flaw was the one thing that drew the woman’s attention. It made your mother feel like shit and that made your blood boil.
“On it!” you chime, but you are swiftly halted.
“Forget it!” she squeaks. “They’re here!”
As per routine, you scurry towards the door to greet your ‘esteemed’ guests.
Your mother smooths out her pleated skirt as she takes her place at the front of the assembly line. You are just behind her, and try to stand up straighter, adjusting the large, woven leather belt that sits snuggly around the waist of your floral dress. Behind you, your father attempts to hide the deep breath he takes to calm his nerves when your mother reaches for the door.
“Hiiii!” comes the unmistakable shrill voice of Mrs. Harrington. She files through your front door with a large, albeit fake, smile plastered across full scarlet lips. Your mother greets Mrs. Harrington in kind, quickly acknowledging her husband who towers behind her as well.
Your father and Mr. Harrington lock gazes and nod out cordial greetings to one another like they would in the office. Arms extend for firm handshakes as the Harrington patriarch enters your home.
You force smiles and pleasant hellos to each. Even though you would rather be up in your room hiding away, this dinner is important to your parents. You need to be there for them, just like they have always been there for you.
But as Mr. Harrington’s full build clears the doorframe, your breath hitches.
The couple is not alone.
Slumped shoulders and deflated, hazel eyes meet your gaze.
Steve.
Before you have time to react, your attention is pulled away by Mrs. Harrington. She leans in toward you for an air kiss to your cheek and a half-hearted hug. “It’s so good to see you, darling!” she exclaims into your ear, making you flinch. Pulling back, she continues. “It feels like ages since we saw you last.”
As you default to a smile in response, the woman’s brows knit and her perfectly painted lips flick downwards. Her gaze, laser focused on your mouth, makes you feel exposed.
And then, there it is.
“Oh,” she begins, running her hand down your arm, voice laden with disapproval. “Was Doctor Nelson unable to close in your gap?” Doctor Nelson; the orthodontist Mrs. Harrington had given your mom the number of before you went to college.
Mrs. Harrington can nitpick the cleanliness of your mother’s house. She can criticize the quality of the cooking. She can even insult the lack of attention given to that stupid begonia. But the one thing that your mother will not allow Mrs. Harrington to do is berate her daughter.
“Her smile is gorgeous just the way it is, wouldn’t you say?” Your mother injects sharply.
The Harrington matriarch raises an eyebrow and answers curtly. “Of course.”
Head spinning, your attention is drawn back to Steve. He looks the part of high-class son with a navy blazer resting over top a crisp, white dress shirt. But said shirt is neatly tucked into a pair of dark jeans - a look that is still very much Steve. It makes him appear slick and cool, just like he did in high school. Yet, despite his attire, the Steve Harrington that stands in your doorway lacks the confidence you had been used to seeing from him back at Hawkins High.
His gaze finds yours once again, and you’re met with a partial smile and a quiet nod. It’s certainly a stark contrast to how things used to be.
As if suddenly remembering he had accompanied them, Mr. Harrington voices, with little sincerity, that he hopes it is all right to have brought along his son. Your mother shoots you a sympathetic glance before giving a dismissive not-a-bother wave to her house guests. She then whisks away to add another place setting to the dining table.
Fall 1981
Hawkins High. Its ivory halls with orange and green stripes are a foreign passageway towards your future.
Your head bobs up and down, double, triple checking the piece of paper in your hands that identifies the location of your new locker. Silently counting the numbers as you go, you dodge sophomores, juniors, and seniors who cheerfully reunite with one another after summer break. They pay no mind to the likes of new freshmen such as yourself.
Finally, you find the metal door set aside for you. It’s stiff from months of disuse and creaks when you manage to pry it open. You set your backpack down and begin unloading your repurposed binders and supplies, stacking them neatly into the metal cubical. As you work, a group of girls gathers nearby. Their excitement, much like the fruity aroma of their perfume, drifts towards you as they begin comparing flashy school supplies and fashion accessories.
You know all four of them, of course. They are part of the cohort coming up from Hawkins Middle School, too. Except, summer has treated them well. They’ve slimmed down and grown taller. Each girl sports the latest Stevie Nicks-inspired blowout as well as the newest tops and skirts that you had seen while passing by store windows in Indianapolis. Surrounded by their giggles, you pluck at the hem of your t-shirt, wondering if anyone will remember it from the previous school year.
As you arrange the last of your belongings, your ears are met with a familiar voice counting locker numbers out loud. Turning around quickly with a large, toothy smile at the ready, you find Steve pacing up the hallway. Relief floods you, reassured that you will be facing the first day of high school with your best friend.
Enthusiastically, you raise a hand to wave him over and his hazel eyes flit towards you. The moment, however, is fleeting as Steve’s gaze quickly shifts back to an approaching Tommy H. Your friend greets the other boy with an eyebrow raised skeptically while Tommy thrusts a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing at the group of girls nearby. You follow the stare of the two boys and realize immediately what now has them grinning ear to ear.
“Oh. My. God!” squeals one girl to the rest. “He’s looking this way!”
“Steve got so hot over the summer, it’s totally unreal,” replies one companion. She smacks her pink bubble gum to emphasize her point.
Another giggles while biting her lip. “I know right?!” She unsubtly flashes her large, mascara-painted lashes across the hallway towards the object of her affection. “He’s so tall, and he let his hair grow.”
All girls then coyly shift their bodies towards Steve and Tommy, twirling strands of their perfectly styled hair around hot-pink-tipped index fingers.
Tommy H is grinning like the devil. He’s lapping up the attention and gives Steve a teasing shove. And to your surprise, Steve’s smile widens, returning flirty glances towards the girls that make them erupt into a fit of even more giggles.
The world around you seemingly falls away. You are invisible, and it feels as though you’ve been slapped across the face. Worse yet, the sight of Steve soaking up the attention from those girls causes your gut to clench in an unfamiliar way. You watch helplessly as both Steve and Tommy beckon the four teens to their side, flirty smiles and playful banter sucking the oxygen from the hallway. You need to get out of here.
Turning, you slam your locker door shut just a little too hard and cram your eyes closed to disguise the tears that threaten to fall. Your first day of high school marked the last day of your friendship with Steve. For the rest of your time at Hawkins High, you gave him a wide berth. Though, never a day went by when you didn’t hope that King Steve, as he would soon become, might have a change of heart and come back to his best friend.
The six of you gather around the wooden dining table; its meager size sparing just enough room for the abundance of steaming food laid out across its top. A delicious mix of savory aromas fill your nostrils as you move towards your seat. Mr. Harrington and your father take their places at opposite ends, while mothers sit next to their children to complete the ensemble. You gather the skirt of your dress and smooth it behind your legs before finally sinking down onto the fruit-patterned cushion of your chair. Glancing upwards, your gut somersaults. The evening’s seating arrangements just so happen to have Steve placed directly across from you.
Pleasant ‘thank yous’ are passed around the table with casseroles of food as guests and hosts alike spoon out portions to complete their plates. “Scrumptious spread as always,” complements Mrs. Harrington while handing a ceramic gravy boat to her husband. “Thank you for having us.” You can never be sure by her sickly-sweet tone whether the praise is genuine or not.
“Our pleasure,” responds your mother, brows furrowing with worry. Her eyes dart around the tabletop for any sign of missing items. You place a calming hand on her lap, reassuring her that her dinner is perfect.
A brass light fixture, with its surrounding glass panes, hangs overhead and casts the space in a warm glow. The cozy atmosphere matches the sounds of clinking utensils and muffled chewing that befall the small room. Pleasant conversation about the weather and current events soon follows while food is enjoyed. But as your head turns to track from one speaker to the next, your body is rigid with nerves. You refuse to meet Steve’s gaze even though you can feel those hazel eyes wander across your face in careful contemplation.
Finally, while tipping your glass of soda to your lips, you sneak a glance across the table. What you find are the freckle-smattered features of the boy you grew up with, except now his youth has waned, leaving behind a grown man with weary eyes and a faded smile.
The tendons in Steve’s hand shift as he uses his fork to glide a slice of beef around his plate and coat it in golden-brown gravy. Then, as Steve lifts the utensil towards his mouth, his darkened eyes catch onto yours through the stray locks dangling across his forehead. You quickly avert your gaze.
What is he playing at? Why did he even come here tonight?
In fact, Steve had stopped coming to business dinners a long time ago – right around that fateful first day of high school. Initially, you had thought you had done something to push him away, but your mother was quick to reassure you that Steve’s decisions were no fault of yours. That sometimes people just change.
Perhaps that was true then and is once again true now. Had Steve finally let go of who he was in high school? Had he come here to –
The sound of your name makes you jump. You quickly shift your attention back to the conversation.
“So,” continues Mr. Harrington through a mouthful of buttered dinner roll. “I hear that you’ll be going into your last year of college this fall. Time certainly does fly. What a wonderful accomplishment!”
The compliment from the usually stony Harrington patriarch puts your defences on high alert.
“Yes, sir,” you answer as politely and cautiously as you can. “I had an internship for my first two summers but decided to spend a summer at home after all that’s happened in Hawkins the last while.”
From the corner of your eye, you notice Steve’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows thickly.
“Very good,” the businessman agrees before shifting focus to his son. “She got into Tech, Steven. Isn’t that something.” His words drip with ridicule, purposely crafted to drive a proverbial knife into his son and twist the blade. And from the way that the colour drains from Steve’s cheeks, you can assume that they’ve achieved their purpose.
Suddenly you feel queasy; there’s a pull inside your chest that you haven’t felt in ages. No matter how terrible Steve had made you feel in the past, he still doesn’t deserve to be treated this way by his own father.
“Steve works at WSQK now,” his mother attempts to smooth over. “He’s learning about all the fancy gadgets they use there in broadcasting.”
Steve parts his lips to contribute, only to be shot down.
“Always had an aversion to real work, this boy.” Mr. Harrington’s voice grows deeper, more empowered. “Too scared to get into college and too stubborn to accept a job from his old man.”
Steve’s knuckles blanch from the grip he has on his fork. The tendon in his neck pulls taut, and it seems to be taking all his willpower to keep his breathing level.
“Such a waste, really.” His father concludes, casting a demeaning gaze down upon his son.
And just as you think Steve might combust, your own father jumps in. “I’ve seen you hard at work around town, Steve,” he offers to the young man. “You were especially helpful at the volunteer center when the community needed it most.”
“Yes, that’s right!” your mother chimes in. “We had brought over food that day and Steve was generously helping in the kitchen. Speaking of food, who’s ready for dessert?”
Summer 1977
It feels as though you are being pulled. Tugged harder and harder by an invisible force away from the blissful comfort of nothingness and towards something you can’t quite put a finger on. It tugs and tugs until your senses begin to regain consciousness.
Ringing.
You suddenly recognize the sound of the landline announcing itself from its place on the foyer wall between the kitchen and the staircase.
A coarse groan leaves your throat as you begrudgingly slip out of bed - the perks of your room being closest to the stairs. You rub your eyes, trying to force them to adjust to the lack of light in the early morning hours. A hand on the wooden banister guides you down the carpeted steps, footing growing more sure the farther you progress. The phone, meanwhile, continues to ring incessantly.
“Hello?” you manage after picking up, vocal cords still groggy from sleep.
A pitifully quiet voice speaks your name from the other end of the receiver.
“Steve?” you question, your 10-year-old, sleep-addled brain working hard to decipher why he would be calling at this hour.
It’s after his next words jolt you awake that you remember that his parents had left him alone for a weekend business retreat.
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, “but I thought I heard someone trying to get into the house and…”
Steve Harrington is the bravest person you know; hearing the fear that laces his voice drops your stomach to your toes.
“I’m gonna go get mom and dad,” you blurt out. You speak his name and clutch the receiver in both palms. “Stay on the line. I’ll be rightback!” You don’t set the phone down until you hear him manage a small “okay”.
Your parents spring into action without question. After getting Steve to reluctantly hang up, your three-person family is piled into your clunky station wagon and speeding the short distance across town towards the Harrington residence.
The house towers in its little corner of suburbia, magnificent even in the darkness. It takes calm knocks and calling through the large wooden door before Steve will open up. As he does, brightness from every possible light fixture pours out into the night while Steve stands sheepishly in the doorway.
Immediately you jump in, knocking him off balance with the force of your tight hug. Steve’s cheeks flush from embarrassment, but your mother instills further assurance. “I’m glad you called, Steve. You did the right thing,” she soothes, before adding that your father has set off to inspect the outside of the home. Concern for the boy growing, she then asks him about his parents.
“I don’t know the hotel they’re at,” he admits with a shrug. “They didn’t leave the number.”
“It’s okay, hon,” comforts your mother. “Go grab a few things. You can stay with us until they get back.”
You watch as Steve’s features flood with relief, though his eyebrows raise as if asking “really?”. Your mother nods with an affirming smile and ushers the two of you to go upstairs and pack.
You return a few minutes later with Steve’s brand-new Nike sports duffel filled with sleepwear, everyday clothes and toiletries. Your father gives the all-clear, but Steve still looks guilty for having dragged your family out of bed for seemingly nothing. “It’s better to be safe, son,” your father reiterates as he gives the boy a reassuring squeeze on his shoulder.
Once back at your house, extra linen and a spare pillow are gathered to create a makeshift bed on the floor of your room. Unlike the Harringtons’, your cozy little two-storey only boasts enough space for two modest bedrooms. Though it lacks grandeur or expensive furnishings, tonight your house is perfect for the boy who simply needs a home.
The adrenaline from earlier has subsided and sleep once again threatens to overtake you. You lie belly-up underneath your pink fleece blanket; its satin edges tickle the underside of your chin. Darkness coats your bedroom, causing your eyelids to droop. Yet, the shaky breaths sounding from the floor adjacent to you nudge you to speak up.
“Steve?” you whisper warily. “You okay?”
The boy releases an unconvincing hum. The silence that follows conveys his unease.
Finally, another whisper drifts up from the floor below. “I’m…scared.” The last word sticks to his tongue, almost refusing to be spoken.
You have never heard Steve admit that he was afraid of anything. He always trudges bravely into the unknown, sometimes even on your behalf. But hearing his voice tremble in the night just doesn’t sit right with you. Your young brain doesn’t fully comprehend it, but there is this pull inside your chest that desperately wants to be the one who is brave now – brave for your best friend, Steve.
An idea materializes in your thoughts, and quietly you ask, “Do you wanna lie up here?”
You half expect him to say no – Steve never usually likes to accept gestures that lessen his air of confidence – and that’s why you are so surprised when you hear a faint “yeah”.
Without hesitation, you lean over to turn on your bedside lamp. Its white-coloured shade, yellowing from age, casts an amber glow that spreads from its ceramic base, out towards the edges of your small room. You scoot over to the opposite side of your bed as Steve rises from the floor, gripping his borrowed pillow and blanket. He cautiously sets the items down and smooths out your bedsheet for him to lie on top of. Finally, the mattress dips as he stiffly settles himself down. The fragrance of clean laundry and minty toothpaste join him.
“You good?” you question gently as Steve pulls his sheet up to his chin. All you receive is a wordless nod.
In the pale lamplight you can still see the fear etched across Steve’s freckled profile. It burns your insides to witness his lack of a smile. “Steve,” you speak more seriously this time. “You’re safe here. It’s gonna be okay.”
The boy turns his cheek towards you, brown locks haloed by the light emanating from behind his head. His eyes, blackened by shadows, send a silent message of thanks.
“Good night,” he speaks softly, releasing a pent-up breath before turning over to shut off the lamp.
“‘Night, Steve,” you hum in return.
As Steve lies with his back to you, still not yet asleep, a protective feeling emerges from inside your chest. You watch the silhouette of his shoulders rise and fall. It’s unsteady at first, but as time passes, Steve’s breathing eventually evens out. It’s not until you hear his faint snores that you, too, allow yourself to drift off into dream land.
“Hey sweetie,” speaks the gentle voice of your mom entering the kitchen. “How are you holding up so far?”
Turning away from the metal sink where you’ve begun to wash the supper dishes, you give your mother a solemn nod.
She smiles softly back at you. “I know it can’t be easy having Steve here tonight, but he’s been relatively quiet. Ultimately, it is your choice, and I will support you no matter what, but from what I’ve seen, I don’t think he’s the same boy he was back then. Perhaps it may finally be time to talk things through.”
Your mother has always been your number one fan. Her advice has only ever steered you in the right direction. Plus, she was the one who dried your tears over what Steve had done. Her suggestion terrifies you, but deep down, there’s a wiggle in your gut that tells you that she’s right.
Giving her a resounding nod, you see hope flicker in her eyes. A reassuring smile is cradled on your lips as she leans in towards you. Her delicate hand rubs warm circles into your back while a loving kiss is placed on your cheek.
Just then, a familiar figure appears in the open archway to the kitchen. His hands are shoved into denim pockets as he takes a cautious step forward.
Your mother follows your line of sight, realizing what has suddenly turned your body rigid. She quickly grabs a plate of cookies, her skirt swaying as she darts away to pair the sweet treats with the tea already served in the living room.
Panic floods your veins, yet your feet feel glued to the floor. After seven years, you have no choice but to ultimately face Steve Harrington head on. God only knows how this encounter will unfold.
Avoiding the inevitable for at least a few seconds longer, you spin back around to the sink and plunge your hands into the steaming dishwater. Fluffy white suds splash back up and cling to the front of your dress.
A distinct voice sounds behind you. “Want some help?”
No.
Yes.
“Doesn’t matter.”
Steve then appears in your periphery like a dream. He effortlessly shrugs off his navy blazer and rolls the sleeves of his crisp dress shirt to the elbows. Collecting a dry towel from the front of the stove, he reaches into the sink for a clean plate and begins to wipe the moisture from its surface. The two of you fall into a silent synchrony: wash, rinse, dry. Wash, rinse, dry.
The oak cabinets with their curved trim flank the sink and the window above it. Steve remembers exactly where each piece of dinnerware belongs – he’s spent enough time in your house to have it engrained in his memory. Except, this time, he leaves them all in a neat stack on the counter, feeling more like an outsider than someone who once used to fit seamlessly into your home.
The last plate is in your grasp. The trickle of the tap pings against the basin of the secondary sink to your right. You place the dish beneath the flow and watch absentmindedly as water rinses the remaining suds away. Your true focus, however, is on the familiar presence beside you. You can feel warmth emanating from where he stands close by; the heady scent of his aftershave saturates your senses.
As your wrist twists to rinse off the opposite side of the plate, Steve’s hand reaches forward just a moment too soon. Your fingers brush against one another and neither person retreats. Your eyes travel from his hand, up the sun-kissed skin speckled with moles of his bare forearm.
Two pairs of eyes then meet. Green and amber flecks gleam back at you under the kitchen light; a war of uncertainty and hope waging on within them.
“Can we talk?” he asks, words released as barely a whisper.
Your chest tightens. Another silent moment passes where you are lost in your thoughts. Steve Harrington is here, standing beside you in your kitchen, seeking some sort of resolution to the happenings of the past.
“Okay,” you answer at last, giving an earnest nod. Steve’s lips form the barest of smiles.
Releasing the water from the sink, you dab your wet hands on a towel and begin to move towards the foyer. You glance back at Steve, whose dark eyebrows raise knowingly, before gathering his blazer and following you up the staircase.
Summer 1979
Eager eyes scan the adults headed into the living room, watch them take a seat; sip from their glasses. Peering around the corner, poised in front of the staircase, you decide that the coast is clear. “C’mon, Steve!” you grasp his hand and yank him towards the first step.
Always vigilant, your mother calls out. “Make sure to keep this music down this time, sweetheart!”
“Yes, mooooom.” A sing-song voice trails up the stairs, echoing your reply as you and Steve giggle to yourselves mischievously.
It’s a beeline for your bedroom – a safe haven from all the business talk and second nature by now for you and Steve. You both have tried staying downstairs with the adults, but all you end up hearing is your fathers discussing quarterly reports and your mothers trying to engage in pleasant conversation. For a pair of kids, it was just too boring! So lately, it didn’t matter if you were at your house or his, the narrative always ended up the same: music.
Putting out a hand, your fingertips brush along the textured wallpaper as you round the corner into your bedroom. Releasing Steve’s hand, you bolt straight for the shelf where you keep your records.
“Don’t look!” you chide, purposefully keeping your shoulders square and back to the boy who moves to plant himself cross-legged beside your bed.
“I’m not!” he whines in defence.
“Close your eyes!” Steve huffs without conviction at your demand but does exactly what you ask. His eyes move beneath soft lids as your shadow approaches.
You take the album you’ve slipped out from the stack and hold it in front of you; your nose and eyes are the only parts of your face now visible. “Okay! Open!”
Steve’s hazel eyes flash wide at the sight of a crisp, new album cover and your hopeful gaze staring back at him. His smile widens. The two of you had been excitedly talking about this album coming out for months.
“You got Candy-O!” he exclaims, and you allow The Cars’ newest album to slip lower to reveal your exaggerated grin.
“I did! Saved up enough allowance to buy it last week. Wanna play it? I haven’t opened it yet so that we could listen together!”
Steve’s features soften. You always took him into consideration, no matter what. “Actually,” Steve’s soft smile morphs into a smirk. “I wanna show you something too.” He raises a hand and waves for you to come over.
You scramble to Steve’s side and plunk yourself down onto the floor, back bouncing off the side of your mattress as you do. Anticipation bubbles through you, making you feel as though you’re going to pop.
Tonight, Steve is grateful that his mother always makes him wear a blazer to these dinners, even if it’s two sizes too big. The article gives him the perfect opportunity to spring a surprise on you – one that he knows will make you squeal and throw your arms around him for a hug.
Steve’s grin is now immeasurable. “So, I got Candy-O, too, but I’ll do you one better,” he begins. “Have no fear of being yelled at when we blast it because…” He reaches inside his blazer, fishing for the pocket before pulling out a Sony Walkman.
“NO. WAY!” You squeal, arms instinctually squeezing his shoulders into a side-hug. You stare at the device in awe. “How did you –” a tentative hand reaches out, but you’re still afraid to touch it. It couldn’t have been cheap.
Steve unceremoniously hands it over for you to inspect. “My dad pulled some strings and got me one.” Your fingers run delicately over the buttons and metallic logo that adorns the front case. Steve then leans over into your space, breath tickling your cheek. He touches a button, and the cassette door pops open. You read the tape that’s already inside and look up to meet Steve’s gaze. The space between your front teeth lights up your features. “Haven’t listened yet either,” he winks. “So, what’re we waiting for?!”
Steve clicks the Walkman closed before producing two sets of headphones which he plugs into twin audio jacks. He then hands you a pair, the two of you settling them atop your ears in unison. Steve delivers you an excited smile with a waggle of his eyebrows and presses the play button.
The funky synth of “Let’s Go” erupts into your ears. Your jaw drops in amazement. To your right, Steve bites his lip and begins to bop his head in time with the beat. He turns to glance at you, and you start mirroring his actions; the song’s peppy rhythm makes you buzz with excitement.
All that can be heard from the living room below is the patter of two pairs of feet that soon get up to dance along to the music.
The wooden banister guides your palm as you ascend the steps. It’s a route that should come second-nature to you, yet in this moment, it feels like a journey into the unknown. Your nerves mount with each step you climb; the soft thud of the extra set of footsteps behind you worsens the unease that grips your gut. You need to compose yourself.
At the top of the landing, you quickly turn to your guest. “I’ve got to use the washroom for a moment.” Steve’s lips part to respond, but you are already darting down the hallway before he gets the chance.
He knows where your room is. He’ll be alright for a few minutes on his own.
Steve continues onwards and locates the entrance to your bedroom - right where it used to be. The door sits half-open, and Steve uses his fingertips to gently push inside. Its hinges whine as they give way.
The small space is like a time-capsule. A shelf lines one wall with your vinyl records stacked neatly by the record player. The old ceramic lamp with its yellowed shade still sits atop the nightstand. Your bed is neatly made up with a floral comforter that Steve doesn’t recognize, but peaking out from beneath it is the same old pink blanket with satin edges. Next to your vanity, a corkboard hangs against the wall; a series of pushpins secure several polaroids to its porous surface. The collection mostly includes close-ups of elegant plants and flowers, but hanging near the edge is a photograph that stands out from the rest. A sunset. Pink and lavender swirls of colour are splashed above the silhouette of what looks to be a park. The scene stirs a memory deep inside of Steve and tugs at the strings inside his heart.
Summer 1981
“Hey, wanna get out of here?”
The proposition catches you off-guard, causing you to reopen your eyes to the evening light streaming in through the window. It casts patterns across the spacious room, bathing the blue and white grid-line wallpaper in a golden glow. Plush carpet cushions your head as you lay spread out across it, much like your companion beside you. In the background, the low pulse of a pop album drones on from a record player.
Your eyebrow lifts in question. Steve must sense your reservation because he quickly adds, “We could ride bikes – I still have that spare you can use – and we could just do whatever.”
You sit up then, brows sewing together and mind trying to decipher what is making Steve so antsy to escape. The teen mirrors your actions, propping two hands behind him as he scans your features for an answer.
“No one will even know we’re gone,” he attempts to reassure you. “We can sneak out…like ninjas.”
Your resolve cracks. A goofy smile curls the edges of Steve’s lips, and a laugh erupts through your nose. Shaking your head at his antics, you finally deliver your verdict. “As much as we used to practice being ninjas like fiveyearsago, I’m still not going to lie to my parents.”
Steve’s smile falters ever so slightly.
“Besides,” you turn up a corner of your mouth into a sly grin, “you catch more flies with honey.” A wink caps it all off, which lets Steve know you’re on board with ditching the confines of his bedroom in exchange for some fun.
The two of you scramble to your feet and laugh out into the hallway. The staircase is grand in comparison to yours, and you indulge in squishing your toes into its spongy beige carpeting as you compete to reach the landing first.
On the main floor, you lead the way into the expansive dining room where you find the Harringtons and your parents sat sipping expensive wine from equally expensive crystal goblets. Your mother grips her glass firmly as if it could jump out of her hand at any moment and shatter.
Coming into view with Steve behind you, your parents’ heads are the first to turn away from the conversation. You put on your most innocent smile and announce the reason for your appearance during business talk. “We’re just gonna go ride bikes for a bit, ‘kay?”
Your mother returns your smile, “Sure honey, just make sure that you’re home before ten.”
Nodding a silent thank you, you also turn towards your father where he, too, offers a reassuring grin.
“Thanks!” you chime before turning to skip past Steve and into the main foyer. You stick your tongue out at him for good measure as you pass by.
Being out of earshot, however, you don’t end up hearing how Mr. Harrington sternly calls to his son. “Have her back on time, Steven. And no fooling around.” Your early exit from the house also means that you don’t comprehend the resulting flush of embarrassment that still overtakes Steve’s once-joyful features when he meets you outside. But before you can quiz him on it, he dashes into the storage shed to retrieve a pair of bicycles.
At first, the two of you don’t have a plan. The wooded area around Steve’s home gives way to a growing number of houses as you travel along; the steady clack of bike chains at work and the rush of wind past your faces are the only sounds for several long minutes.
That’s what’s nice about having Steve as your best friend; you can be doing nothing at all – not even talking – and it feels so comfortable. Just knowing he’s there surrounds you in a sense of ease.
The summer’s heat is still in full swing despite how the sun has begun to lower towards the horizon. The stickiness of sweat clings under your arms and to the backs of your knees where they bend to help push the bike pedals along. Finally, you break the silence. “Should we get ice cream?”
Steve’s brown locks flutter in the breeze as he glances over at you. “Sounds perfect!”
Pedalling with purpose, the two of you find the local ice cream stand and each order two-scoop cones to go. It’s Steve’s idea to bring the sweet treats along for the ride until you find a better spot to enjoy them. You mumble your annoyance but ultimately love that the evening is turning into a bit of a silly adventure.
The rest of the ride is a wobbly one. One hand is on a handlebar while the other grips onto your cone for dear life. “This is impossible, Steve!” you giggle, front tire weaving as you crane your neck to lick up a trickle of melting cream.
“Aww, suck it up, buttercup!” he teases, edging his bicycle closer to yours on the roadway. Steve uses the proximity to lean over and bop the mushy tip of his cone on your nose.
“Hey!” you squeak, trying – to no avail – to clean up the cold, sweet substance with your tongue.
Steve starts laughing so hard that he nearly loses his balance. His tummy somersaults. His eyes grow wide, and he unleashes a little “whoaa!” before clumsily correcting his course.
Now it’s your turn to wear a Cheshire grin. “Neener neener!”
Steve sticks his tongue out at you before taking a long, spiteful lick of his ice cream.
The ride continues for a short distance until you find yourselves at the local park. Lush green grass spreads out over its expanse. An empty playground sits tucked into one corner. Tall trees, thick with emerald leaves, line the park’s perimeter, yet a small break in the treeline provides an unobstructed view into the distance. You hold Steve’s cone as he props up your bikes, making sure to sneak a lick when his back is turned.
An old, wooden park bench becomes your resting spot, its splintering edges a welcome respite while you enjoy your cold treat.
“How can you eat that stuff?” recoils Steve after having accepted the taste you offered him.
“Bubble gum is the best!” you state matter-of-factly. “Ice cream meets bubble gum chunks. Perfection!”
“Eugh,” he exaggerates again. “I tell ya, classic butterscotch is where it’s at.”
“Agree to disagree.” You nudge Steve’s shoulder with your own. He returns a grunt that holds no heat.
Comfortable chatter continues between you - talk about music and movies, middle school blunders and local town gossip - until you both crunch down the last of your dessert.
The summer sun now dips below the horizon, casting the sky above Hawkins in streaks of pink and lavender. A silence descends as the two of you sit in awe of the beautiful sight.
As you take in your surroundings, thoughts begin to swirl in your mind. “I can’t believe we’ll be starting high school in a few weeks.”
Steve exhales deeply beside you. “Don’t remind me.”
“I wish we could stay fourteen forever.” Without thinking, you gently lay your head against Steve’s shoulder. His warmth seeps into your cooling skin. “I love hanging out with you,” you add with a wistful smile. “You just get me and all my weird.”
You don’t know it, but the weight of your head tipped against him is the only thing keeping Steve from floating away. You’re the only person in his life who truly seems to want to spend time with him. And, as the lavender sky darkens to an indigo hue, Steve carefully sets his head on top of yours, too. It’s a simple gesture, but he hopes it’s enough to show you that he feels the same way about you.
The tenderness of his action sets off a million butterflies in your stomach and suddenly, as you sit on the worn park bench watching the setting sun, the only person you can imagine ever being here with is Steve.
The intimate moment, however, barely has time to linger before Steve abruptly straightens up. Your cheek slides off his cotton t-shirt and a rumble reverberates from within his chest as he awkwardly clears his throat.
“It’s getting dark,” he speaks stiffly before switching his tone to one of friendly banter. He turns to give you a signature smirk. “Gotta make sure to get you home. Don’t wanna be late for that ten-p.m. curfew.”
It’s impossible to not return a full smile. “Oh, shut up, Harrington. You love my folks, too.”
As the two of you pedal back home under the glow of streetlamps, you can’t help but wonder if there was more to what happened on the bench. And more importantly, whether Steve had felt it too.
“Get it together, girl!” you exclaim internally into the bathroom mirror. A low clap from dual pats to your cheeks sounds off in the cramped bathroom as you try unsuccessfully to calm the flock of birds taking flight in your stomach.
Your mind flashes back to that moment in the kitchen. Why had your heart skipped a beat at a simple, innocent touch? Your cheeks had flushed, too, while observing his features. Steve’s appearance has certainly matured, yet he is still unmistakably good-looking – perhaps even more so than you last remember. His chestnut hair had lightened at the tips; his jaw had become sharper at its base. His hazel eyes are now bordered by hooded lids and dark lashes. The frame of Steve’s body had even grown more defined than it was in high school. Objectively, Steve Harrington had developed into a handsome young man.
But as you continue to peer at yourself in the mirror, that old adversary inside your head grows louder. Not much is different about you. Sure, you had let your hair grow a little longer and had styled it for the evening. And sure, your lashes have a coat of mascara spread across them. But those are superficial additions. Everything else about your appearance remains relatively unchanged. Your curves are still larger than the beauty queens of high school and college. Your clothes are still relatively inexpensive compared to the chic attire adorned by the Harringtons downstairs. And your smile…
Tentatively you part your lips, and the shadow of your gap immediately emerges into view.
Was Doctor Nelson unable to close in your space? Mrs. Harrington’s words bounce around in your brain like they are part of a game of pinball.
The grip you have on the edges of the porcelain sink tightens, eyes cramming shut. No wonder it had never crossed Steve’s mind that you could be together. You were nothing like the effortlessly beautiful girls he always had on his arm in high school.
October 1984
A shrill screech sounds off from down the hallway, causing your textbooks to clatter to the floor with a resonating thud. Alarmed, you turn quickly towards the sound, but your heart sinks when you take in the source of the commotion.
Nancy Wheeler is clutched around her middle and being twirled in the air by a joyful Steve Harrington. Her reaction has him laughing in a way that he only used to with you. Perfectly styled chestnut locks bounce in front of his forehead as he peers at his girlfriend through a pair of large sunglasses. Nancy thwacks Steve’s arm while his fingers move to grip the small of her back. He leans in to cradle her face. And then his lips are on hers –
You rapidly turn away, bending to pick up your fallen books. Straightening, your thoughts betray you for the thousandth time.
Nancy Wheeler. When Steve first began pursuing her, you thought she would just be another notch in his belt. All the flirting and kissing…surely, he only wanted in her pants. But then months turned into a year, and Steve seemed to genuinely be in love.
And you suppose that is the thing that eats you up the most.
You like Nancy. Even though she’s a year younger than you, she is hardworking and takes her education seriously – a trait that you both share. Plus, Nancy is just plain nice – totally unlike the stuck-up girls Steve had dated in the past. No matter how hard you try, it’s difficult to find any valid reason to dislike her.
Except…Nancy is also naturally beautiful, and you hate how jealousy has creeped into your bones because of it.
She has a petite frame and girl-next-door charm with a perfect smile to match. It appears when Steve whispers all those little I love yous and gazes at her with an affection you’ll never know. The feeling squeezes at your heart and forms a lump in your throat, allowing self-doubt to gnaw its way into your thoughts: “Maybe if you were just a little prettier or a little more charismatic, that could be you instead.”
Hearing the pair continue to flirt across the hall sends your tongue brushing up against your front teeth inside your mouth. The muscle pokes its way between the gap. “No,” you tell yourself as you turn back to see Steve walking off with Nancy tucked lovingly under his arm. “Your brain and your smile make you, you! No one can take that away. And someday, someone will be happy with you just as you are.”
Silent footsteps carry you down the hallway towards your room. Peeking in through the wooden doorway, you find Steve with his back turned. Golden light from beyond the window outlines his figure. Broad shoulders are stooped; locks of dark hair fall forward as his head peers down at something held delicately in his hand.
A subtle shift in your weight sets the floorboards creaking, and the sudden noise causes Steve to flinch. He turns quickly on his heels to find you glancing down at his fingertips.
His cheeks flush, appearing like a deer in headlights. Yet, as Steve quickly moves to refasten the polaroid to its place on the board, he regains his nerve and delivers a comment in the fondest of tones. “It doesn’t quite look the same as the night we were there.”
Your heart begins to hammer against your ribs.
He remembers.
But how do you answer him? How do you admit that no matter how hard you tried to throw that little piece of plastic away, you simply couldn’t bring yourself to do it. Not when it bared such a striking resemblance to a night that had been so simple and so perfect.
Buying time, you shift towards the record shelf that resides to your right. Pensively, you trace a finger across the stacked spines. Music had been such an important part of your friendship, saving the two of you from many the business dinner, just like the one being hosted today.
Chancing a look over your shoulder, you find that Steve has not moved; his attention is fully focused on you. Those kind eyes wait patiently for you to be ready to speak. As you study his features, your mind suddenly whisks you back to tonight’s dinner table. You recollect how Steve's tanned cheeks had paled at his father’s words. How the curve of his throat had swallowed coarsely and the tendon within had tightened under so much strain.
You know exactly what needs to be said.
June 1985
This is it. Tonight is the end of an era.
With a raised chin, Steve smooths down the satin lapels of his black suit and straightens his matching tie. He takes a long, hard look at himself in the mirror. Staring back at him is the image of an 18-year-old man with perfectly styled hair and expensive attire, yet underneath is a lost boy who grew up too fast.
Steve exhales unsteadily as he checks his watch. Time to go.
But as he makes his way towards the staircase of his home, the harsh sound of an argument rises from the space from below. Steve pauses, heart sinking as he listens in.
“Why aren’t you dressed yet, dear?” exclaims his mother with frustration. “We have to be there in ten minutes!”
A sharp, unfeeling tone answers back. “You know very well why not!”
The tension downstairs grows palpable. “This is your only son’s graduation! It’s a significant accomplishment for him!”
“Significant?!” Mr. Harrington’s already deep voice booms louder. “He barely squeezed by! He slacked off, his grades went to shit, and he got rejected from Tech. What kind of accomplishment is that!”
Steve’s gut churns.
“He’s a teenager!” the woman argues back.
“Well, maybe if you’d kept on top of his behaviour, we wouldn’t be in this situation!” Steve doesn’t need to see the scene unfold to know that his father’s face is flushed, with wide eyes and that vein in his temple threatening to burst.
The feminine voice of his mother scoffs and retaliates, “I can’t very well stay home all the time, now, can I? Not when I need to follow you around and make sure you’re not off screwing your secretary!”
That's it. There’s a storm of emotion brewing inside Steve, and he doesn’t know how it will erupt if he sticks around any longer. He descends the stairs two at a time and slams the front door on his way out. If neither of his parents showed up tonight, so be it!
He plunks himself into the driver’s seat of his burgundy BMW and roughly twists the keys in the ignition. The engine rumbles to life and Steve wastes no time throwing the car into gear. For a moment, his vision is blurred as he poises with an arm behind the passenger’s seat to reverse the vehicle. He quickly blinks the watery obstruction away before speeding off to his high school for one final time.
Once back in the gymnasium of Hawkins High, a standard gown and cap are thrust at Steve to wear and he is ushered to his assigned seat. Triumphant music swells, signalling the beginning of the ceremony causing a pit to settle heavily inside Steve’s stomach.
His knee bounces restlessly beneath the long, silky fabric of his gown as person after person is called to the stage. Steve knows that his mother is sitting a few rows behind with palms poised elegantly on her thighs. An expensive suit and blazer with prominent shoulder pads adorn her figure. Round earrings dwarf her earlobes, and an effortless smile is pasted across painted lips. But Steve also knows that there is a reserved seat beside her that remains unfilled. He doesn’t need to hear it to know that excuses for her husband are being whispered to anyone who will listen.
The sound of your name being called propels Steve back into the present. He watches in awe as you elegantly ascend the stage towards the awaiting principal. The distinct sound of your mom and dad’s cheers from the crowd draws your attention out into the audience. You feign embarrassment, but it’s the gorgeous, full smile that breaks out across your face that shows how truly special this moment is for you.
The principal announces your college plans as you shake his hand and collect your diploma. The accomplishment earns applause from the crowd. And in that moment, with the spotlight framing your features, Steve’s heart swells. He recognizes how hard you’ve worked to earn this moment, and he feels something tug at him from within his chest.
He acted like a giant asshole towards you, choosing popularity and flirty girls over his best friend. Yet, despite how he treated you, you never let it stop you from being the best version of yourself. Not once did you bend to social norms and now look at how bright you shine.
You were the one person who cared about him unconditionally. Together you’d jam out to music and ride bikes until dusk. You were the person who saved him from the monotony of business dinners…and you were the person who calmed him when he felt afraid. That tug inside his chest grows stronger. Steve selfishly wishes he still had you; still had the person he’s loved all along.
After several more students pass, it’s finally Steve’s turn to be called up. He stands, straightening his gown before taking a deep breath. When he climbs the steps and looks out into the audience, he doesn’t search for his mother. Instead, he searches for you. But when he finds you sitting there with diploma in hand, he sees you looking on with indifference. And it’s then that Steve is forced to accept that having you back in his life is just not meant to be.
Gathering your courage, you shift until your body is fully aligned with Steve. Your words are spoken with utmost honesty. “I’m sorry that you had to deal with that, your father – at dinner.”
A corner of Steve’s mouth turns down subtly. “Thanks,” he replies, shaking his head, “but it’s all par for the course.” He gives a dismissive wave of his hand before folding his arms protectively against his chest. His gaze shifts meekly away from yours.
“Still,” you press, wringing your fingers together and taking a step forward. Regardless of what has happened in the past, that pull inside you needs Steve to understand that you would never take sides with his father. “Careers and degrees don’t define who we are.”
You catch Steve’s lip pinching briefly in the form of a smile. His eyes glance back up at you.
A heavy silence descends, and you watch the way that Steve regards you. There is no scrutiny, only something that can only be described as affection.
“How do you do it?” The sound of his voice breaks through the quiet and makes you aware of how little distance there actually is between you.
“Do what?” you manage.
Steve stands up a little straighter, smiles a little broader. “How do you always manage to lift me up? Make me feel better about myself?”
The muscles in your eyebrows arch, lips parting in soundless shock. That rapid heartbeat in your chest now thrums loudly in your ears.
“I never realized how much you gave me until it was completely gone,” he adds.
A thickness forms in your throat. Your brain is a jumble of words that plop onto your tongue, but you have no idea how to express them.
Your silence and lack of objection provide Steve with the opportunity to continue. He rakes a hand through his thick hair nervously. “I guess you’re wondering why I showed up tonight…after all this time.” He then speaks your name, soft, tender. Sincere. “I’m sorry.”
The dam breaks and a strangled breath chokes out from your lungs. The two simple words that you’ve waited seven long years to hear have been spoken at last.
The room around you blurs. Your head feels like it’s spinning.
“Look,” Steve gestures with one hand, shifting to rest his hips against your windowsill. “I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I just had to -”
You honestly don’t know what comes over you. A heat swirls up from inside, spreading like wildfire from your toes to your cheeks. With it, erupts several years of pent-up emotion, emotion that you thought you had locked safely away.
“Dammit, Steve!” you exclaim in a tone so raw that even you don’t recognize it. “You ripped my heart out when you chose Tommy H. on that first day of high school!”
Steve recoils at your intensity, yet winces from your truths. He hasn’t come here to justify his actions from the past. “I know,” he admits, hurt evident in his creased brow. “I have no excuse for treating you the way I did. I got so caught up with my ego and then in all the crazy shit that happened in town that by the time I came to my senses, you wouldn’t even look at me. I should have sought you out, but the more time that passed, the weirder it felt to even try.”
Anger subsides into heartache. “I would have listened,” you murmur. Tears prickle at your lash line. Steve’s face visibly falls. “I only kept my distance so I wouldn’t get hurt. I still cared for you, Steve. You were my best friend, and a part of me always hoped that you would remember that.”
Years of regret are etched across Steve’s face. “I’ve missed you more than you could ever know,” he confesses. This is the most vulnerable you’ve seen him since that night when you were kids.
The familiar pull inside your chest returns, but this time it urges you to let yourself be vulnerable too. “I’ve missed you too. So much.”
Steve allows himself to smile. Hopeful. “Do you think we can start over? I know I’ve fucked up, but would you be willing to give me another shot?”
There’s no apprehension within you, no sense of unease. You nod affirmatively and return him a smile.
Steve’s demeanour brightens, dimples appearing on his cheeks as he moves to the side of your bed. He kneels and lowers himself to sit on the floor. His squared shoulders rest against the side of your mattress, much taller than when you were kids. You observe him curiously as Steve slides his denim-clad knees upwards and rests his forearms atop them. Toes wiggle against the carpet in black dress socks. Peering up at you with a cheeky grin, Steve motions for you to join.
Your eyes narrow fondly at the familiarity, crossing the short distance to gingerly set your body down next to his.
Steve turns his gaze on you, swirls of green and brown circle his irises. Then, he reaches into his blazer, fishing for the pocket. A second later, his hand produces a cherished sight: the Walkman.
Reaching in again, he retrieves two sets of headphones. Joy shines through the rosy tint of your cheeks.
“Care for a listen?” he grins back, eyes crinkling at the corners. With a wink he adds, “For old time’s sake.”
Steve extends a hand, allowing the metallic band of a headset to dangle on his outstretched index finger. Reaching, you accept and settle the orange foam pads overtop your ears. Steve mirrors your actions and double checks the connections.
“Ready?” he motions with raised eyebrows.
Your enthusiastic nod is his green light.
You ready yourself to take in the music by turning your focus to your lap. The play button clicks and the next thing you know, the funky synth of “Let’s Go” fills your ears.
A warmth bubbles through you, and you release a wet laugh. Turning back to face Steve, you find him already admiring your reaction. Playfully, you knock your knee against his, offering him a broad smile that places your gap on full display.
And just as the chorus rolls into the second verse, Steve reaches to remove his headphones. You follow his lead, concerned that something might be wrong. Strands of chestnut hair stick up comically on Steve’s head; a stark juxtaposition to the serious expression that now stares back at you.
The quaint room has grown shadows as the evening sun begins to fade. Your pulse quickens with the intensity of the moment.
“I’m glad you didn’t get it closed in,” Steve finally remarks, words calm. Deliberate.
“Huh?” you utter, your brows marrying as you try to decipher his meaning.
“What my mom said earlier. Your gap.”
Your tongue brushes over top of the feature inside your mouth.
“Your smile,” Steve’s chest expands as he takes an unsteady breath. “It’s…”
Unique?
Cool?
Nice?
“Beautiful.”
Oh.
As you absorb his words, you’re suddenly hyper-aware of how close the two of you are; how the small distance buzzes with a magnetic charge. You admire the gentle slope of his nose and the birthmarks that dot his complexion. The scent of his aftershave and something distinctly Steve surrounds you. Once again, that pull inside your chest resurfaces, encircling your heart and tugging with all its might in the direction of Steve. Your Steve.
Soft words break you out of your trance. “You know, I think it has always been something more than friendship.”
Butterflies explode inside your stomach. Your insecurities melt away.
“That evening in the park,” continues Steve, eyes searching your face. “I felt something that I didn’t know I could; like you were my home, and I wanted to stay there forever.”
It hadn’t just been you.
Steve then places a hand tentatively on yours. Your skin tingles with the heat of his touch. “Did you feel it too?” he implores, trepidatiously, as if he were a fourteen-year-old boy again.
You nod and, with a whisper, say, “I don’t think I ever stopped.”
“Neither did I.”
And then the two of you are moving. Leaning together, you wrap your arms around his neck and hug Steve tightly. Steve responds in kind, large palms splaying across your back and pulling you flush against him as if you fit together like two lost pieces of the same puzzle.
Unspoken words of love transpire between you as you hold each other close.
And in that moment, you both understand that home is the person who accepts you just the way you are.
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Main Masterlist | Stranger Things Masterlist
Four Times Foley Tried to Set You up on a Date, and the One Time It Worked
Pairing: Steve Harrington x reader
Summary: Foley is your loyal, normally well-behaved, canine companion. Except, when he encounters a handsome stranger on the street, he turns into an overexcited ball of fur...and you suppose you can't really blame him.
Tags/warnings: 4+1 trope thingy; fluff (hopefully of the tooth-rotting variety ♡); cursing (like, two itty bitty words); basically Steve being a ray of sunshine but add a dog in the mix
Words: 3562
A/N: Inspired by all the Joe content out there involving doggos and how genuinely happy they seem to make him. I suspect Steve would be much the same.
Fic below the cut or on AO3
Attempt No. 1
“Foley! No!” Before your reflexes have time to react, the leash slips through your palm and is skidding behind a blur of golden-brown fur. You watch in horror, stomach in your throat, as your beloved dog beelines for a man up ahead on the sidewalk.
Two wide paws rear upwards, and a wet, pink tongue lolls out as the canine practically barrels into the stranger. You rush over as quickly as your legs will carry you, trying to snatch the collar of your four-legged companion. Foley, however, is too quick, managing to dodge your attempts. But as you look upwards in exasperation, you notice that the man hasn’t recoiled. He hasn’t started yelling at your dog–or you, for that matter. Instead, he’s laughing.
Dumbfounded, you watch as he praises the pooch with honeyed words like “hey buddy!” and “what a good boy!” all the while rubbing the sides of Foley’s head. The smile plastered across the man’s face is one of pure joy, and Foley is absolutely gobbling up the attention. Your dog dances on his hind legs and desperately tries to plant slobbery kisses on this random person.
Snapping yourself back into action, you finally grab hold of the leather collar and pry Foley off the man. “I’m so sorry, sir!” you exclaim, looking up into what you now notice is a pair of shining hazel eyes. “He never does this!” It’s the honest truth; whether the man will choose to believe you is another story.
But he simply laughs, all rosy cheeks and crinkled eyes. “Not to worry!” he assures. Foley continues to resist you as the stranger adds, “He’s a lovely dog!” A playful ruffle of your golden retriever’s ears has the canine’s tail smacking into your legs like a metronome. “Bye, buddy!” the man says as he squeezes past you and Foley on the sidewalk. Your dog yips happily, standing at attention until the guy is out of sight.
Baffled by this odd occurrence, you make the journey back to your apartment. Foley sticks tight to your side, quietly eyeing each passer-by as you go along.
Attempt No. 2
The whining absolutely breaks your heart. It’s such a long, drawn-out, and pitiful sound. The whole walk to the clinic sounded exactly like that too, and you wouldn’t be surprised if people on the street were ready to jump to the nearest payphone and dial the ASPCA. Foley not only sounded like he was being abused, but he deserves an Oscar for having looked the part as well. He managed to tuck his tail impossibly tight between his legs and hang his head meekly with the biggest, saddest puppy-dog eyes you have ever seen. And once you were inside the vet’s office, the scene wasn’t much different, either. Going to the vet, even for routine checkups, is the worst experience of your Foley’s little life.
He clings tight to your side, back end tucked as far under your chair in the waiting room as he will fit. If the glass-pane door beside you was open, you’re sure he’d be begging you to leave. In an effort to comfort him, your hand reaches down to soothingly stroke between Foley’s ears. He presses up into you, appreciating the love.
The minutes are ticking by when, all of a sudden, a loud bark sounds off next to you. A golden-brown flash springs upwards before it crouches down, butt in the air and head pointed towards the door. Foley yips again, tail beating back and forth, happy as can be. You jump to your feet to calm him down while annoyed glances from other patients are being shot your way.
Then he bounces again, releasing another shrill bark before rearing up on his back legs, paws against the door handle. And that’s when you notice him. The same guy from the other day, just out and about minding his own business.
The man’s attention turns towards the muffled barking and silhouette of an excited dog vying for his attention behind the glass. Recognition hits when he sees you trying to pry Foley down. It makes him stop in his tracks and smile. He’s actually beaming at the sight of your dog making you look like a gigantic fool in public…again.
The man bends at the knee in order to get a better look. He rakes a hand through his dark brown hair and waves at your pup like he’s a little kid. Foley’s tongue darts out, smearing against the glass door out of pure joy.
And then the stranger turns his focus on you. His eyes soften as he gives you a shy wave. You manage a little wave of your own before reality reminds you that Foley is still causing an absolute ruckus. And as if suddenly remembering something himself, the man checks his watch before giving Foley a final wave and striding away. Though, you don’t miss out on the fond glance that is cast over his shoulder as he continues down the street.
Once the man is out of sight, Foley returns to cowering beneath your chair until the vet eventually calls his name.
Attempt No. 3
Foley sits obediently at your side, big brown eyes laser-focused on the transaction taking place above him. Strings of drool seep from the corners of his mouth. He begins to pant, pink tongue rising and falling, yet he still remains unmoving at your side.
A man in a white apron hands you a small vanilla ice cream cone from the cart he operates on the park pathway. You thank him and turn to Foley, ready to give your pup his favourite (albeit rare) summer treat. But, just as you’re about to bend down, Foley’s ear suddenly twitches in the opposite direction. His black nose wiggles, and then his head swivels rapidly towards the perceived sound. Immediately, the canine is overcome with anticipation, practically vibrating in place. Luckily, you have half a mind to tighten your grip on his leash, because it soon becomes evident what–or rather who–Foley’s senses have picked up on.
Deep in concentration with chestnut locks sticking to the sides of his face from perspiration, the same guy that Foley has gotten all worked up over twice before is jogging directly towards you. Adorned in grey sweatpants and a yellow sweatshirt, his laboured breathing is steadily focused through pursed lips.
By now, Foley is barking up a storm, the ice cream guy has wheeled his cart away, and you’re left frivolously trying to maintain a hold on the leash. “Heel!” you command to no avail. Exasperation over your abnormally disobedient companion is written all over your flushed cheeks.
Barking causes the man’s concentration to break, and as he recognizes Foley, the giant grin that you’re now used to seeing spreads across his features. He slows his jog to a halt in front of the pair of you. That brilliant smile that’s all teeth shines upon you before turning to the fur ball in front of him. “Hey, boy!” he coos, showering Foley in pats and rubs. The pooch devours the attention, unlike the ice cream that's long since forgotten.
“Again, I’m sorry!” Your apology comes as Foley headbutts the man again and again, wiping his slobber all over the poor sucker’s pants. “Foley!” you groan in defeat.
“Nah, it’s cool.” The man bends and allows your dog to deliver him wet kisses. “It’s actually a nice ego boost.” He glances back up to you with a wink that makes your tummy somersault. Straightening and maintaining those hazel eyes on you, he offers you a hand that’s not kneading Foley’s ears. “Steve,” he smiles.
A silent “oh” parts your lips as you awkwardly juggle the ice cream cone into the same hand holding the dog leash. Steve chuckles on your behalf as he attempts to steady Foley at his feet.
Finally, you accept his greeting and respond with your own name. Steve’s palm feels so natural in yours; his fingers curl around yours firmly, yet with gentle care. It almost feels–
Suddenly, Steve begins vibrating back and forth, which makes his hand slip unceremoniously from yours. Your silly pup is now drumming a steady rhythm with his tail against Steve’s legs. The two of you can’t help but share a lighthearted laugh.
“I’d love to stay and chat,” he says as the laughter fades, raising a hand to wipe the sweat from his brow. “But I have to finish my run and head home.”
As nonchalantly as possible, you respond with an “of course” before reaching over to nab Foley by the collar and pull him off of your new acquaintance. The man delivers the two of you a friendly wave before resuming his pace.
As he jogs off into the distance, you try not to think about the way Steve’s eyes smile with the rest of his face or how a trickle of sweat had run down the expanse of his freckled neck. And Foley makes double sure of it by sitting in front of you with pleading eyes fixated on his ice cream cone like nothing had happened at all.
Attempt No. 4
Had Steve been consuming your thoughts more and more frequently since your last meeting? Kinda…well, okay…Yes.
He was obviously handsome. Gorgeous eyes. Dark hair. Strong jawline. And it really didn’t matter what he wore either, be it the business-casual outfit he sported while passing by the vet’s office or the old jogging clothes lined with sweat. But the thing that your mind kept coming back to was that stupid smile that emerged around Foley. It popped up in your head more times than you care to admit. You don’t know what it is about this guy, but you simply can’t shake him from your brain.
And what the heck was up with Foley? You even tried asking your pup why Steve gets him so excited. But the only answer you were met with was an adorably curious head tilt that turned into him flopping onto his back, four paws in the air, begging for a belly rub. Foley’s reaction to Steve, and the fact that it had happened three times in three separate locations, was so bizarre. Surely it was impossible to bump into the same guy multiple times in such a big city like that…
It's evening, and you and Foley are out for a stroll. The sun is past its peak, and the air has cooled, making it perfect for a walk. The sidewalks still bustle with people going to and fro. Foley keeps perfect stride with you. He sticks close when you pass sketchy characters and doesn’t react to the grabby hands of little kids. He’s acting like his usual self–the poster child for obedient pups-and you couldn’t be prouder!
Rounding the corner, Foley’s nose hits the pavement. The black button on the front of his snout works furiously, the sniffing sounds growing louder.
“What’s wrong, boy?” you ask your companion. But then he’s tugging, paws wanting to move faster and farther than his leash will allow.
You strain trying to keep up as Foley yanks you closer to a bus stop. A happy bark and a glance upwards make you realize what has set Foley off.
Oh. My. Again?
And then there’s Steve. Dressed in a casual polo and jeans, he sits on a bench at the bus stop. The first bark has him peering over his shoulder; that signature smile, which lights up his handsome face, appears not a moment later. Steve’s posture straightens as Foley bounds up to his side, only to reach forward and deliver loving pets to your enthusiastic pup.
“And so we meet again!” He grins at you, still showering Foley with affection.
“Indeed!” you reply, matching his banter before swapping to a more apologetic tone. “But I swear I don’t know why he acts this way around you! He doesn’t even get like this around my relatives!”
Smooth, gentle laughter fills the space between you. “Like I said before,” Steve’s eyes catch yours. “I honestly don’t mind at all. He’s not being bad; he’s just very sweet.”
The compliment warms your cheeks, tinting them pink. “You’re too kind, but we keep interrupting your day.”
Steve scoffs with no heat. “It’s nice to see some familiar faces.” He then offers you a smile that melts you where you stand.
The moment lingers; gazes are locked. Your heart ticks up in your chest. “So, uh…” he runs a large hand through perfectly styled hair. “I’m just waiting to catch a bus downtown to do some errands. It won’t be here for a while, so if you want–if you don’t have anywhere to be–you’re welcome to stay and chat for a bit.”
Your eyes widen. Did he just ask you to stay? Stay, as in, he’d like to talk to you?
You honestly don’t know how he does it. Steve’s got this effortless confidence to him that’s laced with a hint of shyness, almost as if he doesn’t know how smooth he actually is. Couple that with your brain’s recent hyper-fixation, and it’s impossible to say no.
Taking a seat next to him on the bench, Steve shifts so that his torso is aligned with yours. Foley takes up residence between Steve’s legs, pressing himself in close and laying his head on the man’s lap. Steve doesn’t complain one bit; rather, he threads Foley’s silky ears through his fingers as the two of you begin to talk.
The conversation is effortless. You learn that Steve is from a small town in Indiana and moved to a big city to experience something new. You speak about careers and aspirations, and your stomach flutters when you learn that Steve’s vision for the future isn’t that different from your own. In fact, Steve makes you feel completely at ease. There’s no need to hide little facets of yourself, not when he seems to be accepting of every little part of you.
You and Steve are completely engrossed in conversation when Foley suddenly gives off a whine. Big dark eyes peer up at Steve, sad doggy eyebrows twitching as he seeks undivided attention. Steve, ever the pushover for that adorable face, gives Foley a reassuring pat on the head.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he begins, returning to stroking your dog’s ears. “How did you come up with the name ‘Foley’?”
Affectionately, you grin down at the canine before turning your gaze back on Steve. “I wanted this calm, sweet, loyal dog. Someone I could rely on and who could make me feel a little safer while living alone. And don’t get me wrong, he’s like that ninety-nine percent of the time…” Your voice goes deadpan. “Except for when he’s around you.”
Steve blows a laugh through his nose, clearly caught off guard.
“Anyway,” you continue, nerves consuming you, “when he was a pup, I thought a police officer’s name would be the right choice. So, I chose the one from Beverly Hills Cop.” Your eyes are in your lap, where your fingers toy absentmindedly with the end of Foley’s leash.
Steve’s brows pinch together. “Have you ever watched the movie?” His question draws your eyes back to his. Though non-judgemental, Steve does appear skeptical.
You stammer. “Uhh…no. I just really like the song.” After saying it out loud, you realize how dumb you must seem. But Steve’s face confirms none of that. Instead, he’s beaming again.
“Axel F is the charismatic, cheeky one… and sometimes he’s a bit of an asshole.”
Now it’s your turn to laugh. You peer down at Foley, who has resorted to head-butting Steve’s hand for more of the spotlight. “I guess that explains a lot,” you tease. “If I wanted a calm pup, I shoulda named you after the sheriff from The Andy Griffith Show, huh, boy?”
Foley snorts his disapproval and Steve knocks his shoulder playfully against yours with a dazzling smirk.
Suddenly, however, something catches Steve’s eye, and he stretches to look out above your head. Squinting, he attempts to focus on something in the distance. He casts a quick glance at you, lips turning downwards into a frown. “I think my bus is on its way.” His tone deflates of all its previous joy. Your heart sinks with it.
Steve’s hazel eyes lock onto yours, words racing against the clock. “Look,” he begins. “I really enjoyed talking with you and…” A pause. A bite of his lip. An unsteady intake of breath. You hang on every little movement. “Well, maybe we could meet up again sometime? We could finally get you watching Beverly Hills Cop?” A hopeful gleam appears in his eye, and you notice the way his lips curve to cradle the gentlest of smiles; the pair of freckles on his cheek shift along with them.
An involuntary smile of your own makes its way across your features. Your heart beats out a rapid lub-dub against your chest. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
Steve’s eyes crinkle at the corners, delight and what just might be relief washing over him. “Great!” he chimes just as the bus arrives at the stop. He stands. Foley mirrors his actions. “Here’s my number.” Steve recites the digits as he makes his way towards the open door of the bus. “Gimme a call!” He then gives Foley a final pat on the head before ascending the steps onto the city bus.
Just as the bus doors are about to close, Steve turns back to give you a wave. But it’s the beaming smile that he flashes at the same time that will linger in your mind long after you and Foley get back home.
The One Time it Worked
Holy shit! Steve, the random guy your dog has been obsessed with for the last several weeks, asked you out!
Throwing caution to the wind, you didn’t end up waiting long before giving Steve a call–unwritten dating rules be damned! And Steve had been just as eager when he picked up at the other end of the line. The two of you made plans for a movie night in the park; Foley, of course, was invited too.
And Steve, as it turned out, is an absolute gentleman. He had requested Beverly Hills Cop be shown that night and had assembled a picnic for you to share: homemade treats and sandwiches for the humans and Pupperoni for the canine.
The two of you spent the evening nestled close on a blanket, eating and laughing along with the film. Foley lay between you, softly chuffing at each mention of his name on screen.
Once the movie had concluded and the picnic had been packed up, Steve escorts both you and Foley home. He stands in front you on the stoop of your building, bathed in the soft yellow light from the porch lamp overhead. Wisps of chestnut hair appear golden as they flutter in the gentle breeze.
“So, this is me,” you state nervously. Staring up into his eyes, you observe how flecks of green marry with swirls of amber. “I had a really great night,” you add, voice softening, sincere. “Thank you, Steve.”
Steve’s eyes form crescent moons as they peer back at you. “I had a great time too.” His words are spoken so low that they’re almost a whisper. “I’d really love to see you again.”
Your teeth capture your bottom lip, trying to suppress the giddy grin that threatens to form. “I’d like that.”
Steve’s pupils darken, eyes wandering to your lips before slowly easing their way back up to yours. The two of you draw near, orbits closing in. Steve’s hand caresses along your cheek; fingers slip behind your hair. His nose brushes yours, eyelashes flickering as he searches for any sign of apprehension. You press your body closer to his, giving him his answer.
Tender lips then meet yours. A warmth radiates through your chest and peppers its way down your spine. You melt together like two halves of the same whole.
You could stay wrapped in Steve’s embrace forever, yet the kiss is brought to an abrupt halt by the whines and needy whimpers of the golden retriever at your feet. The absurdity has Steve smiling against your lips, forehead resting on yours. “Never a dull moment with this one around, huh?” he chuckles before reluctantly drawing back.
Reaching down, you lace your fingers with his. “Nope. That’s for sure!”
The night ends with Foley being showered with affection and the promise of many more evenings like this to come.
One Year Later
Nighttime had settled over the city, and in a tiny apartment, two people lay cuddled in a cozy bed. The man, with dark brown hair and shining hazel eyes, peers down affectionately at the person he loves, resting their head on his chest.
An arm holds your sleepy form close, warm and safe and already drifting off towards a pleasant sleep. At the foot of the bed lies a golden retriever; his soft muzzle nestled lazily on two front paws. He, too, begins to doze as the day draws to an end.
The man glances down at the canine at his feet. “Thank you, Foley,” he whispers before placing a tender kiss to the top of your head and switching off the light.
Hopefully you enjoyed reading this one! Feedback is loved! ♡ Main Masterlist | Stranger Things Masterlist
Forgive Me Father (For We Have Sinned)
Pairing: Steve Harrington (priest!Steve) x f!reader
Summary: "Stolen glances. Eyes held for just a moment too long. A thumb that brushes along your bottom lip when the tiny wafer is placed delicately on your tongue..." Months of palpable tension finally snap when you find the young priest, Steve, taking his own confession.
Tags/warnings: Smut! (Minors, STAY AWAY! 18+ only! Shoo! Shoo!); blasphemy (literally); oral (m!receiving); unprotected p in v; mutual pining; forbidden romance; priest!Steve AU; characters are adults; cursing (but if you're reading this, that's the tamest of the sins)
Words: 1178
A/N: Eep! This may be the nastiest concept I've written. I was just sitting there listening to some shmexy 80s tunes and WHAM! this one hit me like a ton of bricks. Well, maybe it had something to do with the songs... (The songs: Father Figure + Like A Prayer) 😇🙏
Fic below the cut or on AO3
Stolen glances. Eyes held for just a moment too long. A thumb that brushes along your bottom lip when the tiny wafer is placed delicately on your tongue. Tension between you and the new, youthful priest, Steve, had been palpable for months. And each Sunday when you dutifully attended mass, you were certain that the sinful thoughts that saturated your mind could never be absolved.
It is the Sunday evening before a community potluck. You had been asked to deliver your family’s contribution for the event before nighttime settled over the tiny town. As you approach, anticipation builds within your veins; you know the building will be empty save for the one person your body aches for most.
The local church stands righteously in the darkness; only dim lights glow through its stained-glass windows. The old door creaks when you push it inwards, finding candles casting shadows over wooden walls and a vaulted ceiling.
Making your way down the carpeted aisle, you follow the corridor of golden candlelight towards the back of the small church. Incense lingers in the air, and painted crosses line an altar draped in white linen. A Bible lies open on the surface, its passages left abandoned in the dim light.
Then a murmur sounds from nearby. A mahogany booth towers in the corner, from which echoes of a sacrament are recited by a familiar voice, deep and low.
Something pulls at you from inside. A heat crawls through your chest and pools low in your belly.
Setting down the casserole in hand, you make your way, quiet as a mouse, to the confessional. A dark curtain hangs in front of its entrance, hiding its occupant away. The whispered sacrament—Confession—grows louder as you near, but a shift in weight above a loose floorboard abruptly halts the speaker. Standing still before the curtain, you hold your breath, heart pounding against your rib cage.
A swish of fabric and the velvety material is slowly withdrawn. Handsome features shrouded in shadows greet you with surprise. Pert lips part into a silent ‘O’, and chestnut hair hangs loose across his forehead. His hazel eyes darken as he drinks in your figure before travelling upwards to meet your gaze. That pull inside you grows stronger; it dampens your core.
You take a cautious step forward to where he sits on a wooden bench within. He doesn’t stop you. Instead, his breathing picks up, silently emboldening you to draw near. The curtain falls closed behind you as you move, haloing your form in the light that filters in around it.
Tentatively you reach out a hand, yet you know he will do nothing to stop you. Eyes transfixed on his, you curl your fingers around his belt buckle, other hand coming up to assist. The metal clinks softly as it comes undone. Heat blooms scarlet across his cheeks—a stark contrast to the sacred white band encircling his neck. Deftly, you work him free from his black trousers and languidly sink to your knees. His desire hangs heavy against his belly.
His head bends to keep your gazes locked as he watches you grip his base. A hitch of breath. A subtle kick of his seated hips. All wordless cues to how responsive he is to your touch.
Through a fan of lashes, you observe how brilliant hazel irises become swallowed by lust when you take him into your mouth. A low, guttural sound resonates off the walls of the cramped space as you roll your tongue and hollow your cheeks. One hand strokes what cannot be held inside your mouth while the other scratches lightly along his still-clothed thigh. You can feel his muscles tense—building and building as you bob your head. A large palm moves to caress the soft skin of your cheek, thumb stroking delicately along the ridge of bone. The tender motion keeps your eyes trained on his as you study how his face contorts with pleasure over every movement you make.
His hips then begin to gently thrust up to meet you, forcing him deeper into your throat. You take what’s given, humming at the sensation—the vibration is all that’s needed for him to careen over the edge.
His head throws back as hands fly upwards to catch it. Fingers fist into perfectly styled locks, and his eyes screw shut. The column of his throat bobs as he moans against the white collar fastened snugly around his neck. His hips stutter and press against your face while his spend runs down your throat. The scene is lewd and forbidden—anyone could walk in at any time. But this moment has been building for months, raw and inevitable.
With chest heaving, he finally looks down at you between his knees. You pull off him, dragging your tongue along his sensitive length before swiping two fingers across the corner of your lips.
Wide hands on the backs of your elbows guide you to stand; those warm palms slide around your waist as he closes the distance with a searing kiss. “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs against your swollen lips before dipping his tongue back between them.
You shift to straddle his lap, knees planted roughly on either side of his hips against the wooden seat. The kiss grows fiercer, and you grind down against his exposed length, trying to stoke the fire that’s ablaze between your legs.
His hands grope along your curves, teeth nipping the sensitive skin beneath your jaw. You tilt your head to allow him better access, using his broad shoulders to leverage your movements against him.
Hot breath tickles your neck. “I never wanted to take the cloth,” he confesses. “The decision was made for me.” He seals his admission with a kiss placed against the salty beads of sweat that line your skin. Your hands find his hair, nails scraping lightly along his scalp. You feel him come alive between your thighs once again.
“Run away with me,” you breathe, resting your forehead against his.
He tilts you back gently, darkened eyes hopeful and searching.
Yours reflect nothing but sincerity.
Something ignites in him then. His hands shift to your behind. They ruck up your dress before two fingers find your clothed center. His touch draws a whimper from your chest.
“Fuck,” he mutters again as he dips inside the fabric and slips his fingers through the wetness gathered there.
With haste, your panties are pulled to the side, and you raise your hips to accommodate.
Then he is staring back into your eyes. You reach down and take hold of his heavy girth in your palm. “Yes?” you whisper, the question running deeper than the here and now.
“Yes,” he nods before kissing you with an intensity that conveys every possible meaning of that simple word.
A shared moan envelopes you as you join as one. It doesn’t take long before you are meeting him thrust for thrust with arms wrapped around one another and promises for the future falling longingly from his lips like a prayer.
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Cycat's Stranger Things Masterlist
Contents
➛ Steve Harrington x Reader
Symbols, Ratings & Info
➛ 🔥= 18+ NO MINORS ➛ [#/#] = multi-chapter ➛ [x] = AO3 link ➛ Personal favorites ➛ Fic reblogs = ♥ ➛ Main masterlist
I do NOT consent to my fics being reposted, copied to other sites or fed into AI. Thanks!
Resources
Steve Harrington Timeline
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Steve Harrington x Reader
One Shots
Copy room Quickie + bonus ending🔥 - [x] ➛ Banging Steve afterhours in the copy room. (Coach!Steve x teacher!reader) . Forgive Me Father (For We Have Sinned) 🔥- [x] ➛ Exactly what you think it is... (Priest!Steve, mutual pining) . Four Times Foley Tried to Set You up on a Date, and the One Time It Worked - [x] ➛ A four + one fic involving Steve, your dog and a few random chance meetings. (Strangers to lovers) . I Left My Pretty Baby With Ralphie - [x] ➛ Former King of Hawkins High, Steve, has a crush on reader but does he stand a chance against the new king, Little Ralphie Baker? (Friends to lovers, mutual pining) . Invisible - [x] ➛ A longing to be noticed finally fulfilled. (Former classmates, unrequited crush) . Marooned🔥 - [x] ➛ You find yourself stuck in the Upside Down with Steve during S5, E4. (Established relationship, plus a last hoorah in the backseat of his Beamer.) . Morning News - [x] ➛ Reader wakes a sleeping Steve to share some important news with him. (Established relationship, dad!Steve) . My Heart In Your Dreams - [x] ➛ Inspired by Djo's "Gap Tooth Smile", you and Steve once were best friends but are now estranged. Years later, you don't know why he's decided to show up at your house, nor whether the two of your will be able to overcome the past. (Former best friends, friends to lovers, mutual pining) . Spent🔥 - [x] ➛ Reader wakes up ready for round two. (Established relationship)
Imagines and blurbs
And I Got You - [x] ➛ You, Steve, one campervan and a dream for the future until it all goes wrong. . Ideal ending for Steve in season 5 ➛ Featuring that look ™ from the bts photos, a pickup truck, the open road and a chance meeting in a small town. Oh, and a classic song from 1990. . New-dad!Steve ➛ Steve evaluates his past and vows to be different than his own father.
Snippet from an upcoming fic that started as a smol idea and snowballed into a lot of feels...
