summary: as far as meet-cutes go, yours is rather iconic. when you attend one of star player steve harrington's baseball game with the full intention to catch a home-run, you didn't expect to catch a concussion and a hot date either.
notes: big big thanks to @thecreelhouse for this idea!!! i yap endlessly about baseball so maybe this is more for me than anything else but i hope you like it!
wc: 2.1k
warnings: none! just fluff and mention of reader sustaining a minor concussion/bruise.
You're on your feet before you can even think, your shouts and complaints mingling with the rest of the crowd as the umpire calls what was clearly a ball a strike. When the call stands, you groan and slump back in your seat, huffing and grumbling before you're shifting to sit at the edge of the plastic chairs with your elbows braced upon your knees.
Steve Harrington crouches back in position and from your vantage point, you swear you've got the best seat in the house.
It's nothing expensive—not a box suite for the corporate assholes or the celebrities—but it's stationed by deep left field where Steve Harrington is prone to hit his homers. Sure, he isn't bigger than your thumb if you were to hold your hand up to home plate from how far you're actually seated.
But it's where the fans will swear by, the true fans that boo and disparage their favorite player's name from a place of utter love. You've been coming to games since you were a kid, propped up on your dad's knee and your beady little eyes trying to find patterns of why your father would cheer or boo at the screen.
Now you're just like him, a crashout queen made in his image.
"Stay on the bag, stay on the fuckin—!" You shout when a player on your team attempted to steal second base before nearly getting picked off by the catcher.
Steve Harrington's still at bat but the count's full now. It's the ninth inning with two outs, one run down from the opposite team, and one player on first base.
One homer and your team wins the game.
The pitcher winds up the pitch before letting loose. The ball's a blur and you lose it before the unmistakable crack of a bat echoes throughout the field and you see it.
It's soaring above the green and you're immediately on your feet with the rest of the crowd. You've got a gloved hand held above you, ready to catch it and—
"OOH—"
The crowd groans in sympathy when the ball lands right on your temple and your vision nearly goes white, slumping down into your seat absolutely dazed. The world spins around you as an unmistakable dull yet sharp pain blooms on the side of your head.
"… some help here! She's …"
Voices and sentences and misshapen syllables flood your brain before you feel your body lifted and placed on a gurney. Despite the pain that's taking over, a stab of embarrassment makes itself known when you're carted away.
Soon enough, your vision blacks out.
—
The first thing you see is white, fluorescent lights when you come to and the first thing you feel is a horrific throbbing in your right temple. Your vision is blurry for only a moment before the world clears out and comes into view.
"Careful."
A medic with a badge that read 'Vickie' gently stops you from touching the bandage wrapped around your head. You look up in confusion as you try to recall how you even got here.
"What— what happened? Where am I?" The wax paper beneath you crinkles as you shift on the exam table that's inclined up to a seated position. You find yourself in what looks like a small doctor's office, a few diagrams of the human body on either side of you and a monitor atop a table with a rolling stool.
You aren't alone.
"You have some luck," Vickie chuckles as she hands you an ice pack wrapped in a paper towel to hold to your bandaged head while Robin leans against the exam table beside you. She doesn't care for sports but tags along to a game whenever you bribe her with a new vinyl. For once, she's happy she came to this one; she'd hate to get the call from home that you got hit with a ball and she wasn't there to witness it herself. "Harrington's homer landed right on your pretty head. Minor concussion and some bruising but otherwise, you'll be fine."
You blink up at her before you glance behind her to see Steve Harrington himself hovering by the doorway. He hasn't even changed out of his uniform, his chest and knee still smeared with dirt from where he had slid home from the sixth inning. His infamous hair is still defying gravity but it sits crooked, as if he's been running his hands through his tresses. It barely distracts away from the concern and guilt swimming in those warm eyes from the fact that he might've caused permanent damage to your head—
"Okay, but did we win?"
An incredulous laugh escapes the medic and Steve but your face doesn't twitch at all, brows set with determination. Robin shakes her head but a smile threatens to lift the corner of her lips. "She's absolutely serious, by the way. Better answer before she hightails it to the field to see the score herself."
"Yes, we won." Steve clears his throat bfeore stepping further into the room. His broad shoulders practically fill out the doorway and you swallow nervously. You're wearing his jersey but he's too busy staring at the growing bump on your head. "But are you okay? Dizziness or nausea or—" He looks up to the medic who's growing more and more entertained at their frazzled designated hitter. "Is she actually okay?"
"She's fine, Steve. Checked her vitals, all she'll get is a nasty bruise and maybe a signed baseball?" Vickie hedges with a knowing grin and he startles as if he was jolted with an electric shock. He digs into his pocket behind him to retrieve a dirty ball as Vickie hands him a sharpie from a cabinet nearby.
You already lack impulse control with your mouth as it is but maybe the minor concussion had just bulldozed through whatever flimsy brain-to-mouth filter you had because you scoot to the edge of the medic table to get closer to Steve.
"Just a signed baseball? I could've died, Harrington."
Steve balks. "Uh—" The sharpie draws a smear through the seam when he flinches at how close your pretty face is. "What— I mean, is there anything you want? Anything at all."
You shrug casually. "Season tickets, maybe?"
Steve's smile is beaming when he laughs, fully charmed by your dry humor as he fixes up his signature. He hands the ball to you, tries not to focus on how warm your fingertips are when they brush against his calloused ones. "I'll see what I can do."
A comfortable silence befalls both of you and you wait to see if this is where this dream-like interaction ends but Steve makes no room to move. His eyes keep glancing up to the bandage, his eyes tightening in a look that you're starting to recognize as guilt and worry.
"I'm fine, Steve. Seriously," you chuckle. "It hurts a little, but that's it."
He nods and reaches out to brush aside a few strands of your hair, fingertips skimming along the white bandage. Vaguely, you recognize Robin and Vickie chatting it up behind Steve. Before you can dwell on it, the athlete draws you back in with a soft chuckle.
"Your eyes are wandering, could be a sign of brain damage. Sure you're good?"
Your brows furrow in slight frustration. "I'm good, I promise." To drive your point home, you lift a pinky up for a pinky swear.
Steve's smile makes your heart flip as he indulges you, linking his pinky around yours. The tightening in his eyes is gone now. He looks cuter like this, boyish and eager as he seems to hype himself up for his next reply. "Yeah? Good enough to maybe… go on a date with me?"
A wave of giddiness erupts in your chest but your face is nearly stoic as his question settles into the silence that blooms within the room. Vickie and Robin are watching in rapt attention, eyes wide in surprise.
"Is this a pity date?"
The confidence in Steve's eyes are obliterated as they go wide, tripping over his words. You fight the growing smile on your face. "What—no!"
You don't stop and Robin groans into her palm, catching onto your twisted sense of humor. "What if I was ugly? Would you just have offered me free tickets than a date after busting a baseball right into my head?"
"No-! Jesus, I wouldn't—I mean, would you rather prefer free tickets?" Steve's digging himself into an early grave; Dustin's been saying he's been losing his touch. This is what he gets for flirting with the pretty girl that he just gave a concussion to. "I could just give you free tickets…?"
But to make matter worse, you pout. You pout and Steve's ready to shove his head into the pitching machines to atone for his foot-in-mouth disease.
"Oh my god, you think I'm ugly?!"
Steve's ready to pass away now but Robin's loud jeering pulls himself out of his own pity party. "Jesus Christ, babes, let the man breathe—! Hey, uh… Mr. Harrington? Don't take it seriously, she's fuckin' with you."
He chances a look back at you and his heart all but gives out. The pout is gone but the little smile on your lips is devastating. "I am," you confirm with a quiet giggle and—
He's a fucking goner.
"You're not gonna make things easy for me, will you?" Steve sighs with a fond chuckle and steps a bit closer into your space, forcing you to tip your head up to meet his gaze.
You shake your head. "Your homer conked me in the head, Harrington. I deserve a little fun."
"You're trouble." When you don't deny it, Steve gives you a little laugh and gently tugs your wrist out (the hand that isn't holding the ball). He bites the cap off with his teeth and write something on your hand. It isn't until he's recapping the marker that you see his number is scrawled onto your skin, punctuated with a little smiley face.
A shout of his name could be heard down the hall and you take this as your cue to start heading out. Robin's quick to throw an arm around your hips to steady you as you begin to walk, waving goodbye to Steve as he starts to exit through the other way down the hall.
Robin's chatter blends into the background, growing quieter as the two of you walk off and he pauses in his steps as he glances over his shoulder. He nearly trips over his feet.
You were wearing his goddamn last name on your back.
—
Ten months later.
"What's this one commemorating?"
Dustin saunters into yours and Steve's new apartment with all the confidence of a homeowner. He'd been adorable when you first met him a few months into dating Steve, a smart-ass but endearing all the same, but now he's burrowed deep into your heart as an honorary little brother. So when you and Steve decided to throw a small housewarming party to also celebrate being signed for five more years with his team, Dustin had been the first to slam right through the door.
You look over your shoulder from the kitchen where you were preparing drinks while Steve fiddles with the music system. "Which one, Dusty?"
He points to the cleanest ball on top of the mantle, the one smack dab in the middle amongst the few other baseballs that are proudly displayed. You remember them all; his first homerun of the post season. His winning walk-off homerun of the World Series. His fiftieth homerun that solidified him as a member of the 50/50 club.
But the one Dustin's pointing to brings forth a smile on your face as you enter the main living space to place the drinks down on the coffee table. A few of your other guests wander closer to the fireplace to catch a glimpse of the baseball with no placard.
"That one, my friend, is how Steve Harrington asked me out."
Dustin rolls his eyes and Vickie and Robin share a laugh from the corner of the room as they recall that fateful day. The other guests, however, hum in confusion and when they ask for you to elaborate, Steve's fighting through the crowd to get to you before you could answer. Except—
"His homerun conked me right on the head and he asked me out while I was suffering a minor concussion—"
"Why would you say it like that?" Steve groans as he finally makes it to you, an arm around your waist to hug you from behind with his face shoved into your neck.
"Because I'm a delight, Stevie," you grin as you tilt your head, allowing him to pepper kisses along the line of your neck.
His teeth graze along your most sensitive spot. "You're trouble, is what you are."
Your smile never falters as his hand settles on top of yours. "You love it."
"'Course I do. Wouldn't want it any other way."
thank you for reading! reblogs and likes and comments are much appreciated ♡ join my taglist at @80sfilmclub-notifs
summary: when something happens to your apartment and you need a place to stay, steve, your best friend, is quick to provide it for you. your prolonged proximity forces you both to realize some things.
word count: 13.6k
warnings: childhood bffs to lovers, absolute idiots in love, mentions of a negative relationship with parents, probably inaccurate descriptions of some things but it’s (say it with me) for the plot!!!
a/n: i know it’s been a LONG time since i’ve posted a long fic so thank u guys for ur patience <3 i had so much fun getting back to it and writing these two, and i hope it’s at least a little bit worth the wait!!! ily :,)
𝜗𝜚
Your shoes are still wet as you dial the first number that comes to mind: Steve’s.
He picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Hey, Steve.”
“Hi,” you can imagine him on the other side of the phone, leaning casually against the wall, an easy smile on his face, “what’s going on?”
You’re not quite sure where to start.
Coming home from work earlier, you’d been excited to shower and change and lay around for the rest of the evening, your book hanging open in your lap and some mindless TV filling the silence.
The day seemed to have other plans for you, though, because as you walked down the stairs to your apartment—one in the basement of a sweet, older couple’s house who just never used the space and converted it—the carpet had made an ugly squelch as soon as you stepped on it.
You looked down at your shoe against the carpet, at the way its color was darker than usual from whatever water had gotten into it. Looking up, you found a complete mess. A piece of the ceiling hanging open right above your bed, water still dripping in steady drops from the gap, your bedding ruined among many other things.
You don’t know how long you stood there, hand over your mouth, eyes flickering over the damage like you were hoping it would vanish, like it was only something you imagined.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t.
The couple who owns the house came down when they heard you shout for them, unsure of what else to do. They’d both gasped when they came down, and began apologizing for something that really wasn’t their fault before one ran up to call whoever it was they needed to call to fix this and the other comforted you with a gentle “we’ll take care of it, sweetie.”
You nodded, eyes still roaming your space that was now uninhabitable.
It’s an old house, something was bound to happen at some point, you only wished it wasn’t so inconvenient for you. A small leak, you could have handled, but the ceiling practically caving in?
Yeah, it was a complete fucking mess.
Hours later, with the damage assessed and set to take a few weeks to fix up, you’re on the phone with the one person you’d known would pick up.
You fill Steve in on what happened, and his first response is a sigh of, “Shit.”
“Yeah, shit,” you agree. “And now I’m gonna have to live with my parents for a while and I don’t know how I’m gonna go back into that house, Steve.”
If you’re being honest, the couple you live with now was kinder to you than your parents were. You suppose that’s one of the many things that you and Steve have bonded over.
“Just come live with me, instead,” he offers without hesitation.
Steve says it like it’s obvious, a no-brainer, and you guess it should be, since you’ve slept over at the Harrington’s house countless times before. Only, this is different because you’d be staying for a while, because you’d be needing his help, which makes you feel all awkward and guilty.
He’s been your absolute best friend for as long as you can remember, and you’re one hundred percent sure you’d offer the same thing if the roles were reversed, but that doesn’t make it any easier for you to accept, not when you’re already frazzled from the events of the day.
“No, Steve, I’m sorry I’m just being dramatic,” you say, twisting the phone’s cord around your finger. “I’ll be fine, really. It’s just a month, or so, and I don’t wanna be in your way or-”
“When have you ever cared about being in my way, angel?” The pet name he’s called you ever since your ninth grade Halloween party slips out naturally, the way it always does. “Besides, this house is too fucking big for me as it is, and you know my parents won’t be around to care, either.”
“I can’t ask you to let me move in, Steve.”
“Well then, it’s a good thing you’re not asking. I’m offering. It’ll be like that one week when we were twelve and you stayed over for spring break, only longer. It’s perfect!”
There’s a small smile ghosting across your face as you recall the memory he’s talking about. A blanket fort in their spacious living room, sleeping bags and pillows piled inside it along with two flashlights.
You can picture the way he looks on the other end of the phone, his hair a bit messy from running his hands through it during the day, one strand rogue against his forehead, his shoulder leaned carelessly against the wall the way it usually is when he stands. Like he can’t be bothered to hold himself up, like there’s constantly a weight on him.
“Are you sure about this, Steve? It’s really okay if you’re not. I swear I’ll be fine.”
“As if I’m letting you spend multiple weeks back in your parent’s house. You’re staying with me, alright?” His voice is insistent, yet kind, letting you know that he’s being honest, that he means it. “We’ll order pizzas and watch shitty romcoms, ‘kay?”
“You can call romcoms shitty all you want, but we both know you get teary at every single one.”
“Don't change the subject, angel. Also, fuck off,” he says, though you can hear the smile in his voice. “So, you’re living with me, yeah?”
You don’t think you could say no to him even if you wanted to.
“Yeah, alright, Steve. Thank you so much.”
“None of that. I know you’d do the same.”
There’s something beautiful about the kind of trust and ease that comes with a friendship as long as yours. One where you’ve watched each other grow up, awkward phases and all, and stuck together the entire way. There’s no questioning whether or not you’d be there for each other if you were in need.
It’s known, felt. Like a fact.
“Now,” he continues, “I’ll pick you up, okay? Ten minutes, tops.”
“Okay.”
“You need me to bring boxes for your stuff?”
“I’m not sure how much is worth keeping. It’s pretty ugly in there.”
Your voice goes small at the end, because the gravity of it all is really sinking in. You’ll have to replace a lot of stuff. Stuff you don’t have money for right now.
But, you haven’t let yourself cry just yet, so you swallow it down.
“I’ll bring some anyway, then. We’ll figure it out, angel, don’t worry.”
“Thanks again, Steve. See you soon.”
“Ten minutes,” he assures you, then the line clicks.
-
True to his word, Steve arrives in under ten minutes, which isn’t surprising considering the size of Hawkins, but feels reassuring all the same.
You’re sitting on the curb in front of the house when Steve’s BMW pulls over on the other side of the road, and you stand just as he climbs out and shuts his door, rounding the car and jogging over to you.
His keys jingle as he tucks them into the pocket of his faded jeans, his opposite hand coming up to squeeze your shoulder, “You okay?”
The warmth of his palm seeps through your work shirt that you’ve yet to change out of, and you let your eyes fall shut just for a second before looking at his face, “Guess so,” you nod. “Maybe ask me again after all of this?”
Steve’s arm winds itself over your shoulders, tugging you into his side and dropping a kiss to the top of your head, simple as an instinct. “I’ve got you. We’ll get through this, angel.”
We’ll, he says. A team.
You reach up and squeeze his hand and nod, guiding him to the side-entrance leading to your basement apartment.
“I hope you didn’t wear your good shoes for this,” you say.
Steve looks down at his feet and shrugs, “Shoes can be replaced.”
He lets you lead the way down the stairs, his footsteps close behind yours. You wince when you look at the damage again, even though you’d seen it minutes ago. You can't bring yourself to look at Steve, to see the reaction on his face, because you think it’ll just make it all more real.
He mouths the word ‘fuck’ while you aren’t looking, then claps his hands once. “Okay, let’s figure out what we can save, yeah? Where do you want me?”
You’re grateful for his gentle guidance at what to do. “Maybe the bathroom? Everything in there should be fine, so it just needs to be packed.”
“‘Kay. I’ll just go grab some boxes from my car,” Steve says. He squeezes your hand once before heading up the stairs. “I’ll be right back.”
You decide to tackle the worst spot first. Though the place is more like a studio, the side that houses your bed and your closet is the most affected, so you head over there and try to tune out the squish of the carpet beneath your feet.
You’re opening the sliding doors to your closet when Steve comes back, dropping a stack of boxes by your feet and running his hand down your arm softly before heading over to the bathroom to pack for you.
Even his presence seems to be making things a little bit easier for you, and each time he finds a small way to touch you or speak to you, to remind you that he’s there, you’re glad for it.
Half of your closet is a gross, wet mess, but some things are salvageable, which you take as a win. Things might be damp, but at least it’s only water, you suppose. A cycle in the dryer and most things will be wearable again.
Your dresses that are hung get the worst of it, soaked and smelly, and you decide that it’d be easier to get a couple new ones than to try and save what’s there.
Steve checks in every now and then, poking his head out of the bathroom’s doorway to look at you and make sure you’re doing alright, giving you a thumbs up when you look over to him.
You’re not sure how you’d be managing this if you were alone, and you’re thankful that you don’t have to.
The next time he checks on you, you’re by your nightstand.
Sitting atop of it is a framed picture of you and Steve from summer camp when you were around ten years old, maybe younger. Only now, the picture’s stained with water and the frame you’d decorated all those years ago at camp is a splotchy mess.
Where yours and Steve’s handwriting used to be, is now a blur from the water seeping into the wooden frame, the marker’s colors muddy. You frown, picking it up and running your thumb over the edge.
Before you can stop yourself, you’re tearing up, frustrated and sad and tired. Memories like this one are the most special to you, the ones that have kept you going for so long, and just like that, the picture that’s sat on your nightstand since being taken is gone, and it fucking sucks.
“Hey, angel?” Steve calls.
When all you do is sniffle and mumble an “mhm?” in response, he sets the box he’d been packing on the bathroom counter and walks over to you.
He comes up behind you, resting his hands on your upper-arms and peering over your shoulder at the ruined picture.
“It was my favorite one,” you say, voice breaking a little. You wipe your tear away as it trails down your cheek, your own fingertips too harsh against your skin.
Although it’s soaked and splotchy now, Steve knows which picture it is. The one where you’ve both got your neon summer camp t-shirts on, the one where his cheeks and nose are completely sunburnt and you’re both grinning up at the camera from your seats on the ground.
Steve’s clutching a stick in his hand for some reason, and you’ve got your fist tangled in the sleeve of his shirt.
It feels like no time and forever has passed since then.
Steve grabs the picture and pries it gently from your hands, setting it back onto the table and turning you around in his grip to face him.
“We can fix it,” he tells you, his brown eyes all soft as his hands come up to cup your face, thumbs swiping your tears away.
“But the frame-”
“We’ll fix it, angel. I’ll find a way, okay? We can pack it in one of the boxes and figure it out.”
“Steve-”
“Look at me,” he urges you when your gaze flickers to the ground. You listen. “This fucking sucks, I know it does, but you’re strong and I’m here, and we can handle this.”
His voice is quiet, but sure. You search his face for any trace of a lie and find none. He really believes what he’s saying, and he really believes in you.
“Thank you for being here.” You take a deep breath and drop your forehead against the collar of his shirt. “I’m sorry for crying. I know it’s kinda stupid. Most of this is replaceable, it’s just-”
“It’s not stupid,” he says, letting his chin rest atop your head. “You’re allowed to cry. Hell, I’d probably be kicking and screaming on the floor like I'm back in the terrible twos.”
You laugh wetly into his shirt.
“Now,” he says, pulling back and putting his hands on his hips, “the quicker we pack, the quicker we go home. I’ll even let you wear a pair of my good fuzzy socks.”
A smile tugs at your mouth. “Deal.”
-
Steve wouldn’t let you do much of the work after that.
Instead, he simply held up items for you to assess from where you’d been leaning against the wall and packed it into a box if it was a ‘yes,’ or tossing it aside dramatically just to try and get you to laugh if it was a ‘no.’
Once things were sorted through and packed, you loaded everything into Steve’s car—which wasn’t a whole bunch, considering how much you had to leave behind.
You’d refused to let Steve carry the boxes all on his own, though he tried, but he still managed to open the doors for you whenever you made it to his car, even when his own hands were full, too.
By the time you were finished, you were drained. It felt like you’d lived multiple days in the one. An eight hour shift opening at the store, then coming home to a wrecked apartment. All you wanted to do was shower and lay down and not get back up.
Steve knows you well enough to be able to tell when it’s time to fill the silence and when it isn’t, and on the drive back to his place, while your head was leaned against his window, he knew to stay quiet and give you a bit of space.
He turned the radio on, but not too loud, letting the songs hum through the speakers. At every stop sign, he reached over and gave your thigh a light squeeze. Reassuring, kind, somehow exactly what you needed at the moment. Nothing more, nothing less.
You were no stranger to the Harrington’s house, having been there countless times since you were little, but it feels more intimidating now, knowing you’ll be staying. You feel silly for being worried, but you are. Asking for help makes you feel like a burden.
Steve, however, doesn’t let you entertain that thought for long, parking in his driveway and jogging around to open the passenger door for you. “Honey, we’re home!”
“Dork,” you say, though you accept his hand and let him tug you up out of the car.
Grabbing the first couple of boxes, Steve leads you inside and upstairs, right to the guest room across the hall from his own bedroom. The closest one to him.
The house has at least two guest rooms, though you suppose with how little Steve's parents are around, you could consider there to be three. Three spare rooms and Steve puts you up in the nearest one possible. It makes your heart squish in your chest, how caring he is. He doesn’t even have to try, really, the goodness in him shows even when he tries to keep it hidden.
It only takes a few trips down to his car and back before all of your boxes are stacked against the wall. You decide you’ll deal with them later.
Steve runs over to his room and grabs a set of pajamas that you’d left there, and hands them to you. “I figured you’d wanna wash up.”
“You calling me smelly, Harrington?”
“Shut up, I think you smell nice. Usually.”
“Hey!”
“I’m teasing, angel.” He ruffles your hair. You swat his hand away. “You know where the bathroom is, and there should be soap and stuff in the shower already. Just yell if you need something, okay?”
You do know where the bathroom is. You have your own toothbrush in a cup by the sink, a set of travel-sized skin care products in the cupboard behind the mirror for whenever you end up staying over.
It’s funny, you’ve always felt more at home here than at your own parents house, and though he hasn’t said it to you, Steve much prefers this house when you’re in it. There’s a warmth that comes with your presence that makes him ache when it’s not around.
You nod, “Thank you again for letting me stay, Steve. I won’t be in the way, promise.”
“I want you in the way. You know you’re always welcome. This is no different.” He shrugs, “Plus, it’ll be nice having you around. Place always feels so empty when it’s just me.”
“Maybe I’ll just stay forever, then,” you say, tone light and joking.
Steve, completely serious, says, “I’d let you.”
There’s a zip that goes through you when he says it, quick as lightning, something you’ve never felt—or noticed, rather—around him. It throws you off just a little.
“Anyways,” Steve cuts your thoughts short, “I’ll let you get settled. Pizza will be waiting for you when you’re done.”
He leaves the room before you can thank him again, his footsteps retreating and heading downstairs.
You’ve been to his house a million times, so you don’t really feel the need to ‘get settled’ but you desperately need a shower so that’s where you go.
You stay in for longer than you need to, letting the too-hot water run down your neck and back.
When you finally do step out of the bathroom, now clad in your pajamas, and head downstairs, Steve’s sitting on the couch in the living room, the romcoms he owns sitting out in front of the TV for you to choose from, your favorite blanket resting on your side of the couch, and pizza boxes on the coffee table just as promised.
It’s the best thing in the world, you think, to have a friend like Steve.
-
You’ve been staying at Steve’s for a couple of days already, and time seems to fly by a little quicker when you’re there, especially when you’re around him.
He’s taken it upon himself to have coffee ready in the pot for you every morning, one of your favorite mugs already next to it on the counter. You’ve cooked breakfasts together (pancakes one day, where you’d done most of the work, or something simple as toast when you both have to get to work), ordered dinners, and Steve comes home from his shifts with a new movie to watch almost every day.
It’s been so nice. Almost perfect, actually.
This morning, the first day where your shifts happen to be at the exact same time, he’d even insisted on driving you to work. It was an easy yes, considering it wasn’t out of his way at all.
After a short stint of working together at the grocery store in ninth grade, and your subsequent firing from the job after a month of constantly distracting each other on the clock, Tim, the grocery manager, took it upon himself to warn Hawkins not to hire the both of you together.
Eventually, you’d taken the closest you could get which resulted in you working at the arcade and Steve next door at Family Video.
You share a parking lot. Steve already drives you to work most days. You like to put up a bit of a fight just to annoy him.
Though you haven’t worked together in years, and he isn’t far away by any means, you miss having Steve around on days like this. Where the arcade is quiet save for the sounds of the games in the background, where you’re simply babysitting the desk and cleaning things multiple times to try and make the hours pass by.
If Steve were with you, he’d make stupid jokes that you don’t wanna laugh at but do, or coerce you into playing the games while on the clock with the change you find whenever you’re cleaning.
He’d probably trash talk you, and bump your hip with his while playing pinball, and be a sore loser, and for some reason you want him around so bad.
You chalk it up to getting used to spending hours and hours with him, every single day, these past couple of days. Staying with him has made you miss him more, you think.
That’s it.
Meanwhile, over at Family Video, Steve isn’t feeling too different from you.
He’s spent the morning stocking shelves, memories popping into his head whenever he’d come across a movie you loved or watched together, while Robin’s been manning the desk.
Then, when his cart was empty and put back into the back room, he sat on the chair behind the front desk, spinning around until Robin stopped him with her foot and asked what he was thinking so hard about.
Steve caught her up on what had happened with your apartment (you’d told him he could tell her, because she’s your friend too and would find out sooner or later) and how you’d ended up staying with him in his house.
She raised her eyebrows and hummed in a way that was automatically suspicious, because Robin isn’t very good at hiding things.
“What?” Steve asks.
“Nothing.” When Steve only gives her a pointed look, Robin continues, “Well… are you sure that’s a good idea?”
Now, Robin is one of Steve’s closest friends, and him one of hers, and she supports him in pretty much everything that he does even when she teases him relentlessly along the way, but she cares about both of you and doesn’t want to see anyone hurt.
She can read Steve better than he can read himself, probably, because to Robin, it’s clear that he feels more than friendly towards you. And he doesn’t even know it.
When they became closer, it was clear to Robin, even before meeting you, just from the way Steve spoke of you, that there was a spot reserved for you in his life that couldn’t be filled by anyone else.
He would say it’s that of ‘best friend’ but Robin would call it something even bigger than that. Still, even though she thinks he’s an absolute dingus, she’s trying to let Steve figure it out for himself.
Clearly, it’s taking fucking forever.
He looks confused at her question, “Why wouldn’t it be a good idea?”
Robin sighs and resists the urge to drop her forehead against the desk and decides on, “You know what they say: become friends with your roommates, don’t become roommates with your friends.”
“Whoever they are, they’re dumb as shit,” Steve says. “She’s been over, slept over, hundreds of times. It’s not any different, just longer.”
“I guess so,” she settles on. “The rules of the world never really seem to apply to you two.”
“That’s because the rules of the world are also dumb as shit.”
“How would you know? It’s not like you’ve ever tried following them.”
“‘Cause I’m a rule breaker, Robs.”
Steve wiggles his eyebrows. Robin shoves the rolling chair he’s sitting on with her foot, sending it into the other side of the desk with a thud.
“Don’t think that smoking weed in your backyard is enough to call yourself a rule breaker, dingus.”
-
That night, your routine was pretty much the same.
Steve was already waiting for you in his car when you left the arcade, a smile spreading onto his face when he saw you making your way across the parking lot to him, your skirt swishing a little with the breeze.
Rather than go straight home, you made a stop at your apartment to talk things over with the couple who owned the home. They’d met with a builder and plumber about getting everything fixed and wanted to walk you through it all.
Steve came with you and held your hand, and both of them cooed at him and pinched his cheeks and called him a cutie before getting to the important stuff.
After going over what had to be done (rip out the carpet, replace it, fix the pipes and make sure no others were at risk, replace the ceiling, and more you couldn’t even remember already), they’d assured you that they would be taking care of it all. Covering the entire cost.
You probably would’ve argued if not for how little money was in your bank account, and how stubborn you knew these people to be. Instead, you’d squeezed them both and thanked them while your eyes grew misty with tears.
Steve’s hand stayed in yours and squeezed when you sniffled.
He knew, because he knew pretty much everything about you, that these people were kinder to you than even your own parents. That, if this had happened at their house, they would’ve found a way to blame you for it.
You feel lucky to have found that kind of parental love elsewhere, sad that you didn’t know exactly what it felt like beforehand.
After giving the couple Steve’s phone number to call in case they needed you and giving them both another hug, you and Steve headed back home.
Home, you call it. Like it’s yours.
Sometimes it feels like it is.
Later, after you and Steve have both showered and had dinner and gotten comfy in your sweats, you’re back in the living room, Steve shows you the movie he’s brought back this time.
“Gremlins?” You ask, smiling and shaking your head.
“Hell yeah, angel. It’s a classic.”
Steve sets everything up, joining you on the couch after pressing ‘play’ on the movie and adjusting the volume with your guidance.
“So, how was work?” Steve asks during the opening credits. The two of you have a hard time being next to each other and not talking. It’s why you get dirty looks whenever you go to the movies.
“Weekdays are so boring, Steve,” you say, letting your head fall against the back of the couch. “You’re so lucky you have Robin to entertain you during the day. I think I dusted like, ten times at least.”
“Robin is a pain in my ass.” He says. He doesn’t really mean it, because even when she is, he’s glad to have her around. A different kind of gladness than he feels with you. “She kept pushing me every time I sat in the rolling chair. There’s probably a dent in the desk.”
“That’s because you were probably hogging the chair, Steve.”
“What the fuck!” Steve’s smiling when he says it, lacking any sort of anger. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
Your smile mirrors his, the way it always does. It’s contagious, you think, the way his eyes crinkle at the corner.
Shrugging, you say, “I don’t know, I’d wanna push you around on that chair too, I think.”
“You’d spin me too much. I’d get sick all over you and then nobody’s happy.”
“Don’t talk about barf while I’m eating, Harrington.”
You throw a piece of popcorn at him. It bounces off his cheek and lands on his lap, and he doesn’t even flinch. Steve just picks it up and pops it into his mouth.
When the bowl’s empty, you lean forward and set it on the coffee table before sinking back into the couch, Steve's shoulder brushing yours. You let the warmth seep through your clothes and shut your eyes.
It’s a little more than halfway through the movie when Steve realizes you’re asleep. You’d been quiet, sure, but Steve only thought that meant you were paying attention to the movie.
That was, until your head slipped and rested against his shoulder.
He looked down at you, at the hair falling across your forehead (he smoothed it away gently, so it wouldn’t be in your eyes or your mouth), your eyebrows relaxed and free of any worry, your chest rising and falling with steady breaths.
He thinks of how tired you must be, after everything. Your apartment and dealing with the aftermath both emotionally and physically, working long shifts most days to keep your bank account full.
Steve, though he doesn’t let himself look too deep into it, also thinks of how beautiful you are. Now and always.
Not wanting you to get a kink in your neck from the position, Steve decides to rouse you from sleep as gently as possible. He slips a hand under your head to keep it steady and maneuvers himself to kneel in front of you.
“Hey, angel,” he almost whispers, thumb dragging across your cheek. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed.”
Your nose scrunches and you grumble, but after some coaxing, you blink your eyes open and squint at Steve. You blame your half-asleep mind on the way you nuzzle into his palm. “Hmm?”
“You fell asleep.”
“Oh, sorry,” you mumble.
Steve laughs softly. “Don’t be sorry, I just didn’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
The warmth of his hand leaves your cheek as he stands and holds his hands out for you to grab. He pulls you up off the couch and starts leading you towards the stairs.
You knuckle at your eyes on the way, a tiny smile gracing your face at how sweet Steve’s being. As if you haven’t fallen asleep on his couch plenty of times before.
Still sleepy, you stumble a little on the stairs, but Steve catches you easily with an arm around your waist and a small “Careful.”
He leaves his arm there the rest of the way to what’s become your bedroom, guiding you over to the bed and lifting the covers for you.
Tomorrow, you’ll regret not brushing your teeth or washing your face before climbing in bed. But today, you don’t feel like risking not being able to sleep again if you wake yourself up further.
You’re practically asleep again by the time you’re settled with your head on the pillow as Steve tugs the blankets over you.
You’re just awake enough to feel the light press of his lips on your forehead and a soft “Goodnight, angel” against your skin before he leaves the room and shuts the door behind him.
-
On a random Thursday that you and Steve both have off, he convinces you to let him take you to the mall.
“We should go shopping,” he says when you walk into the kitchen. It’s a little later in the morning, having slept in since it’s a day off, the sun slipping through the window in warm beams.
You raise your eyebrows at him. “Like, groceries?”
“No, like shopping shopping. You know, the mall?”
You lean against the kitchen island, the countertop cool on your back where it touches the sliver of skin between your tank top and sleep shorts. Steve has his shoulder against the fridge, his arms crossed over his chest, the sleeves of his t-shirt tight against his muscles. Not that you’re looking.
You squint at him, trying to find his motive on his face. “You literally buy whatever the mannequins are wearing to avoid shopping.”
“That’s what they’re there for!” The sass in his voice has you biting back a smile. “You need new clothes,” he continues, “and I need to get out of this house.”
“We can do something else, Steve,” you say. “I thought you hated shopping.”
“Well, I don’t hate you.” There’s a pause, Steve’s eyes lowering to that sliver of skin above your shorts. He flicks them back to your face quickly, hoping you didn’t notice, because even he’s not sure what compelled his eyes to wander. “Plus, Eddie called me a hermit the other day and I really can’t stand for that, can I?”
“Ohhh,” you ignore the way your skin suddenly feels warm beneath his gaze, “so you need to make a public appearance to prove Eddie wrong?”
“Exactly. We’ll replace some of the things you lost and restore my reputation. Two birds, one stone, right angel?”
So that’s how you’d ended up at the mall. After Starcourt burnt down, the closest place was a couple towns over, and Steve (as always) offered to drive.
He lets you pick the music the entire way, sings along when you hold your water bottle by his mouth like a microphone, even attempts to harmonize with you which just ends in laughter because neither of you sounded that great.
You’re a couple of stores in, and Steve’s been complaint-free so far—which makes sense, since this was his idea, but you’ve caught him side-eyeing some things, so you know he’s got some remarks in his head he just hasn’t said out loud—and follows you around as you browse. You try not to take too long, because you can’t imagine that this is any fun for him.
“How about that one?” Steve asks, pointing at one of the dresses hanging along the store’s wall.
He’d seen your apartment, though that was a bit ago, and he remembered what you’d lost the most of, along with the type of stuff you like. He pays attention like that, in small, quiet ways that you think mean the most.
He knows you. He cares enough to know you.
“Yeah, that’s really pretty, actually,” you admit.
At your approval, Steve grabs one in your size (which he also just happens to know) and adds it to the couple of things he’d already been holding for you. Every time you picked something up, he was quick to snatch it from you, telling you it was ‘too hard to browse with your hands full.’
After making your way through the rest of the store, you decided to head back to try things on, holding out a hand for the stuff Steve’s holding. “You can wait out here, I’ll be quick.”
“Hold on,” he says, holding the hangers out of your reach. “Why do you think I’m here, angel? I wanna help you pick.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously. Give me a fashion show, yeah?”
“Oh my God,” you mumble, letting him follow you to the fitting rooms.
They’re hidden behind the back wall of the store, a hallway painted bright blue with pink changeroom doors on one side, and white benches along the other.
“Hi there,” an employee with auburn hair greets you both, her smile wide and kind, though you know it’s a practiced one. Customer service smile. “How many you got there, darling?”
“Oh, um,” you turn back towards Steve, who’s counting the hangers in his hand. “Five.”
“Perfect!” The girl takes the key hanging around her neck and unlocks one of the rooms for you. She takes the clothes from Steve and hangs them up inside for you, then turns to the two of you and says, “Your man can have a seat right here. We call them the ‘boyfriend benches.’”
“He’s not my-”
“Thanks,” Steve says, cutting off your correction because for some reason he didn’t want you to correct her.
Did he… like the idea of being your boyfriend?
Fuck. No. He just didn’t want you to have to explain the whole situation in your rambly way. That’s all.
The redhead smiles again, “Holler if you need anything,” she says before walking off.
You stand there for a second, something like confusion on your face. Did it look like you were boyfriend and girlfriend?
“Come on,” Steve says, snapping the both of you out of whatever that was. “Show me what you’ve got.”
“I can't believe you’re making me do this,” you say, walking into the fitting room and shutting the door.
You try on a couple of sweaters first, and Steve feels the fabric both times, making sure that it’s not scratchy on your skin. Then, there’s just some basic t-shirts that aren’t all that exciting, but Steve says they look nice anyway.
Finally, you get to the dress he picked out.
It really was pretty. A midi-length with a ruffled hem and straps that tie into little bows on your shoulders. You don’t always feel good in your clothes. Sometimes you wish you could crawl out of your skin when you look into the mirror, but right now, you don’t hate what you see.
You actually like it.
“Well?” Steve calls softly from the bench.
In response, you open the door and step out so he can see you.
Steve’s seen you in plenty of dresses—hell, you went to prom together—but for some reason this one makes his heart beat just a little bit quicker. Maybe it’s simply the fact that it looks great on you, or the way you’re smiling shyly as he looks you over.
Or, maybe it’s because he’s the one who picked it.
He stands up, spinning his finger in the air in a gesture for you to twirl. You roll your eyes but do it anyway, and he can’t take his eyes off of you. The hallway of fitting rooms isn’t very big, so with both of you in it, you’re standing toe to toe, the gold flecks in the middle of Steve’s eyes and the faint freckles that dot his nose are visible from where you stand.
As if he can’t help it, Steve lifts a finger and dips it beneath the strap on your shoulder. Not moving it or undoing it, just gliding along your skin where it sits.
“You look beautiful,” he says. His voice goes all quiet and soft when he says it, and his eyes widen a tiny bit, like he hadn’t meant it to slip out that way. It sounded… more than friendly. He clears his throat and steps back as much as he can in the small space, his finger leaving your skin. “I have great taste. Clearly.”
You blink at him, then shake yourself out of it as much as you can. “Yeah. Don’t let it get to your head.” You lift the tag where it hangs by your armpit and look at the price. You gasp and swat Steve’s arm. “Steve! Why would you let me walk into a place so expensive?”
You probably should’ve looked at the tag beforehand, but here you are. Steve, shrugging exaggeratedly, says, “I didn’t know!”
“Okay, I’m gonna change before she comes back. We can make a run for it.”
“We’re not stealing.”
“I know, but they look at you all judgemental when you try stuff on and don’t buy something. Trust me.”
You turn and go back into the fitting room to put on your own clothes, taking a look at the dress in the mirror one last time before shaking your head at yourself.
Steve, however, takes the opportunity to leave you and head back out into the store. He finds the dress easily and grabs another one in your size from the rack and heads to the cashier.
He’s just finishing up, bag in hand, when you walk out and meet him at the front of the store.
“For you,” he says, holding out the bag for you to take.
“Steve…” You grab it and look inside. Your chest aches when you see the dress, your heart suddenly too full and your stomach fluttering stupidly. “You didn’t have to do that. I would’ve been fine with something from the Gap.”
“I know that,” he says, a hand lifting to scratch at the back of his neck. It’s a nervous tick of his, and the thought of him being nervous right now makes you melt even more. “I wanted to get it for you. You looked too pretty in it not to have it.”
Your eyes catch his, and again, something passes between you that you don’t think you’ve ever felt before. A fizzle, a spark.
You rock back on your feet, looking down at the ground before meeting his eyes again. They’re so fucking soft it makes you wonder how lucky you have to be to have him in your life. Being your best friend, driving you to work even when he doesn’t have a shift, offering you a place to stay, buying you a dress.
He’s the sweetest boy you’ve ever known.
“Well,” you twist the straps of the bag around your fingers just to keep them busy. “Thank you, Steve. This is really nice.”
His knuckle traces down your arm just once, featherlight. “You’re welcome, angel.”
You don’t buy anything else after that, instead stopping at the food court for fries, stealing from each other’s baskets, smiling and slapping hands away.
It’s the best day you’ve had in a while.
-
You don’t think anything you do will convey just how grateful you are that Steve has been so kind to you. Always, but especially now. Letting you stay with him and refusing to let you pay rent. (“I don’t even pay rent, and I live here all the time.”)
But, this morning, you’ve decided you’re gonna try.
Steve’s favorite meal of the day happens to be breakfast, which is funny, considering he usually eats something as simple as cereal. He’d told you once that it was because, as a kid, breakfast was the most peaceful of meals, his parents too busy getting ready for work or wherever they were going that he’d have the kitchen table to himself.
Lunch was usually spent at school, and Steve was never a fan of school to begin with. Then there was dinner, which his parents (when they were home) still wanted to have all together. They’d ask him questions and make backhanded comments about every single answer he gave. He never won at dinner.
So, breakfast was, and has remained, his favorite.
You made sure to get up early enough to give yourself time to get everything ready before he wakes up. Steve’s usually the one making the coffee in the morning, and you figured the least you could do was give him a break.
Yesterday, while Steve had been at work, you went over to the Wheeler’s and asked Nancy if you could borrow their waffle maker. She’d directed the question to her mother, who went and grabbed it for you and handed it over with a smile. You promised to take good care of it and have it back in a couple of days.
By the time Steve walks into the kitchen, you’ve already made the batter and set out the toppings—berries, maple syrup, whipped cream—like a buffet. However, he just so happens to come in as you’re swearing at the waffle maker.
“Stupid fucking thing,” you mutter, trying to open it.
Steve smiles to himself before saying, “Morning, angel.”
You jump at his voice, not having heard him walk in. When you turn around, your heart beats for a different reason.
Steve’s still only in his pajama pants, plaid and soft, hanging low on his hips. And he’s shirtless, his chest smattered with hair and his skin a little tanned from the sun. He’s got beauty marks all over, like a constellation you could chart, and his abs are just visible beneath the soft of his stomach. A trail of hair leading to the waistband of his pants and disappearing beneath them.
You’ve seen Steve shirtless plenty of times. Swimming and sleeping over in the summer, in high school when you used to go to his practices, but it hits you harder for some reason this time.
The way his hair is still a mess from sleep, his eyes a bit heavy. The way it feels to be greeting him in the kitchen, cooking breakfast. Intimate. Domestic.
You clear your throat and turn back around to pry the waffle maker open, revealing a slightly burnt but otherwise good-looking waffle. “I’m making breakfast. Coffee’s already in the pot, too.”
He walks over, his chest close to your back as he grabs a mug from the cabinet above you before heading over to pour himself a cup. He looks at the spread you’ve prepared, “Waffles, huh? What did I do to deserve all this?”
“Just wanted to do something nice for you,” you say as Steve walks over to lean against the counter next to you, his hip barely touching yours. “To thank you, in a way. For letting me stay and the dress and-”
“How many times do I have to tell you to stop thanking me?” He says, though his voice is soft and still a bit rough from sleep. “I like having you around.”
“So you don’t want the waffles then?”
“Oh, I want the waffles. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything for me. It’s not some debt you’ll owe me, angel.”
“Want you to know I appreciate you is all,” you say, pouring a new scoop of batter into the waffle maker.
Steve, unsure of what exactly possesses him to do so, dips in and presses a kiss to the apple of your cheek, his lips a whisper away from your skin when he says, “I appreciate you, too.”
Then he pulls away and moves to set the table. Like it was natural.
And it was, in a way. How you moved around each other in the kitchen. You leaning out of the way when he needed to reach something you were blocking, him putting a hand on your lower back when he walked behind you so you knew he was there.
Your cheek still tingles from where he’d kissed it when you bring the plate of waffles to the table, your skin somehow even warmer under his gaze, like he’s still remembering exactly how it felt, too.
You sit in the chair beside Steve, not noticing the way he tugs it a bit closer to him with his foot before you sit down. Soon enough, both of you are digging in. Steve’s got more whipped cream on his plate than waffle (you tell him as much) and you’ve got your berries on the side the way you always do.
Neither of you work until later in the day, and it’s nice knowing that you can take your time. Steve tells you about the advice he gave Dustin about how to be ‘cooler’ in school (he’d told him that being cool is completely overrated, he knew from experience, and that being himself is the most important). You’d told him he was going soft with age.
You talk about anything at all. How Keith somehow manages both of your places of work, how he also somehow does both terribly. The way he says ‘if you have time to lean, you have time to clean’ while literally having Cheeto dust on his fingers. Laughing at each other’s impressions of him.
What the new highscores were at the arcade, what people were renting from Family Video.
You wonder what it’ll be like when you have to leave. When you’re living alone again.
Logically, you know you’ll still see Steve frequently, because he’s your favorite person and you can’t remember the last time you went longer than a few days without hanging out. Still, it’ll be different than right now, waking up in the same space and sharing breakfast and brushing your teeth side by side in the mirror.
You’ll miss it, you think.
Trying not to dwell on something that’s still a few weeks away, you take another bite of your waffle. Steve catches your chin and wipes off a bit of whipped cream from the corner of your mouth, then pulling away and sucking it off his thumb.
He goes back to his own plate without a thought. Like touching you just now was an instinct.
Then, he teases you, “These are a little crispy, angel. Maybe you should stick to letting me make breakfast in this household.”
You kick his leg under the table. “That’s a funny way of saying ‘thank you,’ Harrington.”
He kicks you back, much gentler than you’d been. “Thank you.”
“That’s what I thought.”
When you look at him, there’s an easy, boyish smile on his face.
A similar one stretches across your own lips.
-
Steve has had the thought pop up into his head a couple of times, that maybe he should’ve just asked you to live with him before you ever bought that apartment. Because having you around feels the most right things have ever felt in his house.
And though the circumstances of your moving in with him (temporarily, he has to remind himself), were far from ideal, he can’t lie and say that he isn’t glad that you’ve ended up sharing his space.
The room across the hall will always be yours, even when you move back to your place.
He knows that you feel indebted to him for all of it, but if anyone owes the other something, he feels like it’s him. For everything you’ve ever done for him. Sticking around even when he was an asshole in highschool, defending him to his parents whenever you’d cross paths, simply being the kind of friend he needed.
Even when you’re not around, he can picture your face, the way your smile spreads slowly until you’re fucking beaming. Worse, the way you cried into his chest that day at your apartment.
He remembers the crack in your voice when you spoke about that picture frame from summer camp. Though he hasn’t seen you cry since, or even bring it up, he’s decided he wants to fix it. He’d told you he would.
Dustin wound up roped into his plan: find a similar frame, decorate it the exact same way, and scour the photo albums in Steve’s room for his copy of that same picture.
When he was younger, the photo albums pissed him off, because they were purely for show. Pictures of his family that were all fake smiles. Now, he’s glad for them, because at least he has some good memories to look back on. To know it wasn’t always all bad.
Steve probably should’ve thought that one through, because when they looked through his albums, he was on the receiving end of relentless teasing from Dustin. (“Dude, you have an insane boogie in this picture.” “I was four!”)
He hopes it’ll be worth it.
Dustin was the one who found the picture they’d been looking for, and he cheered and waved it in Steve’s face as if they’d been racing.
Now, after driving Dustin back home, decorating the frame the way the two of you did as kids, trying to make his handwriting look like it did back then (which wasn’t too difficult, ‘cause Steve’s writing still isn’t that neat), he’s waiting for you to come downstairs before giving it to you.
He’d picked you up after your shift at the arcade not too long ago, but he knows you like to shower and change as soon as you get home from work, so he’d taken the opportunity to wrap the frame and have it ready for you.
Steve can hear you singing in the shower, and he knows you’re done when it goes quiet. A few minutes later you’re walking down the stairs in a baggy t-shirt and silky sleep shorts.
His eyes, for some reason, linger on your legs for a second.
He stands up, frame in his hand, when you walk over. “I have something for you.”
“Steve! Stop buying me things. Seriously.”
“This thing was free, so you can’t even be mad,” he says, smiling almost sheepishly.
Your eyes search his face, flickering between his own and dipping down to his lips and his nose and back to his eyes. He looks… nervous.
Steve’s never nervous around you.
“Okay,” you say, shuffling on your feet. “What is it?”
“Here,” he hands you the poorly-wrapped frame. “Open it.”
You scrunch your brows at him once, because you have no idea what it could be. It isn’t your birthday, or any sort of holiday at all. With zero guesses, you look down at the light yellow wrapping paper in your hands and slowly tear it open.
What you find makes your eyes grow misty, tears pooling at your lash line but not quite falling.
It’s your favorite picture, the one of you and Steve in those stupid neon shirts with messy hair and dirt on your hands. Only now, it’s not water damaged, and the frame is new, but decorated just like the old one. You run your thumbs over the glass lightly, smiling down at little you and little Steve.
When you look back up at him, he’s already looking at you, his brown eyes all warm, his smile kind but also worried, waiting for your reaction.
Seeing his face springs you into motion, jumping forward and wrapping your arms around his neck tightly with the frame still in your hand. “Thank you,” you say into his skin.
Steve’s arms move to hold you around your waist without a thought. A reflex. They squeeze you close to him, his nose pressed into your damp hair, smelling your shampoo.
“It’s not perfect,” he says. “But I know how much you love that picture, and I wanted to fix it.”
“Steve. Shut up. It is perfect.”
“I’m glad you think so,” he says, his thumbs running back and forth against your back.
You hug for what could’ve been minutes, but neither of you moves to pull away first. You’re not sure if it’s still considered friendly to stand in each other's arms, breathing each other in, for so long, but you don’t care at the moment.
This is probably the nicest thing anyone’s done for you in a long, long time.
When you finally do pull away, you don’t go far. Your arms stay slung over his shoulders, Steve’s hands framing your hips. His thumbs still dragging those sweet patterns against you.
“I’m keeping it forever,” you tell him.
“You sure?” he asks.
“Certain. You’ll always be my best friend, Steve.”
“You’ll always be mine too, angel.”
Then, your eyes both move to each other’s lips, yours flick back up in a second, startled at their wandering.
Steve, however, is a bit transfixed. He looks at the slope of your cupid’s bow, the way your lips are shiny from your lip balm. He thinks it quickly, like a gust of wind that can’t be stopped: I really wanna kiss her right now.
Fuck. He wants to kiss his best friend.
He blinks a few times, clearing his throat and pulling back, letting his hands fall from your waist as yours slide off his shoulders. He misses the feel of your touch immediately, but he’s too freaked out and confused to do anything about it.
“What are you in the mood for tonight?” he asks, cutting off his own thoughts. “I brought back a horror and a comedy. Take your pick.”
“Mmm,” he picks up two tapes from the coffee table and holds them up for you to choose from. “Horror. Unless you’re too scared?”
“You’ll just have to hold my hand, then, won’t you?”
“I guess I will.”
You look back at the picture while Steve puts the movie into the player. You smile at it every time you see it, because you can still see parts of Steve in him now that were in him then.
His eyes, always kind, the way he smiles when he laughs, and about a half hour into the movie, the way he holds your hand and squeezes it when he’s scared.
-
You’re having one of those nights. The kind where sleep seems to be fighting you.
You worked a closing shift at the arcade, which usually lasts until late considering how long you’re open plus all of the cleaning you have to do afterwards. Today was no different, and despite how much later you finish than him at Family Video, Steve waited and drove you home. He hung out in the arcade with you until close, actually.
You’d think that after such a long day, the second your head hit the pillow you’d be out and breathing steadily. Today, that is not the case. You fell asleep for maybe an hour before a nightmare woke you up. You can’t quite remember what happened, only that you’d been yelling for Steve and he wasn’t there.
Groaning quietly, you rub your eyes and toss the blankets away. You stand up and head down to the kitchen in the dark, hand trailing along the walls to make sure you don’t bump into anything.
Just as you’re pouring yourself a glass of water, you hear the shuffle of sleepy footsteps coming into the kitchen.
“Holy shit,” he says, walking over to grab a glass, one hand on his bare chest. “I thought you were a ghost or something just now.”
You shift out of the way to let him get some water just like you did, taking the second that he’s distracted to look at him. His hair a mess, wearing nothing but his boxers. You take a big sip from your glass.
“I feel like I should be offended right now,” you say, “if you think I look like a ghost.”
“Shut up,” he says, dragging out the second word. His voice being rough from sleep makes his words sound much warmer than they are. “My eyes aren’t awake yet. Nothing to do with you, angel.”
You shake your head, though there’s a soft smile on your face the way there always seems to be when you try to be annoyed with Steve. You tilt your head at him, asking, “Couldn’t sleep?”
He shakes his head. “Been tossing and turning. Just can’t get comfortable, then I got pissed ‘cause I couldn’t get comfortable and only made it worse.”
“You would get pissed at that. Probably slapped your pillow like it was at fault.”
He folds his lips inwards and blinks at you. Because he did smack his pillow and call it a dipshit. “Why do you know everything? Spying on me?”
“Hate to say it, but you’re getting predictable, Harrington.” You shrug, then move to put your now empty glass in the dishwasher. “I know you too well.”
He looks at you, your hair falling across your shoulders, your pajama shorts riding up a little as you bend down. The moonlight slipping through the window seems to hit you perfectly. Like a halo.
Fitting, he thinks. You’re his angel, after all.
“Yeah, you do,” he agrees. Then, “What about you? Why’re you up?”
“Nightmare. Been forever since I had one.”
“You okay?” he asks, trailing a knuckle over your shoulder, pushing your hair behind it.
“Yeah,” you say, skin tingling where he’d touched you. “I can't even remember most of it, but now my brain won’t let me sleep.”
Steve wishes he could’ve protected you from whatever haunted you in your sleep. It’s silly, he knows, to think he might be able to ward away anything that hurts you, but he wants to, nonetheless.
He thinks about how comfortable he is whenever you cuddle during movie night. Your head on his shoulder or his chest, his hand on your back or waist.
So, he blurts, “Why don’t you sleep over?”
You furrow your brows at him, “Um, I’ve been sleeping over. A couple of weeks now, actually.”
“No, I mean, like in my room with me,” he says, suddenly shy at the idea. He’s grateful for the darkness, because he can feel his cheeks warming up. “A proper sleepover.”
You’ve done it before. Shared a bed a bunch of times, but for some reason your heart jumps when he says it. Your stomach swirls as you say, maybe a little too quickly, “Okay.”
Steve’s eyes widen like he’s surprised, just for a split second, before a soft smile takes over his face. He holds out a hand for you to take, “C’mon.”
Soon enough, Steve’s lifting his navy bedspread for you, letting you slip into bed next to him. He stays further away at first, letting you settle and lay on your side the way he knows you always do.
You blame sleepiness—or, maybe, the lack thereof—for the way you reach behind you for his arm and tug him closer, draping it over your own waist.
He obliges, of course, his arm securing itself across your stomach, palm spread out and warm against your sleep shirt. His chest is only a breath away from your back, though he keeps his lower half a little more distanced.
His thumb runs circles over your shirt, once, twice, three times before stilling, his forehead pressing to the back of your neck.
“Goodnight, angel,” he says into your hair.
Your hand splays itself on top of his. “Night, Steve.”
And suddenly your eyes grow heavier, and sleep doesn’t feel like much of a battle anymore.
-
You wake up the most rested you’ve felt in a while. There’s warmth surrounding you, but not the uncomfortable kind. The kind that feels safe.
Somehow, you and Steve are even closer than you’d been when you fell asleep. His arm is still around your waist, his other outstretched and tucked beneath your head like a pillow. His chest is flush to your back, and you can feel it expand with every breath he takes.
Most differently of all, however, is the way his hips are snug against the curve of your butt. And you can feel him hard against you.
Your skin feels even warmer than before when you notice.
Steve hasn’t woken up yet, you don’t think, because the faintest snores are getting puffed out against your shoulder where his face is tucked. His hand on your stomach has worked its way beneath your shirt, though, and his fingertips press against your skin, like he’s fighting to keep you close.
As if you’d go anywhere even in your sleep.
His knee is tucked between your legs, and you’re quickly realizing that it’d be pretty impossible to get out of bed without him noticing. You’re completely tangled together, a knot of limbs somehow fitting together just right. Like two puzzle pieces.
In his sleep, Steve’s mouth presses against the back of your shoulder, and only when you involuntarily shiver at the contact, does he stir.
It takes Steve a bit to really wake up, mumbling words that don’t make sense, scrunching his eyes shut even further before blinking them open. He’s met with the sight of you right in front of him. Body curved perfectly against his.
“Steve? You awake?” you ask, checking.
“Mhm,” he hums.
Then, something that has his cheeks flushing pink, he registers the feeling of his boner pressed against your ass. He shuffles them back enough so there’s space between you. “Fuck. Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” you say. Because he can’t control the way his body reacts while he’s asleep.
“I didn’t think-” he cuts himself off, because he’s not quite sure how to say I didn’t think about the whole morning wood factor or that I’d fucking plaster myself to you when I suggested a sleepover without sounding stupid. Instead, he just repeats, “I’m sorry.”
You twist yourself around to face him, sheets crumpling and twisting as you move. When you settle back onto the pillow and look at his face, at the redness on his cheeks and the tips of his ears, you squeeze his hand that’s now laying between you.
“I don’t want you to think I invited you to sleep in here for some pervy reason,” he says, scrunching his nose when he says it.
“I don’t think that at all,” you tell him. You squeeze his hand again. “We’ve shared a bed like, a hundred times by now. If anything I’m surprised this hasn’t happened already.”
“Oh my God,” he groans, shutting his eyes and pushing his face into the pillow.
“Steve,” you drag out his name, fighting a giggle at the way he’s acting. He’s got a reputation, after all, and how shy and embarrassed he seems to be doesn’t reflect the things you heard about him in high school. He’s changed a lot since then. “It’s seriously fine. We can pretend it never happened. Promise.”
Steve pulls his face from the pillow, eyes catching yours as his fingers squeeze yours back in appreciation. He lets his eyes wander a bit, at the messy bits of your hair around your face from sleeping, the marks in your cheek from the pillowcase, the way your sleep shirt has fallen off your shoulder.
He feels lucky to get to see you this way, right after you’ve woken up. Vulnerable, unguarded, beautiful.
It’s during this small stretch of silence that you realize how close your faces are now. You’re sharing a pillow, his nose not even an inch from yours. Shift forward the slightest bit, and they’d be touching. Your eyes trail down to his mouth, to the visible patch of chest hair and the freckles that dot his skin. He’s already looking right at you when your eyes flick back upwards.
You know Steve, could tell what he’s feeling just from the look on his face, but this is one you’ve never seen before. At least, not directed at you.
Steve moves first, his eyes a little darker than usual, shifting forward slightly, then looking at you. Daring you to make the next move.
“What if we didn’t forget about it?” he says. Quiet and scratchy.
You don’t have time to think before you move forward a bit, too. Your noses brush. “What would that mean?”
Steve doesn’t answer with words. Rather, he moves forward the final bit and brushes his lips against yours in a question mark of a kiss, giving you time to pull away.
You don’t.
Instead, the hand of yours that isn’t still holding his comes up to the back of his neck, gently encouraging him to do it again. His free hand tightens at your waist as he dips in a second time.
It isn’t as tentative now that you’ve urged him on. His lips meet yours more sure, more firm, but still soft against you. Neither of you cares one bit about morning breath, or about what this might change. As if the morning’s haze slows time, minds still a little sleepy.
You’re simply acting on instinct. And this feels too right to stop.
Soon enough it grows more heated, Steve shifting to hover over you, his elbows pushing into the mattress to hold himself up, his tongue sneaking out to lick against the seam of your lips for permission.
Just as you open up for him, the blaring sound of Steve's alarm cuts you off, pulling back with a gasp. He simply leans up on one arm and slams the snooze button—and you laugh, you laugh, at how hard he hits it—before diving back into you.
You feel hot all over, where one of Steve’s hands has moved to cup your jaw, his thumb running delicately against your face as his mouth moves against yours, practically devouring you. Where the blankets are still over your lower halves, trapping in heat. When he pulls back, looks into your eyes, fucking smiles all dopey and pretty, and then kisses you again.
It’s so good, you’re almost angry at yourself for not kissing him sooner.
You kiss until his alarm goes off again and Steve's forced to pry himself away from you, groaning about being on his ‘last tardy warning’ from Keith.
Still, he takes the time to kiss your forehead on his way out, Family Video vest slung over his shoulder, calling a sweet, “bye, angel,” on his way out. His hair’s still a mess from your fingers, and he doesn’t even seem to mind.
You stay in his bed longer than you probably should, blinking up at the ceiling, fingers pressed against your lips like you’re searching for physical proof that everything was real.
What the fuck just happened?
-
It’s been a couple of weeks, and Steve can’t stop thinking about that kiss. He doesn’t know it, but you can’t stop thinking about it either.
Neither of you have brought it up, and things have faded back to normal as if it had never happened. But you and Steve are both thinking the same things without knowing it. How good and natural and easy it felt, how, every now and then, you think about doing it again.
You talk and joke and watch movies and eat meals together the same way you always have, and it’d be so easy to stay that way, to never kiss again. But then, what if you could stay that way and kiss? Wouldn’t that be something close to perfect?
You lay awake thinking about it every few nights. Because, when you really reflect on your life and how intertwined it is with Steve’s, you realize that you’ve sort of always acted like a couple, minus the kissing and sex aspect. You go on what could easily be classified as dates—the movies, lunch or dinner—you cuddle on the couch almost nightly, and you’ve never shied away from physical touch with one another. Held hands, a palm on your back.
You haven’t brought it up with Steve because you haven’t even come to terms with it yourself. Feelings are so fucking confusing and messy and you’d like to have a better idea of what’s going on in your own head before asking him about his.
Meanwhile, Steve has allowed himself to come to terms with it. He’s in love with you.
He’s pretty sure he has been for a while. Months, maybe even years.
It hadn’t come easily, though. It was nights spent similarly to yours, running through interactions you’ve had and the way he felt that one time in senior year when you went on a date with some guy from your math class. Even then, a part of him felt wrong about it, that pit in his gut.
Then there were his shifts with Robin at Family Video where he’d practically spilled everything just to get her opinion. She looked up and sighed “thank you” before saying that it was nice of him to finally catch on.
Had he really been that obvious? All this time? And had he really been that oblivious to his own feelings?
Steve can’t answer those questions. He can’t say when his love for you changed from platonic to romantic, he just knows that it has and he doesn’t think he’ll ever come back from it.
You’re his best friend in the entire world, the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, and he can’t picture himself loving anyone but you so wholly.
He’s fucking terrified of losing you, but he’s also terrified of never telling you how he feels and testing that what if.
So, like a desperate idiot, he knocks on the door to Eddie’s trailer.
Eddie opens it after a minute and what sounded like him stubbing his toe, “oh, hey Harrington. More weed?”
“No, shut up. I need your help.”
“You,” Eddie points at Steve, then at himself, “need my help for something? Are you ill?”
“Okay,” Steve, dramatic and bitchy as usual, sighs and mutters something about this being a stupid idea and turns to leave.
“Come on,” Eddie laughs, “I’m just joking. What’s up?”
Soon enough, Steve’s sitting on Eddie’s couch, Eddie pacing in front of the coffee table like this is a very serious matter, and telling him pretty much everything. Your kiss, the train of thought it sparked.
“Basically I’m in love with her and I have no clue what to do,” Steve finishes, sinking back into the couch cushions. It squeaks as he shifts.
Eddie pauses, tugging at his bottom lip between his fingers, then looks at Steve and says, “You know I’ve never dated anyone in my life, right?”
Steve groans into his hands, “Why do all of my friends have to be losers with no dating lives.”
Eddie ignores that, because he can tell how affected Steve actually is by all of this. How much he cares. He walks over and sits down on the opposite end of the couch. “Have you ever thought of, I don’t know, telling her how you feel?”
Steve rests his elbows on his knees, leaning forward and letting his head hang for a moment before picking it up. “Of course I have, but I’m fuckin’ scared.”
“What’s the worst that could happen?”
“Um, she could reject me and not feel the same way and everything would be awkward because I ruined it and I’d lose my best friend in the entire world.”
“What if she does feel the same?” Eddie asks.
He’s both yours and Steve’s friend, he’s been around the both of you together. He’s seen the way you look at each other. Eddie might not be an expert, but it’s always looked a lot like love to him. He’s pretty sure the chances of you feeling the same are quite high.
“What do you mean?”
“What if she does feel the same and you never figure it out because you’re too afraid?” Eddie says. “Man, don’t you think that risk is worth taking?”
Steve thinks about it, and as much as he hates to admit it, Eddie’s right. He’d hate to always wonder, to lose out on the chance to really be with you when he knows it could be so good.
You are worth the risk to him.
“When the fuck did you become so wise, Munson?”
“Dunno,” Eddie shrugs. “Wanna smoke?”
Steve laughs, “Yes I do.”
-
With Steve gone at work and you off for the day, there’s been too much room for your thoughts to creep in. Too much silence.
You’ve already been thinking about things so much. Thinking about him so much, that in his absence, your mind seemed to work overtime to fill in the gaps.
You thought about the day he picked you up from your apartment, how quick he was to drop whatever he’d been doing and come over and help you and take you home with him. The day he took you shopping and bought you a dress because he thought you looked pretty in it, the way his fingers fiddled with the strap on your shoulder when you tried it on for him.
The day he gifted you a remade version of your favorite picture from summer camp because he knew how much it meant to you, the way you held on to each other afterwards.
How you’d been waiting for him to get home that night he went to Eddie’s, just to make sure he was okay. How when he came in, he smiled at the sight of you curled on the couch, and he kissed your cheek when he walked by like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Your brain knew he was high, you could smell the weed mingling with his cologne on his clothes when he leaned in close, but your heart didn’t care about that. It thumped in your chest the second he leaned in closer, even worse when his lips touched your cheek.
The realization hits you now like a shock, a quick zip of electricity running through your system. You fucking love him.
Sure, you’ve loved Steve practically your whole life, but this was different. You love him, love him. Like, you want to kiss him when he comes home from work and in the morning. You want him to introduce you as his girlfriend and to be able to call him your boyfriend.
You feel stupid for not realizing it sooner, because looking back on things now, knowing how you feel, you can see it written throughout your entire friendship. Holding hands and kissing foreheads and hands pushing hair away from faces.
For a second, you’re purely happy, because you get to be in love with your best friend and it feels as warm and sweet as sunlight. Then, the fear creeps in, and you’re scared. Scared of losing him, of making things weird, of change and doing the wrong thing.
So scared that you start to panic and pack up some of your things in your bag like you’re running away.
Truthfully, you’re not sure what else to do. You’ve never been in love before, you’ve never known it this way—so kind and unconditional. And your parents sure as hell didn’t set a good example for you. They’d fight, and someone would leave with the slam of a door, and then they’d be back and the cycle would continue.
You’re scared and confused and your instincts are telling you to run away even though the only place you really wanna be is with Steve. In his arms.
You’re stuffing clothes into your bag just to keep your hands busy, breathing hard and fast, when you hear the front door open and close. Steve’s quick to find you, his eyes scanning your room and then looking at you. “What are you doing?”
You feel like you might cry just looking at him. His brown eyes worried but warm as always, his hands stuffed into his pockets like he’s nervous.
“I thought you weren’t supposed to be home until later,” you say, hoping he can’t hear the shake in your voice.
“It was dead, so Keith let me off early. I-” Steve furrows his brows, “are you leaving?”
You nod. “I’ve been in your way long enough.”
“I told you, you’re never in my way.” Steve knows you, and he loves you, and he can tell that there’s something going on. That you’re panicked and trying to get away from whatever it is. He cares too much to let that happen. “I want you to stay.”
You want to stay, too. You just don’t know what comes next, and that unknown, the lack of control, of familiarity, it makes your hands shake.
Your mind doesn’t work the same when you’re afraid.
“Give me one good reason why I should stay, Steve. I’ve been taking up your space for weeks and-”
“Because I love you.” Steve cuts you off. He hadn’t planned on telling you this way, he wanted it to be romantic and perfect but he can’t wait any longer. Especially not when you’re trying to run away. “I’m in love with you. And I want you here.”
You immediately stop in your tracks, blinking up at him like you’re not sure you’d heard him correctly. “You- what?”
“I love you. Romantically. And I think I have for a really long time.”
“You’re not high again, are you?” You ask, your eyes a little misty.
Steve walks over to you and grabs both of your hands in his, making sure you’re looking at him, at the sincerity written all over his face, when he says, “Completely sober. I fucking love you and I want you to keep living with me, because this house doesn’t really feel like home unless you’re in it.”
“What about when my apartment is ready?”
He squeezes your hands. “Stay then, too. Stay forever.”
You look up at him, his hair falling over his forehead, his eyes so honest, a tentative smile on his mouth. The only boy you’ve ever loved.
You feel silly for trying to escape this when this is how it’s turning out. Steve had been brave just now, telling you he loves you and he wants you to stay, so you decide to be brave, too.
It’s easier than you thought it would be to say: “I love you, too, Steve. I feel the same. I only just realized it and freaked out. I’m so scared of losing you, is all.”
“You won’t. Not ever.”
You tip your chin up to kiss him after he says it, because you can. You pour your feelings into it, and Steve returns your kiss as if it’s one he’s known for years. It’s slow, and deep, and sweet, and so full of love you’re practically overflowing with it.
The two of you only pull away when you need a breather. Steve doesn’t go far, resting his forehead against yours.
“So what happens now?” You ask.
“Well, we’ve been acting like a couple for a while, I think, so we stay the same. Mostly. Except now I get to call you my girlfriend-”
“Um, I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to ask me first.”
He lets go of one of your hands and pushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his knuckle running lovingly across your cheek. “My angel girl, will you be my girlfriend?”
Your grin is wide and lovesick and cheesy and you don’t care one bit. “Yeah, yes I will. Boyfriend.”
“And, being your boyfriend means I get to do this.”
He kisses you once more. And you don’t ever want to not be kissing him again.
𝜗𝜚
thank you guys so much for reading!!! it would mean a whole bunch if you would consider leaving a comment or a reblog and letting me know what you think!! it helps more than you know <3
⤷ tags: steve harrington x reader, fluff, romantic, friends-to-lovers, 1k words
⤷ summary: you think you're not good enough. steve disagrees.
⤷ author's note: currently OBSESSED with friends to lovers steve
there was a moment when steve harrington’s face began to inch, closer and closer towards yours. his eyes met yours before flickering down to your lips, unconsciously. oh shit. oh shit.
“i’m just sayin’, i get why he wouldn’t like me back.” you shrugged, trying and failing to laugh off the sting.
steve made a noise of indigation, somewhere between a snort and a scoff. he seemed personally offended by the sentiment.
you had been talking his ear off about this apparent “god-sent, gorgeous, beautiful specimen of a man” whose name he hadn’t bothered to remember. in the meantime, you had begun to form self-deprecating, and frankly ridiculous conclusions about yourself. steve was having none of that.
“y/n,” he started, turning to you with a sudden seriousness you didn’t expect him to ever express. “why wouldn’t he like you back?”
“because.” you averted his eyes, boring into every inch of your soul.
“hmm?” the sound had you fidgeting with the tip of your fingers.
you had to fight the urge to open the car door, and haul ass out of this fuckin’ mortifying situation. you eyed the handle with temptation.
click.
the asshole. he locked you in. you glared at him, his brown eyes holding nothing but innocence, but the telltale, amused crinkle at the edge of his eyes told you everything. his eyebrows were raised, questioning.
“y/n,” he echoed, his rumbling voice ricocheting across the walls of his beamer. “why?”
“fuck,” you murmured. steve tilted your face up by the chin, your eyes still not meeting his. the engine thrummed loudly in the tranquility.
“because i’m not pretty enough.” your voice was barely a whisper, but steve’s outraged “what?” filled the car.
“who told you that?” steve seemed genuinely angry now, his eyes darting left and right, his face flushing a crimson red.
“who the fuck told you that, y/n? was it that fucker, hargrove?” so now steve remembered his name. “i’ll kill him. i’ll skin him aliv-”
“stop,” you exhaled, shakily. “steve, stop.”
steve slammed his palms down onto his wheel, unnecessarily hard, but he let you speak, albeit petulantly.
“billy didn’t tell me shit, steve,” you sniffed. “i just- i just don’t think- just look at me. he’s all tanned skin, six pack abs- hell, even mrs wheeler has a thing for him.”
“i’m just-” your voice cracked at the edges. “i’m just not good enough.”
“hey.” steve’s voice softened, his stiffened posture curling down so he could meet your eyes. “hey, don’t say that about yourself.”
“it’s true, though.” a sob suddenly unfurled from you, and you covered your mouth, desperately clawing at the hot tears that threatened to fall. “fuck, i’m sorry, i’m-”
“oh, baby,” steve wrapped his hands around your hips, lifting out from your seat so you sat on his lap. his arms wrapped around your waist in comfort. there was a newfound gentleness about him. “don’t be sorry. it’s not true.”
“you’re just saying that,” you sniveled pathetically. “because you’re my best friend.”
“no,” he sighed, pushing your sobbing figure away from his chest so that he could see you. “look at me, y/n.”
hesitantly, you met his eyes. your vision stung and blurred as your eyes watered. he looked so distraught by your unravelling that you wanted to apologise, to just walk away. somehow you knew steve wouldn't take to that kindly.
“you’re beautiful,” steve said. “matter-of-fact. the way your eyes squint up when you’re laughing so hard you’re going to cry. the way you walk. the way you move. even now, when you’re slobbering all over me with your snot ‘n shit.” you shoved him, though it put an involuntary grin on your face nevertheless.
“you’re so fucking entrancing, and if billy can’t see that, it’s his loss, okay?”
“okay?” he shook you by the shoulders gently and you giggled a little, nodding.
“besides, you’re like the hottest girl in town. no competition.”
“me?” you laughed, incredulous. “not any one of your hookup partners?”
“they don’t mean anything. i wouldn’t want to- y’know- have sex with you,” he exhaled, wringing his hands awkwardly. your heart splintered. somehow you cared about this more than you should've. for someone who you've felt nothing but platonic towards.
“y’know," he continued, unaware of the knot in your stomach nor the lump in your throat. "not in that way. i would want it to mean something. be something special.”
he seemed to have misspoke because silence suddenly stretched between the two of you. you were abruptly hyperaware of the way you were straddling his lap at the moment, his fingers tucking a strand of hair that was tickling your face behind your ear, his arms wrapped around your midsection. you wondered how this would look to anyone who passed by- not two best friends sitting around for a chat.
“special?” you whispered, the word hanging in the air between the two of you.
there was a moment when steve harrington’s face began to inch, closer and closer towards yours. his eyes met yours before flickering down to your lips, unconsciously. oh shit. oh shit. your lips met his with the hesitancy of years of friendship, but once the soft texture of his mouth met yours, you could’ve cried at the slowness and tenderness of the feeling.
he was gentle, his hand travelling up your back to your nape, where it stayed, pushing you impossibly closer into the embrace. your arms tugged at his hair and you released what was surely a very embarrassingly loud moan when you felt his tongue slowly forcing its entrance into your mouth. you could feel a laugh rumble at his chest.
you pulled away, rolling your eyes. “harrington!” he broke into a smile, then an uncontrollable wave of laughter rolled over him as he threw his head back, the sound reverberating. somehow, seeing him like this made you lose your own composure, fists punching his chest weakly. you laughed and laughed, until you were both out of breath, panting with cheek-hurting smiles pulling at your mouths.
you were still perched in his lap. it felt so warm, so intimate, so real, that you could stay there forever. you glanced up at him- he returned the look with such love and adoration you could’ve married him right then and right now.
Steve Harrington x fem!reader
Open Arms Masterlist | Taglist Form
word count: 3k
Warnings: graphic violence ; major, traumatic character death ; panic & emotional distress
a/n: this chapter was A Lot ™... both to write and (probably) to read.
1985
The plan seems to be working… at first. The monster is following you.
Then Steve squints through the rear window, eyes widening. “That thing—it’s turning around!”
“What!?” Nancy shouts from the front seat.
“Maybe we wore it out?” Lucas offers, ever the optimist.
“I don’t think so,” Jonathan mutters, gripping the wheel. “Hold on.”
The car whips into a sharp U-turn, tires screeching as you’re suddenly the ones chasing it.
You watch the creature tear through the street, limbs snapping like whipcords.
“It’s headed back to the mall,” you say, the dread settling in your gut like a stone.
Bracing yourself against the jolt, you reach down for something to hold—and your hand lands on a backpack.
It’s heavy. Lumpy. Suspiciously....festive.
You unzip it and find fireworks. A whole stash of them.
You blink. “Whose fireworks are these?”
Lucas raises a hand, sheepish. “Mine.”
You nod, already flipping the zipper open wider. “I have an idea.”
You watch from the edge of the parking lot as the creature scales the side of the mall like some grotesque jungle gym. Its limbs punch into concrete and steel, tearing through the roof like it’s made of paper.
Then it vanishes, slithering back inside.
Your stomach twists.
“They’re still in there.” Your worry worsens. “Max, Mike, El…”
Steve follows your gaze. “Billy’s car’s empty.”
Which means he’s in there, too.
Chunks of roof crumble and fall, and the creature’s massive body disappears into the mall’s skeleton once more.
You turn to the group, voice firm. “Alright. We move. Now.”
You unzip the backpack, revealing Lucas’s neon treasure trove of chaos. Roman candles. Bottle rockets. A few that look like they should be illegal in a couple of states.
You raise a brow. “Please tell me you weren’t saving these for the Fourth of July.”
Lucas blinks. “Technically, it is the Fourth of July—”
You cut in, already sorting through them. “Then this is the most patriotic thing we’ve ever done.”
Jonathan crosses his arms, skeptical. “Cool. So we just waltz through the front doors with a bag full of fireworks and hope it doesn’t eat us?”
“Please.” You smirk. “Amateur hour.”
He tilts his head. “Wait—was that a yes?”
“No, smartass. We go in the back.”
Will narrows his eyes. “How do you know which way to go?”
Steve slides next to you, grinning. “We, uh… know our way around.”
You glance at him. “Let’s just say when you work two different jobs in the same mall and your breaks happen to ‘overlap’…”
“…You get very familiar with which stairwells don’t have cameras,” Steve finishes, not even bothering to pretend he’s innocent.
Nancy gives you both a look. “Is that why you were always fifteen minutes late to movie night?”
“Fifteen?” Lucas scoffs. “Try thirty.”
You shrug, swinging the backpack over your shoulder. “Whatever. The point is, we know every shortcut, service hall, and janitor’s closet in this place. If anyone’s getting in unnoticed, it’s us.”
Steve cracks his knuckles. “Operation Mall Rats: go time.”
Jonathan groans. “Please do not mention rats right now.”
Will clears his throat, the only one still trying to keep things serious. “So… we’re going up?”
“Upper level,” you nod. “There’s a maintenance corridor above the main atrium. If we can get into position, we time the fireworks with its movement. Flash, bang, panic—it won’t know which way’s up...it'll be completely disoriented.”
“And when you say disorient…” Nancy prompts.
You grin, wicked. “I mean, we blow out the bastard’s eardrums.”
Steve chuckles under his breath. “God, I love you.”
You toss him a wink. “Try not to die before you can prove it.”
Lucas stares at the pile of fireworks like they might grow legs. “These things are actually gonna do all that?”
“If we light enough at the right time? Yeah,” you say. “And if not…”
Steve flips a lighter out of his pocket with a smirk. “At least it’ll look awesome.”
The group falls into step behind you as you slip into the service alley, a firework-wielding, sarcasm-fueled A-Team heading toward the eye of the storm.
You burst through the upper stairwell door, boots hitting tile, lungs burning. The hallway opens up onto the upper balcony of the atrium—the dead, flickering heart of the mall.
Your breath snags in your throat as you reach the railing.
El is on the ground.
Injured.
Face pale, arms shaking, struggling to rise. Her body curls inward like she’s holding herself together with sheer will.
Billy towers over her. His chest heaving, his hand clenched at his side like he’s one breath away from losing control entirely.
And closing in on them—
The Mind Flayer.
All writhing limbs and rotted mass, dragging itself toward them with creaks and snaps that sound too wet, too slow, too certain.
She looks impossibly small beneath it.
“Jesus,” Steve breathes beside you, frozen. “That’s—”
Nancy covers her mouth. “We’re too late…”
“No,” you say, already moving. “We’re not.”
You drop to your knees, yanking open the backpack with shaking hands. “Positions. Now. Split into twos.”
Jonathan nods instantly. “North, east, west?”
“Exactly,” you snap. “We box it in. Blind it. Burn it.”
No arguments.
The group scatters in silence. Sneakers squeaking against cracked tile. You sprint along the balcony, ducking under broken signs and torn banners. Below, the Mind Flayer rears back, limbs twitching. El doesn’t flinch this time. Billy doesn’t move.
Not yet.
You skid behind a support column, shoulder slamming the wall. Steve drops beside you, lighter flicked open in his hand.
You peek out.
Across the atrium, Nancy meets your eyes. Nods once. Far to your left, Lucas hoists the first firework tube like a shoulder cannon. Will crouches beside him, already lighting a fuse.
Your grip tightens on the Roman candles. Sparks hiss at your fingertips.
Steve leans closer. “Ready to light it up?”
You exhale. “Let’s fry this son of a bitch.”
Below, the Mind Flayer uncoils. One gnarled, fang-lined tentacle snakes from its body, stretching toward El’s face, slowly and purposefully.
You’re out of time.
“NOW!” you scream.
BOOM.
A firework detonates against the beast’s shoulder, splattering it in a flash of blue light and smoke.
Lucas’ voice rings out: “FLAY THIS, YOU UGLY PIECE OF SHIT!”
Another blast.
Nancy hurls one down from above. Jonathan follows, ducking behind cover as red-and-gold sparks erupt across the creature’s back.
You step out into full view—no cover, no hesitation—and hurl two fireworks in quick succession, both detonating mid-air in twin bursts that light up the entire atrium like a finale.
The Mind Flayer screeches. Flesh sizzles where the lights hit. Limbs flail. The ceiling shakes.
“HEY, ASSHOLE!” Steve yells at the top of his lungs. “OVER HERE!”
He launches his own into the center of its mass.
The Mind Flayer jerks toward the noise. You seize your moment. You grab another firework, the biggest one in the bag—some monster rocket Lucas swore was “definitely not safe for consumer use.” You strike it, flames licking up the fuse.
Steve glances at you, half‑panicked. “What are you—”
You tear across the balcony, sparks chasing your heels like a comet.
“Buying us time!” you shout back.
You slam the rocket into the splintered banister, aiming it straight down into the chaos below.
“Smile for the camera, you freak,” you whisper—and fire.
The rocket screams through the air and slams into the Mind Flayer’s back, detonating in a violent burst of light and flame that shakes the glass.
The beast collapses, thrashing, shrieking—its body melting into smoke and shadow.
The atrium glows in rainbow bursts. Fireworks rain down and for a second—just a second—you almost forget it’s the potential end of the world.
Steve laughs in disbelief, grabbing you by the waist before you can topple over the railing. “Remind me never to piss you off.”
You grin through the smoke. “Took you this long to figure that out?”
You glance down—and there he is.
Billy.
Collapsed on the ground, twitching with every firework burst that hits the Mind Flayer. Every explosion sends a jolt through his body like he’s tied to it, bound to the monster’s nerves.
“El! Run!” you scream, voice slicing through the chaos.
El scrambles to move, dragging herself on trembling arms—until Billy grabs her.
Drags her back.
Pins her to the floor.
“No!”
You whirl on Steve. “Someone has to help her.”
His face goes pale. “No. I mean—yeah, sure, but… not you.”
“I have to,” you say, breathless. “I don’t know where Mike or Max are. She’s alone down there.”
He looks past you, at Billy—then back. His voice falters. “But if he—”
“He won’t,” you cut in, the words sheer instinct. “He won’t.”
Your certainty is paper-thin, but it’s all you have.
Steve withdraws like he’s been hit. His eyes bore into yours, pleading silently. Don’t go. Please.
“I’ll be right back,” you whisper, pulling him close. His arms wrap tight around you, and he presses a trembling kiss to your forehead.
“Okay,” he breathes, like it’s physically painful. “Okay.”
He turns away before you do because if he watches you leave, he might not let you go.
And you run.
By the time you reach them, El’s hand is on Billy’s cheek.
And he’s still.
His chest rising slowly. His eyes closed. Wherever El has taken him...some place deep inside his mind, some distant childhood memory or forgotten dream, it’s brought him a moment of peace.
The fireworks have gone silent. The smoke has thinned. Everything feels suspended, fragile, like the breath before a prayer.
“Billy let her go,” you beg, stepping closer, "Help us. Help Max."
He hears you. His eyes blink open—glassy, dazed—and then they find yours.
And in that fleeting moment, something shifts.
He softens.
It’s not the guarded, angry boy who moved to Hawkins with fists raised and resentment coiled in his spine. Not the predator who hunted Steve through a house like it was sport. Not the puppet twisted by shadow and poison.
This Billy… he’s the version that might’ve existed if the world had ever been kind to him. If someone had told him he didn’t have to earn love by breaking everything beautiful around him.
And when he looks at you, he almost smiles.
It’s faint. It’s sad. But it’s real.
You take a step toward him—
—and the Mind Flayer shrieks.
You flinch instinctively, stumbling back. Billy’s eyes snap to the creature when he sees your fear. Instantly, something hardens in him.
He turns, deliberately placing himself in front of El.
A final act of defiance.
A final act of choice.
The monster hesitates, as if recognizing the betrayal. Then, with a piercing, guttural scream, it launches a tendril straight from its gaping maw, aimed right at El.
She scrambles backward, too slow—
But Billy moves faster.
“No!” he roars, stepping into its path, catching the thrashing limb with bare, bloodied hands.
You don’t know how he’s doing it, how he’s holding it off, but he is. You race to El, dragging her away from the center of the chaos, shielding her body with your own.
Billy screams. And then—
Six more spiking limbs explode from the monster’s core and pierce him one by one. It lifts him into the air like a marionette, crucified in silhouette. But Billy doesn’t cry out for help. He looks the thing in the eye and, with the last of his breath, screams not in fear—
—but in fury.
A furious, broken, fuck-you scream to the thing that stole his body, his choices, his name. And then—one final claw, straight to Billy's chest.
Silence.
The tendrils retract. All at once.
Billy drops like a stone.
“Billy!” Max’s voice breaks from behind you.
You turn just in time to grab her, arms locking tight around her waist, stopping her from sprinting forward, it's not safe yet. She thrashes for a second—then crumples.
Above, the Mind Flayer lets out a violent, high-pitched wail.
It convulses. Spasms.
Then starts to collapse in on itself, like it’s being vacuumed into its own body. Its limbs shrivel and twist. Its mouth gapes, shrieking as Hopper closes the gate.
And finally—
Stillness again. The battle is over.
You slowly release Max. She stumbles forward and kneels beside Billy, trembling. He groans—a weak, rattling sound. Max clutches his arm, whispering his name over and over like it’s a spell. And he blinks, barely able to lift his head. “I’m sorry,” he croaks.
Max breaks. You drop beside her and wrap your arms around her.
He wasn’t a hero. Not all the time.
But in the end… he chose to be one.
And that should’ve counted for more.
You glance across the debris-strewn floor and spot Mike hovering protectively beside El. Her legs are barely holding, her face ashen. Max hasn’t moved from Billy’s side, her head bowed in silent grief.
They need each other.
“Get her to Max,” you whisper to Mike. “Go.”
Mike nods, swallowing hard, and wraps his arm around El, guiding her slowly to where you hold Max. You watch them—three kids who’ve survived the impossible. Who’ve lost more than they ever should’ve had to.
You pat Mike on the back, offering the smallest reassurance you can manage, and then turn to step away...just for a second, just to catch your breath.
But the second you straighten, the world tilts.
A sharp wave of vertigo crashes into you. Your vision blurs. The taste of smoke and metal clings to your throat. You reach out blindly, hand bracing against the nearest counter, trying to stay upright.
And then—arms.
Strong and familiar.
Steve.
His arms wrap around you like instinct, one at your waist, the other curling protectively around your shoulders.
You fold into him without thinking—no strength left to fight it. His chest rises and falls in ragged sync with yours, his heartbeat thudding against your cheek where your head lands, heavy and spent.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers into your hair, voice frayed. “I’ve got you.”
You don’t answer. You can’t.
You just breathe him in—blood and sweat and cologne and Steve—and let yourself collapse into the only place in this broken world that still feels like home.
The government car slows in front of your house. The vinyl siding of it glows faintly in the moonlight, like nothing ever happened—like there isn’t blood drying under your nails or ash tangled in Steve’s hair. The illusion of normalcy wraps the street like a lie too heavy to speak out loud.
Steve’s hand is in yours. It hasn’t left yours since the moment you collapsed into him back at the mall.
The agent up front says something about check-ins, about debriefs later this week, but it all blurs. You nod out of instinct. Steve’s fingers tighten around yours, his thumb brushing circles against your skin like he’s trying to say we made it without breaking the silence.
The car door opens. You step out together, Steve right behind you, his arm brushing against your back like he’s ready to catch you again if he has to.
Then the front door bursts open.
“Oh my God—” your mom’s voice breaks as she comes flying down the steps, barefoot, robe trailing behind her like wings. “Oh my God—”
She wraps her arms around you so tight your knees nearly buckle again. “They said there was a fire,” she chokes out. “The news—there was a fire at the mall...no one could reach you...I thought—”
“I’m okay,” you whisper, but it sounds too flimsy to be convincing. You feel Steve step back a little, giving your mom space, but her gaze shifts over your shoulder, and her eyes lock on him.
“Oh honey,” she breathes, seeing the bruises painting his cheekbone, the split on his lip, the blood crusted near his temple. “Are you alright?”
Steve gives her a tired half-smile. “You should see the other guy.”
It doesn’t land. She looks back at you, at the smears of red on your shirt, drying brown around the hem of your jacket sleeve.
“You’re bleeding—oh no, no, sweetie—”
“It’s not mine.” You say it too fast. Too quiet.
But it’s the truth.
It’s his.
Your throat tightens, your jaw locking as you swallow the sob trying to claw its way up.
“Okay,” she says softly, like she understands something deeper than you’ve told her. She brushes the hair from your face with trembling fingers. “Okay.”
There’s a moment of quiet between you all, and then Steve clears his throat.
“I—um,” he shifts a little, awkward again like the boy who used to pick you up for school in his cracked-up BMW. “Would it be okay if I… stayed here? Just for tonight? My parents are gone again, and I don’t—” He cuts himself off, eyes flicking down.
She watches him for a long second, and then nods, just once.
“You’d come through the window if I said no anyway,” she mutters, trying to smile. “Go on. Upstairs. I’ll make you something to eat.”
You don’t speak as you lead him inside. Your hands are shaking again.
The door to your bathroom clicks shut behind you. You both stand there for a second in silence, staring at yourselves in the mirror.
You look like the ghosts of the people you were two days ago.
Steve breaks the trance first. “Let me…” He reaches for the hem of your ruined shirt and peels it over your head, slow and careful. You help him with his. Wordless, he turns on the shower.
The steam curls around the two of you, fogging the mirror and blurring the edges of reality. You step in first and hold out your hand behind you.
He takes it without question.
The water is too warm, but it burns in the best way, washing away the dried blood, the dirt, the shadows. You close your eyes as it runs down your back. Steve’s fingers trail up your spine like he’s counting each vertebra, making sure nothing’s broken. His touch is reverent. Almost scared.
You both should be scared.
But right now, in the quiet rush of water, you’re just… there. Together.
“Here,” he says, voice rough. He’s holding your shampoo like it’s the most important task in the world. “Tilt your head back.”
You do.
He washes your hair like you’ll fall apart if he doesn’t do it just right. His fingers massage your scalp with infinite care, and when he’s done, his arms wind around your middle from behind. You lean back against him, letting your weight fall into his.
“I don’t wanna go home,” he murmurs. “Not ever.”
“You are home,” you whisper.
Eventually, your knees give out, and you both sink to the shower floor, steam curling around you like a blanket. You sit like that for a while—wet and exhausted, pressed into each other, kids far too young to carry what you’re carrying. Just teenagers.
Time slips by until the water turns lukewarm. You’re tucked between Steve’s legs, your back pressed to his chest, his arms draped loosely around your waist. His chin rests on your shoulder, skin damp and flushed from the heat.
Then softly, Steve says, “He was brave.”
You blink. “Billy?”
“Yeah. I mean, what he did tonight—what he… how he went out. That was brave.”
You nod, throat thick.
“I never thought I’d say that about him,” Steve admits, his voice barely above the sound of the shower. “I hated the guy. He hated me. But—” he trails off.
“Do you think he was scared?” you whisper. Your voice is hoarse, hollow, like the words had to claw their way up from your chest.
“…No,” he says quietly, after a moment. “I think… he knew exactly what he was doing.”
You nod slowly, eyes fixed on the water spiraling toward the drain. “I think so too.”
Steve draws gentle circles on your arm with his thumb.
“He used to come into the record store,” you say after a beat. “Always right before closing. Wouldn’t talk much. Just… ask what I was listening to that week. Said I had good taste. Bought every single one.”
Steve tilts his head, surprised.
“I think,” you go on hesitantly, “he just wanted to feel something good. Something that wasn’t anger or pain.”
Steve watches you with quiet reverence.
“I once told him I was really into The Cure,” you continue, lips twitching a little. “And he came back the next day sayingthey were ‘fine, I guess,’ but then asked what my favorite track was. The next week he came in humming it. He pretended not to know the words, but... he did.”
Steve lets out a breath through his nose, something like a laugh but sadder.
“He was messed up,” you say, leaning back against him again. “So messed up. But… I don’t know. There was always something in him. Buried deep. I would’ve liked to be his friend. Someday. If he’d let me.” You wrap your arms around your knees.
“He had a shitty life,” Steve acknowledges. “I used to think that was just an excuse. That you should still be better no matter what. But I don’t know anymore. Some people don’t get taught how to be good. They get taught to survive.”
“He deserved better than to go out like that,” you whisper. “But he saved Eleven. He saved us.”
Steve’s arms tighten around you a little.
“I’ll never forget what he did,” he guarantees. “Even if I hated who he was before… I won’t forget this version of him.”
You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand.
“I hope wherever he is now,” you whisper, “he’s not angry anymore.”
“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “Me too.”
“Poor El,” your voice cracks.
“Hopper was a good man," Steve breathes.
You let out a trembling sigh. “You know, when we were at the Byers’ place… standing in that circle, all of us bracing for whatever hell came through that door—and Hopper was right up front, no hesitation, like he’d die before he let it touch us—then seeing him with El and Mike after? I remember thinking… I wish he was my dad.”
Steve presses a kiss to the crown of your head, “Me too."
“There’s this part of me,” you continue, voice shaking, “this desperate, dumb part that thinks… if our world can have monsters and gates and evil underneath our feet—then maybe it’s just crazy enough to keep Hopper alive somewhere.”
“Hope’s not dumb,” Steve says. His hand rubs slow circles up and down your side, his touch gentle but grounding. “It’s what keeps us going.”
Your breath hitches. “I love you, Steve.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just squeezes his eyes shut, like it hurts to hear it…like it makes everything too real. He blinks away tears, swallowing hard.
Then he curls both arms around you tighter, holding on like you’re the only real thing left.
“I love you,” he says fiercely. “So much.”
The water slows to a drip. You reach up and twist the knob until silence fills the bathroom once more. But Steve doesn’t let go. You sit there a little longer, wrapped in steam and grief and each other.
Summary: This was the end. Everything you ever hoped for has slipped from your hands, burning to the ground alongside the riots that broke out as the virus spread. Months ticked by, then a year.
There was only one thing driving you forward, it wasn't fear, it wasn't determination to come out on the other side. It was him. Him and his fucking hope.
Story Tags: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Set in the early 2000s, Heavy angst, Apocalypse typical violence, Descriptions of gore, Misguided anger during grief, Childhood best friend Steve Harrington, Best friend Eddie Munson, Best friends to lovers, Slow Burn, There was only one tent, Awkward tension, Near death experiences, Weed consumption, Nicotine consumption, Swearing, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Tags will be added as the story continues
A/N: I've been watching The Walking Dead again and it made me want to picture the boys in this scenario.
This story will be on a slightly darker side, hopefully dragging out to multiple chapters. I hope you enjoy the ride.
• no she/her pronouns used, mentions of sexual exploring, protected sex, Steve losing the plot
kinktober m.list
Steve was always sweet during sex. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing! At his core he was a lover boy and he’d know it from how many times you played ‘Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy’ and stared at him with a knowing grin. He knew. And he thought you enjoyed it as much as him, you did! You would be lying if you said the sex was bad. With his experience and the sheer size of his dick it was never bad, just a little vanilla and recently you had expressed that to him.
Obviously he immediately launched into an hour long conversation of how to spice it up and if there was anything you’d like him to do. The two of you had settled on some things you could do, adventuring a bit. It had been going well, it always was great with Steve. Things changed, however, after one night at the bar you two had barely been able to get through the door before pulling each other's clothes off.
Steve had been blinded by jealousy when a guy approached you. If he had listened he would have been able to understand that you had shot him down instantly, instead he had ignored the conversation and settled for edging the two of you for nearly an hour. After the first ten minutes he had lost sight of why he was jealous in the first place. The next twenty minutes he was slowly losing himself to the rhythm. And now?
Well now he was just addicted to the feeling of your soaked cunt wrapped around him. It was torture, but it felt so, so good. He didn’t have the ability to decide when to finally let go, only giving deep and slow thrusts the way he knew. It wasn’t enough though, and he knew it, your clit being swollen and neglected. “S..Steve, please.” Steve finally opened his eyes, looking down at you.
His hand cradled the back of your calf, holding it above his hip. “What is it?” Steve all but choked out, sliding all the way back in with a squelch. “Make me come.” He nodded in a daze at your request. Steve folded up the leg he held, pressing it up as he leaned over your body.
After a second he switched rhythm, pounding into you sloppily. Your arousal coated in a ring around the base of his cock, frothing on his pubes from the force of his thrusts. Steve grunted, veins in his neck straining with the effort. He was coated in sweat, hovering above you so his body wouldn’t slide over yours and cause him to lose his footing.
“Fuck, fuck, shit, fuck!” Steve panted. Your cries were music to his ears when he bent down, pressing his forehead to yours. Each thrust sent your body jostling up and down on his mattress. “So close!“ You sobbed, Steve huffed in response. He doubled down, wiry hair catching on your clit with the new angle. “Almost there,” he warned, hand sliding down to press firmly against your stomach.
Your teeth sunk into his shoulder causing him to groan. His hips moved forward particularly hard in response, a spray of liquid suddenly squirting out of you onto him and the sheets under you. Steve choked on a pathetic sound, spilling inside of the condom finally as you mewled under him. His hips jerked out of pure desperation as he slowed down, sucking down gulps of air to steady himself at the overwhelming pleasure.
Steve’s body swayed, head fuzzy when he slowly straightened up to steady himself. His hairy thighs shook as he slowly pulled out of your abused pussy, careful not to wait too long, staring at the wet sheen on the bed. “Jesus Christ,” Steve sighed in awe, wide eyes looking up at yours. A proud smile spread across his face and he leaned down to press kisses all over your face, chuckling at your tired laughter. “There you go honey.”
summary: steve has fallen in love with his best friend without even realising, and now there's nothing left for him to do but continue to fall. friends to lovers, steve is pathetically in love, gender neutral!reader, mentions of drinking.
a/n: literally can't think about anything else but this little romantic idiot loverman, so here we are. unproofread, sorry!
Steve was not sure when it was that this all became real to him. Time seemed to blur together in flashes of colour and memory. There were so many days with you, so many moments that had changed his life or altered his very being. How many moments could he name that might have been the one to shift delicate sands between you? Your friendship spanned years – wonderful years filled with the warmth of summer sun soaking into your skin on the beach of Lovers Lake, sweaters shared so often between the both of you that even the woollen fabric could not decide who it smelled most like.
He remembered movie nights in the dimness of Hawkins theatre, half empty rows of midnight screenings where your horrified cries over every slasher could be muffled by his shoulder, his arm around your waist, tucking you safely away from every fright around. You were the only person who slept in his bed just to talk, to stay up all night whispering dreams and hopes and secrets. You were full of his secrets, after all, sworn to protect and sworn to keep. He wanted to keep you more than anything else in the world.
Steve couldn’t pinpoint the moment his deep, unwavering affection for you had become something new, something so tenderly romantic that even he himself had been shocked by. He had been in love before, sure, but not like this. Steve Harrington had never considered himself capable of loving another person quite so much. It was greedy, and selfish, and selfless, and all consuming, and so peacefully quiet that he was sure nothing else might ever settle him quite so nicely.
The attraction had always been there, after all. You were ethereal, otherworldly, angelic in a way that Steve was sure no one had ever been before. It didn’t matter what anyone else had said, you were the most beautiful creature to ever grace his life. Even as friends, he knew it. He’d watched you swim in the chlorine mess of his pool clad in nothing but your underwear, leaving Steve swallowing thickly around the unshiftable lump in his throat that seemed to appear just for you. He’d run his hands across your sides in the deep blue of the night, memorising the curve of your hip with trembling hands that ached to hold you tighter. He’d been lost in your eyes so often that sometimes the colour of them was printed on the inside of his eyelids, haunting his dreams with visions of your smile - your hand in his.
He couldn’t name the moment it changed, but he could name the moment he knew. It was an ordinary night by anyone's standards; the kids, now graduating, had rented a VHS of some film he likely should have known the name of. He thought the actors had looked familiar, maybe recognised the hit song on the soundtrack, but the rest seemed a blur to him. He’d been half exhausted from a day at work as it was, and you had promised to take him home early if his social battery began to dwindle. It was incentive enough for him to try, though about 35 minutes into the film, Steve had felt that wave of exhaustion slip over him. He wanted his own bed, wanted the silence and dark of his shitty apartment to swallow him whole. He’d moved to whisper to you, hand squeezing your knee beside him only to discover your quiet, even breaths as his only response. Your head rested so fittingly on his shoulder, one curve perfectly slotted into the other, a soft place for you to land. It wasn’t often that you fell asleep during movies, but Steve knew you were just as exhausted as he was from an even longer work week.
Steve did not look back towards the dingy, yellow hazed television screen even once after he’d spotted you. He was fixated on the gentle peace that had settled across your features, brow line soft, unmarred by worries of the day. He wondered what you were dreaming about, what thoughts and wishes filled your imaginings tonight, and whether he would get to hear about them once you’d woken. It was one thought that had shaken him, though. One that made him stop to think, that lost him to his surroundings entirely, consumed by questions.
Are you dreaming about me, too?
The overwhelming sense of hope was what had alarmed him, hope that perhaps you wanted him, wanted him with you even in your dreams – wanted him just as badly as he seemed to want you. How had he not noticed before? How had he not understood that every moment without you just felt like another moment spent trying to get back to you.
Oh god, it was love. There was nothing else to call it. It was love of a friend and so much more. It was love of a person that Steve hoped never to face life again without. It was a desperation to keep you close that left a tightness in his chest, unmoving and unshakable. There was restraint enough in him that kept him from waking you just to pull you tighter, suddenly so aware of this need that had shadowed so closely at his heels all this time.
He stayed the entire film just so you could sleep right there on his shoulder, undisturbed and so entirely loved.
How he managed to keep it to himself after that was beyond all understanding. Steve didn’t keep secrets, or at least not his own, not from you. How exciting it was to be falling in love like this, and yet all he could think about was how horrific it was that you were none the wiser. Hadn’t you felt it too? That shift between you? It was all he could think about, and it left him twitchy, nervous and bumbling, ungraceful compared to his usual charismatic charm. Though you smiled at him like you always did, watching him as if he were still your most favourite person in all the world, and Steve had never felt more alive.
It was why here, now, all he could do was watch you. Weeks later, still pining, still so incredibly in love with you, he was helpless but to stand by your side, drink in his hand idly sipped just to give him some kind of distractive reprieve, the taste of whisky heavy on his tongue as you watched the band before you. The lights were luminous, flashes of blue and yellow and white swallowing you in their glow, your body swaying contentedly to the rhythm of music he had half forgotten to listen to. He’d been excited to see this band weeks ago, and now all he could do was stare at you.
You’d dressed up; hair styled, body wrapped in fabrics that Steve wanted to run his fingers through. There was glitter on your cheeks that glinted in the neon lights, and if Steve had not seen the cheap packaging himself, then he might have considered it the mark of an angel gracing your skin.
Steve had never wanted to kiss someone so badly in his life.
How he had gotten away with such blatant staring was a mystery, and he chalked it up to the masses of people pressing in closer and closer together as the night went on. No one was watching him, so no one was watching him watch you.
As if triggered by some divine intervention, you turned to smile at him, yelling something about how great the band was, the sound muffled by the buzz of electronics and minute long guitar solos. He nodded back dumbly, his own smile a perfect mirror of your own, a free hand running through his now sweat slick locks.
“So good.” Was all he could yell back, trying to peel his gaze away from your own, his own personal boulder up the hill; an unwinnable battle.
His staring paid off, at least, when he caught the way the masses seemed to close in around you. Your view was more and more obstructed with every new beat, bodies taller and far less considerate than the two of yours huddling in tighter. He watched as the perception crossed your mind and on pure instinct, Steve was pulling you into him, slotting your body into place right before his own. He was wrapped around you like a protective barrier, arm hooked loosely around your waist, hand gripping possessively at your hip, his drink knocked clean out of his hand as the man by his side threw his arms up to the music. He tried not to glare, not for the loss of his drink, but for the way it so easily could have come tumbling down on you. The drink seemed like the least of your worries though. Steve offered you an apologetic grimace only to be met with another of your smiles, the warmth of your regard smoothing out the roughest edges of his trepidations.
Your hand slipped into his, eliciting the softest of sighs from Steve to feel your comforting touch, and he felt his body relax as you pulled his other arm snuggly around you too, your entire body now encased in the safety of his hold. Somehow he knew that you had done this for him, that snuggling yourself in deeper like this was to ease his worries, not your own. He was here protecting you, and somehow here you were, still soothing him without so much as a thought. He wished he understood how you knew him so well, how you seemed to know intrinsically what he needed. It felt foolish to hope that maybe it was for the very same reason that he knew you so well. Maybe this is just how friends are.
This did not feel like friendship, though, not with you pressed so tightly against him, bodies swaying as one to the steady rhythm of the melody around you. Your arms were crossed around yourself, hands gripping onto his forearms as if you could hold him right back. You were holding him, he realised. Holding him as best as you could from the position you were in. You had relaxed entirely into him, head resting back against his shoulder, movements languid and comfortable in his arms, fingers tracing secret scribbles into the goose-prickled flesh of his skin, so reactive to even the smallest of your touches. He wasn’t sure what to do with himself, couldn’t decide where to look or what to say or how to breathe, even. Breathe, Steve, breathe.
“Are you comfy?” You called out, head angling up to catch a glimpse of his expression. Your palm flattened out comfortingly against his arm, and Steve tried not to melt under the tenderness of it.
He nodded, dipping down to speak a little more closely, using the volume of the room as his excuse to allow his lips so close to the plush curve of your cheek. “‘m comfy. Is this okay?”
He squeezed his arms around you once, twice, to emphasise his concern. You inched your face higher, views of one another now more clear as the space between you dissipated, your noses bumping clumsily against one another as the crowd continued to shift around you.
“Yeah, thanks.” If he didn’t know you half as well as he did, Steve might have missed the way your eyes seemed to widen at him, mouth parting imperceptibly as if you were about to continue, words dissolving right at the buzzer.
His brow lifted curiously, nose nudging yours with purpose to ease the words from you. The look you gave in turn was enough to steal the very breath from his lungs, his chest constricting with the nerves that such intensity always seemed to summon in him. You looked pained, somehow, and Steve didn’t miss the way your arms seemed to tighten around his own, leaving his hands to squeeze at your sides reassuringly, one slipping its way to cup at your jaw. The wide of his palm engulfed your cheek, his rough, calloused, fingers stroking soothing circles into the curve of your skin, holding your gaze to him.
“What’s wrong?” He mouthed, not wishing to raise his voice when you were pressed so closely to him. He was preparing to pull you away at a moment's notice, to flee the crowd and tuck you somewhere safe in some dark corner of the room to catch your breath. He knew something was wrong, could feel the weight of some unspoken thought pressing down on you. He’d steal it if he could, take it on as his own so you could smile again. It had only been a minute and he was already aching to see it once more.
It all seemed to move in slow motion for him – time slowed to a standstill as the room seemed to fade away. There wasn’t anyone here but you, but him, standing here in this crowded empty space, looking at no one but each other. He watched you tug your lip between your teeth, one moment of contemplation that had him second guessing everything before you moved, lifting up onto the tips of your toes to reach him, his arms tightening again to keep you steady.
Your eyes flickered, shifting nervously between his eyes and his lips, and Steve felt his own part as the surprise of your boldness hit him. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to kiss him and this was your way of showing it. He could see the way you tried to inch closer, watching through hooded eyes as you evaluated his reaction, drifting somewhere between closer and further with every breath.
No one could blame him for his eagerness, not really. Not when you were looking at him like it would kill you not to kiss him, not when he felt so entirely needed, so entirely worthy of this moment. He brushed his hand at your cheek, nudging forward slowly, his eyes imploring as he watched, waited to know that this was really what you wanted.
You just smiled up at him, and Steve might have died right there to know that he was the reason why.
Steve’s focused remained heavily on his movements, head lost somewhere in the necessity that he needed to kiss you right. He felt like his very happiness relied on it – like he would die right here, right now, if you did not know just how much he wanted you. Needed you.
He moved unhurriedly, lips tracing so softly against your own that he thought he might be dreaming. There was no conceivable way that a person could be so delicate in his hold, so plush and divine and perfect. It was a moment out of time, kissing you like this amongst the ever constricting crowds, the violent noise of a band crescendoing around you all the while.
And you were kissing him too.
He could taste it in your touch, the eagerness, the way you tried to reach further, twisting in his arms to fit closer to him. He wished he could swallow his grin, helplessly amused by that gentle desperation in you – how could he not smile over the neediness in your touch? You tried to speed up the kiss, to grip him tighter, one hand curled into the fabric of his shirt, the other tugging him down by his hair.
His groan was involuntary, and his purchase at your face was all he had to usher you, slow fingers coaxing you back into a relaxed state, pulling himself back to look at you with desperate eyes.
He had no words, nothing that he could say that could convey the meaning of this moment, nor the depths of his feelings for it. He could see that glaze in your eyes, feel the way you swayed on the tips of your toes as your balance betrayed you. He didn’t mind – it was his excuse to tug you all the closer, setting the pace once more as his lips slotted against your own.
He felt your sigh rather than heard it, could feel the way your muscles relaxed under the press of his hand at your back. It was a sick sort of pleasure that flooded him, pride taking over to know that he had this effect – this power over you. If only you knew how much more you had over him, how he’d do almost anything you could ask of him just to keep you here.
A knock from a burly looking man was what it took to break the kiss, and Steve might have been thankful had he not almost dropped the two of you in a brief lapse of balance, his head turning venomously to glare at the man who Steve certainly could not take in a fight. He might really have gotten his ass kicked there and then over his petulance, a child raging over his favourite treat being ripped from his hands. Was it so much for him to want this moment to be perfect? He wanted 5 minutes to enjoy it, to kiss you senseless, to solidify that this would not be the only time to do so.
Thank god for you, really, to remind him that he was still in the moment. Your hands at his face tugged him away from his anger, focusing his attention back on you, your own amused smile soothing away that spike of rage that had stolen his attention so briefly. You dipped up, pecking his lips so suddenly that all he could do was stare. He felt like an idiot, and maybe it was because he was one. He was a fool in love, and perhaps now you were starting to see it.
“Lets go.” You urged, thumbs circling at his cheeks, the adrenaline in his body dissipating into something peaceful at the tenderness of your touch.
He nodded dumbly, not a moment wasted considering anything else in the room but you. Who could have possibly cared that the show was only half finished, that neither of you had heard your favourite songs yet, that you had been dying to try the specialty cocktail of the night that was plastered across posters behind the bar, when Steve could be the one to take you home? Fuck literally anything else here because your hand was easing its way into his own, and his cheeks were sure to ache at the strain of his smile on his face as he shouldered his way through the crowd, parting bodies to ease the two of you through the masses, and nothing could have been more important to him in that moment, or any other moment to come, than you.
Forget it all, because Steve was going to kiss you again as soon as the night air broke around the two of you, and by the way you clung so tightly to the back of him, he’d never been so assured that you were just as pleased by the notion as he was.
Steve could not remember the moment his feelings for you had become real to him, but he’d never forget the moment yours had.
sleeping with other people | s.h. x fem!reader (inappropriate language and sexual content)
1990, a shitty apartment somewhere in indiana
“billy! i know you’re fucking in there! let me in you asshole, don’t try and hide when we both just need a fuck!” it was eight thirty at night as you were banging a heavy fist against a wooden door. you were ignoring the plenty of other occupants staring from their doorframes as you kicked a boot foot with a strength that almost brought you to the floor.
“hey!” you turned to see some older man storming over to you, a dark blue bathrobe flowing with the air from his stride. “you need to get the hell out of here or i’m calling the police.”
“i’m visiting someone, i’m doing nothing wrong.” huffing as you crossed your fishnet covered arms over your chest. a hip cocked, the bottom of your mini shirt tickling your upper thighs.
“well if that someone doesn’t claim you in the next minute, you better get your ass moving or you’ll be loitering.” the older man giving the same sass back.
“uh, i’m-i’m her someone.” a younger voice announced. you and the man turned to see a guy, probably in his twenties like you, wearing a loose t-shirt and plaid pajama pants. his hair was thick and full, looking a bit of a riot. “yeah, sorry. i was sleeping, sa- sam. you know me, the apocalypse couldn’t wake me up.” he chuckled nervously, you eyed him up and down.
“you want to be responsible for this mess?” “hey!”
the guy stepped between you and grumpy face, “yeah it’s all good. no more problems for the night, promise mr. johnson.” the man “hmmp” eyed you up and down then turned away.
the other tenets lingered for a moment longer before your new friend started to direct you to, what you assumed, was his apartment. it was pretty much a dorm room, an even tinnier studio. you just flopped onto his bed, the springs creaking from your thrown weight, and heard the rolling wheels of a chair then a sigh.
“so…what’s-what’s your name? guessing it’s not actually sam.” boy savior tried to break the thickening silence, patting noises bouncing off his four walls. “i’m steve.”
“y/n.” giving a mindless wave of your hand as you let your eyes focused on his popcorn ceiling. you just wanted a fuck now you’re just talking with some random dude. pushing onto your elbows you observe the boy, steve, across from you. a tilted of your head you noted how he was covered in freckles, a slight stubbed was darkening his upper lip and jaw, he tried to avoid looking your way with a slight red running up his neck. cute.
“do you know billy hargrove?” abruptly asking about your go to fuck buddy. you saw the way steve’s brows twitched and he made a slight face, “uh not really. just super annoying, plays loud rock music and there’s always a girl leaving his room.” his eyes drifting to his lap as he picked at his pants fabric.
you rolled your eyes, “can’t believe i’m attracted to that stupid guy.” dropping your head back down, a sharp sting in your chest at the confirmation he couldn’t give a flying shit about you. not like you, always running back to be in his arms.
steve coughed, “yeah…uh, no offense but what’d you see in him anyway? like you’re completely out of his league.”
you gave a huff, “he choose me out of a room full of extremely beautiful women. that doesn’t happen to me and…i don’t know. guess he kinda always made me feel beautiful for an hour and i became addicted to it.” saying it aloud made you feel ice cold, a chill that just sat in your heart.
“well you probably already know this, but you deserve better. like thousands times better, someone who’s always gonna put you first.” steve’s voice got soft, sardonic and sweet. it made your stomach tangle together.
you joked, “and is that someone gonna be you? since you were my savior for the night?” but you weren’t opposed to the idea, if you could still have sex tonight that’s a win for you. and if it’s with a better guy then it’s a huge fuck you to billy.
“uh-i-i mean…i wouldn’t mi-mind being that for you…” again you pushed onto your elbows, brows cocked at steve’s stuttering, it was endearing and sweet. he squeezed his eyes shut tight and it caused his face to scrunch up then his hands started moving through the air, “in general. i-i don’t want you to think i’m taking advantage or-or something gross, but i-i would be that person to put you first.”
a smile appeared on your face, “that’s very bold of you to say when we’ve only know each other for…like ten minutes.” you changed your position on his bed from laying on your back to shuffling onto your stomach with palms holding your cheeks.
steve shrugged, “what can i say, i’m a bold guy. and i don’t know, you just have a good energy or whatever about you. my friend told me sometimes you just know right away if someone’s good or bad.”
“wise friend.” “oh definitely, but only on certain things. her taste in food is another thing to worry about.”
the silence settled over again and then, “hey steve, wanna have sex?” he coughed, “what?” you shrugged, “what? i can’t be a bold girl?” he blinked rapidly, “no-no that’s…i’m just-are you sure?”
you tucked some hair behind your ear, “your a good guy steve, no one else would’ve taken a screaming girl into their home. and i’ll be honest, i kinda want to see how well you treat a gal. are you a giver or taker?” wiggling your brows suggestively.
steve scuffed, “i’ll happily give all night.” with that you pushed back onto your knees, eyes hooded while your fingers played with the hem of your skirt, “then why don’t you come show me.”
he stayed in his seat, eyes trailing over you. “are you sure?” voice breathy. you nodded your head and that was the signal that allowed for him to step closer and rest a knee into his comforter. his large palms caressed your warm cheeks, a thumb tugging at your plum colored bottom lip.
“i’ll give you everything you deserve.”
-
2007, a chinese restaurant
paul was…what’s the word? he’s fucking boring. but he was a nice guy and you needed to be with nice guys, but all those other things just combined into a bigger boring mess. you had to withhold an eye roll every ten minutes whenever he coughed, even his coughing bothers you!
“so i was telling sandra about how i was thinking we were in the market for a place, together, and maybe to even start a family. but that was just an after thought, i’m not sure what your stance on that is still. but i was thinking somewhere in the more suburban areas, you could-“
“i’m sorry,” mind running off its tracks the longer he talked. “i-i uh, there was something i actually wanted to tell you tonight. my therapist thought it would be a good idea.” pulling a folded piece of paper from your clutch, running your palms over the wrinkled lines.
you cleared your throat, “paul-“ “y/n.” your nostrils flared at the simple interruption. “paul, my therapist suggested that i come clean about something i’ve been withholding and i agree, wanting to move forward honestly.”
you heard him give a small scuff, “well i don’t think you need to pay a therapist for that.” “paul, please just-“ he held his hands up, “right. sorry, lips sealed.”
a deep breath, “my therapist says i have sexual anxiety, meaning whenever i’m feeling a certain way i always go back to this one person over and over again, no matter if the outcome is the same.” you rubbed your rouge lips together, “i’ve been cheating on you with someone else from the beginning of our relationship.”
he was quiet, the restaurant was buzzing with idle chatter around you, your blood was rushing in your ears. “and also, we should breakup.” icing on the fucking cake.
paul puckered his lips while nodding his head, a slight humorless huff, “a big it’s not you it’s me. because yeah, this is all you, y/n. you could’ve just said something from the beginning, but nope! you had to cheat on me this entire fucking time!” he was practically screaming and all eyes were on the two of you.
“paul, i-i’m really sor-“ “you’re a fucking whore. a goddamn sex fiend whore!” and with that dramatic display he stormed out of the restaurant leaving you shaking in place. somehow, someway your brain kicked into gear and rushed you outside of the restaurant into the lukewarm night. with shaky fingers you managed to pull up his number and send a simple, ‘hey’. slamming your eyes shut, you tilted your head to the sky and tried to stop any tears from falling. and then your phone pinged.
‘come over’
-
2007, a video store
“have a good day sir.” three second beat, “jackass,” mumbled under steve’s breath. no one was ever satisfied with simple customer service these days, they basically want your hand up their ass and puppet them around so they don’t have to think for them to be satisfied. or in robin’s cause, you need to smile more and satisfy every male customer that enters the store.
“you wanna get drunk after work?” robin asked once she walked up to the counter and dropped off a box of return dvds. steve smiled at her idea, “what happened today that you want to forget so badly?” chatting while getting to work on the computer.
robin sighed dramatically, her default mode, “i tripped in front of a really cute girl and that resulted in some dvds crashing to the ground. and i still have to go pick them up, i just walked away! then i could hear soft giggling, they sounded so pretty, but god it’s cause i looked like a doofus!” her hands smacked her temples.
steve just shook his head and ignore the doorbell until he heard someone yelling, “you fucking asshole!” that caught his attention. his head whipped in time to get smacked back into its original position, pretty sure he felt his brain rattle for a second. “you cheated on me with my cousin! what the hell is your problem?”
he had to blink a few times before he was sure his vision was clear. standing on the other side of the counter stood a fuming blonde, her nails almost leaving scratch marks on the wood top. “hey…ste-“ “it’s sarah.”
“sarah, right. sorry. uh it’s just that we’ve only been having casual…sex.” dropping his voice when he remembered this was his place of work. he turned to robin, “give me five?” she just nodded with wide eyes.
“let’s talk outside.” persuading sarah into leaving those nosy old people behind compared to the busy working crowd. she leaned against the brick wall while steve watched her with his hands sitting on his hips, “okay like i was saying, we were only having casual sex. you explicitly stated that and i was taking your word for it. so after two months if you wanted something more you should’ve said something.”
sarah huffed, “me? you also could’ve said something! didn’t you want more after a month?” steve licked his lips, “no, not really. i-i couldn’t find a spark with you that was worth searching for.”
“so you fucked my cousin. was that your dramatic way of saying this was over?” “…kinda?”
next thing steve knew, a fist punched him in the nose.
-
2007, a sex addict meeting (that’s a real thing?)
“before i started this program i thought ‘love’ was a feeling. but that’s bullshit, it’s not a feeling it’s a decision, like everything else. and i see now that when i was in my addiction i made the decision over and over again to choose sex over my self-worth. and it doesn’t mean that i don’t like sex now it doesn’t mean i’m not a sexual person. gail. i don’t need to go trolling online looking for women to go down on. i don’t need to fuck eight guys on one night. i don’t deny what i’ve done. i embrace my past. yes, i did once call one of my neighbors in the middle of the day when he was at work and said, ‘grab some condoms and meet me at the delicious soft pretzel place.’ who cares? i did let someone put a protein bar up my ass once. big deal. i did hack into my supermarkets instagram account and posted a picture of my asshole and said, ‘there was a sale on asshole.’ and then said, ‘come and lick my asshole if you’re bald.’”
you had to leave that meeting before you started laughing at something you weren’t supposed to, plus you couldn’t stop checking if he texted you every five seconds. this was something your therapist suggested you attend, but after tonight you probably won’t be attending another meeting.
a cool breeze tickled your cheek just as you heard someone speak. “holy shit, no way.” you looked over your shoulder to see a guy standing on the building steps with his eyes focused on you, planning to ignore him was changed once you realized your recognized that face.
a soft laugh, “what the hell? steve?” moving closer as he descended the final two steps, automatically pulling each other into a hug. you leaned back with your arms still holding his waist, “wow it’s been so long, like ten-“
“seventeen years.” he quickly corrected you. that made your eyes widen and step back, “wow. and you still look the same, just more matured.” letting your eyes wonder over a forgotten piece of your past.
“you look even more beautiful,” he spoke the sentiment so easily. “so what’ve you been up to?” slipping past his comment quickly onto neutral ground. you lightly scoffed your boot against the concrete, “uh yeah, i-i work with kids, shockingly. kindergarten, little fuckers piss me off, but it keeps me from wanting kids everyday and i appreciate that.”
that got steve to laugh loudly and you followed after a beat when you realized how insane that sounded outside your brain. “i just-i already see them as my own kids and some are more like younger siblings in a way. but yeah…not planning to add to the population anytime soon.” rambling like you were trying to save face.
“no yeah, totally understandable. i have friends with younger siblings and they are such little shits, but i really do love them.” steve stuck his hands into his jacket pockets, “actually i meant to ask you, what’s a girl like you doing in that shit hole?” nodding his head at the building behind you both.
“and i have that same question for you. whatcha doing here girlfriend? you a supposed sex addict?” taking a quick glance at your phone, no message. you turned back to steve who was watching you with raised brows.
“what?” “got a booty call to take care of?” you scoffed, “no. just waiting for something important.”
steve hummed, “well um, if you’re free…would you like to get dinner? catch up a bit more?” he bounced slight on his feet. you debated blowing him-off-but you really didn’t have anything waiting for you, especially not him. “got a place in mind?”
-
one hour later, a small diner
“no way! she really whacked you hard.” leaning over the table slightly to see how steve’s nose still held some black and purple bruises. “bet she had a good reason for it though, am i right?” pointing a salty fry at him with squinting eyes.
he sighed, “yeah.” a hand rubbed the back of his neck, “i sorta slept with her cousin…” “boy or girl?” feeling a plot twist coming.
“…boy.” “oh how scandalous!” smiling widely around your straw. he rolled his eyes, but kept his head ducked low, long strands of his hair shadowing his eyes.
“hey steve?” he hummed around a bite of his burger. you taped your nails on the table, “you remember billy hargrove?” that caused steve to choke on his food, the loud coughing drawing eyes to your booth. you smiled just a bit at the amusement.
“hargrove? what-what about him?” managing to swallow some root beer and wipe away his tears. you replied more to the table then steve as you mumbled, “i’ve been sleeping with him on and off for the past fifteen years.” quickly sucking on your straw, chugging down your milkshake.
a beat then, “wow that’s…i’ll be honest that’s sad.” brows furrowed as your jaw dropped, a little milkshake sliding onto your chin, “and you constantly cheating isn’t?” trying to defend your actions.
steve held a finger up, “first of all, i’m cheating with new and interesting people. you cheat on your partners with the same asshole that you keep crawling back to. now that’s a toxic cycle.” and he…wasn’t wrong.
“fuck,” groaning to yourself. “i really need to get over this awful attachment i have to him. it’s genuinely ruining my chances of having a happy relationship, that fucking parasite!” slightly yelling the last bit.
“yes the parasite and the…other parasite. cause let’s be honest it’s an equal parasitic relationship if you think about it, his side is just more deeply concealed.” steve wiped a finger clean of ketchup with his mouth, your eyes followed the movement. you felt that knot in your stomach.
“i really want to fuck you right now,” blurting the thought out. steve was taking a sip of soda at the exact moment and it ended up spraying the table, and a bit of your top. “sorry-sorry,” he coughed while grabbing a billion napkins to do damage control. you didn’t bother with your shirt, just covering it with your jacket for now.
“sorry didn’t mean to spring that on you, but i felt the need to say it. cause like, i like this sharing we’re doing, but i don’t want to mess it up and just constantly think about you sexually. on accident of course.”
“right,” steve covered his face with his hands for a moment, “um…how about this? we come up with a safe word whenever the other is doing something sexy.” running a hand through his dark strands.
you smirk, “are you saying the feeling is mutual?” steve smiled shyly and looked out the window for a moment, “of course it’s mutual. you got sexier and everything, everything about you is dangerous for me.”
you didn’t exknowledge his sentence, moving forward. “what if we use…avocado?” “too sexual.”
your brows jumped, “how is avocado too sexual?” “if you saw the way i cut one open then you would agree.” “are you just using your fucking bare hands? what are you a caveman?”
steve waved you off, “what about red light? very obvious to stop.” “nah, doesn’t sound fun. that’s the point of safe words, to kinda sound fun.”
he sighed, “okay what’s the worse thing you can think off? like something you know can cause someone great pain.” “dick in a mousetrap.”
steve recoiled, “jesus! where the hell did that come from?” he visibly shivered at the words. “such a sadist you are.”
you grinned brightly, “but it makes you scared, so we’ll shorten it to mousetrap.” you took a quick glance at your phone and realized how lates it’s gotten, “shit. sorry, but i gotta head home, need to make sure i have everything ready for work tomorrow.”
“oh yeah,” steve looked at his watch, “didn’t realize the time flew by.” he insisted that he pay the check and the both of you headed back onto the quiet night streets. you stood in front of each other, a distant street lamp casting its yellow glow.
you pulled a pen out of your purse, “give me your hand.” steve hesitated then stretched it out, “this…is my number. so we don’t have to do smoke signals or keep going to sex addict meetings to find each other.”
steve smiled while flexing his fingers, “smart. well this was definitely a pleasant turn of events, made my night.”
“me too,” twisting your body slightly. you didn’t want to leave but you had to. “well…talk to you later, boy savior.” and you headed off into the night, only looking over your shoulder twice to see him still watching you walk away.
to be continued
-
a/n: PLEASE GO WATCH THE MOVIE ITS ONE OF MY FAVORITE ROMCOMS!!!!!!!! also that’s what inspired this, like i’ve been wanting to do a fic inspired by the movie but i recently rewatched it with a friend and boom! inspiration!
