DJO 5 seconds of summer sabrina carpenter olivia rodrigo role model steve harrington gracie abrams wallows audrey hobert the hunger games beabadoobee the1975 niall horan fleetwood mac paramore musicals joker out movies&&music photography
Steve Harrington somehow ends up cast as one of the lead parts in the spring musical and you're tasked with teaching him how to dance.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
words: 2.1k
contains: high school musical au, king!steve, enemies to lovers (maybe), fluff, sexual tension, female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader
author's note: request by my love @goldiwrites | this has been in my inbox for a little while and finally got an idea for it that i loved. this one is for my musical theatre girlies! also there is potential for a part two here, i have a few ideas...
to be added to my taglist | masterlist | requests page
The fact that Steve Harrington had been cast as your partner in the spring musical pissed you off. A lot.
From what you had heard, he had lost a bet with Tommy and auditioned for one of the lead roles as a forfeit. Everyone had thought it would be laugh—the star of the basketball trying to sing, making a fool of myself. And so, the day Steve had auditioned, the auditorium filled up, ready to laugh at King Steve’s attempt at an audition for a musical.
But no one—absolutely no one— had expected for Steve Harrington to have an incredible singing voice. Even you were impressed.
But still, you had thought that singing alone wasn’t enough to land the lead role.
Turns out, you were dead wrong.
And now you were spending your Wednesday and Thursday lunches trying to teach Steve Harrington how to dance and not trip over his own feet, as if rehearsals for the show with him every Tuesday and Friday after school weren’t already enough.
Plus the fact that the show would end with a kiss between your characters—well, you were beginning to regret auditioning for the show in the first place.
“Steve!” You snap at him one Thursday lunchtime in the dance studio for stepping on your shoes for the fifth time in the past fifteen minutes. “Look at where you’re going—”
“—you told me to stop looking down at my feet—”
“—yeah, well you need to make sure that your big clown feet don’t break a toe—”
“—clown feet?!”
It would have been comical, if arguing with Steve didn’t make you want to strangle him.
It was six weeks before the spring musical and four weeks into rehearsals and Steve Harrington had managed to steal every bit of patience that you possessed.
To his credit, he wasn’t that bad of a dancer. He just didn’t like to listen to you. Or maybe he just preferred you when you were pissed off at him for not taking the dance practices seriously. But who could blame you for getting pissed? To him—this was just a stupid little musical he didn’t really want to be in and to you? This musical could be the difference between whether or not you got into college.
So yeah, Steve’s clown feet and his inability to listen to you were a fucking problem.
“Yeah, clown feet,” you retort irritability as you step away from him, needing space before you resorted to physical violence. “Let’s take it from the top and don’t fucking step on my toes again.”
Steve looked as though he wanted to argue with you but the borderline murderous look on your face stops him.
At least he had some sense about him.
Steve manages to do a complete run through of the dance without stepping on your toes once. He was getting better, even you could see that. But you certainly weren't going to kiss his ass like everyone else in Hawkins High did.
"Good," you say by way of a compliment as Steve can't help but look pleased with himself.
"Just good?" Steve asks, a little incredulous, almost offended that you weren't fawning over the fact he did possess an ability to listen to you. "C'mon, that deserved more than a 'good'."
You very nearly roll your eyes. God, you could not stand this guy and you had six more weeks of having to tolerate him.
You say nothing, glancing down at your watch to avoid looking at him.
"What's up with you today?" Steve asks you, nudging your arm and making you grit your teeth. "You're crankier than usual."
You click your tongue against the roof of your mouth, wishing more than anything that you were anywhere else in the world but here before you finally decide to look at him. "I'm fine. There's nothing up with me—"
"—is it because we're rehearsing the kiss is tomorrow?"
Your breath hitches. Everything seems to go very still, except your heart that starts trying to beat its way out of your chest. Traitorous thing.
You take perhaps five seconds to come to your senses, shaking your head before letting a loud laugh.
"Of course not," you say, despite the fact that your face had started feeling a little hot. "It's just a kiss, it's not that serious."
Steve quirks a brow, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he looks back at you. You can't help but notice the small step that he takes towards you.
"I think you're nervous," Steve murmurs, less than a foot away from you now as he looks at you with eyes that you find yourself being unable to look away from.
"Why would I nervous, exactly?" You ask him, trying to keep your voice even despite the way your heart was still pounding in your chest. “Are you that bad at kissing?”
Something in Steve’s expression shifts, looking amused instead of annoyed at your jabs like he usually would.
“No,” he says softly, his eyes flickering over your face as though he was studying every one of your features carefully. “I’ve been told I’m a great kisser.”
“Sure,” you say, unamused as you look anywhere but at his lips. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Harrington.”
Steve smiles and then, before you can even blink—he leans in. Until his mouth is directly next to your ear, until you can hear every breath that he takes, until you can smell his ridiculously expensive cologne he wears, one that you couldn’t help but breathe in, the warm, musky vanillary scent filling your lungs.
“You wanna know what I think?” Steve asks you, his hot breath hitting your ear and making a heat that you didn’t quite know what to do with spread through your body.
You swallow, you pray that doesn’t Steve hear it. “You can do that? Well, colour me surprised.”
Steve laughs and the sound travels through you—warm and leaving your body tingling. You were having to remind yourself of all the reasons you didn’t like him—he was arrogant, he didn’t take the thing you cared about seriously and he had been stepping on your toes for the past fucking hour.
“I think,” Steve begins, his voice low and making that heat burn a little hotter inside of you. “I think you’re nervous about kissing me.”
You blink. For a moment, you don’t say a damn word. Everything in your body feels too hot and you’re quite sure that you have even forgotten how to breathe entirely.
“I’m not,” you say flatly after a beat, ignoring the way your heart was still racing from the close proximity.
“I think you are,” Steve hums, one of his large hands planting itself on your waist and making your body feel as though you were on fire, as though flames were licking at your skin, devouring your flesh. “I think you’ve been thinking about kissing me for weeks. I think you’ve heard the rumours about me and you want a taste for yourself.”
And there it was—the arrogance. God, you wanted to slap him. You wanted to slap that smug look off his face and do it again for good measure. Because he was a prick, nothing more than a hot jock who didn’t care that you had worked your ass off to get a role lead, didn’t care that your dreams of being on stage relied on this musical, something that he thought was stupid.
“You’re so fucking full of yourself,” you snap back at him, ignoring your body’s reaction to him. You tell yourself it was just biology—a hot guy this close to you? Of course you were a little bit affected.
It was just biology.
“Yeah?” Steve asks you, the hand on your waist splaying across your back, pulling you an inch or so closer. “That so?”
He was so fucking smug and his hand on your body was making you feel things you didn’t want to. Not for him anyway.
“Yeah,” you say, moving your head slightly so that you could look right at him, reminding yourself once again who you were talking to.
Steve Harrington. King Steve. Whatever else people called him these days. The guy who had things so easy that he had landed a lead in a musical without even fucking trying.
“Because kissing you will mean nothing to me,” you tell him firmly. “And I’m gonna prove it to you.”
There was a moment, the briefest of seconds where Steve falters. You catch the way his lips part, brows furrow in confusion.
“Wait, what—”
You don’t give him any kind of explanation, nor do you give yourself even a second to question whether what you were about to do was incredibly stupid.
Your hands each up cup either side of his face, your fingers brushing against the slight stubble over his jaw before you lean in and press your lips firmly against his.
Steve seems to freeze against you, your lips moving against his and turning his insides to goo.
It was only when you began to lean back, starting to pull away from him that he finally came to his senses.
Steve pulls you toward him in by the hand that was splayed across your back, his other hand cupping the side of your neck as he presses his lips against yours. His mouth was warm, soft and insistent as his lips slide against yours, a subtle wetness there that had a syrupy warmth spreading through your gut.
It should have stopped there. You should have pulled away.
But instead, you felt your lips parting almost on instinct and Steve took the opportunity to slide his tongue into the wet heat of the mouth.
Neither of you could seem to help the noises you make at the first brush of tongues against each other. Steve groans in your mouth, his hand that was resting on the side of your neck moving to cup your jaw, titling your head back gently to deepen the kiss while you let out a small gasp, fingers trailing down to fist the front of his shirt, as if trying to pull him closer.
It wasn't sweet and it certainly wasn't pretty—it was needy. It was something akin to desperation. Both of your lips slick with spit and leaving your body thrumming for more.
It was just as Steve's hand moved to pull you closer, pull you flush against him that you finally—finally—forced yourself to pull away. And Steve Harrington—King Steve, Captain of the basketball team, the Keg Stand King—his lips chase yours, capturing them for another hungry, searing kiss. One that you feel in every nerve throughout your body, one that leaves your lips tingling. Steve dives right back in, sucking on your tongue and pulling a small whimper from you.
"Knew it," he murmurs against your mouth, "I fucking knew it."
He leans back in, ready for more but you place a hand on his chest, stopping him from doing so.
Your chest was heaving, your lips bee stung and wet with a mix of your spit but you refused to give him.
"See?" You say, a little breathless as you pull away from him fully, the distance doing little to help the warmth that had spread throughout your body. "Means nothing to me."
Steve looks back at you, his hazel eyes wide and staring at you as though seeing you in a whole new light. There was something, something there in his expression that you couldn't quite read. It made you swallow and you had to look away from him.
"Nothing?" Steve asks, trying to catch your eyes as you cross the dance studio to grab your bag. "Are you—"
"—I'm sure," you interrupt before he could finish his sentence. "That meant nothing to me."
Steve, for the first time, looks unsure of what to say. For a second, you wonder if you had hurt his feelings but then you remembered that this was Steve Harrington. He didn't need validation from a girl like you.
"I'll see you at rehearsals tomorrow," you say before Steve could even open his mouth to respond.
And then—you leave the studio with a second glance.
You miss the way Steve watches you as you leave. The way he lifts his hand to brush his fingers over his swollen lips, the way he can't bring himself to move from the spot where you had kissed him.
Because maybe, just maybe, Steve Harrington had just had the best kiss of his damn life.
And it had meant nothing to you.
Fuck, Steve thought as his stomach turned with something that felt too close to disappointment for his liking. He was fucked. He was truly and utterly fucked.
HIIIII I love how you write gator and I was thinking kissing gator but it’s just to take out his zyn and spit it out. He hates everytime reader does it but can never tell when she is. THANK YOUUUU
SPIT IT OUT
Gator Tillman X Reader.
Summary: You hate it when Gator leaves those small white packets in his mouth. So whenever you kiss him, you find a way to take it out without him knowing.
Warnings: Gator using zyns, kissing
A/N: thank you for this ask, lovely xx (sorry for the wait, I was travelling 🦅 also sorry if its not that good, i forgot how to write lowkey 😭)
"Gates?" You called out, shutting the front door behind you slowly.
Your gaze fell on him instantly. He stepped out of his truck, moving his lips around awkwardly. You narrowed your eyes, sighing as you walked towards him.
"Hey, mama." He smiled, reaching out for you. His hands rested on your hips as he pulled you in slightly, eyes fixing on your own.
You leaned in, closing the distance. His lashes fluttered shut as your hands slid up his chest, tracing his collarbone. A smirk played on your lips. He was stupid to think you'd never notice the tiny, white nicotine packet hidden in his upper lip. He hummed into your mouth as your tongues danced with eachother.
But you had other plans.
Your tongue swept up, sliding the packet out of its spot and letting it sit on the tip before you pulled away with a smug smile.
Gator raised his brow. "Yer lookin' at me funny." He mumbled, watching you giggle softly.
"You haven't realised?"
He just shook his head, frowning in silence. You stuck out your tongue, showcasing the ZYN pouch. He blinked, tilting his head slightly before quickly licking around his upper lip. But before he could complain, you spat it out onto the ground.
"Third time now, Gator." You muttered, poking him in the chest. "Third time."
Gator grumbled. His eyes flicked down to the pouch on the ground before they met yours again. "I never feel ya takin' it. Yer like a fuckin' spy." He shook his head in defeat as he chuckled. "Fine. I'll stop takin' em."
A quick grin flashed across your face as you melted back into him. You leaned up to meet his lips. This time for a real kiss.
One that won't end with you telling him to spit it out.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x reader
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 9.4k
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: your boyfriend throws himself off a 200-foot tower to save you. and you've finally had enough.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: established relationship, heavy angst, character analysis, switch!steve, hurt/comfort, pain kink, breeding kink, minor blood kink, choking (m!receiving), bondage (?), hate-sex adjacent, sex as coping, descriptions of blood/injury, fantasies about marriage/children, scars, ptsd, aftercare, fluff, bathing together, palm reading, happy ending
𝐚/𝐧: out of everything I love about steve harrington, this is the thing that breaks my heart the most.
✦ · · · ✦ · · · ✦
“You’re such a fucking—idiot—asshole—”
How do you love a man who would die for you, but won’t live for you?
“—selfish dick!”
You slam back into him before the sentence can finish breathing. Words shredded by teeth and tongue, by kisses hard enough to bruise. Bite hard enough, and maybe you can tear the martyrdom out from under his skin. Rip the halo off and snap it between your teeth.
You sink your cuspids into his bottom lip, right over a split that had barely scabbed over on the drive home.
You feel it tear back open. Feel the plush give of it, the hot burst of copper that blooms across your tongue. Metallic and thick, his life slides down your chin in a slow ribbon of red. It smears between your mouths when you grind closer, staining your skin, marking you both.
He makes a sound.
And it’s not anything born out of pain—you’d know.
Deep and guttural, dragged up from somewhere starved. His hands clamp around your waist, fingers digging into your ass as he hauls you flush against him. Denim rasps against the inside of your thighs when he rolls his hips up, grinding into you.
That thick, heavy bulge makes itself known, humiliatingly honest.
Blood in his mouth. Dirt under his nails and the sour, rotten tang of that other place still caked in his hair.
And he’s hard.
Something in him is broken that way.
Years of surviving by the skin of his teeth—beaten and concussed and tortured and choked and drowned and devoured—it’s fucked up the wiring in Steve Harrington’s brain.
Pain tolerance shot to hell. Fear braided with dopamine until his nervous system can’t tell the difference anymore.
Getting hurt no longer scares him.
Now, agony comes hardwired with clarity. That split second before impact, when adrenaline screams through his veins and he’s teetering on that razor-sharp edge of death, that’s when he feels most alive.
Your thumb presses into the fresh cut on his lip, smearing his blood back into it. His lashes flutter. His hips jerk up, rutting against you like you’re fucking him.
You grab his jaw, fingers digging into the sharp hinge to force his gaze down to yours. His pupils are blown impossibly wide; barely any color left, drowned beneath an endless wash of black.
“Yeah?” you whisper, venom-sweet. You drag your thumb down his throat, feel the jut of his Adam’s apple jump under your touch. “Does that feel good?”
He nods.
Doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. Whatever scrap of self-preservation he’d once possessed hollowed out by hunger—by that sick, reckless void inside him that only ever seems to ignite after he’s survived something that should have killed him.
A cruel cosmic coin toss that keeps landing in his favor—and instead of gratitude, it leaves him burning for more.
You lift your knee and press your thigh into the seam of his pants. He sucks in a sharp breath through blood-slick lips, head tipping back, throat bared.
You despise it.
You despise that this is the language his body understands. That he can shove you out of the way without a second thought—dangle over two hundred feet of empty air because he decided your life was worth more than his—and still get hard when you hurt him for it.
You drag your bloody thumb to your mouth and suck it clean, eyes never leaving his.
He watches you do it, watches your lips wrap around the pad of your finger to taste, to swallow—swallow his blood like it’s yours, like he’s yours, like the world could never take him from you.
Like he hasn’t already tried to give himself away.
Only this time... it was for you, wasn’t it?
Hurled himself into the abyss without hesitation, fingers scraping at metal while the yawning darkness waited below.
One second slower. One fraction of a heartbeat, and—
Your palms slam into his shoulders.
Just like his had slammed into yours.
Bile surges up your throat as you claw at muscle and bone, shoving and shoving until his balance falters.
He stumbles back, heel catching on the edge of the bed. Momentum betrays him for a second time and he falls back onto the mattress with a startled grunt.
Your stomach falls with him. Phantom vertigo clawing up your spine, even now.
And the moment you close your eyes—
You’re standing on top of that tower.
You remember the look on his face.
That awful, quiet resolve of someone who had already made peace with his fate.
You remember his hands on your shoulders. The firm press of his fingers, the way he held on just long enough to make sure you were steady, to make sure you were far enough away.
Far enough that you couldn’t reach him.
Far enough that you would live.
And then he let go.
You remember the force of it careening you backward, your boots scraping against the metal platform as you fought for balance. You remember the cold bite of the railing against your back. You remember watching him move in the opposite direction, his own momentum carrying him toward the open edge.
You remember his hand shooting out on instinct, searching for anything that would keep him there. His palm scraping against rusted steel, leaving streaks of red behind as his fingers curled desperately around the railing.
The same hands that had pushed you away.
The same hands that had held yours on the way up, guiding you over every rung of that ladder when the height made your stomach twist.
You remember his mouth opening like he might say something—your name, maybe—a goodbye, something he needed you to know—but all that came out was a broken, ragged breath.
You remember the color draining from his face as he looked down, the terrible understanding settling in his eyes.
You remember lunging for him without thought.
You remember Robin’s arms locking around your waist, holding you back so tightly it bruised, her grip the only thing keeping you from following him over the edge.
And then his fingers slipped.
You stalk toward him now, trying to outrun the memory, fists clenched so tight your nails carve crescents into your palms.
He’s sprawled across the sheets, chest heaving, arms flung wide in surrender.
“Why?” you demand, climbing over him, straddling him with an anger so raw it shakes your whole body. “Why the fuck would you do that?”
He lets out a quick breath through his nose, incredulous. Raises his brows like you’re the insane one.
“Seriously? You’re seriously asking me that.”
He’s smiling.
A crooked, boyish thing, manic brightness behind the eyes, adrenaline still lighting him up from the inside out.
It detonates something in you.
You slam your weight down on him, knees digging hard into his sides. The mattress groans, the air punching out of his lungs in a sharp grunt.
You fist the hem of his shirt and yank it up.
The sight underneath steals your air right back.
It never gets easier to see.
Bruises bloom fresh and vicious across his ribs, inky purples bleeding into sick reds. New hurt swallowed by old hurt, skin that never gets the chance to heal clean before something tears it open again.
Jagged crescents from teeth, ropes of pale, warped ridges that split the tan of his skin like fault lines, ready to crack him open. That chunk of puckered flesh on his right side that never healed right—and it never will.
Your fingers drag down the center of his chest, shaking.
“What was the plan this time, hm?” you spit, nails scraping over the soft plane of his stomach, catching on one of the scars. “What was the fucking plan, Steve?”
You hook your fingers into his belt buckle and rip it loose, hard enough that the metal clangs against itself.
“Answer me. What would you have done if—if Jonathan didn’t catch you? If you slipped?”
His head falls back, exposing the flushed column of his throat, pulse hammering wild and alive under skin you’ve kissed a hundred times.
“What the hell was I supposed to do?” he pants. “Let you fall?”
“You didn’t know I was gonna fall!”
“Well I wasn’t gonna fucking wait to find out, alright?”
The mattress groans when he pushes himself upright too fast, pain flashing across his face before he buries it immediately, one hand flying to his ribs on instinct.
“I can’t... I’m not gonna just stand there and wait for something to happen to you.”
Your body goes still.
The bright sting behind your eyes arrives right on cue, the fury choking off in your throat until all that’s left is grief.
“You know,” you whisper, quieter now. “You know I’m not just talking about the tower.”
There’s a moment of recognition in his eyes as the words sink in, a flash of something that might be guilt if he ever let it sit long enough.
He knows exactly what you mean.
Then, just as fast, he shutters himself. Lets the feeling die before it can root.
His gaze slides away toward the ceiling.
“No, don’t... don’t do that,” he mutters. “Don’t make this into some... suicidal thing. It wasn’t.”
“Wasn’t it?”
“No.”
“You could’ve died tonight.”
“But I didn’t.”
“That’s not the fucking point!”
“Well what do you want me to say?” he fires back suddenly, frustration cracking his voice. “That I’m sorry I stopped you from falling?”
“I want you to stop acting like your life means less than mine!”
He clamps his mouth shut, an audible click of his molars as he frowns, incredulity settling behind his wide eyes. His brows pulling together as he stares at you like he can’t understand why you could possibly be saying this.
Steve doesn’t consciously believe his life matters less.
He would never say that.
But somewhere deep down—in the ugly marrow of him, in the abandoned, lonely places built inside him when he was a kid—he believes it instinctively.
You’ve known that for a long time now.
Steve grew up starving.
Not for food.
For affection.
A reason to believe he mattered even when there was nothing he could offer except himself.
Love, in the Harrington house, was conditional.
And at Hawkins High, he traded one kind of emptiness for another.
Built himself a throne out of borrowed attention and hollow praise.
Then the world ended, and suddenly everybody needed him.
Needed his fists, his strength. Needed the frightening way he could take hit after hit after hit and still stand back up bleeding.
Steve latched onto that feeling with both hands.
And his body became a type of offering.
A thing to spend.
You’ve lost count of how many nights ended exactly like this.
Both of you stumbling back home, adrenaline clawing through your veins, slick with sweat and blood—yours or his, it doesn’t matter anymore. Shaking so hard your teeth chatter while you scream at him, fists slamming into his chest.
Screaming and shoving and crying and kissing and begging—begging him to please, please stop being so fucking careless with your life. What’s the point of any of this shit if you’re dead, Steve?
It always ends the same way. Your anger dissolving into something wetter as Steve reaches for your waist with bruised hands, dragging you against him, mouthing apologies into your throat he’ll never say aloud. Fucking you on top of bloodstained sheets while the smell of iron hangs thick in the room, face buried in your neck, every thrust a word he won't say.
Sorry.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
You stare at him now, chest heaving, lungs scraping for air that won’t come.
Then you reach down and pull his wrists together.
The leather creaks when you thread his belt around them.
Loop, thread, pull, cinch.
Survival knots perfected in the dead of night, in basements and back rooms, hands slick with sweat while you practiced until it stuck. So when the time came, you could hold down something thrashing and dangerous.
Because hesitation is what gets people killed.
It makes sickness crawl up your throat, how naturally your body remembers.
How this world has taught you to restrain someone you love—and taught you well.
You yank his arms above his head, the strap biting into his skin, pulling tight until the leather creaks and his skin pales underneath.
Steve doesn’t fight it, doesn’t even try. Just lets his head fall back against the pillows, wrists falling limp over dark linens.
Has the fucking audacity to smile.
“What,” he breathes, wrecked in an entirely different way now. “You gonna punish me?”
You yank the belt tighter.
He hisses softly through his teeth, brows creasing in a fake show of pain, hips stirring in anticipation.
“Okay, easy, easy,” he mutters breathlessly, grin crooked. “Jesus—easy, honey.”
“Oh, so now I’m honey?”
You shove his wrists harder into the pillow, then drop your hands to his pants, fingers rough and impatient. The button fights you before snapping loose, his zipper dragged down with a harsh metallic rasp. He sucks in a breath, back arching as the pressure eases off his swollen cock.
“Baby...” he tries, a soft laugh in his voice. “C’mon, you don’t have to, just—”
“Shut up.”
You shove him back into the mattress, gaze burning furiously through him.
He just stares back, that reckless, adrenaline-drunk smile still clinging to him like he hasn’t learned a single fucking thing.
So you wrap your hand around his throat.
Four fingers digging into warm, sweat-slick skin. Your thumb presses into the hollow beside his windpipe until you can feel it.
The frantic thump-thump-thump of life.
Life he throws around like loose change.
“S-shit, babe...” he chokes softly, lashes fluttering, eyes rolling back, the fucked-up wires in his brain firing off all at once. He uses what little leverage he has to lift his hips, grinding against your ass until you tighten your grip, a crease of real strain forming between his brows as his breath snags under your palm.
But even then, he doesn’t push you away. His bound hands strain downward, fingers grasping uselessly at your wrist, tugging you forward so he can get you closer, grind up harder.
You hate him.
You love him so much it makes you violent.
And he’s still fucking bleeding.
Face covered all over in fresh cuts and bruises, illuminated by the soft blue glow of the dinosaur nightlight in the corner—same one he’s had since he was five.
This bed once held your first kiss.
Your first time.
Steve laughing breathlessly into your mouth at sixteen years old because he kept fumbling the condom wrapper with nervous hands.
Whispered promises under blankets about senior year and college.
A hundred different somedays and maybes.
About a future that didn’t look like this—didn’t include gates or monsters or watching the boy you love come within inches of disappearing, over and over again.
Now you’re choking him in it.
Straddling him with your hand around his throat because you don’t know how else to make him understand that you cannot survive loving somebody who keeps choosing death.
It won’t leave you alone, the image of his face on top of that tower.
Not an inch of hesitation.
Like it wouldn’t have mattered, either way.
Your other hand comes up, circling his throat fully now, pressing in.
Your eyes sting as you narrow them, forcing yourself to hold his gaze.
Barely a whisper, the words cut you on their way out.
“Fuck you.”
Some days you think about killing him yourself.
Ending it before the world gets to.
Precipitate the inevitable doom that is loving a man who would bleed for you, break for you, die for you—
But won’t live for you.
At least it would be quick, then.
At least you wouldn’t spend the rest of your life waiting for the inevitable moment where his luck finally runs out.
It’s unbearable.
Loving someone who would move mountains to keep you alive, but cannot understand why you’d want the same for him.
Calm in the face of oblivion, martyrdom fits him like a second skin.
That’s what terrifies you most.
Because somewhere deep down, you know he doesn’t fear death the way he should. The way a normal person would.
Sometimes, you think a part of him finds peace in the idea of going out useful.
And it’s all so completely, irreparably fucked, because you don’t love him despite it.
You love him because of it.
Loving Steve Harrington feels like standing on a fault line, waiting for the ground to split wide and swallow you whole.
It’s a special, exquisite kind of torture, to be so in love with a man who throws himself at death like it’s a dare.
And it is love, undeniably and irrevocably so.
You love him.
By god, you love him.
Because his martyr complex is just a twisted language for devotion. When he throws himself into danger, you know it isn’t bravado—it’s instinct. A reflex burned into his bones, older than logic, older than fear.
Love is the only language Steve Harrington has ever been fluent in, and he speaks it with his whole body.
It turns his skin into armor, his heart into a blade. Sharp enough to carve permanent lines inside you—wounds that might close, someday, but never fade.
And he really does believe it.
That this is what it looks like, loving somebody.
But what good is devotion if it buries you?
What good is love from someone six feet under?
Your hand loosens around his throat, just enough for him to drag in a ragged breath. His chest heaves under you, pulse still racing against your palm.
His Adam’s apple bobs, sending ripples of light over the pale rings circling his neck, thin and white against his flushed skin. Scars that still have him jerking awake some nights, clawing at his own throat, gasping like he’s still back there.
Nightmares that leave him staring at the ceiling until four in the morning because every time he closes his eyes, he sees vines threading around broken bodies. Migraines that get so bad after trips to the Upside Down he has to sit alone in dark bathrooms, forehead pressed against cool tile, breathing through the nausea until the room stops tilting.
His hands still reach for a nail bat when the house creaks at night, before he's even fully awake.
Fear has never made him run. It only ever taught him to step forward.
And the tear you've been holding back all night finally slips free, landing on his bare stomach with a soft, awful plop.
Steve flinches like it’s acid, muscles clenching underneath you.
“Baby...”
You let go of his neck fully as you sink back onto his thighs, fingers gone numb, teeth digging into your lip until copper floods your mouth.
“You didn’t even hesitate.”
You watch as his expression immediately sobers, brows drawing together, eyes flicking between yours.
“Y-you never do. You never fucking hesitate,” your breath starts coming in tight hitches, catching in your chest. “And it’s like—it’s like—”
The rest of the words slip free, torn loose now that everything’s exposed, out there in the open, your handprint around his throat and his wrists bound in leather.
“...It’s like you don’t even care if you leave me here.”
Steve goes silent for a moment, shoulders slumping with a quiet breath.
You watch—eyes burning, body trembling—as he slowly reaches for you. The leather belt creaks as his wrists slide down until his fingers brush yours.
You feel the metal burns on his palms against the back of your hand—his skin split from gripping the railing so hard he tore himself open just to keep from falling.
He whispers your name on a soft breath.
“Baby, if I ever lost you?” He shakes his head faintly. “That’d be it for me.”
You sniff hard, refusing to blink.
“I mean it.” Light pools in his eyes, trembling along the lower lashes until they glimmer like wet glass. “I’d never… I’d never leave you behind. How could I?”
He closes his fingers gently around your wrist, thumb brushing over your pulse.
“I love you. More than... more than anything. You know that.”
You lift your gaze slowly to meet his.
“Do I?”
Two words, but it’s the ugliest thing you’ve said all night.
It's suffocating, the silence that follows.
“Do you ever think about us? About me?”
Because that’s what this is really about, isn’t it?
For all the names you’ve thrown at him in your worst moments—reckless, stubborn, idiot, a selfish asshole with a death wish—
It’s you who feel selfish.
For wanting him to stay.
For wanting to keep him in a world that seems determined to take him first.
For wanting him to choose you over the next disaster that crawls out of the dark.
Because you’re terrified that when the moment comes, when it’s you or the world, he won’t have to think about it. That the world will always reach for him first—and that one day, it’ll win.
Or worse, that he’ll choose you instead.
That he’ll stop running toward danger because of you. That loving you will make him hesitate.
And you’ll be the reason he changes.
The reason the world breaks.
Steve’s expression changes in a flash.
The belt creaks as he tries to sit up, a real wince cutting across his brow when his bruised ribs take the pressure. He sucks in a breath through clenched teeth, dragging himself upright.
“Look at me.”
You turn your head instinctively, but he follows.
“Hey. C’mon. Look at me.”
Hazel burns molten in the dim light, the shine in them trembling.
“Of course I think about you,” he whispers, breathless. “You don’t think I think about you? Hey, hey, look at me—you’re all I think about. You’re in my head, all the time. Every fucking second.”
Your tears spill harder, falling freely now, dripping from your chin onto the dark brown fabric of his cargo pants, leaving small damp spots that bloom between you.
“Every time something goes wrong, or—or I’m thinking about doing something stupid, you’re there. First thing. Your face, your voice. Telling me to stop being an idiot, telling me to think—"
You shake your head, a broken sound catching in your throat.
“And if I just stood there tonight,” he presses on, eyes locked on yours, brimming with tears but never flinching, “If there was even a chance you could fall, and I didn’t do anything?”
He swallows.
“I couldn’t live with that. I mean it, honey. I couldn’t.”
A tear slips loose and slides down his own cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away.
“Baby, I... I wasn’t trying to die. I was trying to end this. All of it. So we don’t have to keep doing this forever.”
His mouth twitches faintly.
“You remember what we talked about? About college? That stupid road trip idea I had with the camper van?” He shakes his head, letting out a quiet laugh. “Six kids, right? Or... whatever insane number I said.”
His hands come up as much as the belt allows, clumsy from the strain in his shoulders, and cradle your face. His thumbs drag across the wet heat beneath your eyes, catching tears as fast as they fall, rubbing salt into flushed skin.
“That’s the goal. That’s always been the goal.”
He leans forward until his forehead presses against yours.
For a long moment, he says nothing. His hands stay on your face, thumbs brushing softly over your skin, his breathing uneven in the small space between you.
Then, almost too quietly to hear:
“I would’ve jumped with you.”
You recoil immediately, shaking your head hard, eyes squeezing shut.
“Don’t. Don’t fucking say that.”
Steve pushes on, voice low and terrifyingly calm.
“If you’d fallen off that tower tonight, I would’ve followed you.”
His thumb brushes under your eye again, catching another tear before it reaches your jaw.
“Wouldn’t even think about it. I’d just go.”
“Steve—”
“I’d go.”
Your eyes snap open.
Those big, stupid hazel eyes bore into yours.
That stupid nose. Those stupid thick lashes and those stupid moles and those stupid lips.
And underneath all of it, that huge, catastrophic, stupid heart crammed inside a body that keeps throwing itself into danger like it doesn’t belong to him.
Your chest aches just looking at him.
You’ve spent countless nights staring at Steve Harrington while he slept beside you, wondering if loving him would always feel like standing barefoot on train tracks.
Waiting.
Feeling the vibrations underneath your feet before the impact ever comes. Knowing that something massive and merciless will come racing toward you and there won’t be a damn thing you can do to stop it.
Sometimes you’d trace the slope of his nose with the back of your finger. Follow the shape of his eyebrows. The tiny scar under his chin from a T-ball game when he was six.
You’d study the dip of his cupid’s bow, the soft curve of his lips as he breathed into his pillow, completely unaware of how thoroughly he’d ruined your life for anyone else.
And you’d torture yourself with the same impossible question.
If someone had stopped you before all of this, taken your face in both hands and said:
Here, this boy is going to become the center of your entire world.
He's going to make you laugh so hard your ribs hurt.
He’s going to kiss you like you’re the last person on earth, and he's going to love you so completely you'll forget there was ever a version of yourself that existed before him.
He's going to look at you like you're the only thing worth finding at the end of the world.
Then one day, he’ll start throwing himself in front of monsters and nightmares beyond comprehension.
He's going to throw himself off a tower without hesitating if it means you get to live.
Would you still choose him?
Would you still let him in, knowing one day he might not make it back?
Would you willingly hand your heart to someone who would protect it with his life—
But never his own?
And even in the quiet space of that hypothetical, the answer had never changed.
You would.
Every fucking time.
“I love you,” the boy in front of you whispers.
The words slice straight through you, scraping against everything frayed raw inside your chest.
“Shut up,” you breathe, eyes squeezing shut.
Because if he loved you, wouldn’t he try?
Wouldn’t he try?
“I love you.”
“Steve, s-stop.”
“I love you. There’s nothing—nothing—that matters to me more than you.”
“Steve, I swear to god—”
“You’re it for me. And if it came down to it again—”
“Please, stop—”
“—I’d choose to jump. Every time.”
It feels like a seam is splitting inside your chest.
Your breath caves first—a sharp, stuttering inhale that catches in your lungs hard enough to hurt—before your body moves on instinct.
You surge forward, the mattress groaning beneath the force of it as you crash into him, fists tangling in the front of his shirt.
“Fuck you,” you sob.
Steve sucks in a breath as you pound weakly at his chest, his restrained hands jerking uselessly between your bodies.
He can’t hold you properly. Can’t wrap his arms around you the way he wants to.
Still, he tries.
He shifts forward on the mattress, pulling you between his thighs. The leather around his wrists creaks when he strains to hook his arms around your waist.
You bury your face against his neck.
His entire body folds around yours, chest pressed flush against you so tightly you can feel the frantic hammer of his heartbeat through his sternum, the uneven rise and fall of his lungs where your bodies are crushed together. He presses his cheek against your temple, breathing hard through his nose.
“I know,” he murmurs hoarsely into your hair. “I know, baby. I know.”
“N-no, y-you don’t,” you choke out.
Your hands claw at his shoulders hard enough to bunch the fabric beneath your fists. You need him closer. Closer than skin, closer than bone. If you could unzip his ribs and crawl inside his chest just to keep his heart beating yourself, you would.
“You don’t know,” you sob against his throat. “You d-don’t know what it f-feels like—”
“Hey,” Steve whispers shakily. “Hey, c’mon. Breathe for me, baby. Please.”
You curl tighter against him, fists twisting in the soft cotton of his shirt until your knuckles throb from the effort. The tears don't stop. They soak into the warm skin at the base of his neck, your breath catching against him in broken, uneven pulls until your throat burns and your ribs ache with every desperate inhale.
Steve gathers you as close as his battered body will allow. Every so often, he presses another lingering kiss into your hairline, your temple, the crown of your head, each one quiet enough to say what words can't.
“I’ve got you, baby,” he murmurs into your hair. “M'right here, I got you. Not going anywhere.”
You let his words settle over you, one shaky breath at a time. The sobs begin to lose their violence, splintering into uneven hiccups that leave your chest sore and hollow.
When you finally pull back, it's only far enough to see him.
Your hand trembles when you lift it to his face.
Steve goes still as your fingertips ghost over the scrape on his cheek, tracing down the line of his jaw. He doesn’t so much as flinch when your thumb brushes over the split in his lip, featherlight over the broken skin there.
The first kiss is soft.
Nothing like the frantic, bruising collision from earlier.
But it’s worse like this, somehow.
Wet with tears, with blood, salt and iron passed between soft, shaking kisses. Steve sighs into it, a trembling sound that vibrates against your lips as he tilts his head and follows you deeper. His nose nudges against your cheek, his kisses careful, almost hesitant in how tender he’s being with you.
And it’s funny, really.
How grief can change shape in the span of a heartbeat.
One moment it's lodged beneath your ribs like broken glass, your body still trapped on that radio tower, watching Steve disappear over the edge.
The next, it's here.
In the careful way he kisses you, the warmth of his breath against your mouth.
In the slow, wet drag of his tongue against yours, your fingers hooking into the open button of his pants. The zipper presses cold against the side of your hand before you push deeper, slipping beneath the elastic of his briefs.
He’s already half-hard. Heavy and thick and burning hot against your palm, velvety-soft skin twitching when you wrap your fingers around him. The soft curl of hair at his base brushes against your knuckles when you adjust your grip.
He pants openly into your mouth as you slide your other hand into his hair, gripping tight, yanking his head back at the angle you want it.
Nose to nose, lips brushing even as you’re not kissing—only sharing air and spit, slick between swollen mouths.
And your eyes stay open, watching him.
Darkened hazels and helplessly fluttering lashes, his is a face that will haunt every version of your future. The one you almost lost, the one you’re still begging the universe to let you keep.
“Show me.”
He blinks at your words, lips parted in soft pants.
“Show me how much you love me.”
He swears under his breath, eyes clenching shut.
“Fuck…” he groans, shaking his head slowly, side to side, grunting when you drag your thumb across the sensitive tip. “Baby, please... just untie me,” he pleads, straining against his binds again. “Please—fuck—let me touch you—”
“No.”
“Please, baby—”
“No,” you repeat, wrist rolling as you start to stroke him harder, feeling him swell fully in your grip.
He grunts, brows creased in pleasure as you continue to squeeze and glide your palm up and down his length, lips parted to keep kissing you in this obscene way, tongues sliding together in slow, wet strokes.
“God, you’re so... so pretty when you’re mad, you know that?” He huffs against your mouth, almost a laugh, throat gone hoarse and dry from how hard he’s been panting.
“You get this look like you’re—ah, fuck—like you might actually kill me.”
You squeeze your grip around his cock, dangerously tight.
“Maybe I should.”
Something catches in those soft hazel eyes, then.
Pinning you in place with nothing but their unblinking stare, almost unnervingly steady.
You watch, helpless, as he lifts his own hands up toward his mouth. He spits lewdly into the hollow of his right palm, shoving his waistband down just enough to free his cock, replacing your hand with his own.
Wrists still bound, he slicks himself in slow, wet strokes, eyes never leaving yours.
"Yeah?" he asks quietly. "You gonna punish me?"
He tips his chin up toward you, lashes nearly brushing your skin when he blinks.
“You gonna use this cock, baby? Take it out on me?”
He uses what little range of motion he has to rub his tip up and down your glistening slit, obscene schlicks that fill the space between your breaths, spurred by the impatient grinds of your hips.
And the moment he pushes inside you, he breathes the words against your skin.
“I love you.”
His mouth swallowing your whimpers at the stretch of taking him this way—no prep, no lube, just spit—yours, his, it doesn’t matter anymore.
“I love you. I love you. We’re... we’re gonna be okay, baby, I promise. We’re gonna be okay.”
Your hands shake as you reach for the belt around his wrists, the buckle catching under your fingertips before releasing with a muted clink. He cups your cheeks as soon as it does, cradling your face, pressing his lips against yours.
“I love you,” he repeats against your mouth, over and over. “I love you. I love you.”
Grief really is a funny thing.
It burns until there's nothing left to consume
And the anger that had kept you upright for hours—the frantic, desperate need to make him understand how terrified you'd been—begins to crumble beneath the weight of what you almost lost.
Your strength gives out in increments. Your fingers slowly uncurl from his biceps, the crescents your nails pressed into his skin easing away. Your forehead finds the warm slope of his shoulder instead, eyes slipping shut as the last of the fight drains from your body.
You sag forward, soft whimpers and low groans exchanged between your lips as you rock back and forth on his cock, letting it fill up the hollowed-out places inside you.
And when you get too tired to do even that—when your strength gives out, thighs trembling with the effort of lifting yourself up and sinking back down—he’s there to catch you.
One arm sliding securely around you as he eases you onto your back, the muscles in his shoulders rippling under your fingertips as you wind your arms around his neck. You cling to him as he kisses you hard and deep, exchanging punched-out breaths as he starts up his thrusts with newfound fervor.
"Gonna marry you," he pants suddenly, stealing what little breath you have left.
You gasp against his mouth, caught between a disbelieving laugh and another sob. “Steve—”
“I mean it,” he insists, hips snapping into the mattress, barely pulling out before burying himself back in. “I-I want all of it. That house with the... the porch. That trip we keep talking about, in the camper van, and—”
His face screws up and he has to stop moving for a second, drawing in a shuddering breath.
“I’m gonna marry you and—fuck—gonna give you a baby.”
You choke on the words, a helpless sound catching in your throat as you cling to him, bruisingly tight.
“Yeah?” He strokes your hair back, cupping the crown of your head with his palm. Smoothing the sweat-slick strands away from your face, thumb lingering at your temple as his eyes search yours. “You want me to give you a baby?”
You nod into him, unable to find the words.
“How many?”
His pace is unrelenting—thrusts hard enough that the bedframe is thudding repeatedly against the wall, hard enough that you know the wallpaper’s going to show it tomorrow.
“Tell me,” he grunts, voice rough with emotion, like he needs to hear you say it out loud. “How many?”
Sweat shining along his skin, hair a damp mess across his forehead, but he never once looks away.
“F-fuck, I don’t...” you break on another sob, eyes clenching shut. “Two. Maybe... maybe three.”
“Three,” he repeats to himself, and his hips snap a little sharper. “What about... what about four? Make it a—mm, fuck—make it an even number.”
And it’s hardly new—the kind of bullshit he spouts when you’re both this far gone, when adrenaline has burned through every last nerve and neither of you are thinking straight anymore. He’s always been prone to making wild promises in the heat of the moment—spinning out impossible futures and reckless dreams, building an entire lifetime in the space of a few breathless minutes—just to get you both off.
But tonight, they don’t feel like a fantasy at all.
“You’d look so... so fucking pretty,” he pants, voice breaking. “Pregnant with my kid. Jesus.”
“Mm, close...” you whisper weakly, face scrunched at the unbearably mounting pressure in your lower stomach.
“Yeah? You’re close? You gonna come for me?”
You nod, burying yourself closer, clinging to him harder. “T-tell me again.”
“Tell you what, baby?”
“That you... that you love me.”
“Fuck,” he groans, thrusts turning sloppy as he buries a loud groan against your lips. “I love you. Love you so fucking much. I don’t even know what I’d do without you. I—shit, a-are you coming? Oh, fuck, that’s—that’s it. That’s my girl.”
Your orgasm hits hard and blinding. A broken groan ripping out of you as you clamp your thighs around his waist, mewling into his skin. You blink your eyes open just in time to see his gaze fixed on you—expression reverent, chest heaving as he watches you shake underneath him.
And as you go to kiss him, feeling the labored grunts of his mounting pleasure against your lips, the weight of his breaths and the slick drag of his cock against your heat—
When you press your lips to his and whisper for him to come inside you, make me yours Steve, get me pregnant, keep me, love me, stay with me, stay, stay, please fucking stay—
When he presses inside all the way to the hilt and lets his own pleasure overtake him—
You finally whisper the words back.
Three syllables against the enormity of what lives inside your chest.
Three syllables trying to hold every sleepless night and every quiet morning, every time you pressed your lips to the places on his body that hurt and wished that love alone could take his pain away.
They cannot carry it all.
They never could.
But when he closes his eyes and tips his forehead to yours—his weight melting against you as he presses an exhausted, dazed smile against your lips—you realize maybe the words don’t have to hold it all.
Maybe he can feel the rest.
· · ·
The seal breaks with a sharp snap, the plastic ring splitting loose and skittering across the bathroom floor.
You turn the bottle over in your hand, staring at it for a moment.
It’s the good kind—the expensive kind stored in heavy glass, the label still clean. You haven’t touched it since the day Steve brought it home months ago, back when you could still ask for things like Epsom salt and a box of chocolates at the general store without anyone looking at you like you’d lost your mind.
He’d shown up at your door that afternoon grinning like an idiot, grocery store roses tucked under one arm and a paper bag in his other hand that clinked when he lifted it.
“Thought we deserved something nice,” he’d said, holding up the bag with that stupid, proud little grin. “We haven’t done a proper date night in a while, right?”
But you hadn't used the bottle then.
You'd saved it.
For a night that felt right.
For a night where you weren’t just surviving long enough to see morning.
Your hands shake a little as you tip the bottle now.
Pouring more than you should, watching the pale liquid ribbon into the rushing stream of water, swallowed by the force of it before slowly blooming back to the surface in soft, frothy bubbles.
The smell hits a second later. Sweet, heavy lavender that clings to the back of your throat, swirling with the clean heat of the water.
For a moment, you let yourself go back.
Back to the day Steve bought this because he wanted to take care of you. Because he wanted one normal night where you could both pretend the world hadn’t changed.
A night where the biggest problem was what movie to put on.
Then, the sink creaks behind you.
You turn immediately, heart jumping.
Steve’s reflection is blurred in the mirror—shoulders slumped, chin dipping toward his chest. He’s got one hand braced against the counter, knuckles pale from how tightly he’s holding on. The other fumbles with an orange pill bottle.
“You okay? You need help?”
He shakes his head. “Nah, I got it.”
The words are automatic. Steve’s favorite answer to anything that worries you.
He tips a couple pills into his palm, fills the glass beside the sink, and swallows them down.
You watch his face tighten afterward, eyes squeezing shut as he waits for it to pass. His throat works hard, his whole body briefly tensing, muscles bracing against something that should have been painless.
You step closer, hands settling carefully on his arms as you turn him toward you.
He doesn’t argue when you crouch in front of him.
You start with his shoes.
Fingers working at the laces, easing them loose before pulling them off one at a time. They hit the tile with a quiet thud. His socks peel off next. Then his pants, the buttons still undone. His briefs.
He stays silent through all of it, one hand resting lightly on your shoulder.
It’s not much pressure, but you feel the way his weight leans into you, the slight sway when you shift back, like he’s having to constantly correct himself just to stay upright.
Helping him into the tub takes time. You stay close while he steps over the edge, one hand gripping your arm, the other braced against the wall.
Slowly, carefully, he lowers himself into the water.
The second it reaches his ribs, he hisses.
“Shit—”
His head falls back against the tile, eyes squeezing shut as a sharp breath slips between his teeth. His hand tightens reflexively around your wrist.
Foamy water laps against his chest, darkening the hair across his sternum, rising and falling with each careful breath.
“Too hot?” you ask quickly, already reaching for the faucet.
He cracks his eyes open, shaking his head.
“’S perfect.”
You keep watching him, searching his face for the slightest sign that he's only saying it to spare you.
Then, little by little, the strain begins to loosen its grip.
The hard line of his jaw softens first, his fingers easing around your wrist. His shoulders sink another inch beneath the warm water, the tension slowly melting out of them as the heat works its way into his muscles.
His next breath comes easier. Then another.
After a long moment, his eyes drift open again.
They're hazy with fatigue, heavy-lidded and unfocused, but they find you where you're perched beside the tub, knees tucked against your chest.
He squints, mouth twisting into a petulant frown.
“What?” he murmurs. “You’re not getting in?”
A smile tugs at your lips. “You want me to?”
He gives you a slow, incredulous look—the classic Steve Harrington stare.
“Uh, yeah,” he mumbles, like it’s obvious. “How else am I supposed to feel better?”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you stand.
Your hands aren’t as steady as you’d like; you notice it more now, with nothing else to focus on.
You pull your shirt over your head, and immediately hear the quiet shift of water beside you, a soft slosh.
By the time you glance up, he’s already looking at you.
Sitting a little straighter than he was a moment ago, chin lifted despite the exhaustion pulling at him. Steam curls between you, softening the edges of his face, but his eyes never leave yours. They follow every movement with boyish concentration, fixed on you in a way that’s not even pretending to be subtle.
You huff a quiet breath through your nose, fighting a smile as you tug the rest of your clothes off.
“Seriously?”
The corner of his mouth quirks, all innocence.
“What? Sue me.”
He shifts deeper into the tub, water rolling around him as he eases back, making room between his legs before patting the space in front of him.
You step in carefully, goosebumps prickling as the heat climbs slowly over your ankles, your calves, your thighs. The water embraces you inch by inch until you're lowering yourself fully beneath the surface, warmth wrapping around you like a heavy blanket scented with lavender.
The moment your back brushes his chest, his arms find you.
They slide around your waist with familiar certainty, one settling securely across your middle to draw you closer. Your hand rises on instinct, covering his forearm where it rests across your stomach. His skin is warm and damp beneath your fingertips, the fine hairs catching against your palm as your thumb strokes absent circles over his wrist.
His chin grazes your shoulder as he nestles closer, his next breath warming the side of your neck.
“This is nice,” he hums, body growing heavier where it rests against yours.
You let out a slow breath. “Yeah.”
You let your weight settle back into him completely. He answers by tightening his arm around your waist, one hand gliding up to squeeze your side as he draws you a fraction closer.
You take the other one for you to keep.
Turning it over slowly, relearning it by touch. The familiar roughness of his skin, the broad span of his palm, completely swallowing yours whenever he laces your fingers together. Your thumb glides over the callus at the base of his index finger, the thickened patch of skin from years of gripping weapons he never should have had to hold.
You rub over it absentmindedly, once, twice, then again.
“How do you know?”
The words come so quietly you're not even sure you've said them aloud.
“Hm? Know what?”
“How do you know...” You swallow, unable to lift your eyes from where the water laps gently over your joined hands, pale violet opalescence that ripples around you both. “How do you know this is real?”
He goes still at that, the only sound between you the soft ripple of water and the rush of your own thoughts filling the space.
“We could still be down there,” you whisper, the words gathering speed the longer you speak.
“Maybe... maybe we never got out. Maybe Vecna just made us think we won by giving us...” You gesture around the room. “...this.”
The lavender.
The warm water.
Him.
“What if none of it's real? What if he just—what if he made us think we were safe because it'd hurt more when he took it away? I mean, how would we even know?”
Your chest feels tighter with every word.
“What if we're still—"
“Hey.”
Steve's voice is so soft that you almost miss it.
“Hey. Look at me.”
His face is drawn with exhaustion, pain lingering in the tightness around his eyes, in the careful way he holds himself, like every breath reminds him of another bruise.
But they’re still his.
Still that same warm hazel you've spent so many nights memorizing, never daring to believe you'd get a lifetime of looking into them.
“You know how I know?”
Your throat goes tight. “How?”
“Because you’re scared.”
Your brows pull together, fingers tightening around his. He squeezes your hand back, gentle but certain.
“That’s how I know. Because you’re sitting here trying to figure out if this is real instead of just being happy that we’re okay.”
Steve watches you for a moment before looking down between you, at the lavender bubbles drifting around your joined hands.
A bead of water clings to his lashes before he blinks it away.
“I mean…” He draws out a slow breath. “I don’t know if I can prove it. How could anyone, right? After everything that happened? I don’t think any of us are supposed to just wake up the next day and be like, ‘Cool. Guess that’s over.’”
He pauses, a small smile pulling at his mouth.
“But then I look at you and… and I just see you doing that thing.”
You blink. “What thing?”
He lifts your joined hands from the water, droplets sliding down your wrists as the surface ripples around you.
“This.”
He gives your hand a little squeeze, lacing your fingers together more securely.
“You always start messing with my hand when you’re freaking out.”
Your brows pull together. “What?”
He lets out a soft laugh, reaching up with his free hand to gently tuck a damp strand of hair away from your face.
“Yeah, you grab my hand and then you start doing this weird little... I don’t know. Thing. Like you’re inspecting it or something.”
Only then do you realize your thumb has been moving back and forth over the same callus on his palm, tracing the same small patch of rough skin.
“...Oh.”
“Yeah.”
There’s something teasing about his voice now, his smile.
The same Steve who’d make an absolute idiot of himself just to get you to roll your eyes. Who could make you laugh in the middle of the worst days of your life.
His smile softens as he looks down at the water, where your fingers are still tangled together.
His thumb brushes slowly over the back of your hand.
“I guess… I guess that’s how I know.”
The steam curls around you both, blurring the edges of the room until there’s nothing left but this.
His hand in yours.
His heartbeat steady against your back and his voice low and certain beside your ear.
“Because I know you.”
He tightens his fingers around yours.
“I know you.”
· · ·
Eventually, the warmth of the bath starts to fade.
The water isn’t quite as hot as it was when you first climbed in, the lavender bubbles breaking apart into a faint, delicate layer.
You’re still holding his hand.
Neither of you has let go.
“Hey,” he murmurs after a while, giving your fingers a small tug.
“Hm?”
He lifts your joined hands out of the water, turning his palm toward himself.
Then he starts tracing something, slow and awkward, brow furrowed as he studies the lines crossing his palm.
You can tell he’s searching for something—squinting at the grooves in his hand, trying to remember a detail you’ve explained to him once or twice before, maybe more.
You watch him for a second, then mumble:
“You’re doing it wrong.”
“I’m doing it wrong?”
“Yes.”
He turns to look at you, eyebrows raised, genuinely offended in that exaggerated way he does when he knows he’s being teased.
“How can I be doing it wrong? It’s my hand.”
You give him a look.
“Because you don’t know what you’re looking for.”
He glances back down at his palm, then back at you.
“Okay, fine, genius,” he huffs, holding his hand out toward you. “What’s this one mean?”
You smile faintly.
“You don’t remember?”
“No, I do. Just... tell me again? I remember you said mine was good.”
You did. Sitting cross-legged on the couch years ago, his hand stretched across your lap while you traced the lines in his palm. You’d laughed the whole time because you didn’t actually believe in any of it. But Steve had listened like it mattered, eyes serious, hanging onto every word.
You adjust your grip now, turning his hand so you can see it properly. Then you take his index finger between yours and guide it slowly along the deepest line on his palm.
“Here,” you murmur.
His finger follows where you lead it, brushing over the groove that starts just beneath his pinky and curves upward across his hand.
“This is your heart line.”
Steve doesn’t look at his hand.
He looks at you.
“It’s deep, and it doesn’t break. That means you feel things deeply. You lead with your heart.”
He hums softly, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to the top of your shoulder.
You keep tracing, guiding his finger toward the end of the line where it curves upward.
“And here, it turns up.”
You press lightly into the space beneath his index finger.
“See that spot?”
“Mm.”
“That’s called the Mount of Jupiter. And when your heart line curves up like that, it kinda means you’re... a hopeless romantic.”
You don’t even have to see his face to know he’s smiling. You feel it in the small twitch of his fingers around yours, in the quiet huff of amusement against your shoulder.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
You follow the line with your own thumb, pretending to study the grooves of his skin like they might reveal something you don’t already know.
But the truth is, you're not really reading his hand.
“It also says you don’t know how to love halfway.” Your thumb follows the line one last time. “When you care about someone… you give them every part of yourself.”
When you glance back over your shoulder, he's already watching you.
Something achingly fragile settled over his expression, a quiet wonder in his eyes as though he's seeing himself the way you always have.
“Yeah?” he whispers.
You nod.
“Yeah.”
You lean in to close the small space between you, brushing your lips against the uninjured corner of his mouth.
It’s a delicate thing, more of a press than a kiss.
His fingers tighten around yours beneath the water.
“Tell me what else.”
You smile, looking back down at his palm.
“You want me to read everything?”
“Yeah. Obviously.”
You turn his hand back toward you, guiding his finger to another line.
“Okay. This one is your head line.”
Steve settles back against the tub, his arm tightening around you as you continue tracing the little grooves and curves in his palm, explaining what they’re supposed to mean.
The truth is, none of this is anything you don’t already know.
You don’t need the lines in his hand to tell you who he is.
You’ve known for a long time.
So you tell him what you've been carrying in your heart for longer than you can remember.
That he’s stubborn.
That he’s brave.
That he loves harder than he knows what to do with.
That he’s always seen himself as ordinary when he’s anything but.
And Steve listens.
· · ·
You stay there together until the water goes cold around you.
And though the lavender fades from the bath, the scent still clings to your skin, lingering long after the warmth has left.
Outside this room, there will still be reminders.
Things neither of you can outrun.
Memories that return without warning, scars that ache long after the wounds have closed.
Maybe some things never fully leave.
Maybe they don’t have to.
Because the bad things are not the only things that get to stay.
And when the first light of dawn slips through the bedroom window the next morning, washing everything in soft gold, Steve is still there.
includes: pure fluff! mentions of drinking, mouser is a wingman, a little bit of flirting?? no mention of y/n, i think that’s it tbh. lmk if i missed anything! not proofread.
requests are open! && my masterlist!
keys absolutely hated it here.
that much was obvious from the way he'd spent the first twenty minutes sitting at the end of the bar with his shoulders hunched and one hand wrapped around a drink he'd barely touched.
“you know,” mouser said, leaning back against his chair, “most people don't look like they're attending a funeral when they go out.”
keys glanced at him. “i'm here, aren't i?”
“physically.”
keys rolled his eyes.
the truth was, work had been consuming him lately. every day seemed to blur into the next, filled with deadlines, bug reports, meetings, and endless hours staring at screens. he hadn't been sleeping enough. he definitely hadn't been getting out enough.
which was exactly why mouser had practically dragged him here.
“look around,” mouser said with relaxed shoulders and an easy expression on his face. “have fun.”
keys let out a quiet laugh. “i don't think i remember how.”
then his gaze drifted across the room.
and stopped.
you were sitting a few tables away with a group of friends, laughing at something someone had said.
nothing seriously dramatic happened.
there wasn't some cinematic moment where the whole room froze around you.
he just found himself looking.
then looking again… that’s it.
you smiled at one of your friends, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, and suddenly keys became very interested in his drink.
mouser followed his line of sight immediately.
“oh?”
keys groaned. "don't." he starts shaking his head slightly.
“that's why we're staring.”
“we're not staring.”
“you absolutely are.”
keys took another sip. “she's probably taken.” mouser blinked. “what?”
"look at her." he huffed hopelessly. "i am." mouser says whilst glancing back at you. "exactly." keys says.
"that's not an answer."
keys sighed.
he couldn't really explain it.
you just seemed like the kind of person who had someone already. someone confident. someone who didn't spend fourteen hours debugging code and forgetting to eat lunch.
someone who wasn't him.
mouser stared at him for a long moment.
"you know what's fascinating?"
keys immediately regretted asking.
"you create entire fictional realities for a living, but when it comes to actual human beings, your imagination completely gives up."
keys opened his mouth, had a pause to think of his words. when nothing came out he closed it again.
then opened it again. "tha… that's not true."
"it is."
mouser stood quickly.
keys narrowed his eyes. "what are you doing?"
"being the ultimate wingman ever." he says confidently, clearing his throat.
"dude." keys warned, his eyes staring up at him.
"you're welcome."
before keys could stop him, mouser disappeared into the crowd.
keys watched in horror, genuine, actual horror to the point where he considered leaving.
his heart beat increased so much he could’ve sworn it would pump out of his chest.
then he saw mouser speaking to you.
and somehow that was worse.
a few seconds later, mouser glanced over his shoulder.
and pointed directly at him.
keys dropped his head into his hands.
when he looked up again, you were smiling, at him and walking over.
‘ohmygodimgonnadie’ is what repeated in his head a trillion times when you approached him.
"hi." your voice was warm, keys stood so quickly he nearly knocked his knee against the table.
"hi."
smooth keys.
real smooth.
your smile widened slightly. "your friend says you've been making assumptions about me from across the room."
keys immediately made a mental note to kill mouser later. "he talks too much."
"i told him that."
something relaxed inside him at that.
"uh—i'm keys."
you then told him your name and for the next hour and a half, conversation came surprisingly easily.
talked about movies.
— “you’ve never watched rush hour? like… seriously?” you ask in disbelief. “keys it’s like a classic!” you huffed.
he shook his head, taking another sip before placing it back down on the coaster. “i’ve heard of it but i’ve never watched it” his smile never leaving his face.
about terrible jobs you’ve both had before.
—“so… you’re telling me that.. he demanded a tip because he was nice? seriously?” he asked, wiping a small tear from the corner of his eye as he continued laughing. “yeah and he claims ‘the customer is always right’ and i just kinda stared at him weirdly, like i’m not giving this guy a tip” you shook your head.
about the strange things you’ve done online.
—“a what now?” you snickered in disbelief. “a dirty stripper cop” he repeats, a smug grin on his face.
“a… dirty stripper cop?..” you giggled, you couldn’t help but shake your head slightly. keys nodded enthusiastically. “hell yeah, he’s got slicked-back hair and in my head he’s got pink fluffy cuffs but that’s just between you and me” he winked.
about hobbies you both abandoned and hobbies kept promising themselves they'd start.
—“you don’t strike me as the person to do pottery” keys looks at you like he’s trying to examine every detail. “well, i only did it for like a week. my hands were dry and shit so i ditched it. but i kinda wanna try and get back into it” you shrug. “are you though?” keys raised a brow teasingly.
“no probably not.”
keys found himself laughing more than he had in weeks. months, maybe.
every time he thought the conversation might start feeling awkward, you somehow made it easy again.
you asked questions because you genuinely seemed interested in the answers.
and somewhere along the way, keys stopped worrying about saying the wrong thing.
when last call finally came, he was almost definitely disappointed.
people started gathering coats and bags, chairs scraped against the floor.
the night was ending.
“well,” keys said, trying not to sound as disappointed as he felt, “i should probably—“
"before you go."
you shifted slightly. for the first time all evening, you actually looked a little nervous. it was subtle, but it was there.
"can i ask you something?" you said sheepishly, an awkward smile growing on your face. keys nodded. "yeah of course."
"can i have your number?"
for a second, he genuinely thought he'd heard you wrong. "…my number?"
you laughed softly. "yes, keys. your number."
he stared cluelessly which only made you laugh harder. "wow." his face immediately warmed.
"wow?" you repeated, smile faltering slightly. "no, that's not— i mean, yes. obviously yes." he stutters.
you were still smiling when you handed him your phone. and as he typed his contact information in, keys couldn't stop the ridiculous grin spreading across his face.
across the room, mouser caught his eye, the smug expression was unbearable.
keys hated him a little.
but maybe not tonight.
because for the first time in a long time, the exhaustion that had been sitting on his shoulders for weeks felt lighter.
and when you nudged his arm before leaving and told him you'd text him later, he found himself looking forward to tomorrow.
۶ৎ𑣲Your best friend Steve has been helping you deal with a breakup while silently wishing it was him who got a chance.
You don't go to parties anymore
۶ৎ𑣲You and Steve Harrington were never really anything. You were just the girl who made the last hours of his parties feel like they meant something. At least, until you stopped showing up.
I'm scared I'll never sleep again
۶ৎ𑣲Late at night, you comfort Steve through a spiral of restless thoughts
Disconnected
۶ৎAdmiring Steve in the darkest nights when you can barely see anything but his love for you.
Summary: Your best friend Steve has been helping you deal with a breakup while silently wishing it was him who got a chance.
A/n: I don't know if you noticed but I love playing with hope metaphors.
Warning: Mutal pining, unrequited (but not really) love, Steve's so bf, angst(!!), best friends to lovers, heartbreak?? but that's kind of self evident, happy ending
“Steve…” The word barely makes it through the line. It's you, and he knows why you're calling before you even say it. Your voice is thick with tears, your sobs swallowing the edges of his name.
He recognizes it instantly.
You only ever say his name like that when you're calling about your ex.
“What did he do this time?” Steve asks. Not annoyed at you. At him. Because whenever that question has to be asked, nothing good has happened.
“He got over me, that's what he did.” Your voice is quiet. Small. Like saying it out loud makes you feel ashamed.
“You deserve better.” He responds. You scoff.
“I know. But I don't want better. I want him.”
Something in Steve's chest aches at that.
Selfishness doesn't find its way into him easily anymore, so the thought of you with him slips away almost as quickly as it appears.
Still, he says what you want to hear. Because that's how much of a sucker he is for anything that you do.
It's like sand stuck in your eyes. If you could just wash it away, maybe you'd finally see him.
See how long he's been waiting. How long he's been wanting you.
And that's why he always answers with what you want to hear.
It's gonna get better. His loss. He doesn't deserve you anyway.
And as true as those words are, Steve means them in more ways than one.
It's gonna get better, when he's the one holding your hand.
His loss, because Steve can't understand how anyone could let you go.
He doesn't deserve you anyway, because somewhere deep down, Steve thinks maybe he does.
“Yeah, you’re right. “ you start and the corner of Steve’s mouth lifts. “Thanks for being a friend.” You end.
But you don't just end the sentence. You chip away a tiny part of hope that Steve builds every time you talk, making him feel like he’s going in circles again and again.
He’s sure that he can take away your hurt.
Steve loses track of how many nights he's spent on the phone with you talking about him.
And yet, every single time, Steve answers. Tonight is no different.
“Stacey saw her kissing his cheek.” You ignite on your friend’s words from the movies earlier.
Steve closes his eyes. Taking a moment to choose his words.
“Maybe it doesn't mean anything.” It definitely means something and you both know it.
You let out a shaky laugh. “You're a terrible liar.”
“Yeah,” he admits.
“I just don't get it,” you whisper. “How do you stop loving someone?”
Steve stares at the ceiling. Because that's the thing.
He doesn't know.
And he’s asking himself the same thing.
He doesn't know how to stop hearing your name everywhere.
He doesn't know how to stop smiling when you call, even if your ex is what you’ll be talking about for hours.
He doesn't know how to stop wishing that one day you'll look at him the way you've always looked at your ex.
“I think some people just don't,” he says softly. His heart clenches a little at the truth of it, but he can’t say more.
Your breathing steadies a little.
“You always know what to say.”
No. He just knows you and there’s a clear difference between the two.
“If I was there,” Steve says before he can stop himself. The thoughts have been stuck in his mind for far too long begging to be released. Maggots in his brain, searching for something but you, to feast on. Tired of seeing you, you and you.
Because what can he do, but think of you.
“I'd make you watch terrible movies until sunrise.”
A smile lingers on his face long after yours fades.
Because if he were there, he'd pull you close and keep you laughing until the hurt dulled around the edges. He'd hold you through the sleepless nights. Through the tears.
Through all the moments that guy never stayed for.
But instead, he's here. Always here.
Waiting for the day you realize the person helping you put your heart back together has been handing you pieces of his all along.
After you first broke up with him, Steve’s mind didn’t immediately go to how this was his chance.
He just wanted to comfort you. To be there for you.
Because that’s what friends do.
And despite being your friend, he still had to bite his tongue, swallowing words he shouldn't even be thinking, let alone saying out loud.
So he waited through the late-night phone calls. He listened. He reassured you again and again and again.
He knew you weren't ready to hear what was on his mind. Truthfully, he knew he shouldn't be thinking those things in the first place.
And some days, it frustrated him more than he'd ever admit.
Not because you were struggling to move on.
He would never rush your healing or make your pain about himself.
But he treats you so bad and Steve is so good to you, it’s not fair.
It’s not fair that he got to touch you, kiss you, have you—and then let you go.
It’s not fair that even now, after breaking your heart, he still takes up so much space in your mind.
He left, and somehow he’s still the one hurting you, day after day.
And Steve has to sit there, pretending it doesn't kill him to know how easily he could have loved you instead.
“I’ll call you tomorrow at 10.” Another phone call ends, Steve shakes his head along with everything on his mind.
At exactly 10:00 p.m., Steve's phone rings.
He smiles before he even picks up, knowing it’s you.
"Hey." You say a little breathless and uneven. Not crying. Not yet. You just sound nervous. "Steve?"
Something twists in his stomach. The way you say his name tells him everything he needs to know. It’s a certain tone, that finishes as soon as the name drop does without a followed word. Fuck.
"What happened?" He finally speaks up, because..maybe he’s wrong.
You let out a shaky laugh. "Nothing happened."
"Then why do you almost sound like you're about to throw up?" But you don’t answer immediately.
You suddenly feel hesitant. The words you wanted to say, are tickling your throat, but saying them out loud feels wrong.
You turn to the side. Then finally, but very quietly you announce: "He called me."
But it doesn’t feel like something exciting. It should feel like climbing a mountain and finally seeing the view you lost your breath for.
Steve goes completely still. The smile disappears from his face in a second.
"Oh."
Three months ago that word would've been followed by anger. Anger, that still lingers every now and then. At him, for doing this.
Two months ago it would've been hope. Hope, that was brought to his chest, warming up the possibility of what ifs.
Now it just feels exhausting.
"What did he say?" He replies, flatly, but still trying to sound at least excited.
"He asked if we could talk."
Steve fixates himself, and nods despite knowing you can’t see him. Then, he stares at the wall blankly, swallowing.
"Talk?" Steve repeats, quieter this time, his eyes starting to sting a little.
And the way he says it, it’s careful, almost unsure, which makes it even worse.
"Yeah." You rush the sound out.
The silence after that stretches, but it doesn’t feel like waiting. It feels like something left unfinished, something that screams for more.
You press your lips together. On instinct, you look toward your door, even though no one is there.
You expected something else. Relief, maybe. Or anger. Or even clarity.
But instead there’s just… that. A tightness in your chest you can’t explain properly the more you try thinking about how this is what you wanted.
It feels stupid. But the feeling doesn’t go away.
Because this isn’t supposed to feel like this. He’s supposed to be what you wanted.
He’s supposed to be the thing you’ve been waiting to come back.
So why does it feel like something in your chest is pulling backwards instead of forward?
Steve doesn’t speak, so you push forward, trying to get rid of these feelings.
“Should I go?” You ask, but the last bit of fire lit for the question, is silently begging for you to pour water on it.
But you’re asking Steve to do it. You want him to light out the tiny spark of a possible yes.
There is question he knew was coming.
Steve stares at the wall again.
Part of him wants to tell you no.
Part of him wants to tell you the guy already had his chance.
Part of him wants to ask why you're even considering it after everything he put you through.
But that’s not Steve.
So, instead he swallows every selfish thought, because at the end of the day, it's you.
And he wants what's best for you, even when it hurts.
“Yeah. You should go.” He settles, before pressing his lips together and hanging up the phone.
A knock comes on Steve’s door twenty minutes after your phone call.
And Steve is absolutely stunned when it’s you he opens the door, hopeless, a little mad, but totally in awe when it’s you he sees standing on his porch with flushed cheeks and nervous eyes.
"Hi." You stumble out, seemingly completely missing his eyes while doing so.
"What are you doing here?" He whisks, hiding his smile because why are you here?
"I wanted to see you." You say, firmly.
But he can’t get excited about that. You probably just want some eye to eye advice before you head to the other boy’s house.
Steve nods, steps aside and lets you in with a breath out.
The second the door shuts, the tension starts tangling your limbs. You don’t turn towards Steve. Not yet. You can’t face him right now. "I told him no."
You hear a laugh. Not a happy one. "Yeah. You said."
You’re a little hurt by that. "No, Steve, I mean it. I told him I don't want to get back together."
He stares at you, then shakes his head. "What the fuck?"
Her eyebrows shoot up in confusion, mouth agape. "What?"
"What do you mean what?" His frustration spills out before he has the time to be careful about the tone of his words.
"You spent months crying over this guy."
"Steve—"
"No. Seriously." He throws his hands up and then onto his hips, grounding himself on them as he presses his lips together and continues.
"You called me every night. Every single night." His voice cracks slightly. His head twitches as if he’s still holding back his words.
"You couldn't hear his name without crying. You couldn't watch a movie without thinking about him. You spent months wishing he'd come back."
You go quiet. you can’t do anything but listen to him. As confused as you already are about your feelings, this is making it worse.
"And now he comes back." Steve laughs again. "And you tell him no?"
"Why are you upset about this?" You’re testing the waters. If he cares, this must mean he likes you too, right?
"Because I listened to you fall apart over him every day!" And the room falls silent.
Steve's chest rises and falls. He hadn't meant to say it like that. Like your hurt was a burden on his life and he was dealing with it just because. Because he’s Steve. But it's too late now. He goes on.
"I listened to every phone call." His voice is quieter, but still not balancing the little cracks that ripe out of his throat exposing how upset he really is.
"I sat there while you cried over a guy who didn't know what he had."
You stare at him, confident that the words he continues to spill will unravel into something more.
"And I kept thinking if he just came back, maybe you'd finally be okay."
You take your gaze to the floor, level to level with where the confession sits. Low. Low to both you and Steve that this is what’s happening right now.
"But he came back," Steve says. "And apparently that's not even what you wanted."
Something softens in your eyes, still stuck on the floor. "You're missing the point."
Steve drags his tongue across his lips, hydrating them. It feels strangely familiar. His hope has done the same thing for months now. It dried out whenever reality got its hands on it, only to be revived by the smallest sign that maybe, there was something here.
Now, with the conversation he's dreamed about sitting right in front of him, both his lips and his hope are finally ready for what comes next.
"Then please, explain it to me." He chokes out. “Explain how you spent months in love with him and suddenly you're over it."
You take a step closer to him.
"Because I don't get it." He's still babbling, but the hope is settling more and more.
You take another step closer, but this time, Steve notices.
You've been standing on the other side of the room this entire conversation. Keeping the coffee table between the two of you. Keeping your distance safe.
But the thing is you haven't been doing it for the past few minutes. You've been doing it for months.
Months full of avoiding thoughts of Steve, fogging them with how it's just your imagination.
Him always having nothing but the nicest words for you was him being a friend.
The way Steve always seemed to know exactly what to say, even when you weren’t asking for advice, even when you were just spiralling out loud on the phone and half of your sentences didn’t make sense. He never made you feel stupid for it. Never rushed you. Never turned it into something to fix just so he could be done with it. He just stayed there, patient in a way that made your chaos feel almost manageable. At the time, you called it kindness. Something normal. Something a friend would do.
How him bringing you flowers, your favourites, when you went to the movies was just him being a friend.
You remember brushing it off every time. The way he’d show up slightly earlier than you, holding something behind his back like it meant nothing. Like it was casual. Like it didn’t take thought. Your favourite kind, never something he could’ve guessed wrong if he didn’t actually pay attention. You used to laugh it off, tease him about being overly thoughtful, and he’d just shrug like it was obvious. Like anyone would remember those things.
Him remembering the smallest details about you was just him being a friend.
The way he’d bring up things you mentioned once, weeks ago, like they were still sitting fresh in his mind. The way he knew how you liked your coffee without ever asking twice. The way he noticed when your voice shifted even slightly, like he could hear changes no one else bothered to listen for. You used to think it was just Steve being naturally good with people, the kind of friend who pays attention because he cares in a general, harmless way. But now you’re starting to understand how much effort it takes to remember someone that closely.
Him always being there when you called, no matter what time it was, was just him being a friend.
Even when it was late. Even when he had work the next morning. Even when his voice was thick with sleep and you could hear him sitting up immediately anyway, like he had been waiting without admitting it. You never asked what you were interrupting. You never really had to. He just picked up. Every time. And you told yourself that was normal too. That some people are just reliable. That friends do that.
Him knowing you better than you ever let yourself realize was just him being a friend.
And that one hurts the most, because it means it was never accidental. It means every time you thought you were alone in your thoughts, Steve was already there in some smaller way, noticing patterns you didn’t even know you were repeating. It means all those times you thought you were talking into the dark, he was actually listening like it mattered.
And somewhere in the middle of all of that, the word friend started to not feel enough. It started to feel incomplete.
Now you're moving toward him. The realization makes his stomach drop. He doesn't know how to react.
"Steve." You whisper.
He laughs nervously again, dragging a hand down his face. "No. No, because this doesn't make any sense."
His eyes finally meet yours and god, he melts.
He sees how soft your pupils look. How they're completely set on yours, clear in what they want, but trying to see what it is that he's thinking about.
"If he wasn't what you wanted, then why were you so upset?" He shakes his head, like he isn't letting himself believe this is about to happen. Like everything is ready but his mind, that still needs to catch up.
The question stays there. It's a fair question.
It's one you've been asking yourself all day. Maybe all month. Maybe longer.
Steve is still watching you, still waiting, but there’s something different in the way he holds himself now, like he’s bracing for impact, like he’s already decided this is going to be about someone else again, even though he’s standing right in front of you and somehow still not the centre of the story he’s been carrying for you.
And then there’s the way he’s looking at you now.
Like he’s trying not to hope too loudly, like hope itself has become something dangerous for him.
You don’t even notice when you step closer this time, not really, only the way the air between you tightens instead of expands, until there’s almost nothing left of it at all.
Steve’s gaze flickers down to your mouth for a second before hope catches him again, jaw tightening like he’s already starting to slip again.
"I was upset because he left."
“Yeah,” he says quietly when you finally get that far, like he understands that part at least.
But you shake your head slightly, because it’s not the same thing. Not really. And you don’t think you understood that until you were already standing here with him, trying to put language to something that doesn’t fit cleanly into any of the categories you’ve been using.
“I loved him,” you say, and your voice comes out softer than you expect, like the words don’t belong to you anymore in the same way they used to.
Steve almost feels like a joke. His mind is turning into fluid, mixing all the possible translations for the words you just said, but he doesn’t interrupt you.
“And when he left,” you continue, swallowing, “I thought that meant I lost the person I was supposed to be with.”
That makes him look away for half a second, just barely. But he doesn’t move away from you. He stays exactly where he is. He knows to never leave when things get heavy with you.
“But then, unfortunately, time didn’t stop,” you add, almost quieter now. “And I kept calling you.”
“I called you when I was sad,” you say, and he exhales through his nose like this is a list he already knows. Like he could finish it for you if you stopped now.
“I know,” he answers, but it’s a little rougher than before.
“I called you when I couldn’t sleep. When I was angry. When I didn’t even know what I was feeling.” You hesitate for a second, then glance up at him again. “I called you for everything.”
“Yeah,” he says again.
“And then today happened.”
His posture shifts immediately at that. Thinking maybe he already knows where this is going and he’s trying not to hope too much in case he’s wrong again.
“So?” he asks, quieter than before. Careful. The voice walking into something fragile.
You don’t answer right away.
Instead you just look at him. You look at the way he’s trying so hard not to assume anything. Hope, fighting for it's life, again, behind his eyes under the furrowed brows.
And that’s the thing that finally makes everything click into place for you. Not as an idea but as something you can actually strongly feel in your chest. Something that lives there, underneath it in your heart, that's beating as clearly as ever before, for Steve.
“I didn’t want him,” you say finally, and Steve goes still at that, just barely. “Not like I thought I did.”
His eyes flicker, searching your face, his breath caught on the way out.
“And what did you want?” he asks, not like he’s afraid of the answer, but more like he's afraid not to hear it after this long.
“I wanted to tell someone,” you say, firmly, voice quieter now. “I wanted to tell someone everything. And I realized… I already do.”
Steve doesn’t move. Not forward. Not back. He's just frozen in a way that makes your heart feel louder with the beat of him again.
“Steve,” you add, softer, like you’re testing whether he’s still with you in this moment.
“Yeah?” he breathes.
And then you close the last bit of distance yourself.
The touch of lips isn’t immediate on his side.
For a second Steve just doesn’t respond, like his mind is still catching up, still trying to understand if this is real or something he’s going to wake up from. His breath stutters against your lips, his hands hovering like he’s forgotten what they’re supposed to do.
And then it hits him. You feel it the moment it does. This is it. And something inside him finally lets go.
He kisses you back like he’s been holding his breath for months without realizing it, like every word he didn’t say is suddenly finding a place to go. Like hope had finally won.
He can't catch his breath. He doesn't even want to. His lips are chasing yours the moment they slip away, that same hopeful smile never leaving his face.
And then it hits him again.
His grip tightens slightly, breath breaking against you as if something in him finally stops resisting. Months of restraint don’t vanish, they just fall apart. Completely.
When he pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead almost brushes yours, and for a second neither of you move. Everything that was never said is finally allowed to exist in the open.
Steve lets out a short, disbelieving breath.
“You’re serious,” he says, barely above a whisper.
It isn’t a question about the kiss. He's damn sure a kiss like that could't be faked. It’s about everything before it.
About all the nights. All the calls. All the moments he convinced himself meant nothing more than friendship because wanting anything else felt impossible.
You nod once, small but certain, and something in his expression breaks open in the softest way.
“God,” he murmurs, like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or be relieved. “I thought I was losing my mind.”
He’s still close enough that you can feel his breath when he exhales, still close enough that neither of you has to reach for anything. And for the first time, hope isn’t something Steve is waiting on alone in the dark. It’s here, shared in both of you, in a completely different form than before.
Standing there in the light of the window
Wearing that same smile
Man, it's been a while
But I knew it, I knew you
When your former childhood best friend climbs through your bedroom window with a bruised and battered face, you take care of him but you aren't quite sure if you can forgive him.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
words: 6.4k
contains: eventual fluff, angst, childhood friends to strangers to lovers, description of physical injuries from canon level violence, steve being a dick, elements of king!steve, mild bullying, mention of sex, unrequited (but not really unrequited) love, female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader.
author's note: this was meant to be a blurb but i got into the story too much to keep it that way!
to be added to my taglist | masterlist | requests page
You met Steve Harrington at five years old—the day that your family had moved to Hawkins. Elizabeth Harrington had knocked on your door with a plate full of freshly made brownies and a young boy with his arms wrapped tightly around his mother’s leg.
It took barely any time at all for you to be introduced to each other. Before you knew it—your mom and his mom were letting you guys run riot while sipping on homemade lemonade in your backyard. His dad and your dad later became business partners. And you and Steve Harrington? Your lives intertwined and you became inseparable. He chased after the boys who pulled your pigtails in the park and you held his hand after the first time his dad had ever properly yelled at him. He was your best friend and you were his.
And somewhere along the way, you had fallen in love with him. You hadn’t planned on it, in fact, you had actively tried to stop yourself from developing any sort of feelings for your best friend. But it just sort of—happened. You constantly thought of excuses to go over to his house just to see him, you spent way too much time on baking his birthday cake and you had cried yourself to sleep after he had told you his first kiss had been Lucy Hayes behind the bike sheds.
You told yourself you’d get over it. That being best friends was enough.
But then high school happened. High school—where Steve had slipped into the popular crowd with ease while you remained in the shadows. Where Steve went to parties while you stayed home to do extra credit.
You slowly felt him slipping away from you. He stopped sneaking in through your bedroom window to watch R rated horror movies that he had stolen from his parents VHS collection, he stopped knocking on your door in the morning to take you to school and he didn’t come to the annual trip to the lake house the summer after freshman year, opting to stay home and throw a massive party instead.
You told yourself it was fine—that you were just growing apart but you’d eventually find your way back to each other.
But then in your sophomore year, he invited you to one of his parties and your friendship came crashing down over a game of truth or dare.
You had never seen the Harrington house look so messy.
The front yard was littered with beer bottles and red solo cups, there were several smashed glasses in the kitchen and you swore you even saw a couple rolls of toilet paper hanging from the chandelier in the foyer.
All you could think as you sat on the couch in the basement, squeezed between Steve and a very intoxicated Carol was that you hoped for Steve’s sake that Elizabeth and Danny Harrington never saw their house in this state. You were pretty sure Steve would be grounded for life if they did.
You felt Steve shift beside you as he leaned back to take a long swig from his beer, eyes flickering over to you briefly before he looked away.
You weren’t entirely sure why Steve had invited you to his party, he had hardly said a word to you all evening and you felt like some pathetic lost puppy waiting for him to come back to you. You had a feeling that he had only invited you to alleviate some of the guilt he may have felt for ditching you last week to hang out with Tommy but you were beginning to wish that he hadn’t asked you at all. Parities were not at all your thing but you had wanted to try because it was Steve and your feelings for him made you do things you didn’t want to do sometimes. Especially when he looked so stupidly handsome in that green shirt of his.
“Are you sure you don’t want a drink?” Steve asks you with a gentle nudge of your arm. The subtle contact sends a jolt through you and you have to force yourself to act natural as you turn to look at him.
“No, thank you, I’m—”
“—of course she doesn’t want a drink,” Carol slurs from beside you, leaning over you to talk to Steve. You shrink backwards against the couch, mostly to put a little distance between you and Carol and the smell of vodka coming from her that was almost overwhelming. “She hasn’t—” she hiccuped. “She hasn’t drank all—” she hiccuped again. “All night. She’s such a square.”
You don’t say anything but you feel your face grow hot in embarrassment as Carol talks about you like you weren’t sitting right next to her. The worst part was that Steve didn’t even stick up for you. You hate the fact you weren’t surprised by that.
Your leg begins to bounce, you were trying to quickly think of an excuse to leave. Not that you really needed one, Steve didn’t seem particularly bothered by your presence.
“Steve, I need to—”
The sound of jeering cuts you off and the words quickly die on tongue as Tommy and a few more of Steve’s friends stumble down the basement stairs.
All you wanted to do was leave but Tommy was already squeezing himself between you and Carol and you had no choice but to move closer to Steve, your thigh pressed against his and his arm flush against yours.
The uncomfortableness you felt was churning horribly in your gut, your leg was still bouncing nervously and yet, Steve didn’t say anything. He didn’t even ask if you were okay, despite his legs lingering on your knee as it bounced anxiously.
“Who’s up for a game of truth or dare?” Tommy asks, one arm slung around Carol while the other nudges you with a gleeful smile. “Maybe it’ll get Little Miss Goody Two Shoes over here to loosen up a little.”
“Tommy, let’s not—” Steve begins but the laughter around the room cuts him off. He glances at you, as though he was trying to reassure himself that you were fine—that this was fine.
You watched as Steve’s friends dared each other to take a shot of hot sauce, to strip off their clothes and jump naked into Steve’s pool. Your stomach turned as you heard them ask each other the most intrusive questions about each other's sex life and at parts, even Steve laughed.
And then, it was your turn.
You shifted uncomfortably, Tommy’s elbow digging into your ribs as you looked to Steve for help. But he was too busy smiling over at one of the cheerleaders to even register your discomfort.
“Truth,” you say finally, figuring that it was the safest option. At least then they couldn’t dare you to skinny dip in the pool.
“Are you a virgin?” Carol asks you bluntly.
Your face warms, the answer is written on your face and all you wanted was for Steve to notice your discomfort, for him to help—
“I take that as a yes,” Carol mutters audibly as some of Steve’s friends laugh, making your face feel as though it was burning from shame. “Not surprised by that—”
“—Carol,” Steve says in a half arsed attempt to rein his friend in as you shift in your seat once again, your eyes flickering down to your lap as you avoid eye contact with everyone in the room.
“What?” Carol asks Steve as Tommy struggles to keep in his laughter beside you. “I wasn’t trying to—”
“—could you just—”
“—oh c’mon, Steve. We just wanna get to know her. S’only fair. You lost your v card last month so we were just curious about hers.”
Your entire body turns cold. Everything around you blurs, you feel a strange mix of feeling both too hot and too cold as you turn to look at Steve—who you find was already looking at you. Of course you were jealous, of course you were upset about Steve losing his virginity to someone who wasn’t you and of course it felt as though someone had twisted a knife in your gut at the mere thought of it. But it wasn’t just that—it was also the fact he hadn’t told you about it. It made that distance you had felt between you and Steve feel too loud to ignore.
“Oh, are you jealous?” Tommy asks, nudging you as he takes note of the look on your face with glee. “You see that, Stevie? She’s jealous she didn’t get there first—”
“—dude,” Steve interrupts, the tips of his ears turning red as he looks away from you. “Don’t be a dick.”
Despite the fact that Steve had finally stood up for you, you couldn’t help but feel it was half hearted. Almost as though Steve’s heart wasn’t really in it, as though he was more concerned about what his friends would think of him than whether or not they were making you uncomfortable.
Tommy shrugs, the slight smirk tugging on his lips that told you he was absolutely not done being a dick.
“Fine. Whatever,” Tommy mutters with a quick glance your way that Steve doesn’t catch. “Your turn then, Steve.”
There was a brief pause where Steve didn’t say anything. You could feel his eyes on you and for a moment, you wondered if he was about to ask you if you wanted to leave, if he was finally going to put you before his stupid friends. But then Steve shifted beside and you knew that he had looked away.
“Dare,” he says.
You knew almost instantly that Tommy or Carol was going to give him a dare that would somehow upset you. Perhaps he’d dare Steve to make a move on that cheerleader right in front of you, maybe they’d even go upstairs and—
“I dare you to kiss the person sitting to your right,” Tommy says, a cruel smile tugging at his lips as he watches Steve’s expression shift. Because the person sitting to Steve’s right—was you.
The first thing that you registered in response to Tommy’s dare was the laughter from his and Steve’s friends, it was Carol’s small glance towards you and the way Steve had gone completely still beside you.
“No,” Steve says simply without even so much as a glance towards you. “Not her. No way.”
The way he said, the finality in his voice made something stir in your gut. Shame, embarrassment, humiliation—you weren’t sure. Perhaps it was a sick connotation of all three that was stirring in your stomach.
Not her, he had said. Like you were the very last person he would ever want to kiss, as though kissing you was in some way repulsive, even. The laughing didn’t help, Steve’s friends muttering to each other about your inexperience made it worse and all the while—Steve Harrington, your best friend since you were five years old, didn't say a damn thing.
And that was your breaking point.
You stand up from the couch, your legs feeling wobbly despite the fact you had only drank lemonade all evening. Your entire body felt hot from embarrassment but now also from the anger that was beginning to rear its ugly head. The anger you had felt towards Steve that you had quietly buried after months of him letting you down, months of cancelled plans, months of him putting his desire to be liked over his friendship with you. You suddenly felt so angry that your hands shook slightly and you knew you had to leave because you were seconds away from bursting into tears.
“Oh, look how upset she is Steve,” Carol cooes cruelly, gleefully watching you as Tommy tries (and fails) not to laugh. “She looks like she’s going to—”
“—fuck you, Carol,” you spat, white hot anger burning through you now as you turn to look at Steve a final time. You see the panic settle in his eyes as he half rises to his feet—before you walk away from him—walk away from him and his stupid friends, his stupid hair and his stupid handsome face.
You push through the sea of bodies that had congregated in Steve’s living room, not caring that someone had smashed one of Elizabeth’s priceless vases or the fact that there was a large stain in one of the rugs. All you cared about was getting out of Steve’s house and as far away from him as possible.
You were almost successful. You were halfway down his driveway when the sound of Steve calling out your name as he stumbled after you reached your ears.
“Wait—” he calls out, almost frantic as he manages to catch up with you, his fingers slipping around your wrist in an effort to stop you from leaving. “Let me just—”
“—just what, Steve?” You snap, unable to keep the anger and hurt out of your voice as you turn to face him fully. You almost wish you hadn’t because the look on his face was so desperate that the thought of pulling away from him almost hurt.
“I just—I didn’t mean it like that,” Steve says quickly, his chest heaving as he looks back at you. In all the years he had known you, of all the years of friendship he had only seen you angry once before. That time you had spent all day making cupcakes for a bake sale just for Steve to accidentally drop an entire batch of the perfectly iced cakes. You had been so annoyed at him you didn’t talk to him for almost two days.
But that was nothing—nothing—compared to the look on your face as you stare at Steve and wait for him to explain himself.
“It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you, I just—”
“—oh my god, do you seriously think I’m pissed off about the dare?” You ask, unable to keep the anger out of your voice as you wrench your arm away from him.
Steve looks slightly hurt at the loss of contact and opens his mouth to respond but you’re quick to cut him off. “I don’t give a fuck about the dare, Steve. If the thought of kissing me grosses you out then it—it’s whatever.”
“But I—”
“—I’m pissed because—because you let your ‘friends’ treat me like shit and you didn’t say a damn thing about it!”
Steve looks stunned and that only makes the anger coursing through you grow hotter.
“I tried but they—”
“—well, you didn’t fucking try hard enough!” you exclaim angrily, your voice breaking as the first of your tears started to fall. You felt pathetic, humiliated as tears spilled down your cheeks but most of all—you were heartbroken that your best friend and the guy you were head over heels in love had become a stranger to you.
Something in Steve’s expression shifts at the sight of your tears. His face softens as he says your name and takes a tentative step closer but you step back. The dejected look on his face when he realises you had stepped away from him seemed to break something in you.
“I wasn’t thinking,” he tried to explain and you could almost feel his panic—the way he was looking at you, the way his fingers twitched as though he wanted to reach for you. “I didn’t think they’d go that far—”
“—but they did and you didn’t s-stop them,” you say, your bottom lip quivering slightly as you harshly wipe away your tears with the sleeve of your cardigan.
“I’m so—”
You knew he was about to say sorry—you knew it by the look on his face and you knew that if he did, that you would want to forgive him. The way you had forgiven him for every other transgression over the past few months because he was your best friend and you loved him.
And so, you had to stop him before you forgave him once more.
“—you’re a coward, Steve,” you say in a voice laced with anger, hurt and every emotion you had been bottling for the past few months while Steve Harrington quietly forgot about you. “You’re a coward and I don’t want to be your friend anymore.”
The silence that greeted your words was one of the loudest you had ever heard.
You weren’t even sure if you meant it but you couldn’t take it back now.
Steve looked as though his entire world had come crumbling down around him, as though your words had been a dagger that you had driven directly through his chest. You knew it would hurt him, you knew it would upset him and perhaps that was exactly why you had said it.
“Oh,” Steve says thickly, swallowing a lump that had risen in his throat as he looked back at you, his big, puppy dog-like eyes almost pleading with you to take back the words that had just left your lips. “I—I see.”
I see. That was all he had to say. After well over a decade of friendship, after years and years of always having your back, years of ‘I’ll always be here’ and seeing each other's worst and best days—it would all end over two little words.
You waited. You waited for Steve to argue with you, for him to beg for your forgiveness like he had the last time you were mad at him. But he didn’t say a damn thing.
“See you around, Harrington,” you mutter, his surname feeling foreign on your tongue as turn around and walk away from him before you could burst into tears.
And the days that followed, Steve didn’t even try to talk to you.
And so, from a distance you watched as Steve Harrington morphed into King Steve. You watched him be a completely different person, watched as he continued to surround himself with people like Tommy and Carol. You heard the parties he threw next door when his parents were out of town that carried on until the early hours or had to be shut down by cops, you heard the way girls he slept with spoke about him and eventually you heard all about him and Nancy Wheeler.
You couldn’t deny that hearing about Steve’s life through rumours hurt. Nor could you deny that the ending of your friendship had devastated you in a way that you hadn’t been expecting and that watching Steve carry on as normal, seemingly completely unaffected by the end of a decade-long friendship, hurt just as much.
You had almost knocked on his door on his birthday but had stopped yourself. You told yourself not to dwell on the past, told yourself that things changed despite the fact your feelings for Steve never seemed to waver and the fact that you still loved him despite everything.
But that all changed one night in your senior year.
You were drifting in and out of sleep, the rain hammering down outside, smacking loud against your window kept rousing you. But it wasn’t until a particularly loud smack against the glass that you finally jolted awake.
You blink, rubbing your eyes sleepily as you glance towards the window to see if it was hailing.
But you nearly scream at the sight of a shadowy figure standing on the garage roof just outside your window.
You open your mouth to yell for your mom but when you realise it was Steve Harrington—drenched to the bone, rapping his knuckles harshly against the glass—all thoughts of yelling out leave you.
Instead, you don’t move. You barely even breathe. You were in some sort of state of shock at the sight of him at your bedroom window after all these years.
You manage to stand on legs that feel wobbly and unsure of themselves, walking cautiously over your carpet and towards the window.
And when you finally see his face clearly through the window pane—at the dark bruise covering his eye, the blood spatter over his face and look of quiet desperation in his eyes, you unlock your bedroom window without much thought.
Steve stumbles into your room, water dripping down from his hair and his clothes onto your carpet. But you’re too busy gasping at the state of his face to worry about that right now.
“H-hi,” he stammers out, his teeth chattering and his cheeks slightly pink from the cold.
Hi? Was that all he had to say after years of silence? After forgetting about you like it was easy? After he didn’t fight for you?
You had the urge to yell, to scream at him but the sight of his beaten face stops you.
“Steve, your face—”
“—that bad, huh?” Steve asks, trying to smile but instead wincing in pain.
“Sit down,” you tell him, watching as Steve’s eyes flicker around your room, taking in everything that had changed over the past almost two years—the colour of your walls, the posters you had hung up, the polaroids of you and Steve you had taken down. “I um, I’ll get something for your face.”
Steve nods, wincing again as he sits down carefully on the edge of your bed, trying not to completely soak your sheets with rain water as he does so.
You take a deep breath before you turn and leave your bedroom to grab the first aid kit from your family bathroom. You’re careful to be as quiet as possible, not wanting to wake your parents who would certainly have a few questions about why your former best friend is sitting on your bed with a bruised and battered face.
You walk quietly back into your bedroom with the first aid kit in your hand to find Steve hadn’t moved from the edge of your bed. But he was holding your stuffed teddy bear in his hands—the one he had won for you at Hawkins Fair when you were twelve years old, the one he had called ‘Little Stevie’ before handing it to you with a bright smile on his face.
You close the door softly behind you and Steve glances up, carefully placing Little Stevie back down onto your bed.
“You still have him,” Steve murmurs quietly as you sink down onto the bed beside him.
Your face warms and you hope it isn’t noticeable as you open up the first aid kit.
Truthfully, you hadn’t thrown out anything that was connected to Steve Harrington. The polaroids were tucked away safely in your jewellery box and even that shell necklace he had made you when he was seven was in a memory box in your closet. You just couldn’t bring yourself to throw anything away after the end of your friendship but you also couldn’t look at them anymore without something inside of you breaking every time you looked around your room. Little Stevie was the only thing you hadn’t put away—because truthfully, you couldn’t sleep without it.
But you don’t tell Steve that.
Instead, you let the silence surround the two of you as you pull out several small gauze pads and antiseptic. Steve lets you work silently as outside, the rain continues to fall, the wind howls and there’s a distant rumble of thunder.
You start first by pouring a small amount of antiseptic onto a gauze pad before you gently dab it over the small gash on his cheek. He winces and hisses in pain but he doesn’t pull away.
“What happened?” You ask him quietly a few minutes later, the cuts and blood wiped from his face as you carefully inspect the bruise around his eye.
The sight makes something tighten in your chest. Though you hadn’t talked to Steve in two years, of course you heard the arguments that happened next door. Usually after one of Steve’s parties had left the Harrington home in a state. Steve had never had the best relationship with his father as Danny Harrington expected only the best from his son and Steve had never been able to live up to that, even from a young age. But though they argued, you had never thought it would escalate to something physical.
“It—it wasn’t your dad, was it?”
“No,” Steve says quickly, too quickly which makes you look at him carefully, wondering whether or not he was lying for your sake. “Really. It wasn’t my dad. I swear. It—it was Billy Hargrove."
You blink. You hadn’t been expecting that. Sure, ever since Billy Hagrove had strolled into Hawkins High like had already owned the place he and Steve had sort of rivalry going on but you weren’t aware it was bad enough for Billy to do something like this.
“But why—”
“—it’s a long story,” Steve says, jaw tight and looking away from you briefly.
“That’s it?” You ask him, pulling away from him as you look from his face to the bloody gauzes that sat in your lap. “You come into my room after two years of ignoring me—”
Steve’s expression falters and he says your name but you shake your head, getting to your feet and causing the first aid kit to fall to the floor at your feet.
“—no Steve, it—it’s bullshit! Okay? Do you have any idea what it was like for me to watch you slowly decide to just not give a shit about me anymore?”
Steve swallows at the sound of anger in your voice. He knew it had been coming and he knew he deserved it but he didn’t know what to say. Because there was no excuse, he knew that he had hurt you in immeasurable ways and he knew he most likely did not deserve your forgiveness. But he wanted—needed—to try anyway.
“I know I—”
“—and now you show up years later with a busted face and expect me to—”
“—I thought Billy was going to kill me tonight.”
That shuts you up. Your eyes widen and you look at Steve with a horrified expression and in your stunned silence, Steve decides to keep talking.
“I had a moment where he was landing hit after hit after hit I thought—I thought ‘this is it’ and all I could—all I could think about was—it was you.”
You’re completely taken aback, you were so stunned that you almost forgot to be angry. Almost.
“All I could think about was how—how I never got to make things right with you and how much time I wasted caring about stupid shit like being popular. Caring too much about what other people thought of me when it really didn’t matter. When I already had someone who liked me for me. And instead I—I treated you terribly, I strung you along and I should never have done that. Not to you. You didn’t deserve it.”
Your eyes stung and you had to look away, not wanting Steve to see how close to tears you were. Because the truth was that you missed him. You missed so much that it was almost a physical ache in your chest. You missed the way Steve could make you laugh even when you really didn’t want to, the way he used to sometimes snort a little when he laughed really hard and the way you could be completely yourself around him.
Steve says your name again but you don’t look at him, instead you sniffle and look down at the first aid kit you had dropped, at the various medical supplies that were now scattered over your floor.
But before you could even think about picking them up, Steve is already doing it for you. You swallow, taking the opportunity to wipe your eyes as Steve bends down, carefully putting the gauze, the bandages and antiseptic bottle back into the box.
He snaps it shut, placing the kit onto bed beside him before he finally looks back at you.
“I’m really fucking sorry,” he tells you, the sincerity in his face making your throat tighten. “For everything. For being an idiot, for trying to be someone I’m not. For letting you down, for making you feel like I didn’t give a shit about you. I’m sorry for not standing up for you that night. I’m sorry I didn’t try and fix things after and I—I’m sorry for not saying all this sooner.”
You nod, your bottom lip trembling slightly as you look back at him, slowly sinking back down onto the bed beside him. “You really hurt me, Steve.”
Steve swallows at that, his eyes turning glassy as he looks back at you. “I know. I was—a colossal idiot. There’s no excuse for it. I hurt you and I wish I could take it all back but I can’t. All I’ve wanted to do these past few years is make things right with you but—but you were right, I was a coward. I was scared—terrifed—that you hated me or—”
“—I could never hate you,” you tell him.
Steve’s eyes soften and he looks back at you with a hopeful expression.
“Really?”
You nod, flexing your fingers against your bedsheet nervously as you look at him. “Really. I was hurt, upset and I was angry but I never hated you. I don’t think I could ever hate you. Not even for a second. I just—I was worried about you. I didn’t want you to become like Tommy or whoever else you were hanging out with because I know that’s not really you.”
“I was still an asshole,” Steve says thickly, the shame evident on his face as he looks down at his lap. “I still did things and said things that hurt people and I can’t take any of it back.”
“No,” you agree quietly. “You can’t.”
It’s quiet then between the two of you—the only sound is that of the thunder rumbling outside. There’s a flash of lightning outside your window but still, neither of you say anything.
“I’m sorry too,” you tell him quietly as you look down at your lap. “For saying I didn’t want to be your friend anymore. That—that wasn’t true I just—I knew I would forgive you straight away if I didn’t.”
Steve shakes his head, corners of his mouth twitching as he hesitantly lifts a hand to rest on your shoulder. His touch alone sends something hot and electric coursing through your body. “Please don’t be sorry,” he tells you. “I should have grovelled for forgiveness and I didn’t. I was—fuck—I was such an idiot that night. I didn’t have your back the way I should have done and I’ll never forgive myself for that. For upsetting you, for making you cry, for letting people talk about you like that.”
“You have no idea how much I think about that night and hate myself for what I did and what I didn’t do. How fucking stupid I feel for letting the best thing that has ever happened to me walk away without a fight.”
You turn to look at him, your expression softening slightly. “Steve—”
“—no, I mean it,” Steve insists, turning to face you fully now as he grabs one of your hands and squeezes it gently. Water drips down from his hair and onto your skin but you couldn’t care less as his touch warms something in you. “You are and I’m sorry it took me losing you and almost dying to realise that. I was just—I couldn’t admit it to myself. I was stupid. So stupid. And I think—I think I was scared to be honest with myself.”
Your brows furrow at that while your heart pounds against your chest. “Honest about what?” You ask him quietly.
Steve looks at you for a long moment before he reaches for your other hand. You let him take it as the look in his eyes keeps you rooted to the spot.
“That I was starting to fall in love with you and I got scared.”
All the air leaves your lungs at that admission. Out of all the things you had expected Steve to say when he climbed in through your bedroom window, you had never in your wildest dreams expected him to say that.
“I was—shit—it’s so fucking stupid now that I think about it but I just—those feelings scared the shit out of me. I mean—you were my best friend and yet, I was always fucking thinking about you. And so, I did all stupid shit to try and forget about you and it never worked. I partied, I listened to Tommy when I fucking shouldn’t have, I messed around because I thought I’d get over you.”
“I even lost my fucking virginity while wishing it was you beneath me the entire time. Nothing worked—nothing ever worked and so I—I thought distance would help but it didn’t and I let you down. I made promises and didn’t keep them. I made you think you were unimportant to me when you were the most important person in my life.”
“Steve—”
“—and that night—the night when Tommy gave me that dare—I didn’t kiss you because I was grossed out by you. God no, far from it—of course I wanted to kiss you. But I didn’t wanna do it if it was just a dare.”
“Steve—”
“—I just—I wanted it to be real and not at a party, not in front of Tommy and Carol or any one of those other assholes and—”
“Steve!”
Steve shuts up almost instantly. His eyes were wide and his hands were still holding yours tightly as though he was trying to ground himself.
You look back at him—at the guy you had loved for longer than you could remember—and you couldn’t bring yourself to be mad at him anymore.
“You know—I never threw anything away,” you tell him quietly. “I just—I couldn’t bear to look at things that reminded me of you because it hurt too much. Because missing you was like—it was like a constant physical pain. Something I couldn’t get rid.”
“Really?” Steve asks quietly.
“Yeah,” you say. “I even kept the shell necklace.”
Steve blinks once, twice before he laughs and the sound brings you the sort of warmth that even fire couldn’t ever bring you. You felt it in every pore, every nerve, every cell in your body. It made you feel lighter, made the storm outside feel insignificant.
“Why would you keep that?” Steve asks, still laughing quietly to himself. “It was so heavy and—”
“—because you made it for me,” you say simply with a small smile. “And that—that meant it was important to me.”
Steve blinks. He looks back at you with an unreadable expression as his thumb drags itself across the skin of your hand and seems to steal the air from your lungs.
“I made you it because the shells reminded me of you,” Steve murmurs fondly, eyes seeming to shine as he looks back at you. “I thought the shells were pretty and—I thought you were pretty too. Prettier than the shells, obviously.”
Your face feels hot and it was near impossible to fight back the smile on your face now.
“You told me you were practising for art class,” you say quietly, head tilting to the side as you look back at him.
Steve smiles a little before shaking his head. “I lied. I was trying really hard to impress you but seven year old me had no game.”
You laugh then and you see the way Steve’s eyes light up, the way he can’t help but smile when he hears your laugh, when he was finally the reason behind it again.
“You didn’t have to do anything to impress me Steve,” you tell him after a moment with a soft smile. “You already did.”
There was silence again and then—
“Do you mean—”
“—yeah,” you breathe out, unable to look away from him as you squeeze his hands a little tighter. “I—I’ve been in love with you for a really long fucking time, Steve.”
The moment that follows felt as though it lasted for a lifetime. Steve was looking at you, seeming to forget how to breathe and you begin to wonder if you had been too forward when one of Steve’s hands slips out of yours to gently cup your face.
“The feeling’s pretty fucking mututal,” he murmurs before his lips seal over yours in a kiss that took your breath away.
Everything seems to slow down around you. You were vaguely aware of the first aid kit clattering to the floor as you kiss him back with no hesitation. your fingers sliding into his still damp hair while his hands gently cradle the back of your head.
You’re already breathless, unable to think of the world that existed out of Steve Harrington’s lips against yours—no thoughts about the rain splattering against the window or of the lightning that flashed across the sky outside. Because everything seems so dull in comparison to Steve’s lips moving against yours, against his hands that you were holding you like you were something sacred.
He was the first to pull away—catching his breath as his eyes couldn’t help but flicker down to your lips that were wet, swollen and so inviting that he already wanted to dive back in again.
But he also knew he had to earn your forgiveness first and that wouldn’t involve being twisted in the sheets together.
“Let me take you out tomorrow night,” Steve murmurs, his thumb gently wiping away a smear of his saliva from your lips and trying not to give in. “Make up for lost time, yeah?”
You smile a little as you consider his offer, your eyes flickering over the bruise on his face. “Let’s wait until the bruise fades first, yeah?”
“Oh,” Steve says, trying to keep the disappointment out of his face as he looks back at you. “Yeah um, totally I—”
“—but I wouldn’t be opposed to a movie night,” you say with a small smile. “If you were to come up to my bedroom window again with a few movies I probably wouldn’t say no.”
Steve blinks but then—he smiles and he looked so devastatingly handsome that it was difficult to not pull him in for another kiss.
“It’s a date,” he tells you, leaning in to press a gentle but firm kiss to your forehead. “Little Stevie can join us too.”
You laugh and Steve can’t help but join you—thanking his lucky stars that you had opened your window for him.
Thank u for tagging me!! : @jinxispunk and @harringtonsdiaryxx
˙⋆✮ last song - Honeybee from Olivia’s new album,(fml, aoty)
˙⋆✮ currently watching- i’m in constant loop of rewatching stuff, but haven’t had time to watch anything lately here at the internship, so i’ll just say friends bc i’m always watching them at some point. 💔
˙⋆✮ current obsession - ice cream. The ice cream here in Malta is so good i’m gonna miss it so bad.
˙⋆✮ currently reading - i brought the hunger games the ballad of songbirds and snakes with me so if i’m not reading tumblr i’m reading that
˙⋆✮ currently working on - heartbreak girl songfic !! And a quick blurb inspired by the line “i love the way you’re screaming my name” from no shame
˙⋆✮ currently wearing - a black top and jeans(sue me), on my way to work at my internship rn (last day who dis)
˙⋆✮ last google search - weather for today bc i keep hoping it’ll be less than 28 degrees but it never is. I miss the rain. like actually.
˙⋆✮ favourite flower - daffodil and lillies, it’s actually one of the reasons i got a mix of both of those tattooed.
unfortunately all of my mutals have already done this so i fear i’ll leave this to anyone who wants to do it!!!
summary: Admiring Steve in the darkest nights when you can barely see anything but his love for you.
a/n: is this corny? idkk. Sorry for no updates, I'm currently in Malta for an internship so this took long to write and it's lowkey ass but hey
The lights went out at 11:47 p.m.
One second, the television was flickering in the corner of Steve's living room, Hairspray tunes still softly humming from the screen, but neither of you were really watching it.
The next, everything went dark and a surprised silence filled the room.
You looked around trying to make a sense of where Steve might be.
"Ow, shit."
There he is. There not being a certain place you can pin point, but the curse being audible enough to startle your hearing senses.
You immediately bursted out laughing while somewhere in the darkness, Steve followed with a groan.
"Don't." He warned.
"You walked into the coffee table again."
"I did not." He argued, though the truth was obvious.
"You absolutely did."
"I bumped it."
"With your entire leg?" Another groan as you heard shuffling around the dark room.
"You are supposed to be supportive."
"You've lived here for years, Steve."
"I forgot where it was."
"You always forget where it is."
A hand suddenly emerged from the darkness and grabbed your ankle. You tried bracing yourself on the couch cushions, careful of what’s to come next.
Now it was Steve who laughed. The deep, warm laugh you loved more than you would ever admit.
Before you could even think, Steve shifted, and suddenly the world seemed smaller in the best way.
He was above you now, one arm braced beside your head, the other wrapped loosely around your waist as though he couldn't bear the thought of letting you drift too far away. Touch was all you had. His presence settled over you like a warm blanket. Familiar and impossibly safe.
For a moment, all you could do was look at him.
You caught his eyes like sunlight trapped beneath amber. Tiny flecks of honey and chestnut glimmered there, and you found yourself getting lost in them the way you always did.
Steve Harrington had always been beautiful. Painfully, unfairly beautiful.
But it wasn't the kind of beauty that made your heart just race anymore. It was the kind that quieted every anxious thought rattling around in your head.
His gaze softened when he caught you staring, the corners of his mouth lifting into a familiar smile with tthe gentle weight of his arm around you and the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
You felt cocooned beneath him, tucked safely inside a universe made up entirely of soft smiles and warm hands and eyes that looked at you as if you were something precious.
The realization bloomed quietly in your chest. You trusted him. Because whenever the world became too loud, too frightening, too much, Steve was the place you ran to.
And somehow, every single time, he made everything feel lighter. Literally.
His thumb brushed absentmindedly against your side. A tiny movement. But your heart reacted anyway.
Because every touch from him carried the same silent promise: I'm here.
As simple as that sounded, it was more than anything else could say. And lying beneath his gaze, wrapped in his warmth, you believed it completely.
“That’s what you get.” He breathes out.
“You’re impossible.” You shake your head, not wanting to move away from your mind or his face.
"You love me."
Unfortunately, he sounded far too confident.
You do. More than you probably should. More than was reasonable.
You’d have spent years loving Steve Harrington and you will continue to do so.
And that came with hundreds of little things.
The way he always walked closest to the road when you were walking next to him.
The way he remembered your favourite food order down to every detail.
The way he checked everyone got home safely.
The way he looked at the people he loved like losing them would destroy him.
The way he looked at you.
Especially that.
A flashlight suddenly flickered on. Steve was holding it clumsily in his hands. You could finally see more than the glint in his eyes. His hair was sticking up in every direction. You laughed immediately.
"Oh my God." You laughed, mouth wide, waiting.
"What?" He furrowed his brows.
"You look ridiculous."
"Excuse me?" The eyebrows then rose in confusion.
"You look like you got electrocuted."
Steve lifted a hand to his hair.
"You think this is funny?"
"Very." You look at him amused.
"You're lucky you're cute."
The words slipped out so naturally that neither of you acknowledged them. Because Steve called you cute every day.
Beautiful too. Pretty. Gorgeous. His girl. Like it was simply a fact.
Like saying the sky was blue and like there was no possibility of disagreement.
The flashlight illuminated the room in a soft glow. Outside, rain tapped against the windows.
You shifted your palms and landed them on his arms. Brushing them with your fingers lightly, a soft plea to remove them so you could be closer.
Immediately Steve leaned into you. Not even consciously. Again, just naturally.
His hand found yours in a second. It made it's way up your forearm, desperately searching to find space in between your knuckles and squeeze. Squeeze to prove that he really is there, even if you already know it. The weight of it felt reassuring as you intertwined your fingers without looking.
Outside, thunder rolled somewhere in the distance. The rain only grew heavier. The entire neighbourhood appeared dark.
There were no streetlights. No television. No music. No ringing phones. No distractions.
Just quiet.
Steve looked out the window. "Huh."
"What?" You mumbled, still unable to peel your gaze from his beautiful face.
"It's kind of nice." He admitted. You smiled. "The blackout?"
"The peace." He corrected, eyes searching for yours again.
His thumb brushed over your knuckles.
"I kind of forgot what real silence sounds like." He said, finishing his thought with a breath that didn't need more explanation.
You understood exactly what he meant.
The last year had been chaos. It was full of hhospital visits without knowing if everything was going to be okay. Nights full of nightmares, that made sleep feel like a chore instead of rest.
People still pretending everything was normal when it wasn't.
The constant feeling that something terrible could happen at any moment.
Even now, months later, you still caught Steve checking exits in crowded rooms, waking up from bad dreams. You still saw the tension in his shoulders whenever a phone rang unexpectedly.
Trauma didn't disappear overnight and neither of you even expected it to. But nights like this helped. A lot.
Nights where nothing was happening and you could just exist together.
Steve rested his head against your shoulder, nudging it with his nose.
You took your free hand up and tangled it in his soft waves. That soothed him immediately.
"Tired?" You asked.
"A little."
"You worked all day."
"I know."
"You drove Dustin around for three hours."
"I know."
"You let Robin reorganize your entire movie collection."
Steve made a pained noise. "Don't remind me."
You laughed and Steve's smile appeared instantly.
Hearing you laugh was his favorite thing. Maybe it always had been.
He'd told you that once.
You'd been lying in bed together, fingers laced between yours just like they were now. His face was tucked against your neck, leaving absent-minded kisses along your skin as he murmured things only meant for you.
You were half asleep. It was nearly two in the morning.
And then, without any warning, Steve had said it.
"My favorite sound is your laugh."
His voice had been muffled against your skin, so casual that it almost sounded insignificant. But you hadn't asked him to repeat it. The moment felt too fragile, too perfect to disturb.
That was the thing about Steve.
Every compliment that slipped from his lips sounded effortless. Never rehearsed. Never exaggerated. Just honest. As though loving you came as naturally as breathing.
The memory still made something in your chest ache.
Because no one had ever loved you the way Steve did. Consistently. Every single day.
Steve's fingers lazily traced circles against the back of your hand. Outside, rain drummed against the roof. Inside, his heartbeat felt steady beneath your cheek.
You hadn't realized you'd leaned against him until he shifted slightly to make you more comfortable. Always doing that. Always adjusting. and always making space for you.
As though your comfort mattered as much as his own. Maybe more.
"What are you thinking about?"
His voice was soft and a little rough. It was clear sleep was close to taking over him, but he didn't give in. Because these were moments with you, he liked the most.
You looked up.
The flashlight sat on the couch floor between you, casting soft golden shadows across his face. Every so often, the beam flickered when one of you shifted, making the room seem smaller, quieter.
You loved him like this. Just Steve.
His hair was a mess from running his hands through it all evening, strands falling into his eyes every few seconds. The sleeves of his sweatshirt swallowed his hands whenever he pulled them over his knuckles, and the fabric looked far too big on him, making him seem softer somehow.
His eyes were tired.
Not the exhausted kind. The comfortable kind.
The kind that came after a long day, when there was nowhere else he needed to be and no one else he needed to talk to. No one else he wanted to talk to.
His eyelids looked heavier than usual, his movements slower, and every now and then you caught him fighting off a yawn.
And yet he stayed awake. For you.
The light caught the curve of his smile as he looked down at whatever he was doing with his free hand, completely unaware that you'd stopped paying attention minutes ago.
Because you were watching him instead.
You watched the way his brows furrowed when he was concentrating. The way he bit the inside of his cheek when he was thinking. The way his fingers absent-mindedly tapped against his knee.
Small things. Things that nobody else would notice.
Steve finally glanced up and caught you staring.
"What?" he asked, a laugh already hiding in his voice.
You shook your head immediately, smiling despite yourself.
"Nothing."
His eyes narrowed. "Stop looking at me weird."
"I'm not."
"You are."
The grin spreading across his face made your heart squeeze. You loved him like this most of all.
Now it was just the two of you, jopined on the couch, illuminated by a cheap flashlight, existing in the same space.
"I'm thinking about us." you admit, finally.
A smile tugged at his lips. "Good thoughts?"
"Mostly." He looked at you, offended.
"Mostly?"
"You're still annoying." You roll your eyes.
"There she is."
"What?" You blink.
"The love of my life."
It slipped through his lips, effortless. Again.
Your heart immediately stopped functioning, words caught in your throat.
"Steve." You barely make out.
"What?"
"You can't just say things like that."
"Why not?"
His smile widened.
"Because." You reason.
"Because?"
"Because then I forget how to talk."
Steve looked entirely too pleased by that. "I kind of like that."
"You're the worst."
"I'm your worst."
You rolled your eyes at your boyfriend's corny words but they stayed with you.
At some point, Steve stretched out across the couch and pulled you with him even closer if that was even possible.
Your head ended up on his chest and his arm wrapped around your waist. A blanket somehow appeared along the way.
The storm carried on outside through the summer evening. The darkness remained but the silence was full.
Full of Steve's heartbeat beneath your ear. Full of the feeling of his fingers playing with your hair.
Full of the certainty that nowhere else in the world existed right now.
Just him.
After a while, you felt Steve press a kiss against the top of your head. Then another. And another.
"What?"
"I really love you."
The words were muffled against your hair.
Your throat tightened.
Begging for attention was never something you needed to do with Steve. If you were thinking of wanting to kiss him, he’d already been reaching his hands to grab your face and give you a thousand of those.
You didn’t have to ask to be close to him, because he’s close to you all the time. Always touching you, holding you, hands grasping for any part of you he can reach no matter the situation.
You never had to ask him to just be here with you, because he was with you no matter what. Even in boring moments like this.
He left no room for overthinking or doubt in his love.
But even after all this time, hearing him say it still felt overwhelming.
You tilted your head back and his eyes met yours immediately.
He looked at you like there was nowhere else he'd rather be. No one else he'd rather love.
"I love you too." Steve smiled. The kind of smile that belonged only to you.
Steve's smile softened the moment the words left your mouth.
"I love you too."
The flashlight between the couch cushions cast a weak golden glow across his face, catching the tiredness in his eyes and the softness in his expression.
His thumb brushed beneath your eye before he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead.
You closed your eyes immediately.
Inside, the room felt impossibly small. Just you. Just him.
You shifted closer. The movement was instinctive and Steve responded just as naturally. One of his arms slid around your waist even tighter.
His heartbeat thumped steadily beneath your ear. The rhythm was so familiar now that you thought you could recognize it anywhere.
One of his hands moved slowly up and down your back. Just touching you because he could. Because he liked to.
You felt him press another kiss into your hair. Then another. Always two.
A quiet habit he'd developed somewhere along the way.
The blanket shifted as he pulled it higher around both of you, tucking it beneath your shoulder, making sure you were warm as you smiled against his chest.
Immediately his hand covered yours.
Steve's breathing slowed. You could feel sleep finally beginning to pull at him.
His body relaxed further into the couch, his shoulders finally losing the last bit of tension they'd been carrying all day.
You tilted your head slightly,just enough to look up at him.
His eyes were already half closed. Long lashes casting shadows across his cheeks. His hair was still sticking up and you wanted to laugh. Instead, you reached up and smoothed a piece of it back.
Steve immediately leaned into the touch. Sleepy.
But tucked against Steve's chest, listening to his heartbeat and feeling his fingers lazily tracing across your back, the darkness didn't feel dark at all.
And eventually, as his breathing evened out completely and sleep finally claimed him, you stayed exactly where you were. Wrapped in his arms.
Listening to the rain and the steady rhythm of the boy you loved.
steve wants to make you juno bad. it was no secret that steve really wanted to have kids. that he wanted a big family. he made that very obvious when you first got together. you thought it was sweet he knew exactly what he wanted but you told him you may have to compromise on the whole six kids thing. so, it came as no surprise that this man had the biggest breeding kink going. when it came to imagining getting you pregnant—his hormones are high. and outside the bedroom, steve loved to try and tempt you, telling you that one of him was cute but two of him though? even better. you’d roll your eyes but secretly agree.
the amount of times you had text your friends “we almost broke up again last night” when it came to gator tillman was…a lot. more than you care to admit. but you wouldn’t have it any other way. you fought, one of you threatened to leave and then—one of you (usually gator) would give in. you’d have sex (incredible, incredible sex) and you’d both say sorry. it was a cycle, it was probably—most definitely—unhealthy but it was you and gator.
your bed chem with teacake was well—it was fucking incredible. that man had the stamina of a damn race horse. the way he picked you up, put you down, turned you around always got you going. the way he knew exactly what your body wanted. the way he talked so fucking sweet while doing the dirtiest things to you. the way he would look at you—you were pretty fucking obsessed.
keys treated you so well that you joked a lot that it made tears run down your thighs. keys would always go red when you’d say that. he’d tell you to shush but his lips would twitch as though he was trying hard not to smile. he didn’t just treat you good but he was always so responsible. he wasn’t a manchild. you never had to baby him. you never had to remind him about an upcoming special event, he communicated so well that you began to wonder why you bothered wearing clothes around him.
you constantly had kurt talking nonsense. he couldn’t help it, it was like his tongue went numb as soon you were anywhere near him. he was in deep with you. he caught that l-o-v-e and he caught it bad. the butterflies in his stomach weren’t just fluttering around you—they were doing damn cartwheels when you were in the room. you couldn’t talk because you weren’t much better when it came to him. kurt made you forget about every ex you ever had. you had no chill about him, kurt had made you lost it. you’d find yourself wondering how on earth did he do this to you?
Summary: You and Steve Harrington were never really anything. You were just the girl who made the last hours of his parties feel like they meant something. At least, until you stopped showing up.
A/n: fuck everyone who got this as their surprise song, anyways, as opposed to the song this has a happy ending, so enjoy!!
The music is too loud for how late it is.
Or maybe it just feels that way because everything else has started to quiet down, unnoticed, until quietness is the only thing left.
It’s 5:00 a.m., or close enough. The clock on the wall has been stuck between numbers all night.
Steve Harrington is half-slouched, half-collapsed into the couch.
One arm hangs off the side, fingers barely grazing the floor, sticky from something he doesn’t remember spilling. His head tips back against the cushions, eyes open but unfocused, fixed somewhere above the ceiling like there’s something written there he has yet to figure out.
There are still people in his house.
Too many, honestly.
Someone laughs in the kitchen, loud and unfamiliar. A bottle clinks against the counter. A couple disappears down the hallway like this is normal, like this is his house but not really his space.
Everyone he’s ever known.
And somehow not a single person he’s actually looking for.
The front door creaks open.
Steve’s eyes flick toward it instantly.
Hope is quick. Reflexive. Stupid.
Stupid, because It’s not you.
Just another guy-someone from school, maybe-dragging his feet in at this ungodly hour, talking too loudly about nothing.
The door swings shut again, and with it, Steve’s brief, flickering expectation dies just as fast as it came.
He exhales through his nose, slow, reminding himself.
Right.
You don’t come anymore.
It hadn’t been like that before. You used to show up late. Always late.
The memory hits him out of nowhere, uninvited and too clear, like everything from before somehow survived the blur of everything now.
The door opening. You stepping in, already half-smiling, half-annoyed.
“You know you could not invite half of Hawkins, right?”
He remembers your voice, teasing him with a truthful smile. And Steve—God—Steve would feel it instantly. That shift. Like the night finally made sense.
He’d push himself off whatever wall he was pretending to enjoy leaning on, weaving through people just to get to you with a grin that spread across his face like a reward.
A reward to the hours he spent doing nothing but wait for you at every party, not even listening to anyone’s words because all he could think about was you.
“You came.” He’d said. Like he wasn’t sure you would. Like it mattered more than it should.
You’d roll your eyes, brushing past him. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
But you’d stay. That was the thing.
You weren’t a party person. Never had been. You hated the noise, the mess, the people who got too close, too loud. You’d hover in the kitchen, or sit on the counter with a drink watching everybody mush into one another, or disappear into quieter rooms and somehow, Steve always ended up there with you.
Not hosting. The thought that it was his party completely left his mind the moment you showed up.
Now the kitchen is full, and he doesn’t step foot in it. Now the quiet rooms stay empty. Now he doesn’t even try to look.
“Steve!”
He barely reacts when someone drops down beside him on the couch, too close, too energetic for the hour.
A girl. Familiar, but not familiar enough. Her hand lands on his arm like she’s done it before.
Maybe she has but he can’t remember, too lost in the thought of that it should’ve been you.
It shouldn’t feel wrong. But it does.
Because it should’ve been you.
You, reaching for him like that without thinking.
You, nudging him when he drifted too far into his own head.
His brain does this cruel thing.
It expects you. It always does.
You never even had to say his name.
You’d barely get the first sound out—“S—”—and he’d already be there, turning, stepping toward you like it was instinct, like he was tuned to you in a way he couldn’t explain.
“This party’s insane,” the girl says, laughing, leaning into him like they’re sharing something.
Steve glances at her, blinking slowly.
Her words take a second to land. He forces a smile. It’s automatic at this point. “Yeah.” He agrees. Not bothered.
She keeps talking about someone in the backyard, something that happened earlier, something that probably would’ve been funny hours ago.
He tries to listen. But it all blurs together.
Her voice fades into the background, mixing with the music, the outside noise of people chatting.
And all he can think about is how you would’ve reacted.
You would’ve made a face. You would’ve leaned over and whispered something sarcastic in his ear.
You would’ve pulled him away after thirty seconds because you knew he wasn’t actually listening.
His jaw tightens slightly.
The girl laughs again, nudging him. “Are you even listening right now?” Not really.
He huffs a quiet, humorless breath.
“Yeah. Just tired.”
She doesn’t believe him, but she doesn’t push, either. Just shrugs, already half-distracted by something else.
That’s the thing about these people. No one looks twice. But you would. In fact, you wouldn’t look away the first time in the first place.
You would’ve kept him company all through every party.
At some point, he ends up in the bathroom. He doesn’t remember walking there. The door clicks shut behind him, muffling the noise just enough that it feels like stepping underwater.
For the first time all night, it’s quiet.
Steve grips the edge of the sink, staring at his reflection. At his messy hair due to being run through one too many times, red rimmed eyes and his hollow expression.
One of the memories hits him again, sharper this time.
You, sitting on the counter, legs swinging slightly, watching him with that look, half amused, half something deeper. He knows you’re about to say something that’s been bugging your mind.
“I think you’re trying too hard.” You say, firmly, shrugging like this wasn’t the sentence that has been washing up your mind every time you get Steve in moments like these. Away from the crowd, without anyone to impress.
“What?” He answers, obviously a little confused.
“This,” you’d said, gesturing vaguely. “The whole…King Steve thing.”
He’d frowned.
“It’s just a party.” But you both knew it was’t.
You shook your head, softer now.
“I like you better when you’re not like this.”
Not like this. Steve swallows, looking back at himself now. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath. Because you were right. And worse because he knows it.
He stays in there longer than he should.
Long enough that the party starts to feel distant. Long enough that the silence becomes heavier than the noise ever was.
When he finally steps back out, it hits him all over again. The mess. The people.
The version of himself he slipped back into without even realizing it.
Someone calls his name from across the room again. This time he ignores it.
Instead, his eyes drift—slow, searching—toward the front door. Like they have all night. Like they keep doing without his permission. And the door? It’s closed. Of course it is.
After everyone has left, Steve ends up back on the couch. Same position. Same spot. Like he never moved.
Except now the house actually is empty.
Cups litter the floor. Something sticky clings to his shoe when he shifts. A chair is knocked over near the kitchen. The air smells stale, heavy with everything the night dragged in and left behind as a reminder of what’s left to clean up.
He stares at the door again. One last time.
Again. It’s stupid, at this point. Really stupid.
He knows you’re not coming. You haven’t in weeks. Maybe longer.
He just… didn’t want to admit it.
His throat tightens slightly, something uncomfortable settling in his chest. Because for the first time all night, there’s no distraction left. No noise to drown it out. No one to pretend in front of.
Just him.
And the quiet realization that’s been waiting for him to stop running long enough to catch up.
His gaze lingers on the door a second longer before finally dropping, his head tipping back against the couch.
A slow breath leaves him.
Another memory hits him.
It had never been about the parties for you.
Steve knew that.
You didn’t show up for the music, or the people, or whatever reputation came with being seen at his house. Half the time, you barely spoke to anyone else.
But you always stayed for him.
That was the part he didn’t understand at first.
Not until he started noticing the way your eyes tracked him across the room. Not in a clingy way. Not like you needed him.
More like you were making sure he didn’t lose himself in it.
There were nights you’d catch his wrist as he passed, just for a second.
Not to stop him. Just to ground him a little.
“Hey,” you’d say, softer than the rest of the room.
And that was enough.
Enough to cut through the noise. Enough to make everything else feel distant. He’d lean in without thinking, like your voice existed on a frequency meant only for him.
And you’d always notice. Always.
The second his smile stopped being real. The second his laugh went a little too loud.
You’d actually listen.
At least when you were there.
The house is quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that feels peaceful yet—just empty. Hollow. Like something’s been taken out of it and nothing’s replaced it since.
Steve doesn’t move from the couch. He hasn’t for a while.
The clock still blinks. The floor still sticks. The air still feels too thick to breathe properly.
And the door— The door is still closed.
He lets his head fall back, eyes slipping shut for a second, exhaustion finally starting to settle into his bones now that there’s nothing left to distract him from it.
This is it. This is what’s left.
A trashed house. A quiet morning. And the realization that he spent the whole night waiting for someone who was never coming.
A knock breaks the silence. Barely there.
Steve’s eyes snap open.
For a second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.
Because his brain, still stupid,hopeful and desperate—won’t let him believe it.
Not yet. The knock comes again.
Still quiet and still unsure.
He’s on his feet before he fully registers standing, crossing the room faster than he means to, heart racing something sharp and uneven in his chest.
His hand hesitates on the doorknob for half a second. Then he pulls it open.
And it’s you.
You look out of place.
Not because you don’t belong there, but because the night has already ended, and you weren’t part of it this time.
Your eyes flick past him, briefly taking in the mess behind him; the cups, the overturned chair, the remains of everything.
Then you look back to him.
There’s no smile this time.
Just something careful still settled on your face.
“Hey.”
His throat feels dry. Unsure. Like his brain is still catching up, too much happening all at once.
“Hey,” he echoes, quieter.
For a second, neither of you moves and it feels awkward in a way it’s never been before.
Like you don’t quite know where you stand anymore.
“I, uh—” you start, shifting your weight slightly. “I think I left my jacket here. A while ago.”
It’s a weak excuse. You both know it. But Steve nods anyway, stepping back to let you in.
“Yeah. Yeah, it’s probably…somewhere.”
You walk past him slowly, more cautious than you used to be, like you’re not sure what version of him you’re walking into.
After all it has been weeks and you never know what to expect with Steve. Or with you. The last few weeks you’ve spent avoiding him because facing your feelings with the fact that Steve the hair Harrington could never like you.
Even if you always saw right past that persona. He didn’t.
He closes the door behind you, watching as you move through the space that used to feel familiar to you. During evening, at least.
You don’t head for the kitchen. You don’t make yourself comfortable. You just look around taking it all in.
“This is new,” you say quietly.
Steve huffs, but there’s no humor in it. He knows what you mean.
“Not really.”
He lets silence overtake everything for a quick pause, hoping that what he says next won’t mess up the moment even more.
“I didn’t think you’d come.”
You glance at him, something flickering across your face, searching for his eyes like there’s a right answer and that’s where you’ll find it.
“I didn’t,” you admit. “Not for that.”
Not for him. The words hang there, unspoken but understood.
Steve nods slowly, looking down at the floor for a second. “Yeah.”
He clears his throat, the sound too loud in the quiet house. “Where do you think you left it?”
Another dumb excusable question you’re both aware of.
You shrug slightly, arms crossing, bracing yourself against a feeling you can’t explain yet.
“I don’t know. Your room, maybe.”
His jaw tightens a little at that. You haven’t been up there in weeks. Not since the last party you came to.
“Yeah. Okay.” He nods once, not letting another memory flood both of your minds this time, then he gestures vaguely toward the hallway with a head shake. “It could be there.”
You hesitate before moving. Just for a second, deciding if this is a mistake, like you’re giving yourself the chance to turn around and leave.
Steve notices. Of course he does. He notices everything about you.
“I can check,” he rushes. “You don’t have to-“
“No.” You shake your head, cutting him off, softer this time. “It’s fine.”
You step past him before he can say anything else.
He follows, a step behind, like he used to, but it feels different now. Less certain. As if he’s not sure he’s allowed to be that close anymore.
You reach his bedroom door first, pushing it open slightly, surprised it wasn’t locked.
Even more surprised when you see how untouched it is compared to the rest of the house. He didn’t let anyone in here.
You scan the room again, slower this time, like you’re giving yourself something to do.
“It’s cleaner in here,” you say, glancing back at him. “That’s new.”
Steve huffs a quiet laugh from the doorway.
“Yeah, well. People don’t usually make it this far.”
“Wow,” you deadpan. “I feel special.”, you joke, with a laugh, but the words had more weight to it. The word joke not holding it’s meaning anymore.
He shrugs, but there’s the smallest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “You are.” Like he’s not even thinking about it.
You chuckle, hoping he doesn’t take it the wrong way and look away first, stepping further into the room, crouching slightly to check the side of the bed still holding onto the story. “If I find it covered in something gross, I’m leaving it here.”
“That’s fair,” he says. “Honestly, I’d probably do the same.”
You glance up at him. “You would not.”
“I would,” he insists, pushing off the doorframe a little, stepping into the room. “I have standards.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You threw a party for half the town.”
“Hey,” he points at you, mock-offended, “those are unrelated issues.”
But you don’t know the parties aren’t for half the town. They’re not for his neighbours, for his classmates or anyone he ever knew.
They’re for you.
Why would he keep throwing them and pretend to thrive someplace that didn’t include you. Even if that place included you for the last few hours only.
You stand back up, brushing your hands together like you actually found something, even though you didn’t.
“Still not seeing it.”
Steve nods slowly, looking around like the jacket might magically appear if he tries hard enough. “It’s probably..uh..” he gestures vaguely toward his closet. “Check there, maybe?”
You pull the closet door open, pushing aside a few hanging shirts without much hope. “I’m not digging through your entire house for one jacket.”
“Wow,” Steve says lightly from behind you.
“Didn’t realize it meant that little to you.”
You glance back at him. “It’s a jacket, Steve.”
“Cold mornings are serious,” he shrugs, looking away from you.
There’s barely anything there—just a couple of boxes, a pair of old shoes.
And then something small, half-hidden near the corner. You reach for it without thinking.
“…wait.”
Steve shifts a little. “What?”
You pick it up, turning it over in your hand, squinting at it for a second, then your expression changes.
“…no way.”
Steve already knows that tone.
“What?” he asks, a little more cautious now.
You stand up, holding it out slightly. “You still have this?”
It’s a keychain.
Cheap. Plastic. Slightly scratched. From one of those dumb arcade prizes.
Steve freezes for half a second when he sees it. “Oh,” he says quietly.
You let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Oh?”
“I mean-it’s just-” he gestures vaguely, already losing the point, “it was in there.”
“You won this for me,” you remind him, as if he needs any reminding, turning it between your fingers. “And then got mad when I said it was ugly.”
“It is ugly,” he defends, a small smile creeping in despite himself.
“You were so proud of it though.” you add.
“I worked hard for that,” he shoots back. “Those machines are rigged.”
You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head slightly. “I think I said something like, ‘Wow, I’ll treasure this forever,’” you recall.
“You were lying,” he says immediately.
“Obviously.”
“Yeah,” he nods. “I knew that.”
You look at it again, “I lost it like…two days later.”
“I know.”
That makes you glance up at him. “You do?”
Steve shrugs one shoulder. “Found it in my car.”
“…and just kept it?” you ask, searching for his eyes.
He hums, then, even quieter, “Yeah.”
“You’re weird.” You rush, before you could let your mind think too much of it. This meant nothing, you and Steve were nothing.
“Getting that a lot today,” he mutters in response. But he’s smiling a little.
You step out of the closet, still holding the keychain, your fingers brushing over the scratched plastic absentmindedly.
“Still not my jacket,” you scoff, dramatically, feeling less out of place now.
“Yeah,” Steve replies. “Guess not.” With raised eyebrows and a smile spreading into a grin already. Like he knew it wasn’t there anyway as much as you did.
Neither of you moves much after that.
You’re closer now. Not on purpose, it’s just how it ended up.
You glance down at the keychain again, then back up at him. “You kept a lot of stuff like this?”
“No,” he says. “Just…some things.”
You tilt your head slightly. “Important things?”
He lets out a quiet breath, like he didn’t expect that question. “Something like that.”
Your breath catches, taken back deciding on what you’re about to do next.
You shift your grip on the keychain, and your hand brushes his, this touching him on purpose.
Steve’s gaze drops for a second, then back up to your face like he’s searching for what this really means and the answer is on your face.
He takes a deep breath.
“You still think it’s ugly?” he asks softly.
You hum, pretending to think about it. “…yeah.”
He nods. “Fair.” Then you add, just as quiet: “But I’d probably keep it now.”
You don’t move away after saying it. Neither does he. There’s barely any space left between you.
Steve lets out a small breath, deciding something again, knowing he didn’t give it a second thought. Not even a first one. “You can.”
You look at him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he confirms. “You can keep it.” He looks down at where your hands are still touching. “Was kinda yours anyway.”
You push harder against his hand, probing for one of his fingers, his hand, you don’t even know, just wanting to hold a part of him in some way as slick as you can be.
“yeah?” You mutter, not losing your focus.
You settle on the finger closest to yours as quickly as you can, not wanting to make this more awkward than it already might be. He reaches for the keychain, both of you holding it tightly now.
But at the same time you’re scanning his eyes, scouring for any possible hint that says he doesn’t want this, blinking as a way to cue him and let him know he can still pull away.
And instead of saying anything else, you lean your face closer, just slightly at first, giving him time to meet you there, if he wants to.
For a second, nothing happens.
Your breath mixes with his, close enough now that you can feel the hesitation in it, not unsure but like he’s not entirely sure this is real and happening.
His eyes flick between yours, searching, almost waiting for you to pull back, giving you every chance to.
You don’t. But you don’t get closer either, letting him decide what comes next.
So he closes the distance.
It’s careful, barely there at first. His lips are brushing yours so lightly it almost feels accidental.
Like a test. And you still feel his reluctance, waiting for you to make it go away and confirm that he can be resolute in this.
And instead of stopping, you lean in just a little more.
That’s all it takes for the kiss to settle, both his and your lips catching each other tentatively. Chasing the taste of one another.
Steve exhales quietly against your lips, like something in him finally gives in and his hand lifts, slow, almost unsure, before resting gently at your side, still grounding himself in the fact that this is happening.
You tilt your head slightly, deepening it just enough to feel real, not rushed.
His thumb shifts faintly against your arm, a small, absent movement, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
You try to think of how maybe this shouldn’t be happening, like your lips shouldn’t be so desperate and in seek of his the second he pulls back to breathe.
You should be bothered by sweat building on his pinky from you gripping it so tightly, but you just want more, more and more.
Because you know you’ve wanted this for weeks. Weeks spent away from him, the moment only living in your imagination.
When you finally pull back, it’s unhurried, neither of you moving far, both still hovering in it, wanting it to continue. Your breath is uneven.
Steve lets out a quiet, disbelieving exhale, his eyes still half on yours, like he’s afraid if he looks away it’ll disappear.
The keychain is still in his hands, pressed between his fingers.
Steve glances at it, then back at you, a faint smile pulling at his mouth. “..definitely not here for the jacket.”
You huff softly. “Don’t ruin it.”
“I’m just saying.”
“Don’t.”
“Okay,” he murmurs, still close. “Okay.”
And he’s dropping the keychain in an instant, his hands framing for your cheeks, determined to kiss you again without any doubts.
