🐝 Beainabottle 🐝

Falling in love with Steve Harrington wasn’t something you had intended to do. It had just happened. You had gone to meet Will at the arcade to walk him home and Steve had been there too, apparently to pick up Dustin. He offered to take you and Will home—you had insisted you would be fine but Steve wouldn’t take no for an answer.

It became a weekly thing after that—you’d turn up at the arcade to meet Will and Steve would already be there waiting in his beloved beamer.

You started showing up earlier so you could spend more time with him—so you could sit in his car a little longer and talk without the presence of Will or Dustin there to butt in. Then, one day he suggested you two go into the arcade together. 

You hadn’t realised it was anything special until much later. Until Steve eventually admitted that he had given Will and Dustin twenty dollars to play Dig Dug for the entire evening. Paid them a further fifteen dollars to not interrupt as you two played foosball. Steve had let you win. You had smiled and told him not to go easy on you. But you still won. You figured he was just terrible at the game but really he just liked the delighted look on your face every time you scored a goal. 

And later—he had made a tactical choice to drop Dustin off first. Will seemed to sense what was happening before you did, thanking Steve for the lift and racing inside before Steve had pulled up the handbrake. It was quiet then—until Steve broke the silence by asking you out. On a real date. That Saturday. The “yes” slipped from out of mouth before you could second guess it.

Seven months later, you were still wondering what you had done to deserve a guy like Steve. Even Jonathan was starting to like him.

“Steve!” Your mom called from the living room, pulling you out of your thoughts about your boyfriend strumming the guitar in his lap. “Could you help us with the—”

Your mom doesn’t even have to finish her sentence before Steve is setting the guitar aside and getting up from your bed. “Coming Mrs Byers! I’ll be right out.”

“I told you to call me Joyce—”

Steve smiles at your mom’s comment before he bends down to press a kiss to your forehead. “I’ll be right back. She probably needs help with TV again.”

You smile before your eyes dart to the guitar.

“Can I have a go while you’re gone?” You ask as Steve walks towards your bedroom door.

“Sure thing,” he says. “Just be careful, yeah?”

You nod as you pick up the guitar carefully. Steve smiles fondly at the sight before he leaves your bedroom to go help your mom.

You look down at the guitar in your lap and try to recall what you had seen Steve doing. Try to copy his movements. Find the chords on the neck of the guitar but it was a lot more fiddly than Steve had made it look.

But you tried anyway, a look of utmost concentration on your face. It sounded awful. You stopped, pausing to try and tune the guitar by twisting one of the turning pegs. You kept strumming to see if it sounded any better when—

One of the strings suddenly snaps. The noise—the whip of the string makes you jump. Your eyes widen as a feeling of dread settles in your gut.

“No, no, no—”

Deep down, you knew Steve likely wouldn’t care. The logical side of you knew that. He had mentioned the strings being a little rusty only a few days ago.

But the side of you that was raised by Lonnie Byers? Well, it had taken the wheel and was making breathing suddenly difficult.

You remember being five years old. Maybe younger. That age before Will was born when you ran wild while Jonathan followed quietly. You had been playing dress up, your mom letting you borrow one of Lonnie’s suits which you forced Jonathan into the blazer of. You wore the tie like a bandana and demanded Jonathan walk the plank. Pushed Jonathan into the small inflatable pool outside just as your dad had come home from work. You hadn’t known that it was your dad’s best suit. You hadn’t known how much it had cost.

All you knew is how angry he got when it was soaking wet and covered in dirt from a day of playing.

Growing up, you had learnt how to tiptoe around Lonnie. How not to ruin things or break things that belonged to him. It happened anyway—you were a kid, of course you broke things from time to time. And while your mom reassured you it was fine, kissed your head and told you not to worry—you knew the argument that broke out that evening was because of you. Because you had been careless enough to break something.

Even now—years after Lonnie had moved out and stopped sending birthday cards—you felt the need to be careful. To not break things. To not be careless with things that weren’t yours.

And so, the snap of that guitar string awoke something in you.

You felt the tears before they began to fall. Felt the burn in your lungs and tightness in your chest. Your hands shaking as you tried to fix the mistake that—in the moment—felt irreparable.

Your eyes, still burning with tears, flickered around your room for something that would fix this. You briefly wondered whether glue would work or even a copper wire. Anything that could fix what you had broken. But just as you set the guitar down onto the bed and let out a shuddering breath, your bedroom door opens.

“Think you need a new aerial for the TV,” he tells you, kicking the door shut behind him before he walks over to his jacket slung over your desk chair, rummaging for his car keys. “I’m just going to head to the hardware store to get one before your mom misses an episode of Cheers if you want to come with—”

He stops, finally looking up when he hears a small sniffle. And when he sees you—perched on the edge of your bed with tears falling down your face, he feels his chest tighten.

“Honey—what’s wrong?” He asks you gently, big brown eyes searching your face for an answer.

“I b-broke it,” you sob out, sniffing as you look up at him—tears falling down your cheeks and suddenly feeling five years old again and scared Lonnie was about to yell at you.

Steve looks at you for a moment, perplexed but then his eyes move to the guitar on the bed—to the single broken string and understanding begins to spread over his face. Steve knew you well enough to know why you were upset about breaking something of his and fuck—he wished he could take it all away. Every yell, every fight, every punishment. Wished he could find Lonnie Byers and make him sorry for making you scared to make mistakes. 

“Baby, it’s just a guitar string,” Steve says gently, stepping in front of you before he sinks down to his knees. Hands finding your shaking ones and bringing them to his lips to kiss your knuckles. “It was going to break at some point. Don’t worry about it, I can replace it.”

“But I—”

“Hey, hey,” Steve hushes you with a kiss to each palm this time. The action makes you look down at him—his eyes full of love and patience. Two things you had never seen your father look at you with. “Don’t you apologise for breaking something that you didn’t mean to. You don’t need to do that. Especially not with me. I can replace it. It’s you who I can’t replace.”

Your heart thumps in your chest. Steve’s sweet words like honey. Your nose twitches as you try not to smile. 

Steve notices—the way he notices everything you do—and smiles as he reaches up with one hand to wipe away your tears. Hating the fact that they had even fallen in the first place. 

“Don’t worry about it, really,” he tells you in a voice so soft that you couldn’t help but feel the weight in your chest lift. Just a little. Your breathing slowing as you blink away tears. “You don’t have to be scared to break anything of mine. Unless you break my heart. Then I might have a problem.”

The comment makes you laugh. A wet laugh that makes Steve beam as though it was his favourite sound in the world. As though he had won a million dollars, climbed the tallest mountain or ran a marathon. Your laugh as precious as gold.

”C’mon,” he murmurs with a small smile, standing up as you sniffle and wipe your eyes on the sleeve of your cardigan. “Let’s get this aerial for your mom and then we can go to that bakery you like and get the biggest cinnamon bun that we can find.”

You nod, allowing Steve to pull you to your feet where he wiped away your remaining tears with gentle hands.

”Can we get extra icing with the cinnamon bun?” You ask him quietly.

”Baby, we can get whatever you want,” he tells you—leaning in to brush his lips against yours in a gentle kiss. One that said he was sorry for what you had experienced in the past. One that promised your future would be better. That broken guitar strings meant nothing to him when it came to you. He pulled away from the kiss to smile down at you. “I‘ll buy you a year’s supply of icing if it makes you happy.”

”You’re ridiculous, Steve Harrington,” you tell him with a smile that made him feel a million things at once.

”Ridiculously in love with you, Byers,” he says, leaning back in to press a chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Now c’mon, we have a cinnamon bun with our names on it.”

"But my father said it was dangerous," you mutter to Steve beneath your breath, your fingers digging into his arm as you let him lead the way through the dark forest. "He said there were ogres and banshees and—"

"—banshees?" Steve repeats with an amused look back at you thrown over his shoulder. "The King is simply trying to scare you, your Highness. There's no banshees."

"Oh," you breathe out in relief as you step carefully over a root. "But what about ogres?"

Steve simply shrugs. "They're harmless."

"Harmless?! Steven—"

"—Your Highness—"

You scowl slightly at the formal title. It sounded so unnatural from his lips.

"—I told you to stop calling me that. My name will suffice."

Steve smiles a little and then he says your name. Your name had never sounded so good than when it came from Steve's lips, his voice sweet like honey and making you forget all about royal duties and about your father who would never approve of your lover.

"What did you want me to show me again?" You ask as he pulls you into a clearing, the moonlight slipping through the trees to cast a ghostly glow on the ground beneath your feet. "Or was this a rouse to get me alone?"

Steve finally stops walking, turning to look at you with a smile pulling on the corners of his lips. "That's always the goal, my lady."

His words send warmth surging through your body that you try your very best to ignore.

Steve seems to sense how affected you were by his words but decides not tease you any further. For now.

"I found something," he tells you, stepping away from you before walking towards an old oak tree. "And you have to promise me you will not tell a soul about what you see."

"Steven, what could you possibly—oh, gods—is that a—a dragon egg?"

Your eyes were wide, staring at the large, blood red and golden egg that Steve had pulled from beside the oak tree and now held carefully in his hands. You knew it to be an dragon egg from the scaly exterior and from its colouring but still—you couldn't quite believe your eyes.

"It is," Steve confirms, gently turning the egg over in his hands. "I found it this morning. By the river. I knew it would not survive near water and so, I took it here. Where no one would look."

"But Steve, what about its mother—"

"Killed," Steve tells you solemnly, looking up at you just in time to watch the way your eyes soften, the way your face falls. "Your father—the King—saw her on his morning ride. And—well, you know your father's attitude towards dragons."

You go quiet, your eyes on the egg in Steve's hands as try not to think about what your father did to its mother. Try not to think about all the barbaric things your father had done to other beautiful creatures that he deemed too threatening to belong in his kingdom.

You realise then why Steve had bought you here. You could see it in the way he was looking between you and the egg.

"Steven, you cannot be serious. We cannot raise a dragon—"

"—but do you not see that this could be our way out of here? Out of this Kingdom? They would chase us on horseback but dragon back—"

"—you have lost your mind? Dragon back? Do you even hear yourself? A dragon is not a dog, it could kill us—"

"—it wouldn't kill us if it saw us as its mother—"

"—and what of my family? My brother—"

"—he could come with us. Dustin adores dragons."

You could hardly believe what Steve was suggesting. Raising and attempting to tame a dragon in order to escape the Kingdom? It was nothing short of insanity.

And yet—

And yet you couldn't help but wonder if it would work. You couldn't help but hope that there was someway you could be with Steve. But he was stable hand. He wasn't a Prince nor was a Duke or an Earl or even a Viscount. He didn't have a penny to his name. And yet you loved him enough to hope that his insane plan would work.

"If this does not work Steve—"

"—then at least we tried," Steve says, placing the egg carefully into his satchel before stepping closer to you until his hands were gently cupping your face.

"I cannot stand by and do nothing anymore. I hear things. People talk. Your father wants you to be wed by your twentieth year and I cannot—will not—stand by and let it happen. I cannot fight, I cannot shower you in riches and I cannot give you anything that you don't already have. But I can love you until my last breath and I can do my very best to get us somewhere I am just Steve and you are just my lady."

The words make you feel everything all at once. You feel scared, frightened, even a little terrified. But you also feel determined, feel a passion and love that ran so deep that it lived in your bones. And before you could second guess the plan, before you could let doubt creep in—you accept the plan with a fierce kiss to his lips. A kiss that he returns with equal enthusiasm—his hands in your hair and yours fisting into the front of his shirt.

"Is that a yes to the plan?" Steve asks the question against your lips—a little breathless as he pulls away, his honeyed brown eyes meeting yours.

"Yes," you breathe out. "We'll keep the egg safe. Raise the dragon until it's fully grown and then—then we'll go somewhere where they can't find us."

There's a look in Steve's eyes that you don't quite recognise—hope, maybe—before he's pulling you back in for another kiss as the moonlight shines above you. The egg—the key to your future—safe in Steve's satchel.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

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Steve was worried about you—of course he was. And you showing up to his doorstep with an abundance of baked goods only made him worry more. You tended only to bake when you were stressed.

Steve takes the tubs from you, his fingers brushing against yours for the briefest of seconds before pulling away so he could look at you with careful, caring eyes.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, stepping aside to let you into his house. “You look like you could do with a cup of coffee.”

“But I need to—”

“—Mayfield,” Steve mutters in a soft but stern voice. “I wasn’t asking. Come inside before I make you.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. When it came to Steve, you tended to listen.

And so, you nod before you step into his house where he closes the door carefully behind you.

Steve busies himself with making you coffee—refusing to let you lift so much as a finger to help him. You just sit quietly at his kitchen table staring at the two tubs of sweet treats he had placed down on the table in front of you.

There was a large part of you that wanted to leave—because you knew Steve was going to ask you what was wrong, why you had been baking throughout the night and you weren’t sure you wanted to tell him.

But the other part of you—the part that secretly loved Steve Harrington so much that at times it hurt—couldn’t bear face the thought of being alone right now. Your mom wasn’t much help—she was either working or drunk and she had simply refused to acknowledge the situation your family was in. She had only visited Max once and it had been too much for her. Which meant you were the only making frequent trips to the hospital, you were the one trying to make sense of insurance, hospital bills and making sure your sister got the care she needed. You held onto hope despite everything the doctors told you.

Steve sets a streaming mug down in front of you and seems to take a few moments to watch your expression closely, noticing how quiet you were.

“You gonna tell me what’s up?” Steve asks patiently as he opens up one of the tubs, grabbing two cookies before he looks back at you. “And don’t you dare say nothing, Mayfield. You’ve baked enough to feed the street so, spill.”

You consider it for perhaps three seconds before it all comes pouring out of you. Like the dam had finally broken. Like something inside of you had finally cracked. The tears began falling before you could stop them, the words slipping from your lips before you could second guess yourself.

“I-I ju-just I’m fin-finding t-things really di-difficult r-right now,” you manage to say through heavy sobs.

Steve pauses—he sets the cookies down. He doesn’t approach you, not yet. “With Max?”

You sniffle, wipe your eyes harshly with the sleeve of your sweatshirt before you look back at Steve and nod. “I just—it’s stupid really but I redid her h-hair last night and it—it hit m-me how l-long it is now a-and how l-long its be-been si-since she’s been in ho-hospital. And it made me think of how l-long it’s been s-since I’ve he-heard h-her voice a-and h-her laugh or s-since I’ve seen her s-s-smile and I-I just—I m-miss her.”

The tears were falling thick and fast after that and that was the moment Steve finally stepped towards you. The moment he finally gathered you into his arms, one large hand cupping the back of your head while the other gently rubbed your back as you sobbed into his t-shirt. He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t try and make you feel better with wordd—he just holds you while you cry. His lips barely brushing against your hairline as a silent reminder that he was here—that you were safe and that he didn’t give a fuck that you were soaking the material of his t-shirt with your tears. All he cared about was you being okay.

When you finally seemed to run out of tears a few minutes later, you didn’t let go. Not right away. You sniffled into the crook of his neck as you allowed yourself a few more seconds of the warmth of his body, of the feel of his arms around you, of his touch that was better than any medicine. But you also knew you had to let go at some point.

And so, you finally force yourself to pull away.

“Sorry,” you murmur, wiping your cheeks harshly as you try to force a half-hearted smile. “I didn’t mean to—”

“—it’s okay,” Steve tells you gently and you know just by his voice that he means it. That he would have happily held you for hours if you had needed it. “You’re dealing with a lot at the minute. Way much more than anyone should have to deal with. If you need to cry or bake a billion more cinnamon rolls then that’s okay. You’re only human. One who can bake a mean cookie—I mean look at this!” Steve picks up the cookies he had put down to comfort you and holds them high the air like it was a damn trophy which you can’t help but smile at.

“You’re ridiculous,” you tell him, sniffling as you wipe the last remains of your tears. “They’re not that good—”

“—are you kidding? Stop being so modest. People should write songs, poetry about these cookies. I hope my last meal is just a plate full of these cookies—”

It was impossible not to laugh now at Steve, your laughter filling the kitchen. And when you start to laugh, so does Steve. The sound makes everything around you feel brighter, the weight that settled in your chest just a little bit lighter.

“There she is,” Steve says affectionately and the way he says it makes your cheeks burn. “My favourite little baker.”

“Shut up,” you say, despite the fact you were fighting back a smile, something warm filling your chest at his words.

“Never,” Steve tells you simply before taking a large bite out of one of your cookies.

dividers by @strangergraphics

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