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Author's Note: ive recently rediscovered lana del rey and have been reading some killer gator tillman fics that have left me in crazy feels, so this random (way-too-long)(way-too-self-indulgent) blurb was born :,) the urge to write it hit me late at night and i caved because im weak...this is my first real attempt at smut and i feel pretty eh with how it turned out, but I'd welcome any feedback :p

requests are open !!

Arguments with Gator Tillman can happen anywhere, from dusty, sun-baked roadsides, sweat slicking skin while the dry air chokes sharp words out of the both of you, to the stifling quiet of elegant churches that display the body of Christ above your glaring eyes. Gator doesn't hit you, not once, not ever. Not after what his dad did to his mom and Nadine. But he knows how to stab his insults deep. You know how to take them.

His muscles get tight when you fight. Fingers clench around nothing, teeth gnash, and his jaw twitches as if restraining something stronger, something intense. The passion behind his dark eyes and frustrated tone isn't unbridled fury, it's desperation. Fear. All he's ever done is disappoint and disgust, pushing away anyone who threatens to show more than disdain towards him. You're so sweet, so deep, that the thought of finally nailing the coffin closed on your relationship and losing you forever due to some disagreement ruptures something in his heart. Gator's addicted and he fucking hates it.

The deputy sheriff's wild, angsty nature doesn't crush or drive you back, unlike others in his past. No matter how many scowls or mutters he throws your way, your feet remain planted against the storm. It's dedication that drives you just as much as it is addiction.

It makes you wonder if they're one and the same; it makes you realize you and Gator align more than you initially believed.

He's obsessed with the compassion you show, the gentleness your hands carry, as well as your contrasting fire, while you never forget the softness that hides behind his bulletproof vest and his deep capacity to love. He's disparate from any previous Tillman that's ravaged Stark County, a fact you know even when he acts up, a fact Gator constantly tries to run from.

Scraped egos usually scab over once the sun goes down. Without fail, Gator finds himself knocking on your door under a weak porch light, moths fluttering around his head like a halo when you finally let him in. He's a grumpy mess, still too stuck up to truly apologize but needy enough for your reassurance that he's here--a big feat for such a stubborn man.

He kicks his boots off like he plans to stay. Like you have no other option than to say welcome home, I love you, stay with me.

You're not that foolish.

Your resistance to let him come closer and relax sparks annoyance in his eyes, earning that signature sneer and revitalized blame that only stokes burning tension. You punish him with distance, telling him off for his disrespect towards you. You compare him to his daddy.

And, for some overwhelming, complicated reason, Gator (who looks up to Roy the most) hates that.

His rough hands knock over something--keys or junk compiling in your kitchen--nearby. Items spill over the counter. "Don't say that. I ain't evil like him. Not towards you."

"You're breaking my things, Gator. You gonna break me next? Like Roy does to his women?"

Glass shatters. His second victim was a water cup, a puddle and mess of sharp edges pooling a few feet away. Not aimed towards you, never aimed towards you. But it's destroyed, and furious Gator looks as unapologetic as ever.

He's got Roy's eyes when he wants to be threatening.

Your palm hits his cheek moments later. It barely moves his stinging face, not enough to bruise or break skin but enough to rattle. Fingers grasp at his chin so that he's forced to look down, your burning glare intense so that he can stop and come back to you through the fog of inherited---learned--Tillman-fury.

His lips part as he stares with widened, ebony eyes, breathing unsteady while nails dig into his jaw. He's seeing you again: your tousled hair from the long day, soft face pinched with familiar, no-bullshit attitude, and unrelenting beauty that has altered his entire life since the day he met you.

"Stop fucking around. You see yourself? You see what you're doing? I won't have it in my goddamn house. Pull yourself together or you'll never see me again."

Gator's only stunned for a moment before his heart seizes again, that irrationally horrified fear of loosing you swamping everything else. Oh God, he thinks, oh God, I'm turning into dad. He'd hit her for talking back. He'd murder her for even thinking to lay a hand on him.

"Clean it up."

His heartbeat is loud in his ears. He doesn't hit you back. He doesn't reach for the nearest blunt object and swing for the head, swing for the kill. He's not Roy, as much as that thought torments and soothes him.

So he kneels after grabbing a small sweeper and dustpan, hands trembling, and picks up the glass. The floor is dried. Everything else is reorganized on the counter.

You're long gone by the time he finishes in the silent kitchen. The windows are all pitch black and reflect the yellow light inside. Gator glances at himself in the reflection, noting the pinch in his brows and the glossiness of his eyes. A baby. A baby stares back at him. Disgust thickens his throat.

But he's more guilty about you, about destroying your items and hurting your feelings rather than submitting to your punishment. He knows he crosses the line constantly, knows that his pathetic behavior is nothing like how a man should act. He's not his daddy, yet his silhouette matches that of a Tillman more than it should.

Gator eventually finds you in your bedroom sat neatly on the bed. Silky pajamas hug your frame, and fragrant lotion wafts from your skin. He practically drools. You stare at him blankly.

He's shifting to his knees again, sinking before the mattress so that his hands can trail up your thighs. His head is low and his forehead presses against your knee guiltily, unable to look at you properly. Need and shame flares hot under his ribs.

"Baby," Gator's low words are mumbled against the sheets. "Baby, I'm sorry..."

"Is it all cleaned up?"

"Yeah," your hand smoothes over his hair, messy and broken free from the gel he uses on duty, to brush onto his cheek. He looks up at you then, lips puffy in a pout, and waits for you to turn him away again. He'll go at your word. He'd do anything.

You don't say anything else. You can't help the way your heart flutters at his softness, the woeful boy beneath the cracked shell of a false man. It's at these times he looks more like his dead mother.

Arguments with Gator Tillman end like this: him at your feet with endless whispered apologies, rubbing along your legs and lap like a dog starved of praise, like a man worshipping life. Most nights don't amount to such severe tension and physical corrections, but when they do, you weather the storm. His lashing turmoil lightens into a drizzle, and each time he learns right versus wrong a bit more. He unlearns Roy's toxic standards and beliefs. He melts into you.

Because you're the only one left who truly loves him, who sees his potential, who wants him to be better. Call it dedication or addiction, maybe it's both; whatever it is, it's struck you bad for the deputy sheriff.

When you finally invite him into your arms, he leaps at the opportunity to make up for harsh words and broken glass.

He takes his time up your legs, practically groaning with relief as you beckon him forward. Lips brush and part against sweet skin, sucking and nibbling to consume you; your taste is like the antidote to the poison of his bloodline, and he can't get enough.

Gator nuzzles between your thighs, burying into warmth, his hands scrambling with a gentle roughness up your back and against your ass. You can't help but arch and breathe in deeply, trying not to succumb to his desperate ministrations so easily. He might be forgiven, but he doesn't deserve immediate satisfaction.

At your scent he grows hopeless and whinier (somehow), emphasizing the drag of his nose against your underwear before sitting up, his eyes locking with yours. That sad, pathetic look pierces you deep. You're leaning into a kiss without thinking, internally cursing yourself, and Gator gladly steals it with starving fervor.

His tongue pushes against yours in an instant, slick with the taste of beer and whatever fruity vape flavor he likes this month. He's moaning into you, as loud as ever, and begins pushing you backwards. His knees hit the bed. Hands drag along your sides, pushing up the sleep shirt hiding your torso. Teeth clash amidst the rough make-out, sinking into your bottom lip as he tugs it gently. You let out your first sigh of pleasure.

"I'm sorry, baby," Gator murmurs, pecking at the corner of your mouth, chin, and jaw with a languid pace. His chest heaves above yours while his hand travels up your stomach, rough callouses tickling and causing you to twitch before those fingers dip past your bra.

A gasp flies from your lungs. Gator catches it, mouth smashing back down onto you while he pinches your breast. He knows the pace you love, it's branded into his brain.

"I'm s'sorry," his words are slurred as your body betrays you and begins to whimper. He's ducking his head again, biting at your neck with the intention of leaving a special bruise; pain and redness spreading over skin due to reverence rather than retribution.

"Gator," one of your legs lift, wrapping around his hips to press him down against your dampening underwear. He's already severely hard, throbbing through cargos and overly sensitive to the heat between your thighs. He jerks at your movement.

"Fuck," the curse is panted over your lips. "Can I? Please?"

You both know this game. The drawn out make-up sex. His newly found, unbreakable obedience. Your pleasure from his prolonged need.

You stay quiet, choosing instead to wrap your arms around his neck. Your hips roll against him again, and he shudders.

"I need it. Need you. Please, mama." Those hands grasp firmer onto your breast, massaging it hard enough to nudge the bra fully away. He's trembling above you, aching, sorry.

"...mhm."

Your wavering hum and shaky nod is enough for him. His arms instantly wrap you up and lift you, settling your legs around his waist so that you're perched in his lap. Practiced hands help him slide off the police vest and the rest of his shirt, discarding it urgently to the floor. He's hot, heat billowing from his pale chest like fire.

He barely registers your palms grasping at his pecs and biceps as he works off his belt, frustratingly clumsy with lust, before managing to spring himself loose. Your underwear is next, tugged roughly past the curve of your ass.

Gator's pushing into you without warning, causing you to yelp with shock and stimulation at the stretch. His fingers dig into your spine, helping you bob up and down at the tension grows.

"Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me," his pants hiss against your throat, eyes screwed shut and body jerking at the sensation. You writhe and tremble, overwhelmed by the needy speed but find yourself quickly adjusting. You've learned how to take it. It's practically muscle memory with how much Gator loves to apology-fuck.

Your hand rakes through his hair, clutching the back of his skull so that you can pull his face back. He gasps at the sensation, lips parted and eyes dazed while you begin to rock against him, weakening his urgent hands as hot bliss floods his body.

"You're sorry?"

"Yes," Gator groans, closing his eyes briefly when you shift just right. You tug at his hair again and he corrects himself, holding your gaze. "Yes ma'am."

"Yeah you are," you gasp, pleasure sparking in your gut as you grind yourself harder onto him. "You won't fucking break anything else? You'll watch your mouth?"

"Yes," his moan is breathy and nearly drowned out by the shift and creak of the mattress. He pulls you closer, raking desperately at your hips and thighs to signal that he's close.

Gator presses against your neck again, kissing down to your shoulder and collarbone like you'll disappear if he stops. He laps at your sweetness, dizzy from the salt of your sweat and pheromones. Behind your ear, a warm, fresh waft of perfume nearly takes him out.

"I love you," he prays urgently, thrusting upwards with enough friction to make you shiver. The arms around your torso hug you impossibly tight, almost tender in the way he wants you badly.

He echoes the phrase with honesty and desperation, over and over like it's the only thing that means something to him, coaxing moans from your lips and claw marks down his back. It isn't long before you feel trembly, your orgasm crashing harshly over you, and when you whisper a breathy "I love you too" against his cheek, he's crumbling against your body with release.

The moments that follow are always the same: Gator pulling you back against his chest, breathless from exertion, while you trace the mapping of moles against his ribs.

Usually he lets you slide into the shower rather than fetch a towel himself, but during nights like these you both lay still, already feeling the anticipation of a new round buzzing in your stomaches. Fast rounds never satisfy Gator; make-up sex typically extends into hours.

Naturally, he's already fished his vape from somewhere deep in his pocket and takes a deep drag, the tiny blue light vibrant in the dimness. Smoke pours from his raw lips, filling the heated air with the dizzying scent of fruit. You let out a breath from your nose, exasperated but unbothered in the afterglow of sex.

The press of Gator's mouth against your temple brings you back to the present, refreshing memories from the evening. The anger you had felt. The infuriating way Gator had argued whatever stupid point he was trying to make. Your glass smashed onto the floor.

He kisses your hair again, the softness warming your chest. You two would to butt heads forever, you knew, equally stubborn and eager to win the endless disputes. But you also knew Gator was genuine underneath the defense mechanisms he used. It would take time for him to understand that, and to understand it was okay not to be Roy Tillman. He could be respected and good. He could love you, and not feel fearful that he'd suddenly shift into an abuser. He could break the cycle.

You push yourself up, leaning over Gator where you two remain tangled in the bunched sheets. He watches you with lidded eyes, a few swirls of smoke escaping the small gap in his lips. A tiny smirk dances across his mouth; he gazes with cocky, tender affection.

"You owe me breakfast tomorrow," you rasp, tracing his collarbone with your index finger. "And a couple more rounds where I can lay down."

He chuckles. A shared understanding passes between the two of you.

"Yes ma'am."

ty for reading <3

Author's Note: wowowow this one took an embarrassingly long time to write, its sorta kinda specific to an oc of mine but i tried to make it more neutral for the general audience :') the intro got a bit wordy bc it was originally going to set up a longer story, i've decided to split it into a separate part that im writing rn and it's definitely going to have some romantic, not-so-gentle smut <33 so this piece can be standalone or you can follow along as i add on

lmk if you wanna be tagged for the 2nd part!! requests are open as always :)

Having the police chief as an uncle was a living hell.

No doubt there were props to it: extra protection, access to cigarettes and alcohol that he inevitably stashed away for stressful evenings, and occasional discounts at stores owned by friends of the chief (whether it was gifts of familiarity or pity from the store owners for having such a strenuous family member...the latter was more likely).

Yet, arguably, the disadvantages heavily overshadowed the pros. Chief Jim Hopper was strict, harsh, and many times unforgiving. His police car always happened to show up at the slightest bend of rules, rants never ended when he got onto his soap box about drugs (hypocrite), and his sharp glare towards your new, trying boyfriend was enough to make you scream. You knew his demands and watchful eye came from love, but damn was it annoying being 18 and having a sharp curfew at 10 PM.

Regardless of the egg shells you had to walk on, you weren't gonna let him stop you from doing anything fun. Screw Hop and the stick shoved up his ass. How was it fair that the old grump could ruin other's love lives just because his was nonexistent?

You'd played by his mandates long enough. Tonight--a crisp, clear, perfect March evening--was for you and Steve Harrington to enjoy.

What Hopper didn't know wouldn't kill him.

You let out an unsteady breath, fiddling with the zipper of your baggy jacket. It was darkly colored, offering ideal camouflage. Jeans and converse hugged your lower half, not ideal apparel for sprinting through the woods but the best you could find for the mission ahead. All you needed now was a dose of courage to soothe the anxiety burning in your throat.

Pacing your room, hands still busy on the metal of your cover-up, you approached the door and glanced outside again. Your view through the crack revealed Hopper passed out, a beer clung loosely in his hand while his feet rested on the coffee table in front of him. Light beamed from the small TV while music and soft voices from whatever soap opera he'd previously tuned into drowned out the world.

He looked exhausted. He was exhausted. There was no way he'd even open an eye after 12 AM and before 9 AM, especially on a Saturday morning.

You didn't dare peek into El's room (too much risk passing your dead-to-the-world uncle), but you had faith that she was asleep too. And even if she wasn't, your little sister wouldn't be the one to rat you out. She'd either be blissfully unaware of your disappearance, or ask privately about it the next morning if she suspected anything.

Everything was okay. You could handle this. Besides, Steve was already waiting. No other option now.

With a wince, your fingers slid beneath the cool edge of your window, slowly pulling the glass up with held breath. Once open, you wasted no time swinging your leg over and stepping into the night, air finally escaping your lungs when the house remained quiet behind you.

Thank god for Hopper's one-story cabin. You couldn't imagine trying to climb down from a rooftop, let alone having Steve try to clamber up while Hop lurked inside. (Though you remembered Nancy's stories about Steve doing exactly that at the Wheeler house when they dated...he was probably a master at that kind of thing).

You tried to swallow down a cold surge of insecurity at the thought.

Instantly you took off, hands jammed into the pockets of the warm coat on your shoulders as your feet padded through old brush. The path was easy, even with its darkened surroundings and your faint flashlight winking in and out of consciousness. Hop's hidden woods had practically raised you and sharpened your senses from a young age. But it wasn't bears or snagging thorns or even Demogorgans you feared--it was your uncle. Ex-military man with a scary voice, scary detective skills, and even scarier punishments. If he were to wake up now--

No. He was out. And you were only 7 minutes away from Steve's car. 7 minutes away from heaven parked hastily in bushes and whatever else hit it from view. 7 minutes away from him.

Owls called in the distance. Nearby, a river rushed past. You ignored it all while desperately huffing the cold air, determined to catch glimpse of a burgundy beamer through leaves. So close. You were practically there.

A misshapen shadow eventually caught your eye, freezing you in place as you tried to catch your breath. The weak flashlight gripped in your cold knuckles lowered as a relieved, raw grin spread on your lips. There he was, just as promised: your boyfriend sitting in pitch black darkness, shivering his ass off, and waiting obediently in the woods. You could only imagine how nervous he was if you were feeling uneasy. The thought of him trusting you anyways sent a jolt through your gut, swirling with the excitement and arousal already building.

Steve yelped as the door to his car yanked open, the interruption of silence shooting adrenaline through his veins. It was Hopper. Hopper was gonna shoot him. Hopper was gonna make him into taxidermy--

You could barely contain your laughter at the shocked look on Steve's pale face. He managed to snap out of his horrified spell as giggles spilled from your lips, his expression softening into exasperation.

"Jesus Christ," the soft breath traveled through the car as he looked you over, checking for any injuries that might've blossomed from a fall or attack in the woods. When he knew you were okay, he let his head fall back and inhaled deeply.

"I thought I was dead. Holy shit."

"Take it easy. Unless you've already pissed yourself."

"Yeah, not funny. These are Calvin Kleins, by the way. Could've ruined them," Steve's stern facade barely held up against your sparkling eyes. You couldn't help the giddiness burning in your gaze. You were absolutely dazzled, and he wasn't acting much better.

The honeymoon phase of your relationship turned everything sickeningly sweet and way too colorful; it was a wonder he hadn't pounced on you yet.

"The seats, too. Everything would've been ruined." Steve continued softly, though the thrill he'd felt earlier dissolved into a daze. He couldn't stop staring at your ruffled hair, flushed cheeks, curved lips...

"Yeah?" You couldn't fight your growing smile. Suddenly, his words seemed to carry a double meaning that unintentionally heated the tension within the car.

Steve smirked, cocky and stupid, but he couldn't hold out much longer. Leaning forward, his nose brushed yours whilst your mouths connected gently.

The kiss was small and careful, Steve's chilly, chapped lips pressed up against yours. An involuntary hum escaped you as you shifted closer to his warmth, your previous fears fading away.

This. This made all the risks taken worth it.

A playful flick of his tongue across your mouth sent your heart pounding furiously, though he quickly sat back rather than deepening the kiss, those soft brown eyes studying your reaction. You mustered a small grin in return, but the sweat gathering at the base of your neck conveyed anything but casualness.

Truth be told, you and Steve were still figuring it all out. You'd only started dating in January after years of close friendship and sudden, complicated distance, before reuniting as friends once hell arrived in Hawkins. Monsters, alternate dimensions, babysitting annoying-ass kids...tense times ignited something hotter within the both of you, sparking realizations and dizzying attraction.

Steve couldn't stay away for long. Neither could you. Hang-outs melted into dates, brief touches, hand holding, kisses. But everything was frustratingly public thanks to one stubborn, assertive person.

Hopper. Chief Jim Hopper.

Want to go on a date? 3 hours max, somewhere out in town. Want to go to Steve's house? Parents must be home (which was never). Invite him over? You two are staying in the living room while getting glared at over a mug and mustache.

"You two are old enough to act like respectful adults," he'd scold. "But not old enough to be parents. So shut up and sit down on the couch."

It was insufferable. All you wanted to do was curl up in his arms, lounge around, explore things with the one you trusted the most. You knew Steve was itching for it too, but sometimes you feared that fact rather than feel elated by it.

Steve "The Hair" Harrington had an infamous reputation for being the man-whore of Hawkins High. Girls feigned for him, boys sulked with jealousy, and everyone else feared him. At least, they had in the past. Recently you'd watched Steve grow and soften, finally maturing past the "golden boy" persona and allowing himself to make actual connections. It was kinda hot.

But that didn't take away from his years of experience with girls, dating, or sex. It made your own small feats pale in comparison. Frequently you felt intimidated, even as you kept up with the brief make-outs Steve would initiate at school and flirts he'd send your way.

Both of you wanted to go to the next step, but were you really ready for it? Would he be unimpressed? Disappointed?

"Hey."

Steve's quiet murmur ripped you from your train of thought, causing you to blink and look back at him. You two were still sitting in the chilly dark, swaddled by silence and exhilarating freedom. 12:17 A.M. The entire night was ahead.

"You okay?" His large palm rested on your arm, gentle rather than needy. His thumb rubbed tiny circles over the fabric of your jacket, soothing your nerves a bit. Steve always sensed your discomfort.

"Yeah. Yeah," you nodded, swallowing roughly and tilting your head against the seat. The smile you plastered on wasn't hard to wear, but it wobbled regardless. "Just a little worried. About Hop."

"Nah," Steve shook his head, giving your shoulder a tiny squeeze before reaching for his keys. The engine spurred to life shortly after, the headlights beaming across shredded bushes and branches. With the new light, you didn't miss the way Steve shifted in his seat and adjusted his shirt before placing the beamer into reverse, his jaw clenching nervously. Still, he smiled like he was king of the world.

"Don't worry about it. You said it yourself: he won't even notice you're gone," Steve slung one arm over the back of your seat, leaning in to properly glance backwards. The smooth action left you clenching your thighs, nearly overwhelmed by his closeness and the scent of that sharp, spiced cologne he wore.

"You'll be home by 5." Once on the road, he put on the gas a little harder than necessary, clearly eager to put distance between the police chief and his stolen niece. "6. 6 is better."

"Steve," you couldn't keep the exasperation from your voice. "I thought you said we'd be out for a couple of hours."

"6 is a couple."

"A couple is 2."

"Mm," Steve grinned, smug and grinning like a kid with candy. "I meant 6, then."

"You're so stupid," it sounded more like a compliment with the way you smiled, eyes catching his as you both realized how much freedom stretched ahead of you. No domineering uncles or restless distractions from kids. Just you, Steve Harrington, and the quiet night.

The drive felt like hours. Steve dared to play music softly, rolling down his windows despite your pleas against it. "Everyone knows my car," he insisted. "Who else would this pretty girl belong to? And who else would I be with so late?"

You couldn't even pretend to be angry. It was too much fun having the wind in your hair, the scent of pine and distant smoke filling your nose, and your boyfriend's hand on your thigh. His laughter was contagious and wild, your conversations bubbling on somewhat hysterically. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was elation. Maybe it was both.

It was around 12:30 when Steve finally pulled over, killing the headlights and sending you both into inky darkness once more. For a second you felt a pang of intense anticipation, expecting him to lunge forward and steal a kiss, feel up higher on your leg, pull your own hand into his lap--

"Wait there," Steve wasted no time clicking his door open, jogging around the car and leaving you in momentary confusion. He'd parked in the middle of the woods. Where the hell were you?

You heard the trunk pop up somewhere behind you. When he finally came around and opened your own side, holding out a hand to help you, your teeth sank into your cheek as you tried to compose a flustered expression. Steve had always gotten the door for you, even as "friends", but you didn't think you'd ever get over holding his hand properly.

"Where are we going?" Your shoulders bumped together as you held up your crappy flashlight, trying and failing to properly illuminate the forest floor. Steve just chuckled, swinging your laced hands playfully.

"You'll see."

"Do you bring all your girls out here?" the comment was meant as harmless, but you surprised yourself with a bit of a tense tone. Steve sensed it too, glancing over to check with a frown. For a moment, you worried you'd hurt his feelings.

"...not really." he spoke slowly, and you cringed, embarrassment heating your face. What a mood killer.

"Sorry."

"No, it's fine." Steve shook his head, scoffing. There was no apparent tightness to his voice. "It's not the craziest question. But I don't bring a lot of people out here."

An arm pressed over your back, squeezing you close to him in a half embrace as you walked. His hand then slowly slid down your spine, resting comfortably on your waist.

"I also don't sit in the woods like a total creep for lots of people, either." Steve leaned close, the smirk obvious in his voice as an effort to lighten the mood. You huffed in return, yet guilt lingered like a bad heartache. Steve seemed so relaxed, so sure. You felt like a fish out of water.

It wasn't much longer till Steve slowed the pace, tugging you up a small incline with a grin. Roots and rocks gnarled the trail, giving away to thicker bushes that required an effort to push through spindly branches. After some more murmurs of encouragement and whispers of "you're gonna love this" from Steve--he acted like you didn't have a pile of pebbles wedged in your shoes--the greenery finally broke away into a small clearing.

Your boyfriend was practically skipping ahead as you approached it curiously, uncertain of the overall idea until the view hit.

Despite Hawkins' thick swaths of pine trees, this small hill stood bare beneath hundreds of stars. Not a singular cloud was in sight, leaving the ebony sky bare to display its twinkling wonders. Somewhere far out, a slip of moon shone down on the canopies and meadows of Indiana.

Steve began unrolling the mystery bundle previously tucked under his arm, patting the thick fabric of a blanket with a wide smile. He watched you intently, refusing to let any reaction go unnoticed.

All you could do was gape, surprise and delight swirling in your chest to create a heady wave of emotion. It was spectacular.

"Figured if we can't go to town without some cop seeing us and ratting us out to Hop, this was the next best thing." he crouched, smoothing down the blanket so it lay flat against soft grass. When silence followed, he sprung back up, brows furrowed as the first flash of uncertainty crossed his features.

"Unless you don't want to be out here. I can take you somewhere else--"

"Steve."

"You don't have to lie. We can go right now--"

"Gosh, you're hopeless." Laughter finally shut him down, his shoulders sagging at the evident awe in your voice. You stepped forward, still stuck staring at the glitter above, although your hands were drawn towards him. Fingers pressed into the sleeves of his coat as you smiled honestly, earning a sheepish dip of his head in exchange.

"So you like it?"

"I'd camp out here forever."

"Ha," Steve's hands moved to rest on your waist. Their weight was familiar and warm, only adding to the rush you were feeling. "Knew you'd love it."

His lips were on yours before you could blink. Much like earlier, it was a delicate touch, something sugary and light. Yet the giddiness of the moment sparked heat in both of your stomachs. You could feel it in the way his grip tightened slightly, in the way he tilted his head and in the way he sighed against your mouth. An unspoken tightness constricted the air like a bone about to snap.

Not much else was said as the moment dissipated into thick silence. Steve kept that tiny, easy smile as you moved to sit, snuggling close to his side on the blanket despite the nerves swirling in your chest.

"I should've brought something to drink. Or smoke. This is a great smoking spot, you know."

"Oh yeah?"

Steve went on to point out the spot's isolation, a proud lit to his voice as he noted how the horizon was free from any radio towers or buildings thanks to its positioning south. His cockiness covered a deeper appreciation that you happened to notice; Steve loved this tiny haven. It was an escape from his parents, friends, and expectations.

You snuggled closer after laying flat and relaxed as he droned on. Eventually you added your own observations, pointing a finger up to the belt of stars to draw out constellations. Steve's eyes tracked your movements, trying his best to picture spoons and queens and whatever other images you tried to describe. The chilly breeze had nothing on the warmth of your body beside his, and even if he could only see clusters of dots rather than heroic tragedies, the sound of your voice was enough to make everything cozy.

"Didn't take you for a forest explorer, Harrington." Steve's jacket muffled your words after a prolonged silence, cheek pressed sleepily against his shoulder.

He hummed. "Picked it up from you. You dragged me into the woods every day when we were kids. Force of habit."

Memories played behind your closing eyelids at his words: the ringing of bike bells, wet hair spraying droplets from Lovers Lake, Steve's sunburnt skin fried with freckles that you counted lazily in secluded meadows...

"You're not falling asleep on me, are you?" Steve's low voice brushed your ear as he shifted onto his side. His lips met your face next, softly nuzzling at your jaw in a way that made your stomach flip. Heat pooled in your lower abdomen.

"No." The fight in your voice was underscored by breathiness.

"Uh-huh," gently his palm pressed against your waist. Steve's body hovered over you slightly, felt rather than seen as you kept your eyes closed.

"Did you really sneak all the way out here just to nap in the woods?" Another kiss against your cheek. He grinned knowingly at your act and stretched to kiss at your shut eyes, lips pressing against lids.

"Maybe."

"Maybe?" Steve's echoed teasing quieted as he attacked your face with a soft mouth. His hand slid higher over your jacket, cupping your ribs to yank you farther under him. Legs slotted together as you laughed, wriggling weakly to escape his taunting.

"Let's get you back to Hopper, then. If you're--" parted lips fell on your neck, then ghosted over your collarbone. "--so tired."

"Ditz." you hissed, affection rather than venom lacing your tone. One hand reached to encircle the arm propping him up while the other slid to the back of his neck, fingers tugging loosely at his overgrown swirls of hair. You'd given up your playful struggles; there was no where else you'd rather be.

Steve pulled back momentarily, looking down at you with a softening grin. A shift from mischievous to affectionate passed over his dark eyes, mixed with something raw. You physically felt the mood deepen.

He was down on you again, except this time his lips found home against yours. A breath escaped both of you at the same time, air rushing between mouths as they pressed together.

You ran your fingers deeper through his thick hair and along his scalp, suddenly needing something to grip onto. Your clutch only drove him to kiss harder, teeth clashing. The hand on your body tightened, his fingers pushing past your jacket to feel against your shirt instead.

Steve's tongue flicked out with more urgency than earlier. Hunger and adrenaline parted your lips automatically, eliciting a tiny moan from your throat as tongues slid together. He tasted sweet, like mint.

This was nothing like the rushed make outs at school. There was no stumbling aggression or nips or laughter. No threat of teachers or friends rounding the corner to scold and groan. Pure isolation around you left endless opportunities, and Steve seemed to sense that.

"God, you're so pretty," he breathed against you, resting momentarily after the aching kiss before moving downwards. His mouth latched onto your neck, sucking at the soft skin. "So good..."

The way he kissed and moved and touched was reverential. He was hooked on your flavor, unafraid to swipe his tongue along your throat as you fisted tighter on his hair. Your head spun and it took all of your strength not to whine like a baby.

As Steve kissed his way towards your chest, his hand wandered further, cautiously sliding beneath your top to explore hidden skin. At the same time his hips dipped down, lightly pressing the hardness forming beneath his jeans against your thigh.

Your breath left your lungs, the bubble around you two suddenly becoming too hot. You felt stifled, unprepared for how fast Steve's lips moved and the way he lowered closer to you. Uncertainty reared its ugly head, sinking your heart like lead and flushing your face with embarrassment.

Steve felt your stiffness immediately and stilled before you could whisper his name to stop. He listened to your breath hitch as he pulled away, letting the cool breeze flow between your bodies, and looked down with furrowed brows. Worry filled those puppy dog eyes.

"What? What's wrong?" Steve's gentle tone only made the lump in your throat sharpen, and you shyly averted your gaze. The urge to curl up into a ball and simply die was overwhelming.

How could you explain your insecurities without sounding pathetic? How could your hesitation make sense when you were just shoving your tongue down his throat?

"Baby," the nickname escaped Steve's mouth naturally as he shifted next to you on the blanket. He placed a concerned hand on your shoulder before lifting it to brush knuckles against your cheek, studying your overly-warm skin and distant eyes. "Talk to me."

"I'm--it's--" your tongue felt heavy as you fumbled on, sitting and propping yourself up like everything was fine. It wasn't.

"Shit, it's stupid. I don't know," nervous laughter wasn't enough to ease his frown. He moved again, insistent on facing you with his back to the horizon. Anxiety gnawed at his stomach; the last thing he wanted was to hurt you in any way.

"It's not stupid. I wanna hear."

"Steve, it's really nothing. I just got...I don't--"

"Hey. I'm sorry if I pushed too much--"

"No." the firmness in your tone surprised you. "No, you're fine. I mean, better than fine. That whole thing was...really good. Just...I guess I got spooked. You're so confident and it's scary." A quiet chuckle slipped through the nerves. "...I really don't wan't to disappoint."

Steve listened attentively, plush lips parting at your admittance. He lowered his brows, taken aback, before leaning forward again.

"You? Disappoint? No way," he whispered into the darkness with unwavering seriousness. His fingers lifted to adjust a stray piece of hair that drifted across your face, tucking it back behind your ear.

"There's no way you could ever let me down. Do you realize how much I've wanted this? Wanted you? Not just to make out or--or have sex with."

Steve smiled gently, tilting his head and causing a stray curl to flop over his forehead. "I didn't bring you out here to just hookup. I mean...the thought crosses my mind...but I'm happy sitting here. Hearing your nerdy constellation facts. Getting actively hunted by Hop."

You laugh. It's easier to breathe now, the tension constricting your chest easing away as the sweat dotting your neck cools under the breeze. Your hand slides against the soft weave of blanket, reaching his so that your fingertips brush together.

"You're already amazing. When I'm with you I don't think of anything else. My mind, like, poofs and you're the only thing there."

Something in the way he gazes at you, lovingly and soft and honest, erases the dread that lingered within the entire evening.

"I want you too," you murmur after a moment, wetting your lips. The confession makes your heart thud, but you feel stronger now. A little more sure.

Steve blinks and holds your stare. Somewhere in the woods, an owl calls. You swear you can hear a splash from the quarry far away.

"You could slap me right now and leave me alone in the dark to get eaten by bears, and I'd still die smiling like an idiot."

"What is wrong with you?" You laugh. "Don't tempt me. Maybe I will."

Your boyfriend chuckles and reaches up to caress your face. Before he can argue or pout, you lean forward, pressing a sweet kiss to his mouth that conveys the relief you feel as well as the lingering heat that freely thrums in your body. He carefully presses back, still delicate in hopes of making sure you're really okay.

"We have all night for this date," Steve whispers and shrugs, taking your hand fully in his and letting his forehead rest against yours. You close your eyes as his scent envelops you, sinking into his warmth revitalized. "We can take our time."

thank you for reading <3

Author's Note: holy late omgg, this is seriously 2 months overdue :,) life got super busy but now that it's summer I forced myself to finish this!! its much longer than I initially wanted it to be and I don't really like it but I'm posting it anywayyyy. this is my very first "x reader" fanfic ever, and I also think its my first time writing in 2nd person so bare with me if its really bad (or wordy!!) :,,,) hopefully you enjoy and I might write a part 2 to get deeper into romance and all that fun stuff! requests are open too so pls hit up my inbox!!

Prom night was never supposed to be like this. 

You found yourself standing alone outside, bathed in yellow by a flickering light overhead. Wind brushed over your arms, the spring air trying and failing to comfort you amidst tears rapidly falling. The scent of fruit punch stubbornly wafted from the ruffles of your dress, sticky and stained from an accidental crash of bodies. The napkins you’d desperately scrubbed against the satin were useless, and dark blotches rained down the front, unable to be hidden despite the dark blue you wore.

Everything had gone to shit barely 2 hours in, completely ruining your chance at having a perfect senior Prom. Yet the worst part wasn’t the accident that ruined your dress; it had occurred after spotting your date--Evan Dukes, a bragging blonde who loved to wear his letterman despite 40+ hours of weighing down the bench--snuggling close to some glittery girl on the dance floor. The bastard didn’t even try to look guilty; he simply rolled his eyes and hugged the sneering brunette closer with a dismissive scoff. As if you were the problem. Evan didn’t care that your eyes pricked with tears or that your lips twisted into a wobbly frown. He didn’t notice your curled fists, the hurt burning through your body as you fought the urge to swing at their stupidly smug faces. You were a temporary, expendable date, and clearly not his final plans for the night.

And when you turned to leave, to storm away and find a friend or retreat somewhere to cry alone, someone ran right into you. Whoever was holding their drink stumbled, chests bumping, and sloshed the liquid across the two of you. It was cold, but it did nothing to cool the swamp of embarrassed heat flooding through you. A swell of laughter came from Evan and his new dance partner as they watched the clumsy ordeal, their hyena-like cackles following you all the way to the bathroom. A film of tears blurred your vision once you finally realized the splotches of juice weren’t going to be erased by stacks of itchy, thin paper towels, so you fled once again, exiting through the back door and hidden by shadows.

The outer night, at least, was quiet. Peaceful. Calm. A contrast to the thrumming, noisy party raging inside the gym. Moths danced near a fluorescent bulb above, somehow finding better luck with their partners. You tried to ignore the scrape of brick on your skin as you leaned against the wall, too humiliated to keep running. You needed air. You needed to process everything. You needed a fucking hammer to swing at Evan’s head.

 Why did the betrayal cut so deep? He wasn’t a prize by any means. His hands had squeezed yours too tight, fingers rough and sweaty. He’d barely even looked at you on the ride over. His ugly personality intertwined with his looks: thinning, pale hair, rodent eyes, chapped lips and abrasive skin. Yet pain settled deep in your chest, persistent alongside the tears dripping down your cheeks. Embarrassment turned your skin hot. This wasn’t heartbreak or jealousy; it was disappointment, anger. Because when Evan had turned to you during math, all grins and kind words, you’d actually believed him. You’d allowed yourself excitement, internally glowing at the prospect of having a date, of dancing with someone, of finally feeling noticed. 

God, you knew agreeing to go with him had felt a little too desperate. Getting dumped by the D1 bench-rider was just the cherry on top.

A sob wracked you again, loud enough to make you cringe but too much to stifle. Hands pressed against your cheeks to desperately clean away the smudges of mascara, though you figured it was useless as you stared across the spread of grass and concrete. Prom was as good as over. A long night of crying into your pillow awaited.

The creak of metal shot adrenaline through you, your head turning towards the opening exit with alarm. Did Evan follow you? Someone equally as bitchy?

For a moment, you couldn’t register who was standing there. Pale blue suit, black tie, perfectly styled hair…like, perfect. His eyes caught your attention next, soft and brown and filled with such genuine worry it made you feel concerned in return. When they met yours, the recognition that followed sparked confusion. Surely, Steve Harrington--King Steve--wasn’t actually looking at you?

Truth be told, this was the first time you’d seen him in ages. His previous reign over Hawkins High crumbled early this year, dethroned by Billy Hargrove in a way that was almost sad. Hardly he was seen with Tommy or Carol, his old gang, and never once with a sparkling new girl. The absence was jarring at first (maybe you kinda liked seeing him pass you in the halls) but it eventually faded from your mind. Friendship had never been on the table between you two. Steve was cool, effortless…and you were you.

So it made zero sense when he stepped forward, wincing before schooling it into a sympathetic smile. His gaze traveled down your ruined attire, pity and concern causing your skin to flush. You suddenly felt trapped under a microscope of his stare. The bulb above sharpened into a spotlight, winking through the darkness and symphony of night bugs.

“Hey…you alright?” Steve’s voice, careful like he was approaching a spooked animal, jolted your heart. Humiliation, uncertainty, and shame sent you a step back, face turning in an effort to hide messy makeup. Words wouldn’t leave lips; you couldn’t afford to cry in front of Steve. That would make things impossibly worse.

“I…uh…I saw you leave,” his voice filled the silence, quiet and awkward. Fidgety hands patted his pockets as if he were unsure how to stand. “Not--not that I was watching you. Not in a weird way. I--” a laugh followed, wobbly and clipped. This nervous mess wasn’t the smooth, crowned "King Steve" Hawkins once knew.

When your head turned back to him slightly, brows furrowed and unsure where he was going with this, his stiffness melted away to something gentle. He swallowed, digging into his breast-pocket to pull out a sky-blue handkerchief. At your bewildered pause he inched forward, persistent even as you flinched in return. Eventually he drew close enough to study your wet lashes and shiny eyes, head tilting in a friendly, “I insist” gesture. The square of cloth sat between the two of you like an olive branch.

Someone spiked the punch, the thought spun in your head. I’m dreaming or something. I have to be.

But instead of gawking any longer, running off, or even poking him to make sure he was real, you simply took his offering. The fabric dampened quickly against sticky cheeks, and you sniffed alongside small dabs. It couldn’t wipe away all of the embarrassment from tonight, but it sure as hell felt nice to clean up a bit.

“Dukes’s a jerk,” Steve murmured, continuing to watch with soft yet intense eyes. “It’s how he makes up for his shitty lack of skills.”

Blush scorched your face. Of course he’d seen more than your escape. He’d probably seen it all.

“I know,” you mumbled in response. The handkerchief crinkled in your tightening grip.

“Then why’d you go with him?” Steve leaned one shoulder on the brick wall, crossing his arms with far more curiosity than expected. Didn’t he have a hot girlfriend to go back to? More alcohol to sneak and drink? Friends, like Duke, to dance with?

All you managed was a shrug, your own arms folding across a stained torso. His cloth remained crumpled in a ball against your palm. 

Instantly, he felt your tension. He understood how weird this might feel--he wasn’t doing too good of a job acting casual. Yet instead of backing away and deeming this useless, he cleared his throat, strangely invested. 

“I mean, you could be here with anyone..guys ten times better than him. Why’d you even give him a chance?”

“Why do you care?” your grumbled words were harsher than intended, but exhaustion and lingering hurt caused defenses to spike. You weren’t sure what the ex-King Steve was capable of. “You don’t even know me.”

“Psh,” Steve was undeterred by the sharp response. “Sure I do. Eighth period English, last year?”

That made you pause and blink. The sight of his tiny, playful grin uncontrollably eased something tight in your chest. Maybe he did have a brain under all that hair.

“7th period.”

“Right. Yeah. Same thing,” he nodded along with slight exaggeration, leaning in a little further. He smelled warm and fancy, like something spied and akin to cleanliness and laundry detergent. The way it made your mouth water was completely stupid.

“You helped with that project,” stubbornness or some ulterior motive drove him on, casually speaking like you were covered in a sticky punch and mussed from crying. “The one about that one book--God, I don’t remember. Something about parties and a girl--”

“The Great Gatsby.” you couldn’t help but chime in, eyes still focused on the rugged grass below. His words sparked memories: partnered with “The Hair”, writing most of the responses yourself, exasperatedly coaching him through sections of the novel…and trying not to stare too long at some moles on his neck. The thought made you want to curl up and die, and brought back the question: what the hell was even going on?

“Exactly.” Steve’s smile grew further as conversation flowed and tears dried. “Y/N.”

Your name on his tongue finally pulled your gaze upwards, instantly locking into a stare that stole your breath. Were his lips always this plump? Did he always look this affectionate? Why--?

“See. I know you,” he leaned back fully against the wall, breaking contact to gaze at the sea of cars. With his arms still folded, your shoulders brushed. “I know that someone who carried me, a complete deadweight, to an A is way too good for Dukes.”

You couldn’t help but scoff, your eyes dropping in return. “Maybe, yeah.” The fabric of his loaned cloth uncurled in your palm, the soft edges rubbing against fingertips while he looked down at you again.

“So…what…did he happen to smell good the day he asked you out? Did he pay you? I bet he paid you--”

“No, no,” laughter, somehow, bubbled from your lips as Steve rambled on, amusement managing to squash your lingering self-pity. Still shy but more at ease now, you focused your eyes on the sky-blue material in your hands. It matched his suit perfectly. “I…Jesus, I don’t know. Figured it might be good to actually go with someone. I know that sounds dumb. And pathetic. And I know that Evan is the worst--”

“Hey,” It was Steve’s turn to cut you off. Rocks scraped underfoot as he stepped a little closer, tilting his head to catch your eye. Sympathy softened his expression. “It's not dumb. I mean, Dukes was definitely the worst option to choose but I get it. I do.” He continued even as you glanced up sharply, surprised by his words.

“You get it? C’mon. You're Steve Harrington. You have, like, a million options. Any girl here would jump off a goddamn cliff to get the chance to dance with you.”

“Any girl?”

The suggestion in his question seemed to jolt the both of you. Your brows raised as Steve paused, a little surprised he let it slip out but unwilling to back out now. “Dance with me, Y/N. Come back inside.” If the rough quietness of his voice didn’t have you floored, it was the tiny, raw smile he wore. Something in your gut told you he meant it; one strand of hair on his head likely carried more honesty than Evan’s entire body.

Disbelief kept you frozen, so Steve held out a hand, smiling a little wider at your stiffness. “I promise I won’t ditch you. I’ll even act friendly with you.”

His jabs towards Evan and his shitty behavior eventually won you over, your bones feeling like jelly as his hand finally closed around yours. Steve’s skin was warm and calloused, and his grip was careful (like you were something delicate) as he guided you back into the building, constantly throwing glances your way.

There’s no way this is happening, the words spiraled endlessly in your head. The punch had to have been spiked. Either he’s drunk off his ass, or I am and this is all a hallucination.

Yet his cologne, spiced and warm, the smooth feel of suit, his quiet murmurs of apology to the crowd as you pushed through, and the undeniable touch of his heavy palm against yours were all very, very real. Real enough to make you violently flustered and nauseous all at once.

Steve stopped once the center of the gym had been reached, his cheeks already flushed from the heated room and your proximity. He grinned down at you, practically glowing in pale blue. Your heart beat a little faster once you realized your navy dress matched him in a way--the absurd thought of “fate” flashed through your mind.

Before you could bolt from this twisted, overwhelming dream and hide away again, you felt fingers press into your waist. His hands cupped you comfortably, still achingly gentle as you were drawn closer. The oxygen rushed from your lungs and filled the tiny bubble growing between you two, his own lips parting nervously. From this angle he looked younger, a little less like “King Steve” and more boyish, more attractive. 

“Is this okay?” Steve cleared his throat after the silent moment, his hands curling inward and brushing your spine in a way that made you shiver. With a swallow, you wet your dry throat, trying to get a grip and stop your own gawking, blushing mess.

“Yeah.” The softness of your voice was new and a little embarrassing, and you found yourself smiling in an effort to brush it off. His eyes followed the slope of your arms as they lifted, resting comfortably on his shoulders once the slow dance began. The song was sweet and rhythmic, a favorite of yours that both eased you and spurred on desperate butterflies in your stomach as Steve caught your gaze again. 

“I’m still confused,” you admitted honestly after a beat, trying not to stare too hard at the twin moles dark on his cheek. You liked the way they shifted with his smiles a little too much. “Why are you with me? Don’t you have a date or something?”

Steve shrugged, continuing to hold you close. He noticed your hesitant steps from time to time, taking a moment to guide you along with a quick glance at your heels, watching to be sure you wouldn’t stumble. “Didn’t have a date this year. A couple of my friends dragged me along…never found anyone interesting to really connect with.”

You picked up on the heavy sadness in his tone instantly. You practically felt it. Maybe, somehow, this fallen, high school superstar was just as lonely as you were.

Sparkling light from the disco ball above casted flashes of silver across Steve’s skin, highlighting a few hairs that stubbornly broke through whatever million-dollar gel he used to style with. The heaviness in his eyes faded as he reciprocated your sympathetic, pitiful smile, shaking his head with a small laugh. “Jesus. Now I know how you felt when I found you.”

Your grin sharpened knowingly. “What?”

“You’re giving me that look,” He insisted, his fingers squeezing your hips a little tighter to emphasize. “Like I’m some sad puppy dog or something.”

“You’re not far from it,” a laugh escaped you despite your best efforts. “That’s not a bad thing. We’re in the same boat. Except you didn’t get horrendously dumped and then also dumped with punch.”

Steve laughed in return, his eyes flicking down the front of your dress. Something in your body buzzed at the sight.

“You can hardly see the stains,” his low voice carried insistence as he carefully guided you away from a sappy couple mid-makeout, though the both of you were hardly aware of your surroundings anymore. Something warm and comfortable settled in the air, blurring the world around you into smudges of color while the romantic song crooned on.

“You still look beautiful," Steve’s playful tone dipped into seriousness, his dark lashes framing those deep brown eyes that you’d tried to ignore for years. His words sparked a wildfire through your veins, and all you could do was smile and duck your head.

After all the stress, disappointment, anger, and shock you’d been through in a singular night, you couldn’t believe where you stood now: wrapped in Steve Harrington’s arms, laughing and smiling and feeling totally comfortable in his presence. The sadness and ache that had clung to you for months dissolved with each step and turn. Everything wove into one vivid, happy moment, and the way Steve continued to grin as the song wound down told you he’d be around to stay. As a date? A friend? Maybe more in the future? All you felt was excitement at the idea of finding out.

tysm for reading !! <3