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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
summary: after months of silence, a late-night breakdown leaves you stranded with the one person you tried hardest to forget. steve is the last person you want to see, but when everything finally falls apart, he may be the only one who knows how to hold you through it
wc: 13.9k :)
warnings: 18+ pwp, oral (f receiving), edging, praise, overstimulation, p in v sex, steve harrington talking you through it, post-sex crying; severe angst, PTSD, survivor’s guilt, panic attacks, trauma-induced flashbacks, reckless driving, references to death, isolation, depression, poor self-care, crying—so much crying—MAJOR hurt/comfort, steve believing he failed everyone
You know that driving is a bad idea. You know it before you even leave the house. You know it as you pull the front door shut behind you, as you cross the stretch of drive without even bothering to lock it. You know it as you fit the key in the ignition with fingers that feel numb, when the engine stutters to life and the dashboard lights up, emphasising your shaking wrists.
There are nights when movement is the only thing that keeps you together. If you stay in the same place after an episode, the walls begin to lean inward. The silence becomes cavernous, with every sound the house makes becoming abnormal. The pipes in the walls or the rain on the roof, what were once ordinary noises, now made you want to scream.
You get into your car, slamming the door behind you a little too quickly. In the rearview mirror, you watch your home begin to fade. Your home. The one you spent months saving for, elated when you finally had the deposit, then the keys—late shifts and turned-down dinners transformed into freedom. It felt safe in the beginning. A front door you could lock and windows you could curtain. But three years ago, it all came crashing down.
It barely felt like home after everything that happened inside it, not after nights spent washing away blood in the kitchen sink, watching the water turn pink and then clear. Any sense of security vanished after you heard chimes in the hallway, learning just how thin the distance between one world and another could be.
Your hands are damp against the steering wheel, squeaking against the leather as you tighten them, knuckles paling. The road ahead is almost empty, a narrow strip of grey unspooling beneath headlights, bordered on either side by trees that seem to crowd closer whenever you look away.
You drag in a breath through your nose, letting it out as it catches against your chest.
Fuck.
You try again, forcing the air down until your lungs ache with it. Your stomach continues to churn, a relentless turning that makes you feel hollow and sick.
It never really stops anymore, but you tell yourself the driving helps. Not enough, but more than other things might. The road allows you to focus on something simple. It forces you to steady your hands and keep your feet in place as you press the pedals. Anything to just keep moving forward.
The others had moved forward, each in their own way. Nancy and Jonathan went first. Robin followed. Then the kids, one after the other, though none of them were really kids by then. Dustin. Will. Even Hopper and Joyce, who had once seemed as much a part of Hawkins as the cracked roads and the water tower. You understood their choices, you'd be stupid not to, but it didn't make it hurt any less.
Then there was Eddie. Sometimes, beneath all the hurt, you found yourself jealous of him. At least he would never have to live with the pain of his absence every day.
Max and Lucas are still close enough to visit, but they have each other. Somehow, against all reason, they managed to take the wreckage and build something from it. They had been broken open and come through holding tighter. Perhaps not stronger, but certainly less alone than you were.
You turn the radio up a notch. The song distorts through the old speakers, the bass rattling as it smothers the edge of a memory before it can properly form.
You cannot let yourself think about any of it tonight. Not when every road leads back to the same place, and every place still carries some trace of him.
The road widens as you turn onto the highway, tyres drifting over the change in tarmac, and Hawkins begins to fade until there is nothing left of it but a low orange haze against the sky.
You should feel better at the distance. Out here, there are no triggers for you to dwell on. Only open land, black beneath the night, the fields spreading on either side of you until they seem to have no end at all.
The grip you have on the wheel eases slightly as the song on the radio reaches its chorus, loud enough to fill the car, and you almost manage to disappear into it. The rhythmic beating of some old Talking Heads song, uplifting as the keyboard goes faster and—
The music begins to break.
It is so slight at first that you wonder whether you imagined it. A faint crackle of Byrne's voice as a thread of interference scratches through the familiar melody. Your fingers tighten as the sound comes again.
The song wavers, dragged thin by static, before returning for half a breath. Then it vanishes entirely beneath a rush of white noise.
Cold passes through you.
No.
You risk a glance down at the green numbers that remain lit on the dash, dial exactly where it is supposed to be. Your hand leaves the wheel long enough to just strike one of the buttons, another station spitting the same static back at you.
You press another. And then another. All yielding the same nothing.
No, no, no.
Your fingertips slip against the dial as you turn it too quickly, sweeping through frequencies, but every station is gone.
You cannot do this in silence. Music was the one thing—it was what—it was the only thing—you had to—
You need to calm down.
It had been years. It had been years. But the thought has no weight. Years mean nothing. Years did not scrub the past clean. Years were not forever.
The static sharpens again as you try to keep the car steady. You take a glance over at the fields beyond the windscreen, only to discover that they are no longer fields.
They are grey and rotting beneath a sky that flickers red. Ash drifts through the air and vines writhe over the road, and somewhere beyond the reach of your headlights, something opens its mouth.
You blink as your eyes begin to fill.
Not now.
The road returns, barely, but your lungs refuse to follow. A shape moves at the edge of your vision. It is small and low to the ground, its boned body darting from the darkness beside the road, too fast for you to understand.
Not again.
Please, not again.
You swear you hear a screech, something wet with teeth. There is the smell of rot and blood so thick that it coats the back of your throat.
You can't do this again, not while you're all alone. There is nothing left in you that could survive it. Whatever part of you had kept moving felt insufficient, used up in tunnels and left in scraps in the forest.
The shape reaches the road as headlights flare in your rearview mirror. The car behind you appears all at once, too close and violently bright. White light floods the glass, swallowing your reflection, and for an instant you cannot see anything except the glare.
The static screams as you lurch forward, wrenching the wheel. Tyres shriek across the road. Your shoulder slams against the door as the car swerves, the beam of your headlights tearing across the field. The shape that leaps has legs that flash in front of the bonnet, forcing you to slam on the breaks.
Your car leaves the road with a violent jolt, gravel hammering the underside. Your seatbelt locks across your chest and throws you back, then forward, your hands losing the wheel as the car lurches into the lay-by. Something moves beyond the glass and you recoil on instict, pressing yourself against the seat.
A young deer scrambles up the bank, its legs thin. It pauses at the edge of the field, one white tail flicking through the darkness as it disappears between the hedges on the other side of the road.
It was a deer. It was only a deer.
It's gone now.
The radio clears with a soft snap as the song returns halfway through a verse, as though nothing has happened. All you can do is stare at the road.
Your hands are raised in front of you, shaking so badly you cannot make them close. You can't move them at all. Your arms begin to tremble next, then your shoulders, the fear moving through you, wave upon punishing wave.
You fucking idiot.
Frustrated air claws at your throat as you try to swallow. The car seems too small, the roof pressing lower and lower with every breath. Heat gathers beneath your back as your skin remains cold. Your stomach twists so sharply you think you might be sick.
Please let it be over.
You can't do it again.
The pressure builds behind your eyes until the road blurs. You squeeze them shut, but that is worse. The darkness fills at once with red lightning and snapping jaws, with hands slipping from yours, with his face streaked in blood as he tells you to run.
Your eyes fly open. A sound tears out of you.
It's not quite a sob. It's too strangled for that, caught between your clenched teeth, raw with the effort of having held it there for months. It hurts as it leaves you, folding forward over the wheel, one hand pressed hard against your mouth as though you might force the rest of it back inside.
How on earth did you let it get this bad?
How many nights will it take to just stop? The mornings when you cannot even look in the mirror, scared to see what might be facing you. How long have you been telling yourself that this is temporary, that tomorrow will surely be easier, that one day you will wake without needing to remind yourself you don't have to run anymore?
Your chest heaves as you struggle to undo the seatbelt, desperate for some kind of respite.
You do not know. You do not know when it will stop. You do not know if it ever will. You don't know if you can take it.
A car pulls in behind you, but you barely hear it over the blood rushing in your ears. There is only the vague wash of tyres, another engine idling somewhere beyond your own, but the sound does not mean anything. It belongs to the world outside, and you have slipped too far from it to care. A door opens and footsteps move somewhere in the distance. You keep your forehead pressed against the steering wheel.
Perhaps you should be afraid. A woman alone on an empty road in the middle of the night, too shaken to even lift her head. There was a time when the thought would have sent your hand beneath the seat, fingers searching for the knife you still keep there. There was a time when you knew how to be afraid usefully, but it was pointless now.
The stranger could take whatever they wanted, for there was nothing left. All survival instincts annihilated under your breathing and the tears slipping hot between your hand and your mouth.
You were pathetic.
The footsteps stop beside you as the shadow falls over the glass. There is a small tap on the window, but you do not have it in yourself to look up.
Please. Just leave.
Another tap follows, a little louder this time, though still not enough to startle you. Whoever it is says something, their voice blurred by the window and the thud of your pulse. You cannot make out the words.
The voice comes again. This time, it says your name. You force your head to rise.
No.
You recognise the figure on the other side of the glass.
Not again.
Five months. Five whole months have passed since you last saw him properly. Five months since you stood in the foyer of his house, one hand wrapped around his front door, a letter left on his hall table for him to discover when the sun would rise.
He looks almost exactly as you remember him. His hair is slightly longer than it had been, the brown falling loose at his forehead, disturbed by the wind. His jacket hangs over a faded polo shirt. One of his palms is against the roof of your car as he bends towards the window. His eyes find yours, and whatever he had expected to see disappears from his expression.
His face twists, his mouth parting. His gaze moves over you quickly, taking in the tears, your shaking hands, the terror on your face. It is the same expression you have seen many times. It is the one he wore when he was scared, when he wasn't sure how to fix it; to make it better.
“Hey—” You can barely hear him through the glass. He leans closer, trying to see you properly. “Hey, can you—”
His eyes drop towards the door lock. He is trying to keep his voice calm; you can see the effort of it in the tension of his jaw.
“Can—can you open the door?” he asks. “Can you do that for me?”
All you can do is stare at him numbly through the thin layer of glass separating you both. He is the last person you want to see.
You have spent months arranging your life around his absence. Avoiding the roads near his house, letting the telephone ring until it stopped. Never walking the main road when the sky was light.
You could not see him, for seeing him meant remembering. His clothes covered in blood that was not always his, or his body curled around yours while the world shook. His mouth against your temple in the dark, promising that tomorrow would come when neither of you knew it would.
Seeing him meant remembering the nights you had gone to him because sleep was impossible. The way he always opened the door before you could even attempt to knock twice. The way neither of you called it love because there was no room for love at the end of the world. Only urgency and warmth, the desperate relief of finding each other alive again.
You turn your face away. You can't' do this here. You can't have whatever conversation has been waiting between you while your car sits half-buried in gravel. You cannot let him see you like this.
“Shit.” The word reaches you faintly.
Steve pulls at the handle. It gives beneath his hand but catches against the lock, and the failure seems to frighten him more. He knocks again.
“I’m—” He glances behind him, towards the empty road, then back. “I’m gonna need you to open the door, okay?” His voice carries an attempt at steadiness. “Please—just open the door.”
It takes more effort than it should. Your fingers feel distant, clumsy as they move. Steve watches every inch through the glass, barely blinking.
You could still drive away, pull back onto the road, leave him standing in the dirt and preserve whatever small part of yourself he has not already seen. But your thumb follows his instructions as it presses down, the lock giving with a click.
Steve has the door open before you can reconsider, cold air enters the car. His hands catch the metal and guide it carefully outward, stopping it before it can swing back. He is immediately crouching beside you.
His eyes sweep over your face, your throat, your arms, down towards your legs, searching for some visible wound he can understand.
Steve has always known what to do with injuries. He knew which cuts needed stitches and which only looked worse than they were. How to distract you while he cleaned blood from your skin, and how to press his palm against a wound and keep his voice level even when his own hands were shaking.
Pain was easier when it could be located, and this leaves him helpless.
His hands hover near you. One lifts towards your shoulder, falters and drops. Those hands had once known every part of you without asking. The roughness of his palms, the precise pressure of every finger.
“What happened?” He asks, eyes still assessing. “Are—are you hurt?”
You shake your head, but it is too small a movement. He does not seem convinced.
“Did you hit something?” His eyes move across the windscreen, searching for cracks. “Are you bleeding?”
“No.” The word scrapes its way out of you.
"Then what—" His face tightens at the sound of your voice. “What are you doing out here?”
You look past him. The road stretches in your mirror, empty except for his poorly angled car, headlights still burning. He must have stopped quickly. One wheel sits partly on the road, and the driver’s door has been left open.
Steve, who lectures everyone else about road safety. Who once spent twenty minutes explaining to Dustin why hazard lights existed.
“I thought—” Your voice fails. "I thought I saw—”
The words snag. You turn towards him, body twisting sideways in the seat. You cannot finish. The grief comes suddenly, ripping through the last weak seam holding you together. You raise both hands as if you can cover it, pressing them over your mouth, over your eyes, but the sob breaks loose anyway.
Your body pitches forward and Steve catches you.
He has no choice. One moment he is crouched beside the car, and the next you are falling into him, your forehead striking his shoulder, your hands caught uselessly between you. You feel the shock move through him as he goes rigid. After weeks of silence, and this is how you touch him again.
He wastes no time as instinct overtakes him. One arm closes around your back, the other comes up behind your head, his hand settling carefully against your hair as he draws you into him. He lets you bury your face against his neck.
The sobs turn ugly there. They shake through your entire body, dragging breath and sound from places you thought had gone numb. You clutch at the front of his jacket because there is nothing else to hold. The fabric gathers in your fists. Beneath it, his chest rises too stiffly.
He is frightened. You can feel it in the hard beat of his heart.
“Hey,” he murmurs, the way he used to in the minutes after terror, when the danger had passed but neither of you believed it yet. “It’s all right, okay? You're alright.”
You shake your head against him. It is not. You want to tell him that. You want to tell him that nothing is all right. Nothing's alright, and you don't know how to fix it.
“It’s all right,” he says again as he tightens his arms. “I got you.” His hand moves slowly over your hair. “You’re alright. I got you, angel.”
Damn him.
It's surely a slip of the tongue, but it hurts all the same. It was something he used to call you in the dark, half-teasing at first, the name softened by sleep or pressed into your skin between kisses. It became something else as time went on. Something he said when he was scared, when your hands were unsteady, when he needed you to look at him and believe, or try to, that he could get you out of this.
You needed to leave before it could get any worse.
You force yourself upright, and Steve loosens his hold immediately, though his hands remain close as you draw away. You wipe at your face with the heel of your hand, not that it makes a difference. Your cheeks are still wet, your skin still raw beneath your fingers. You can feel him watching you, but you cannot make yourself meet his eyes.
“I’m sorry, I—” You swallow. “I’m sorry. I—I have to get home.”
You scrub at the tears beneath your eyes as if they are the only evidence that needs removing. Perhaps you can still close this door, start the car and fold this night away somewhere you will never have to examine it.
“Hey, no. It’s—uh—it's all right.” Steve's voice is careful again, each word laid down gently between you. “We’ll get you home.”
You nod without looking at him and reach for the seatbelt. Your fingers slide over the material, trying to clip it back into place.
“Whoa, whoa, hey—” His hand lifts. “What—what are you doing?”
“I’m sorry.” You turn towards the wheel, reaching for the keys. “I just saw a deer. That’s all—it was nothing. I’m—I'm sorry you had to see this,” you say. “I should get home.”
Steve stiffens. “There's no way I’m letting you drive like this.”
“Steve, I’m fine.” You grit out as you try to regain some semblance of composure. “I—I just need to get back.”
Just need to get out of here.
“You cannot seriously think I'm gonna let you get behind the wheel right now.”
Steve Harrington, still appointed caretaker of everyone left breathing. Still arriving after the disaster with an earnest crease between his brows.
You look at him. Gravel presses into the knees of his jeans as the wind moves through his hair, lifting it from his forehead, and for a second he looks so painfully familiar that the last few months collapse.
You wonder what he sees when he looks at you. He must see something.
“Please,” he says as you hold his gaze. “Let me help. I won’t be able to sleep unless I know you’re home safe.” His mouth twists faintly, not quite a smile. “I mean... it's not like I can call and check, anyway.”
He looks away when he says it. He has never been very good at cruelty, not since high school—or so you have been told. He looks down at the floor, jaw working as though he regrets saying even that much.
Shame rises beneath your skin, and you are too exhausted to fight it. The fear has hollowed you out, and the expression on his face takes what remains. You glance down at the keys hanging from the ignition. Steve follows your hand as it closes around them, switching off the engine and pulling them free.
He does not speak, stepping back just enough to give you some room, happy that you are not going to bolt. You turn in the seat and place one foot out on the gravel, but your legs feel unreliable beneath you. His hands are there before you can fall, one closing around your forearm. He steadies you as he has done before, drawing you upright without pulling you too close, retreating once he is sure you won't fall.
The night settles properly over you now, working its way through your thin clothes and catching the dampness that remains at the nape of your neck. You instinctively fold your arms around yourself as you begin to walk. You only make it a few paces before something warm drops over your shoulders, Steve's jacket settling around you, heavy with the heat of his body, stopping you in your tracks.
"Steve," you begin. “You don’t—”
“I know.” He adjusts the collar around your neck before you can shrug it off. Then your hand rises towards it in protest, his palm comes down gently on your shoulder, keeping it firmly in place. “Leave it,” he murmurs, leading you away from your car.
The material smells like him. Clean soap, the faint trace of cologne he never uses sparingly. Your fingers curl into the front of it before you can stop them.
He moves as you do, matching your steps with his own. His body stays between you and the road, steering you towards the passenger side of his car. He moves ahead to open it for you. One hand above your head so you do not strike it against the door frame and keeps the other near your elbow as you lower yourself into the seat.
He waits until both your feet are inside before drawing the door. He pauses with one hand still resting along the top of it, looking down at you through the open space.
There is so much in the unspoken space, the place both of you are too scared to touch. You don't speak, choosing to pull his jacket closer around yourself. He tries not to notice it as he closes the door softly, jogging to the opposite side of the car, one hand running through his hair as he slides in, glancing at you before continuing.
“All right?” He tries softly.
It is such a ridiculous question that the answer could take hours, but you know what he means for now. He is asking if you can breathe, if you are here with him, if he can start driving, if you are comfortable enough to let him do this.
You offer him a weak nod, which will have to be enough of an answer. His gaze lingers as though he does not fully believe you.
He waits while you adjust yourself in the seat, until your hands have stopped searching for somewhere to rest and settle instead inside the sleeves. Only then does he put the car into gear, checking the road twice before pulling away. The headlights sweep across your abandoned car as he spins his around, illuminating it briefly before it disappears behind you.
He drives carefully. Both hands remain fixed at ten and two, his eyes trained on the dark road. His shoulders are stiff beneath his shirt as you try not to stare. It takes force to draw your eyes away, opting to look at the fields that slide past the passenger window beyond the glass.
You can feel he wants to say something, he draws in breath too large, then decides not to use it. Twice, his mouth opens as if he has chosen where he might begin before he changes his mind.
You do nothing to help him, wanting this journey to pass in complete silence. For him to take you back to your house, watch you walk through the door and drive away believing he has done his duty. You can worry about how to pick up your car tomorrow. You just want to return to what you have both been doing for the past few months. Steve can go back to whatever life he has made without you, and you can place one more day between you and the past.
He glances at you. The movement is brief, but you catch it in the window’s reflection.
“So, uh," he begins. "What were you doing out here so late?”
His voice is too gentle and you feel irritation stir beneath your exhaustion. You do not want to be handled by him.
"I went for a drive.” The answer is partly true.
“No, I—” he shifts one hand against the wheel. “I got that. I meant what were you doing on the side of the road?”
“I saw a deer.”
“A deer?"
“Yes, Steve.” He waits and you can feel the next question sitting in the silence. You press your cheek against the cool glass, not letting him ask. “It came out of the field. I swerved. That’s all.”
Steve makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat.
You turn your head slightly. “What?”
“Nothing.”
It most certainly is not nothing. You study his profile. His brow is furrowed, the muscles in his jaw moving as he stares at the road. He has always been terrible at concealing what he feels. Steve may lie with his mouth when he thinks it will protect someone, but the rest of him refuses to participate.
“Steve, I’m fine,” you say before he can try. “Honestly. Stop worrying.”
“Yeah,” he answers. “No. All right. You're 'fine.'”
The false agreement is almost insulting.
“What is that supposed to mean?” You ask as you turn towards him.
He exhales through his nose. “That doesn’t explain why you were driving around in the middle of the night.”
You do not have the energy to answer all of his questions right now.
“What if I wanted to?”
“That’s not what I—”
“What if I just wanted to enjoy a drive at night?” You pull his jacket tighter around you, more armour now than comfort. “Is that illegal?”
“No?” His voice rises slightly before he reins it back in. “No, I’m just saying—”
“You’re always just saying.” You turn back towards the window, pulse beginning to climb again. “You don’t have to worry about what I’m doing, okay? The deer just scared me. I would have been fine in a few minutes.”
“Right.” He says plainly, not helping with the dull ache that was beginning to form between your temples. "Sure, you would be."
“You can stop doing that.” You tell him sharply.
“Doing what?”
“Repeating everything I say like I’m stupid.” You huff.
“I don’t think you’re stupid.”
“Then stop talking to me like you do.”
He laughs. “Believe me, that’s not what I’m doing.”
“Then what are you doing?”
Steve’s eyes remain on the road, but the careful restraint is slipping. You see it in the colour rising along his neck.
“I’m just trying to understand what happened.”
“I told you what happened.”
“I know what you told me.” You can see him losing his patience. You almost want him too. At least if you fight, it can end here. “If that’s what you say happened,” he continues, each word clipped now, “then that’s what we’ll go with.”
Your teeth grit together. “Are you calling me a liar?”
Steve looks back at the road. At first, you think he will retreat.
“Yeah,” he says as his grip tightens around the wheel. “Actually, yeah. I am.”
The bluntness of it empties the air from the car. You turn away with a scoff, pressing yourself deeper into the seat. “Whatever. Believe what you want.”
“I will.”
“Good.”
“You forget,” a small smile plays at his lips, though there is no pleasure in it. “I’ve spent enough time with you to know when you’re lying.”
How dare—
The statement drips with the presumed intimacy you have spent months trying to erase. Who was he to say what you feel now? How can he say that with such certainty?
“Well, you don’t know me as well as you think.”
Steve’s expression flickers. The hurt is there and gone so quickly that you might have missed it if you had not once made a study of his face.
“No,” he says quietly. “I guess I don’t.”
The anger drains from his voice, leaving something worse behind. You decide to stare ahead, allowing the country to give way to the edges of town, scattered houses that sit dark and sleeping as you get closer to home. The knowledge brings relief. Just a few more minutes until you can be out of his car, til you can leave him, shut the door and put the past back where it belongs.
You decide to steer this pointless conversation away from you, anything to get his attention elsewhere.
“What were you doing out so late, then, Harrington?” You make the surname sound accusing, as though he is the one who has been caught somewhere he should not be.
“I was visiting Henderson," he answers calmly.
“At college?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s doing okay?” You cannot help but ask. You have not seen the boy in far too long, even longer than Steve. You can only hope he is doing better than you are, whatever that might mean.
“He’s doing good.” Steve’s voice softens despite himself. “Annoying as ever. Thinks because he’s taken half a semester of engineering classes, he can explain my own car to me. I left late. Thought I’d make it back tonight.”
You nod. The town gathers around you, houses becoming more frequent, the orange wash of streetlamps replacing the emptiness of the fields. Steve turns onto a road you both know.
“That’s nice,” you say. “At least you weren’t following me or something.”
You intend it as a joke. Perhaps a poor one, but a joke nonetheless.
“Don’t worry,” he says, sadness creeping through his tone. “You made sure I couldn’t do that.”
Steve turns onto your familiar road. You recognise the shape of your house before it emerges fully from the darkness. The porch light is still burning. You left it that way when you fled, though you cannot remember deciding to. He pulls into the drive and the engine idles for a moment, filling the car with a low vibration. Steve switches it off, though you can tell it is reluctant. The silence becomes immediate, so you reach for the door handle.
“Hey—”
You pretend not to hear him. Your fingers close around the latch.
“Wait.”
The plea in his voice catches you, but press on. You push the door open as Steve turns in his seat.
“Can you just—”
“What do you want?” You ask, frustrated.
His expression falls at the harshness of your voice. He looks at you, the dim light from the dashboard catches the tiredness beneath his eyes.
“What do I want?” he repeats, shaking his head in disbelief. "I mean—are we seriously not even going to talk?"
“We've been talking.” You tell him plainly, ready to be done with it.
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
Your hand remains on the open door. "There is nothing to talk about, Steve."
There is no need to add words to the months of silence. No need to explain the final night you shared a bed. The morning after, when Steve reached for your hand beneath the covers and found nothing but empty sheets in your place.
"I have a few things I want to say," he quips, hurt.
“Then say it to someone else.” You shut him down. "I'm tired, I've had a long night. I just want to go to bed. I don't need you turning this into a thing. I mean—It’s not like we were in a relationship or anything.”
You know it is a low blow before the sentence is even finished. You know because Steve stops moving entirely, as though the words have knocked the air from his lungs. His lips part, but nothing comes out. He just stares at you, completely stunned.
His eyes search your face, looking for anything that might undo what you have just said. A crack in your expression or some kind of falter. Any sign that you did not mean it. That you will take it back before it has the chance to settle between you.
He should have just kept driving.
You immediately get out of the car, unable to stay any longer. His jacket is still on your shoulders, but you don't stop to remove it. You shove the door shut as you hurry toward the house.
Please. Just go home.
He doesn't grant you that mercy. You hear the open and slam of the door as you force yourself to walk faster. The keys you fish out of your pocket shake in your hands as you miss the lock, metal scraping against the plate.
Shit.
“Wait!”
You find the lock again. The key finally turns.
“Please, just wait—”
You shove the door open and step inside, one hand already reaching to pull it closed behind you. But he is faster, catching it before it can shut, fingers curling around the edge. The door stops inches from the frame.
He pushes it open just far enough as you stand on one side of the threshold. The porch light falls across his face, and you see the full extent of what you have done. The anger is still there, but beneath it is something so wounded that you have to fight the instinct to reach for him.
“You can't—” he tries, but the words break as they exit. “You can't, just—” He drags a hand over his face. “I know you don’t want to talk to me. I know that. You made it pretty clear. You left—and—and I tried to understand, but you gave me nothing. You gave me nothing.”
“Steve, I can’t—”
“No.” His head lifts sharply. “No—I can’t.” He pushes the door wider and steps across the threshold. “I can’t do this anymore,” he says, anger and humiliation pulling him apart. “I can’t keep sitting there trying to figure out what I did. Because I had to have done something, right? There has to be something. People don’t just—”
He stops, presses his lips together.
“We couldn’t have gone through that—though everything—and then you couldn’t have spent all those nights with me, and then just—” His breath catches. “I couldn’t have imagined all of it.”
You stare at him. There is no answer you can give that will not require an excavation. No explanation that does not ask you to kneel in the dirt and begin pulling up every ugly thing you buried there. You had been a coward. You know that now, perhaps knew it even then, standing with a letter trembling between your fingers.
But you had also been trying to survive.
You had believed distance could cauterise what tenderness kept reopening. You had believed that if you stopped waking beside him, stopped feeling his sleeping breath against the back of your neck, stopped watching the morning gather slowly over his face, then the past might loosen its grip on you. That there would be no blood beneath his fingernails in the half-light. No bruises blooming over his ribs. No seconds upon waking when his body beside yours felt dead before it moved.
“Maybe it wasn’t real for you,” Steve says as he looks down at the floor between you. “And I get that. I mean, we weren’t exactly friends before everything happened. We barely spoke until you and Eddie got involved—”
“Steve, stop it. Right now.”
You cannot hear Eddie’s name in this house. You cannot have him summoned into the hallway casually, not when you have spent years trying to keep him confined to the places where only you can touch. He remains in the photographs hidden at the back of your drawer, in the cemetery across town, in the darkness at night in which he is always almost within reach.
“I’m sorry,” He always says it like that, as though the apology has been waiting for years. "I’m sorry, and I know I should’ve done more.”
You close your eyes.
Please don't.
“I should’ve stayed with them. I should’ve known it wasn’t safe leaving just him and Dustin there. I told him not to be a hero, I told him, but I should’ve—” His voice roughens. “I should’ve made him come with us. I should’ve been there.”
You have heard this speech before. In fragments at first, when neither of you could sleep and the night made confession seem less dangerous. Then in full, one winter morning when you found him sitting on the kitchen counter with his back against the cabinets, staring at nothing.
He should have been faster. Smarter. He should have understood what your best friend intended. He should have been in two places at once. He should never have allowed anyone beyond the reach of his already battered hands.
“Steve, it isn’t because of Eddie.”
His face twists. “How can it not be?” The question comes out through his teeth. “How can it not be when you loved him? When he was your friend and I couldn’t help him? When Dustin came back alone?”
“There was nothing you could have done.”
“There’s always something.”
“No, there isn’t.” Your voice cracks with the effort of keeping it low. “Sometimes there is nothing. Sometimes something terrible happens and there is no decision you could have made that would turn it into something else.”
His eyes shine beneath the porch light. “You don’t believe that.”
“I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“But you do.” He takes another step into the hallway. “You have to.”
“I don’t!”
“I know you see him.”
The words stop you. He looks frightened by what he has said, but he has begun now and cannot seem to stop.
“Every time we were together,” he continues. “I—I know you see him. Every time you looked at me after. Every time I touched you and—and you went quiet. Every time you woke up and couldn't even look at me. I knew—” You shake your head, but the movement lacks conviction. “You hated that I was there... and he wasn't.”
You can feel all of the emotions you worked so hard to bury begin their ugly crawl. You didn't want to have this conversation here—you didn't want to have it anywhere—but it is too late to turn back now.
“I do. I do hate it,” you say, the admission hanging heavy. “I hate that he doesn’t get any of this. That he didn’t get to leave Hawkins. That he never got to become anything except the worst thing this town decided he was and the way he died trying to prove them wrong.” Steve’s face begins to fall, words he knew were true but tried so hard to ignore. “But that isn’t why I left you.”
“Then why?”
You look away.
The hallway appears painfully ordinary. A glass sits on the small table beside the telephone and there is dust on the skirting board. All these minute domestic failures seem obscene when measured against the question he is asking you.
“I can’t give you what you want,” you say.
“And what do you think I want?”
“I don’t know. Something better than this.”
He lets out a disbelieving breath.
He doesn't get it. How could he?
“I can barely function, Steve. I can hardly make it through a day without feeling like something is waiting for me to let my guard down. I don’t sleep. I can’t sit in silence. Half the time I don’t know whether what I’m seeing is real until it’s already over.” You wipe at your face, furious to discover more tears there. “I can’t be whatever you need me to be. I can’t even be what I need me to be.”
“And you think I can?” The laugh that leaves him is startlingly empty. “You think this was easy for me?”
You look at him. Because yes, some shameful part of you had believed it was easier for him.
Steve had always known how to continue. He counted heads. Checked doors. Drove everyone home. He learned who needed to be distracted and who needed to be left alone.
He had suffered. You had never doubted that. But suffering seemed to sit differently on him. It did not immobilise him as it did with you. He carried it as he carried everything else, awkwardly perhaps, with more determination than grace, but without ever setting it down where someone else might trip over it.
You had envied him for that.
“You seemed like you were coping,” you offer.
“Coping,” he repeats. He gives another laugh and shakes his head. “Yeah. That’s one way to put it.”
He releases the door at last. It remains open behind him, the night visible in the narrow space between wood and frame.
“I got up because people needed me to get up,” he says. “That’s all. Dustin needed rides. Robin needed somebody to call when she couldn’t sleep. Max had appointments. Lucas needed someone to tell him he was allowed to leave the hospital for an hour without the world ending.” His eyes fall briefly to the jacket around your shoulders. “I had people around me. I had things I could do for them. That's what got me out of bed.”
“I—” You try again, swallowing hard. Now it was your turn to be speechless.
Steve looks at you with an unbearably tender expression. He comes closer, and you do not retreat, though every instinct you have cultivated over the past five months demands it.
“When everyone left,” he says, “all I had was you.” The words land without accusation. “I needed—I needed to know you were okay. I needed to see you eat something. I needed to know you'd made it home. And it—it wasn't just when everything was bad. It wasn't just when you couldn't sleep.” His voice lowers. “You were... you were who I woke up with.”
Steve’s gaze moves over your face as though there are years written there and he is trying to read every one of them.
“You were there in the morning,” he continues. “After all of it. When the sun came up and nothing had happened for eight whole hours... you were still there. You made coffee in that awful machine my parents bought and—and complained that I never had any real food. You left your books all over my room. You stole my shirts and acted like you didn't. I just—I kept thinking that, maybe... we were going to be okay.”
He lifts one shoulder helplessly.
“I thought... if you could keep doing it, then maybe I could too, y'know? I thought I could get better because you were getting better. Or... or I thought you were.” His voice falters. “And if I woke up and you were on the other side of the bed, then maybe... maybe the world hadn’t ended after all.”
The tears come too quickly for you to hide them.
You think of Steve’s house after you left. The vast, immaculate rooms on the edge of town. The swimming pool shining beneath the moon. His parents’ bedroom kept clean for people who were never there to disturb it. The telephone ringing into empty space.
You imagine him finding the letter on the hall table.
You had placed it there because you could not bear to leave it beside him in bed, could not bear the thought of waking him or seeing his face alter as he read it. So you had dressed quietly in the dark, collected only what you could carry and abandoned everything else in his drawers.
You had believed you were leaving before you could become another weight he had to drag behind him.
“I—I didn’t know,” you say. It sounds useless now, a child’s defence. A hand held over a wound too deep to cover. “I didn’t know, Steve.”
He says nothing.
“I thought—I thought I was doing us both a favour. Every time I looked at you, I remembered. Every time I woke up beside you, I had to check... I had to check that you were still breathing.” Your voice breaks entirely. “I thought I was making it worse. I thought I was just making it worse for both of us.” You swallow, but it does nothing to stop the words from falling apart. “I thought... I thought all we were doing was keeping each other there. Keeping each other trapped—”
“And leaving helped?” Steve closes the remaining space between you. “Is it helping you? Is it gone now?”
He asks desperately, needing to know the answer. All you can do is look up at him and allow the tears to stream freely down your face, slipping along your jaw and gathering beneath your chin. You slowly shake your head, finally ready to admit something true tonight.
No. They are not gone.
The memories of everything have grown in the dark, lost all proportion. They come whenever they please. They slip beneath doors, climb through the radio, wait in the reflection of dark windows.
“No,” you breathe.
His face changes, frustration going first. Then the last of the pride that brought him through your doorway. What remains is the same aching concern he wore beside your car, stripped now of uncertainty.
He raises a hand slowly. You could move away; he gives you more than enough time to do it. His palm settles against your cheek. The contact is so familiar that your eyes close at once. His thumb moves beneath your eye, catching a tear before it can fall.
“I just want them to stop...” you say, the words barely making it out.
“I know.”
“I’m so tired.”
“I know, angel.”
His other hand comes to your face. He holds you as though you are something fragile and frightened, his fingers resting lightly behind your ears. You breathe the same narrow pocket of air. His nose brushes yours. You feel the tremor he tries to contain when your hands rise and close around his wrists, not wanting your touch to disappear again.
“I can’t fix it,” he whispers, the same apologetic tone creeping into his voice. “I know... I know I can’t. But I can make it quiet.” His eyes search yours. “Just for a little while—I can make it go away. Just for a little while.”
There is desperation in him now, but not carelessness. His body has drawn close to yours, every breath pressing him nearer, yet he waits. Even now, with the months of hurt between you and your face cradled in his hands, he is trying to be good.
“You don’t have to say yes,” he says quickly. “You don’t owe me anything. I just—” His voice falters. “I want to make it better.”
Of course he does.
Because that is what Steve Harrington has always done. He takes every terrible thing that cannot be repaired and offers his hands to it anyway.
You are tired. So fucking tired.
You can blame this on delirium, on the desperate wish to lose yourself in something, or someone, other than your own mind. Steve is safe. He has seen you at your worst, and he can give you this, if only for a moment, if only for tonight. You want him to make you forget, to keep the darkness at bay until the morning sun can do the rest.
You turn your face slightly and press your mouth to the centre of his palm and Steve stops breathing. The gesture is so small, but it seems to travel through him. His fingers curl carefully along your jaw. When he looks at you again, he appears almost afraid to hope.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs.
You shake your head.
“Say it.”
“Don’t stop.”
Steve kisses you.
His mouth touches yours with such softness. It is tentative, the kiss of someone returning to a place he no longer believes he is permitted to enter. His lips move once against yours, waiting for you to decide whether this is memory or choice.
You lean into him, and the sound he makes is completely ruined.
His hands slip from your face to the sides of your neck, holding you there as he kisses you again. This time you feel the ache inside it. You open your mouth beneath his, and he shudders.
He draws you closer with an arm around your waist, cautious only for it to disintegrate, before restraint begins to fail him. His hand spreads over your back, gathering the jacket and the clothes beneath it as though he cannot quite believe there is a body inside them as you clutch at his shirt.
The kiss deepens, grief turning slowly into hunger. It is not clean, for nothing between you has ever been. His mouth tastes faintly of coffee and something sweet, painfully familiar after so long. You remember kissing him in his kitchen while water boiled dry on the stove. In the back seat of his car, after the funeral none of you thought was fair. Against the wall of his bedroom because sleep had become impossible and wanting him was easier than being afraid and alone.
Steve’s hand moves into your hair, then your back, drawing you against him until there is no space left for memory to stand between you. He breaks away only when neither of you can breathe.
“Do you want—”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?” he asks against your mouth.
You answer by kissing him again, all composure leaving him as he becomes frantic. He backs you further into the hallway, kicking the door shut behind him without looking. The latch catches, sealing out the night.
His hands move over you with desperation, pulling his jacket from your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. You reach for him, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, finding the warm skin of his stomach. He folds around you at the touch.
“I’m sorry,” you begin to whisper.
Steve kisses the apology from your mouth before you can finish it. His forehead presses briefly against yours, his breathing uneven.
“Not tonight,” he murmurs. “You can tell me tomorrow, alright?”
You nod against him, his hand closing around your own.
He walks you backwards, deeper into the house, refusing to surrender an inch of space between your bodies. You follow without looking, guided by the familiar shape of him. You turn instinctively towards the living room, but he gently coaxes you back.
His head shakes. “Nuh-uh.”
You blink up at him. “What?”
“Not here.”
You glance past him towards the sofa, its cushions still bearing the impression of all the nights you have spent folded into one corner.
“I thought—”
“I know.” He whispers. “I don’t want you here.” His thumb moves, barely touching skin. You look up at him in confusion. “I want you upstairs,” he says. His eyes hold yours, nervous despite the certainty in his voice. “Where I had you first.”
Where he can take care of you properly.
You remember another night, years ago. You had sat on the edge of your bed while he cleaned a cut along your shoulder, both of you pretending not to notice how his hands trembled whenever they touched you. Later, when the lights went out and the house began to groan around you, he had climbed beneath the covers without being asked.
You nod, allowing him to turn you toward the stairs. He goes ahead, climbing backwards for the first few steps before straightening. His hand remains locked around yours, arm reaching behind. At the landing, he looks back, and you barely make it across the threshold of your bedroom before he turns and reaches for you.
The kiss lands against the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, your jaw. His hands move over your shoulders and down your arms, only to return immediately to your face. He kisses you again before you can breathe, his teeth catching gently at your lower lip. He touches you as though trying to memorise what he once believed he knew. The shape of your waist beneath his palms. The slope of your neck. The place beneath your ear that makes your breath catch. Every few seconds, his eyes open, checking that you remain in front of him.
He is frightened you will slip through his hands again.
“Steve—” you whisper.
“I know.”
He does not know what you were going to say. Neither do you.
“I missed you,” he says against your jaw. “I missed you.”
He presses his face into the side of your neck as though ashamed of it, arms closing around you as you curl your fingers into his hair. The room seems to sway around you. He catches your face between his hands before you can turn away, kissing you with more urgency. You stumble backwards together until the edge of the bed strikes behind your knees.
Only then does he seem to notice the room. The bed is unmade, sheets still twisted. Clothes lie across the floor with books stacked beside the mattress, a plate sits on the desk opposite, beside a cup ring darkening the wood.
“Sorry,” you begin as humiliation begins to rise. “I haven’t really—It’s a mess, I should’ve—”
“I don’t care," he says it without even looking around. “I’ll take care of it.”
He'll take care of you.
You catch at the front of his shirt, pulling him close before the grief can become speech, and he lets you. He lowers you carefully onto the bed, the mattress gives beneath your weight. He follows only far enough to remain above you, one knee pressed into the sheets, his arms braced on either side of your body.
His fingers find the hem of your shirt. He draws the fabric upwards slowly, giving you time to change your mind at every inch. When your arms rise, he guides them through, careful of your wrists, careful of your hair. The shirt falls somewhere beside the bed, but he does not watch it go. The rest soon follows as his knuckles skim your skin. He bends to press his mouth against the newly uncovered part of you.
His attention returns to you immediately.
He kisses down your body with the same patience he once used. Mouth warm against the slope of your collarbone, trailing to the soft give of your breast. He lingers there, tongue tracing a lazy circle around one nipple until it tightens, then the other, as if he has all the time in the world. Heat rises under every place he touches. You feel it climb in waves, skin flushing darker the lower he goes.
His hands slide along your ribs, over the dip of your waist, settling at your hips to hold you steady while his mouth continues its unhurried path. He knows every inch of you. The place just above your navel that makes your stomach jump and the sensitive skin along the crease of your thigh. He takes his time with all of it, drawing out the journey until the wait itself becomes its own kind of ache. The only trouble is that he is waiting too. You can feel the tension in the way he breathes against you, the faint tremor in the hands that keep you open for him.
When he finally settles between your legs, he does not rush. He lowers himself, close enough that the soft fan of his breath ghosts over your cunt. Goosebumps rise immediately, which his eyes follow with reverence, dark and intent as he leans in.
The first touch of his tongue is almost nothing—barely there, a slow drag that makes your hips twitch. He does it again, gentler still, as if he is relearning the shape of you by taste alone. Light, careful strokes that never quite give you enough pressure.
He wants you to feel every second of it. Wants the sensation to build so slowly that your thoughts have nowhere to go except here, to the wet heat of his mouth and the hold of his steady hands.
He is gentle the entire time, never greedy. He draws it out on purpose, getting lost in the slow work of you, in the way your breathing changes and your thighs begin to tremble around his shoulders. It is torturous in the sweetest way. Every time the pleasure starts to sharpen, he eases off, returning to those light, almost teasing licks that keep you right on the edge of needing more.
He brings you close once, tongue circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your back arch, pulling away the moment your thighs tighten. You make a broken sound, one he wants to hear again. He continues, even slower, until the heat pools and your mind starts to fuzz at the edges.
He's going to kill you softly.
This is his plan. Emptying your head on purpose, erasing every memory until there is nothing left but him.
When you reach down and twist your fingers into his hair, trying to pull him back against, he groans so happily it vibrates straight through you. The sound is pure pleasure. He hisses against your cunt when you tug harder, hips shifting restlessly against the sheets.
“Steve—” The name leaves you as a groan, every nerve lit.
“I know, baby—” His voice is low and unsteady. “I know—I got you.”
And you believe him.
He pulls you to the edge a third time, tongue working as he makes your vision blur, then eases off again just before you can fall. Frustration sparks and you want to kick out, to force him closer, but his hands hold you firmly in place—thumbs stroking the soft insides of your thighs, keeping you exactly where he wants you.
He knows what he is doing. He has always been good at this—at giving, at offering you exactly what you need, even when you can't ask for it yourself.
“Please, Steve—I can’t—”
“Yes you can.” He looks up at you, mouth wet, eyes soft. “Just a little longer for me, yeah? You can take a little more.”
He knows you can.
Your eyes meet his. The tears on your lashes are no longer from sadness. They are from the overwhelming pleasure, by someone who knows your body better than you do. He looks satisfied by the sight. He lowers his head again.
This time, there is purpose in it. Every flick of his tongue is aimed exactly where he knows you need it most. He works you in relentless strokes that build and build until the pleasure turns almost unbearable. You grip his hair harder, but the tug only spurs him on. A hungry groan vibrates against your clit and the sensation tips you over completely.
You come with a broken cry, thighs shaking around his head, body arching hard off the mattress. He stays with you through every pulse of it, gentling the pressure just enough to keep the pleasure rolling. He doesn't stop, leaving open-mouthed kisses against your core until the last aftershock fades and you are left boneless.
You need him. You need him immediately.
You are pawing at him the moment he begins to slide up your body, hands clumsy and desperate after the teasing of not just you, but himself. Every nerve still sparks. You catch the hem of his shirt and tug hard, needing the barrier gone, needing his skin against your own.
“Easy, angel—easy—” The soft coo lands against your temple as he helps you strip the fabric over his head. “You’ve got me, alright? I’m here.”
He shrugs the rest of the way free, then works open his jeans and underwear before crawling back over you, warm and solid.
“Steve—” The name leaves you broken. You are overwhelmed, eyes stinging again already. “I’m sorry. I never should have—”
“Shhh.” He settles his weight carefully, one hand slipping between your bodies to stroke through the slick heat of you. Your hips twitch helplessly into the touch. “I know. I told you—you can tell me tomorrow. Or the day after that. Whenever you want. I’m not going anywhere.”
The words almost undo you as tears press hot behind your eyes. He takes himself in hand then, the thick head of his cock dragging slowly through your folds, coating himself in how ready you already are. Your legs come up around his waist on instinct, heels pressing into the backs of his thighs, trying to pull him closer. He catches your shaking hands before they can dig too hard into his shoulders. One he pins gently beside your head, fingers interlacing with yours, while the other stays braced by your hip. Then he kisses you, bringing you back to the moment, back to him.
He pushes into you with aching care, and both of you hiss at the first thick stretch. The sound is almost pained. His forehead drops hard to your shoulder, breath coming in uneven pulls as he fights the tremor running through his arms. Everything is too much, all the months collapsing into this moment. He holds still, buried deep, shaking with the effort of not moving.
It is you who breaks first.
“Steve—please. I need you to move.”
He nods shakily against your skin and begins to rock into you. Soft as he always is. Every thrust gentle, eyes now locked on your face. He watches for every flicker of expression, every shift of breath, terrified of getting it wrong, of not being good enough, of watching you leave him again the moment this is over.
The fear sits right alongside the love in his gaze—raw, open, and almost unbearable to look at.
Steve has always been a talker. In bed it only gets worse. The words spill out of him like he cannot keep them inside any longer.
“Missed you,” he rambles, voice rough. “Fuck—I missed you, so much—”
His hips roll a little harder, a little deeper, and the new angle steals whatever reply you might have managed. You want to tell him you missed him too, that leaving was the worst mistake you ever made, that you should have asked, should have spoken, should have stayed. All of it dies on your tongue when his free hand slips between your bodies and finds your clit, stroking in tight circles timed with every gentle thrust.
“Never leaving you again, angel.” The words come out almost like a whine. “Can’t do it again. Won’t—” His rhythm falters for a second, then steadies. “Shit—can’t let you go. Gonna be here when you wake up—gonna be here all the time—”
He keeps talking, voice urgent against your cheek, against your mouth. The promises pour out of him, every one of them an act of service, every one of them the only way he knows how.
“Gonna make you better, alright? Gonna—gonna treat you good. Have you like this all the time. No thoughts. None of it. Just—fuck, just let me make it alright—please. I swear. I swear I’m gonna make it alright.”
Tears gather and spill. The pressure builds too fast, every nerve still raw from earlier. You feel the crest rising and so does he.
“Steve—I’m gonna—”
“I know, angel.” His voice cracks. “I can feel it. Give it to me. I can take it—give it to me, I got you—”
You break with a soft, wrecked cry, body tightening hard around him as the orgasm rolls through you in long, shuddering waves. Tears slip freely down your temples. Steve follows almost immediately, a broken sound punched out of him as he buries himself deep and comes, hips stuttering, forehead pressed to yours while the last of the pleasure drains out of both of you.
He remains above you, breath still mingling with your own, hands still interlocked. The room slowly begins to take form around you both, softer than before, distant with far less edges than it had when you first woke up.
You know you need to talk to him, to tell him that you heard everything, that it was not just the heat of the moment. That you want this too, whatever it may look like. You want to wake and find him breathing beside you, even if you still have to check. Leaving him was never proof that he wasn't enough, it only proved that you were too frightened to stay.
“Steve,” you manage. He lifts his head at once. His eyes search yours, still glassy and uncertain, as though he expects the name to become an apology or a goodbye.
“I—”
You don't know how to begin. You are tired, exhausted, every strained muscle and sleepless night weighing down on you. You want to be determined, to form a coherent sentence and give him something in return after everything you have taken, but his expression softens before you can attempt the words again.
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to tell you.” Your voice has gone thick. “I want—”
“I know, ” he brushes the damp hair from your temple, though something frightened still flickers behind his tenderness. “You can tell me tomorrow, you can tell me everything.”
You know what he is doing: preparing for you to stop, to put an end to all of this. He is nervous; you can see it in his eyes. You want to speak to him, to tell him that tomorrow is what you want—that you want every ordinary and difficult thing waiting beyond this bed.
“I’m not going anywhere, angel.” He lowers himself beside you and draws you carefully against his chest, pulling the covers over both of you. “Go to sleep. I got you.”
He doesn't want to take any chances. Not for tonight. Not when he has you like this.
You fight it for another few seconds, cheek resting over the steady beat of his heart. There is so much you owe him, so much that cannot remain unsaid. But his hand moves slowly along your back, the same path over and over, and for the first time in months the silence does not contain teeth.
Your last conscious thought is that he is warm. The next is not a thought at all, only warm arms tightening when your body finally goes loose against him, holding you the moment exhaustion takes you completely.
When morning does finally come, it comes carefully. It gathers along the edges of the curtains, light reaching the foot of the bed and climbing up, heating the bare skin of your ankle.
You wake without knowing you have fully woken, surrounded only by warmth and the softness of the mattress beneath you. Your eyes open slowly.
The ceiling comes gradually into focus, you blink at it, waiting for the usual violence of consciousness to take hold, but nothing comes. Your heart does not wake before the rest of you, already racing from something your mind has not yet remembered. There is no cry trapped behind your teeth, no sweat cooling beneath your clothes.
You are simply awake.
The realisation is so unfamiliar that you remain still, breathing slowly. Last night returns in pieces, but gently. Steve crouched beside your car, his jacket settling over your shoulders. His hands around your face, mouth against yours. The weight of him above you, then beside you. You remember falling asleep to the sound of his heart.
Your hand moves across the mattress before you think to stop it, only finding the opposite side of the bed cold. The pillow is empty, the indentation left by him already beginning to lift, the sheet has been drawn back carefully.
You sit up, allowing the covers to fall from your shoulder and gather around your waist. You look towards the bathroom, but the door stands open and the room is dark.
“Steve?”
Your voice is so rough with sleep, it barely crosses the room.
No answer.
Surely he wouldn't...
No, no, he wouldn't. Steve would never leave without saying something, especially not after what transpired the night before, not after he promised he would be there when you woke.
Your feet hit the floor a little too quickly, still filled with sleep. The room tilts faintly as you stand too fast, nearly catching yourself against the mattress as you drag your eyes across the floor. An abandoned T-shirt lies half beneath the chair. You snatch it up and pull it over your head, barely checking which way it faces. A pair of shorts, you step into them awkwardly, hopping once as the fabric catches around your ankle.
Your face feels swollen from crying and sleep, your body carrying the tender evidence of the night before. You did not want to wake alone.
You told him that. You had told him you did not want to be alone anymore.
The bedroom door strikes the wall when you push it open. You cross the landing quickly, one hand skimming the bannister as you take the stairs too fast. Your bare feet slap against the wood. On the last step, your heel slips and you catch the rail with a sharp breath, shoulder jolting, but you keep moving.
The hallway is empty, and—shit—so is the living room.
You pass the kitchen in a hurry, all adrenaline falling out of your body as you see him, standing at the counter with his back half-turned towards you.
Morning light pours through the window above the sink, laying itself over his skin. He is wearing only his underwear from last night. His hair is flattened on one side from sleep and pushed away from his face on the other, likely by impatient fingers. Two mugs wait beside one another beneath the coffee machine. It sputters noisily between them, struggling awake.
He turns at the commotion behind him. His gaze moves over your face, then down your body.
“Hey,” he says, the word is careful.
You grip the edge of the doorframe. Your heart is still beating too quickly, but it has begun to understand what your eyes already know.
“Hey,” you manage.
Neither of you moves. There is still so much between you that the morning has made visible. Last night allowed you to speak in fragments, in touch and apology, in promises that could be blamed on exhaustion. Daylight offers no such mercy as it illuminates you both fully. He glances towards the coffee machine.
“I was gonna bring it up,” he says. “To you—in bed, I mean.” He clears his throat and adjusts one of the mugs despite it already sitting perfectly straight. “I didn’t want to wake you. You were—” His eyes return to you. “You were sleeping.”
You release the doorframe. “Uh, thank you.”
A tentative smile pulls at one corner of his mouth. “Yeah. Of course.”
You cross the kitchen slowly, and he turns back towards the machine, giving you room rather than reaching for you. He does not seem to know what he is permitted to do now. Last night, he touched you as though his hands had been made for the purpose, but now he is unsure.
You come to stand beside him. His bare torso reveals the broad plane of his stomach and the pale, uneven scar crossing it. It curves viciously over his side, disappearing beneath the waistband of his underwear, the skin raised in places where something had once torn through him. You had watched the wound close slowly, watched him pretend the bandages did not hurt when they were changed. But last night had been darkness and urgency, your eyes too full of tears to study anything for long.
You cannot understand how he carries it so casually. How he can stand barefoot in your kitchen, waiting for a temperamental coffee machine, with the evidence of another world written permanently across his body.
Your gaze lingers. His hand stills on the coffee pot. When you look up, his expression has changed, guarded in the way people become when they are waiting for pity.
“Sorry,” you say quickly.
“For what?”
“I was staring.”
He glances down at the scar as though he has forgotten it is there.
“Oh.” He gives a small shrug, but his shoulders remain tense. “Don’t worry about it.”
Your fingers curl against the edge of the counter. “Does it still hurt?”
“No,” he says. “Not anymore.”
“It doesn’t?” You can barely believe it.
“No.” He draws the word out slightly, considering. “I mean, sometimes when it gets cold. Or if I move weird. But no, not really.”
You nod. Not anymore.
There are things that stop hurting. Not because they disappear, but because the body learns where to place them. Scar tissue forms, then the nerves quieten. The wound becomes something that can be touched without reopening. You wonder whether that will ever be true of you.
Steve’s eyes remain on your face, but he does not ask what you are thinking. The coffee machine clicks, startlingly loud in the still kitchen. He turns towards it with gratitude.
“So,” he says, reaching for the pot, “we should probably get your car today.”
The words are casual, but you hear the question hidden beneath them. Whether there will be a today, whether last night will allow it.
“Oh.” You glance towards the window. “Um. Yeah. Sure.”
“We don’t have to,” he adds immediately. “I mean, if you don’t feel up to it. It’s not going anywhere.” He begins filling the first mug. “Well, hopefully it’s not going anywhere. That would be—yeah, no it's not going anywhere.”
Despite yourself, your mouth softens. “No, I probably should.”
“Right. Yeah.” He nods too quickly. “Okay. We can do that.”
He pours the second cup. You watch him add a little milk to yours without asking. He stirs it and passes the mug to you, careful that your fingers do not have to touch his unless you choose it. You let them brush deliberately against his.
“Thanks,” you say. You lift the mug towards your mouth. It is too hot to drink, but you hold it there anyway, allowing the steam to warm your face.
The kitchen looks different. The plate that had been left on the desk upstairs now sits washed in the drying rack. The glass beside the telephone is gone and the counters have been wiped, the crumbs and unopened letters gathered into neater piles. A bin bag rests by the back door, tied at the top. Hell, even the old towel hanging from the oven has been folded evenly over the handle.
There he goes again. Useful to a fault.
He is trying not to frighten you. Worse, he is trying not to give you a reason to send him away.
You did this. You taught him this. That your tenderness could vanish between one night and the next. That he could fall asleep with you in his arms and wake with nothing. He looks towards you, then away when he realises you are watching.
“I can take a look at your car when we get there,” he says. “Make sure you didn’t mess up the alignment or anything. Not that you did. I mean, the road looked pretty rough, so—”
“Steve.”
He stops as his fingers tighten slightly around his mug. You could apologise again. There are hundreds of apologies waiting, each one inadequate in a slightly different way. But apologies belong to what has already happened. What he needs from you is something that reaches forward.
“We can get my car today,” you say.
“Yeah?” His brow furrows faintly. “Alright.”
“And then—” You look into your coffee, watching the surface tremble with your unsteady hands. “Is your house still empty?”
His expression goes blank with surprise.
“Uh. Yeah.” He shifts his weight. “Should be. My parents are still in Chicago. Or Dallas. They might be in Dallas now, actually. My mom left a message, but she talked for, like, ten minutes without saying where they were.” A nervous breath becomes a laugh. “Why?”
You run your thumb around the rim of the mug.
“I don’t know.” The words feel too large to look at him while you say them. “I don’t really feel like staying here tonight. I think I want to get out of here for a little while,” you continue. “Just for a few days. Maybe longer. I don’t know yet.”
You finally raise your eyes. Hope appears on his face so quickly that he cannot conceal it. It is immediately followed by caution, as though he is afraid any visible happiness might frighten you into taking the offer back.
“You can stay at mine,” he says. “I mean, if that’s what you want. You can take the guest room, or my room, and I can sleep somewhere else. The couch is fine. I’ve slept on it before. It’s not—well, it’s terrible, actually, but I can handle it.” He sets his mug down, words beginning to tumble as they always do when he is nervous. “You don’t have to decide how long. We can just get your car and pack some stuff, and then if you want to come back here tomorrow, I’ll bring you back. Or if you want to stay—”
“Steve.”
He falls quiet again. You have never known anyone who could make devotion look so much like nervousness.
He swallows. “You can stay as long as you need.”
There is more he does not say. Stay until you can sleep, until the silence is ordinary again. Stay after that, too.
You look down at the coffee warming your hands. Ready to give in.
“I don’t want to live alone anymore,” you say.
The words are quieter than you intended. They do not contain everything, but you hope he understands what you are trying to give him. That you want to continue beyond last night. That you are still afraid, perhaps, but no longer afraid of him.
“You don’t have to,” he tells you gently. “You’ll always have me. You know that.”
And you do. You know it in the way he stands barefoot in your kitchen, waiting for permission to remain. In every frightened, earnest promise he has ever offered you.
The distance between you becomes unbearable. You set your mug down and reach for him.
He barely has time to turn before you kiss him. Your hands rise to his face, drawing him close as you pour every sweetness you cannot yet name into his mouth. Every apology. Every morning you want to share. Every promise that this time, when fear comes, you will not disappear before he wakes. He makes a startled sound against your lips, as his arms close around you.
The kiss is gentle, softened by morning. There is no desperation in it now, nothing to outrun. His thumb brushes along your cheek, wide awake. When you draw back, you keep your forehead against his.
“I want to be better,” you whisper. “I want to be better for you.”
Steve’s arms tighten. He pulls back just enough to look at you properly. “You don’t have to do that for me.”
“I want to.”
His eyes move over your face, warm and tender.
“I got time,” he says. “As much as you need.”
You laugh softly, the sound disappearing against his chest as you let him hold you.
Outside, the morning continues without asking anything of either of you. The coffee cools on the counter, and your car remains abandoned miles away. There are still rooms to clean and words to say and wounds that will not vanish simply because the sun has risen.
But Steve is smiling into your hair.
He asks whether you want pancakes before you leave, and you tell him yes. You sit on the counter while he makes them, your legs swinging, occasionally brushing against his hip as you let yourself laugh for the first time in months. His eyes shine with something hopeful, and little by little, the tension leaves his shoulders. He can see that you are trying, that you are no longer quite so afraid.
The bag you pack is far too full for only a few days, but he doesn't mention it. He simply carries it to the car for you, and later, he will carry it upstairs as well.
He will carry whatever he can, because now he knows you are willing to carry something for him, too.
a/n: first fic lets goo!!!
this has been sat in my google docs for weeks, idk if i am happy with the final result but i wanted to clear it out.
i plan to be writing more, when time permits. please let me know what you all think and if you want to req something, i am more than happy to give it a go if i think i can do it justice!
i plan to write for other characters, not just st, so keep your eyes open for me (but ofc steve will be here in the future). this is the first of hopefully many more.
hope you enjoyed, let me know what you think/want more of :))
summary: you never expected steve harrington to notice you, but after one clumsy hallway collision, he starts showing up everywhere, quietly constant, patient, turning all your firsts into something soft, safe, and yours.
tw: MDNI, 18+. explicit sexual content. soft & sweet steve. no proofread. english is not my first language.
a/n: this is a really old post i had sitting in my drafts and i wasn’t sure about posting it… but since i haven’t been as constant as i want lately, it’s yours now🙂
you’d never really been the kind of girl people noticed first. you kept to yourself, spent more time with books than at parties, and liked it that way. getting tangled up with steve harrington was never something you expected.
it started after you overslept from staying up too late reading. you were hurrying down the hallway, half awake and clutching your books to your chest, when you ran straight into someone.
strong hands caught your arms before you could hit the floor.
“hey, easy there,” steve said with a small laugh, steadying you.
your face went hot instantly. “sorry,” you mumbled before slipping away as fast as you could.
you figured that would be the end of it.
except after that, steve started noticing you everywhere. he’d stop you in the halls just to talk for a minute. he started sitting beside you at lunch like it was the most natural thing in the world. your friends wouldn’t stop teasing you about it, but you kept insisting it didn’t mean anything.
until he offered you a ride home one afternoon.
until you found a folded note in your locker saying he liked your skirts.
until one night, with an uncharacteristically nervous smile, he asked if he could take you out somewhere real.
and somehow, you said yes.
after that, everything seemed to happen all at once.
first kiss
it happened on your front porch after he walked you home from the movies. the night was warm, crickets humming, and you were rambling about how the ending didn’t make sense when steve stepped closer, one hand gentle on your waist.
“you’re overthinking it,” he murmured, thumb brushing your cheek.
“i overthink everything.”
his smile was slow. “yeah. i know.”
then he kissed you—soft at first, almost careful, like he knew it was your first and didn’t want to scare you. his lips were warm, tasting faintly of popcorn and mint. when he pulled back, eyes dark, you felt dizzy.
“was that… okay?” he asked.
you bit your lips, heart hammering. “do it again and i’ll tell you.”
he laughed softly and did.
first date (that actually felt real)
mini-golf, because steve insisted it was “classic.” you were terrible at it. he was annoyingly good, but he kept “accidentally” bumping your hip, whispering terrible tips just to make you laugh. when you finally sank a hole-in-one on the windmill, he cheered like you’d won the olympics and kissed you right there under the neon lights.
later, in his car, parked at the lookout, he held your hand across the console. his thumb traced circles on your skin.
“i like this,” he said quietly. “taking it slow. with you.”
your cheeks burned. “you don’t have to. i know you’ve—”
“hey.” he turned your face toward him gently. “i want this to be special. we don’t have to rush anything.”
first time he stayed over
your parents were out of town. you’d made cookies (burnt the first batch), and you watched a horror movie even though you hated them. steve pulled you into his lap when you hid your face in his chest during the scary parts, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back.
when the movie ended, the air felt thicker. you were both on your bed, facing each other.
“you’re nervous,” he observed, brushing hair from your eyes.
“a little.”
“we don’t have to do anything.”
“i want to.” your voice was small but sure. “i really want you.”
he kissed you for a long time—deep, slow kisses that made your toes curl. clothes came off gradually. his hands were gentle, reverent, mapping every new inch of skin like it was sacred. when his mouth moved lower, you gasped his name, fingers threading through his hair.
“steve—”
“relax, baby. i’ve got you.”
he took his time. whispered praises against your thigh, your stomach, your neck. when he finally slid inside you, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked, it stung for a moment. he stilled, breathing ragged.
“you okay?”
you nodded, pulling him closer. “don’t stop.”
he moved carefully, murmuring how perfect you felt, how beautiful you were, how he’d never wanted anyone like this. the pain faded into warmth, then pleasure that built until you shattered around him, clinging tight. he followed soon after, burying his face in your neck.
afterward, he held you against his chest, stroking your hair.
first time you initiated
weeks later, you pushed him back onto his bed in his empty house, straddling his lap with shaky confidence. he looked up at you, surprised and so turned on his eyes were almost black.
“you sure?”
you nodded, leaning down to kiss him.
you explored him with your hands and mouth, learning what made his breath hitch and his hips jerk. steve guided you gently when you needed it, voice hoarse with praise—“just like that, sweetheart… fuck, you’re so good.”
when you sank down onto him, taking control, his hands gripped your thighs, eyes never leaving your face. you moved together, learning the rhythm that made you both moan. he sat up halfway, wrapping his arms around you, mouths crashing as you came together.
all the firsts after that
there were so many more. first time in his car (rushed and giggling). first time in the shower (soapy hands and laughter turning into gasps). first time you told him you loved him—right after, when you were tangled and sweaty and he kissed your forehead like you were precious.
steve never made you feel behind. he made every new thing feel like an adventure you were sharing.
one night, months later, curled up together, he traced lazy patterns on your bare shoulder.
“all your firsts,” he said quietly. “i want them. but i want all your nexts too. and the ones after that.”
warnings: angst. emotional neglect. implied cheating. mentions of past trauma, alcohol, being drunk. english is not my first language.
includes: slow burn, hurt/comfort, mutual pining (eventually), friends to lovers, miscommunication, angst with a happy ending, season 2 setting (with some inaccuracies)
summary: things with your bf aren’t what they used to be. somewhere in the middle of all that, steve harrington starts showing up more than he should.
a/n : hey!! it’s finally me again 🫶🏻 we’re getting so close to the end of this series, and i honestly hesitated a lot before posting this chapter because i wanted it to feel special, but here it is, finally, part 8. i really hope you enjoy it, and as always, let me know what you think! your comments genuinely make my day. ily all 🤍
part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5 - part 6
part 7
your head feels heavier than ever, and your mouth is as dry as a desert. the sunlight filtering through the curtains wakes you up, and the scent of freshly brewed coffee is enough to make you drag yourself out of bed. you brush your teeth and wash your face with sluggish movements, your arms feeling heavier than usual. after doing your best to tame your hair into something that won’t constantly fall into your face, you shuffle into the kitchen.
max is already there, devouring a pack of cookies and chewing loudly enough to make your headache even worse. you squint, rubbing your face before looking at her.
“i told you you can’t drink coffee.”
“so you wake up with a hangover, and the first thing you do is scold me?” she replies, her mouth still full, a few crumbs clinging to the corner of her lips.
“shhh… why are you talking so loud?” you press your hands against your ears.
she rolls her eyes immediately and stands up to grab her keys from the counter.
“i’m going out with the boys. i’ll be back before the afternoon.”
that’s the last thing you hear before the front door slams shut, the sound vibrating painfully through your skull.
as the apartment falls silent again, flashes of the previous night begin creeping back into your mind, though none of them are complete. the small fight with talia. you refilling your glass more than once. the blurry conversations.
then him.
steve’s scent still feels obnoxiously present on you, lingering in your memory so vividly that it almost makes your stomach twist. you try to remember more. the dancing. the lingering touches. his hands resting on your hips.
and then…
the panic.
your stomach drops as the memory of your own reaction comes rushing back. embarrassment settles heavily in your chest, making you shake your head as if you could physically force the thoughts away. you turn your attention back to reality instead, gathering the mugs scattered around the sink and starting to wash them.
then another memory crashes into you.
steve again.
only this time he’s closer. close enough for you to remember every detail of his face.
then he steps back.
he gets into his car.
and after that…
nothing.
why did he step back?
did you say something that ruined everything?
did he regret it?
the same questions spin endlessly through your head until your chest starts feeling painfully tight. suddenly, you want to cry. you honestly don’t know what to think anymore. getting drunk had been such a stupid decision. if you had just stayed sober, maybe you’d have the answers now.
but what other explanation could there possibly be besides regret, rejection, or distance?
after all, those were the only endings you had ever learned to expect.
the silence inside the house doesn’t help. it only gives your thoughts more room to grow, so you decide to leave before they completely consume you. you throw on a pair of jeans and a pink t-shirt, doing your best not to look like you’ve just been run over by a bus before heading outside.
without really planning to, you find yourself stopping at the library. the familiar quiet settles your racing thoughts just enough for you to lose yourself among the shelves. you don’t even notice how much time has passed until you glance at the clock and realize you’ve spent more than two hours reading random pages and sorting through books before finally deciding to head home.
as you turn the corner near talia’s house, your steps come to an abrupt stop.
steve.
he’s leaning casually against his car while talia laughs louder than usual at something he says, one of her hands wrapped around his arm. he simply stands there, talking to her as though nothing had happened.
that’s when it finally clicks.
everything suddenly makes sense.
for the first time, you silently admit jonathan wasn’t completely wrong about steve.
as you continue walking home, you expect yourself to feel angry. maybe heartbroken.
instead…
you feel nothing.
it’s as if emptiness has quietly settled inside your chest, swallowing every emotion before it has the chance to surface. your mind goes blank, your body moving on autopilot until you’re standing in front of your house.
you don’t say a word after stepping inside. you glance into max’s room out of habit before disappearing into your own. you try distracting yourself with the book you bought earlier, but your eyes keep drifting back to the same sentence over and over without processing a single word.
eventually, you let the book fall onto your lap.
you simply lie there, staring out the window at the stars until your eyes grow too tired to stay open.
⸻
the next morning feels as though every emotion you managed to avoid the day before has finally caught up with you all at once. your chest feels unbearably heavy, and for a brief moment, all you want is to disappear beneath your blankets and never leave your room.
instead, you force yourself out of bed.
by the time max joins you in the kitchen, you’ve already made yourself some toast you barely touch.
the walk to school is unusually quiet.
of course she notices.
“are you okay?” she asks softly, almost cautiously, as though her instincts already know the answer.
“yeah. don’t worry.”
she studies you for another second before nodding.
“okay.”
she wraps you in a quick hug before walking through the school entrance. you remain standing outside for a moment longer, watching students disappear through the doors until you finally force your feet to move.
you head straight to class, barely registering the conversations happening around you. everyone seems to be talking at once, but their voices blur into meaningless background noise as you stare absentmindedly out the window.
the bell rings loudly enough to make you jump.
then it hits you.
the hardest part of today isn’t surviving class.
it’s avoiding steve.
by the time school is over, every hallway feels twice as long as usual. you weave through the crowds with your head down, relieved once you finally make it outside. you walk between the rows of parked cars, already thinking about getting home, when you hear your name echo from somewhere behind you.
you instinctively turn around.
steve jogs the remaining distance toward you.
“i’ve been calling your name since you walked out the door. Jesus,” he says between breaths, resting his hands on his hips while catching his breath.
you try not to notice how unfairly good he looks in his basketball practice uniform.
you don’t answer.
instead, you let out a quiet sigh and shift your weight onto one foot, keeping your eyes fixed on the ground.
he notices immediately.
“what’s wrong?” he asks, taking a cautious step closer.
you instinctively take one back.
“whoa… okay. what did i do now?”
“i’m just tired, steve. i want to go home.”
“i’ll drive y—”
“no.”
the word comes out much sharper than you intended.
he blinks.
“please.”
“i can walk. just go.”
you brush past him and continue down the sidewalk without looking back, pretending not to hear his footsteps following behind you.
“what do you have against my car, seriously?” he jokes, hoping for at least the smallest reaction.
he doesn’t get one.
you’re two blocks from the school when he finally stops you. he steps in front of you, placing both hands on your sides. the sudden touch burns against your skin and sends shivers down your spine.
“okay, i’ve been trying to be understanding. i’ve listened to you, spent time with you… what do i need to do for you to finally stop hating me? i just don’t get it.”
“i didn’t ask for anything,” you reply. “you don’t need to throw it in my face.”
“i’m not saying that,” he says, sounding desperate. “i’m confused. i don’t know what to do. just tell me.”
“stop lying to me. stop making me believe there’s something between us when there isn’t. you keep showing up, you come back every single time—” you push a finger against his chest. “—and i don’t fucking know why.”
tears moisten your eyes as you fight to hold them back.
“i didn’t lie to you,” he says, narrowing his brows like a confused puppy, clearly trying to recall what happened.
“i saw you, steve. at talia’s house.”
“you have to be kidding me,” he murmured to himself, a low laugh escaping as he shook his head.
“i forgot my wallet there. i only realized it yesterday. i took it from my dad and couldn’t find it, then i remembered where it was.”
you rolled your eyes but said nothing.
“whatever you thought you saw… it wasn’t like that.”
“that’s not the only thing,” you say, growing more nervous. you don’t want to say it out loud, not only because it’s embarrassing, but because you’re afraid of hearing the truth.
“what is it then?” he asks, louder this time, half-laughing at himself.
“that night… you left when we were—”
he realizes what you’re talking about and swallows hard.
“you were about to do something, and then you didn’t.”
“why?”
“are you asking because you don’t remember, or because you analyzed the whole situation wrong?”
“i just—” you hesitate. “maybe both.”
he clears his throat. “i told you that night why i didn’t kiss you.”
“why?” you ask again, softer this time, almost inaudible. but he hears it.
“i wanted to kiss you. believe me, i really did.”
he steps closer. “but you were drunk, and i thought you probably wouldn’t remember anything.”
“and clearly, that’s exactly what happened.”
“i thought—”
“yes, that’s the problem. you always do the same thing. you jump to conclusions without talking to me. you always think the worst of me. you don’t trust me.”
“i tried. i really did. but it’s hard to let go of the doubt. i keep expecting things to go wrong, and i end up sabotaging everything before it even has a chance,” the sound heavy with the fear of where this conversation was heading.
“that’s not true.” he moves even closer, and you feel his warmth. his hands settle on your hips, and for the first time since the conversation started, you look up and meet his eyes.
“you asked me one thing i never answered.”
“why i keep coming back to you?” his voice softens.
“it’s because i simply can’t stay away. i tried. at first, i told myself you were in a relationship—even though i knew you weren’t happy.”
“i told myself you only saw me as a friend, like you’d clearly said before. and not very nicely, by the way.” you smile quietly at the memory.
“but i can’t. i like you. i’ve tried not to think about you, but i do. and i don’t want to stop. i just don’t know how to handle it anymore.”
he cups your face. he’s dangerously close now. you lean in, your lips moving toward his, then hesitate, until he finally kisses you, desperate.
you don’t wait. you wrap your arms around his shoulders, running your fingers through his hair. he smiles against your mouth and pulls you harder against his body.
when you finally break apart to catch your breath, the reality of what just happened hits you.
you try to kiss him again, but he teases you by pulling back slightly.
“i thought you were tired and wanted to go home,” he says with a smirk.
“shut up.” you push his shoulder, and he kisses you again.
★ summary: your shoes are off in the back of the squawk van and steve harrington is looking at you in a way your boyfriend never did. he might not be able to fill his shoes, but that’s not gonna stop him from trying
★ pairing: steve harrington x reader
★ warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, angst, toxic relationships, absent boyfriends, parental issues, cheating, reader is a little manipulative and insufferable, steve deserves better, steve harrington munch, unprotected sex, rough sex, public sex, car sex, oral f & male receiving, cream pie, drug and alcohol usage
★ word count: 11.4k
★ notes: another one that i’ve had in the drafts since oct 25 that came to me in a dream and i needed to finish it. challenged myself so the ending is not like my usual fics! sorry in advance :,)
And this is how it starts. Your eyes on his, drinking him in so brashly that Steve had to take another look. Cocking his head back dramatically, as if to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. But your gaze never faltered; your eyes were still locked on him. This is the exact moment Steve knew that he was screwed, that he’d gladly lay his morals on the ground and stomp all over them for you.
He should’ve never taken you home from work that night; he should’ve stopped the moment things got too far. Instead, he couldn’t help it. You were too intoxicating, he was too addicted to the rush, the thrill of it all. To you.
“Oh, don’t worry,” You hummed into the receiver, “I can ask Steve for a ride. Yup. Love you.”
Steve tried to pretend he wasn’t eavesdropping the whole time, but his head perked up like a puppy at the mention of his name. You leaned your body against the Radio station’s desk with a dramatic sigh.
“Oh, Stevie..” You called out, “Aren’t I one of your bestest coworkers in the whole world?”
He was still crouched on the floor, a stack of cassettes cradled in his elbow. “Don’t tell Robin.” He whistled, abandoning the tapes back on the cart. To be dealt with another time. “Why? Boyfriend of the year not picking you up once again?”
It was no secret that Steve didn’t like your boyfriend; he was a few years older than you and a total loser. A friend of the families son, a modern day arranged marriage they called it. Affluent families pushing their kids together to keep their status in a town like this. He had a cushy 9-to-5 job, probably a 401(k), and you. Yet he was still a miserable dickhead, as Robin would put it. A total manchild, with an ego the size of Hawkins itself.
“Down, boy.” You teased, “He had another work thing tonight. I can just walk, it’s no biggie.”
He frowned, “You know I wouldn’t make you do that, Y/n. I mean, who knows what’s out there in the dark.”
He internally cringed at the words that left his mouth, “B-because we’re such good friends, and you’re a girl. I can’t have any girls walking ‘round Hawkins late at night.”
Oblivious to his inner turmoil, you just smiled widely at him. “I know Stevie, are you sure? I don’t wanna be an inconvenience.”
“I’m sure.” He grinned, widely pretending that the tapes weren’t now damp from how sweaty his palms grew under your gaze.
Steve waited by the door with his jacket already pulled on, keys spinning lazily around one finger, though the knot twisting in his stomach had been there for the better part of an hour and had nothing to do with the late shift.
The two of you had been friends for years, long enough that giving you a ride home wasn’t anything worth thinking twice about. He’d driven you home plenty of times when your car was in the shop, when you’d worked a double, when the weather was bad enough that neither of you trusted the roads. It wasn’t unusual, and it shouldn’t have felt different tonight, but Steve couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted somewhere between closing up the station and watching you slip your bag over your shoulder.
“Thank you again,” you said as you climbed into the passenger seat, your voice filling the quiet cab of his car. “I know it’s a little out of the way. I’ll pick up any of the weekend shifts you don’t want.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said with an easy smile, starting the engine. “Really.”
You gave him a grateful look before turning toward the window, watching the station disappear behind you as he pulled onto the empty road. For a few minutes, neither of you said much. The radio played softly beneath the hum of the engine, some late-night song neither of you were really listening to, and Steve kept one hand loose around the steering wheel while you fiddled with the strap of your purse in your lap.
“Thank you again,” You spoke up, over the quiet crackle of the radio, “I know it’s a little out of the way. I’ll pick up any of the weekend shifts you don’t want.”
“Don’t worry about it,” He smiled, “Really.”
You smile, and Steve feels his knuckles aching with just how hard he’s gripping the gear shift.
“Stop me if I’m overstepping.” Steve cleared his throat, unsure as to where the sudden confidence had come from.
All you did was shift in the passenger seat, eyes wide. “Okay?”
“Does he take care of you?” The words came out an octave deeper than he wanted them to. He risked a glance at you, your face unchanging. His eyes went back to the road, letting the words fill the tension in the car.
“Like sexually?” You asked, genuinely curious. It also didn’t hurt to watch him squirm.
“God,” A blush was creeping up his cheeks. “All you talk about is sex. That’s not what I meant!”
He hated how defensive he sounded, especially because he knew exactly what he was talking about. He’d seen it too many times. Your boyfriend bailing on picking you up because something came up at work, never bringing you flowers unless somebody reminded him, expecting you to rearrange your entire life around his schedule while never once considering that you might have plans of your own. He’d met the guy once or twice, and both times he’d seemed like he’d rather be anywhere else, as though spending an evening with your friends was another obligation he’d been forced to check off his list.
“You worded the question weird!” You argued, throwing your hands up with a lighthearted laugh.
“You’re ridiculous.” He grumbled, turning the car into your driveway. He hated that the drive was over so soon; he liked spending time with you like this. Alone, no pretenses. Just you sitting pretty in the passenger seat of his beamer. He tried not to think of the implications of this, especially not while he was grilling you about your boyfriend. “I didn’t mean it like that, just is he good to you?”
You stared through the windshield for a moment, considering the question as though nobody had ever actually asked it before.
“I don’t know. I guess. He’s sweet.” You shrugged, one shoulder. “The sex is fine, too.”
Your tone was flat, uninterested. And Steve, he couldn’t help but poke the bear.
“Really convincing.” He deadpanned, letting the car idle from where he had rolled onto your street. Shifting his body to match yours, the two of you were only separated by the armrest.
“Do you really wanna hear about my sex life?” You raised an eyebrow at him, an unfamiliar heat rushing in your chest. You could feel it thrumming in your veins, your body betraying you with the adrenaline of what could come from this.
He grinned, an unassuming smile. “Isn’t that what friends are for?”
“Okay, Steve, I’ll bite. My sex life is boring. Missionary on weekends, and most of the time, I just fake it so it’s over quicker. Nothing to write home about.” The admission rolled off your tongue like honey. You and Steve have talked about sex before, but nothing as intimate as this.
“I mean, he at least gives you head right?”
Heavy silence settled over the car, thick enough that you suddenly found the dashboard fascinating. Your eyes darted toward the windshield, then the passenger window, anywhere but him. Steve noticed, because of course he did, and the easy grin slipped from his face as his tongue suddenly felt too heavy in his mouth.
“You’re not serious.” An awkward laugh escaped him, but there wasn’t much humor behind it.
You let your head fall back against the headrest, closing your eyes.
“It’s just,” You sigh, “Never come up, I guess?”
The excuse sounds pathetic even as the words come out of your mouth.
“That’s a shame.” Steve manages to get out, “I mean, that should be his favorite part of sex.”
You laugh, loudly as if what he said was some grand joke.
All your laughter does is make him side-eye you, his brows furrowed in confusion. Your laughter falters, as you shift in your seat.
“You’re not serious are you?” You ask.
“I’m very serious.” He says slowly, letting the words sink in for you.
It was crossing a line between friends and something dangerous, you thought. The air inside the car had thickened, warm despite the heater having long since stopped running, and Steve’s knuckles ached from how hard he was still gripping the steering wheel. He kept telling himself to look at the road, even though the car had been parked for minutes now.
“You’re telling me,” you breathed out, slightly amused, “that every single girl you hook up with, you give her head?”
“Yes.” His voice came out a little squeakier than he’d intended, and he immediately cleared his throat. “It’s like, why do it at all if you don’t get to make sure she’s having a good time?”
The blush creeping up his neck made you smirk. You liked getting under his skin, maybe a little more than you should have. For as sex-positive and experienced as Steve Harrington was supposed to be, you always managed to find some way to make him flustered, and lately you had started wondering if it was because you knew exactly where to push. And maybe, just maybe, you liked it a little too much.
“Does it get you off?” you asked, not cruelly, but with genuine curiosity.
Steve dropped his head against the steering wheel. “You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he whispered under his breath.
“Hmm?”
He cleared his throat, “Nothing, nothing.”
You smiled, turning a little more toward him. “Come on, I’m just asking. I don’t particularly get anything out of giving, so I wanted to know another perspective.”
Steve looked at you, and something about the way you were watching him seemed to make the embarrassment drain from his face. He swallowed, shifting in his seat to cover his lap, for no particular reason.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “I think it’s probably the hottest part. I like knowing she’s enjoying herself, you know? Like, if she’s just lying there waiting for it to be over, what’s the point?”
Your smile faded slightly. Steve kept talking, more comfortable now that he had something to defend.
“And sometimes I don’t even care if I’m getting anything back. If she’s having a good time, that’s enough.”
Your mouth suddenly felt dry.
“Also,” Steve added, and there was the faintest hint of a grin returning to his face, “I think you just don’t like doing it for him because he sucks.”
“Hey-”
“He does, Y/N.” Steve turned toward you, eyebrows raised like this was the most obvious conclusion in the world. “Come on. You can’t enjoy doing something for somebody when you already know they’re not going to bother making sure you enjoy it too.”
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Steve’s expression changed when he realized he’d hit something.
“Has he ever-” He stopped himself, but it was too late. The question had already escaped. “Has he ever made you feel like you’re actually having a good time? Has he ever even made you cum?”
Your head tilts, mouth agape at the brashness of his question and he backtracks immediately.
“A-as a friend, I’m just concerned. You’re not happy, you know? I mean everyone deserves orgasms, I’m just concerned.”
You arch your eyebrow up at him, “Right. Are you also this concerned with Robin’s orgasms?”
His entire body cringes, and he can’t even find it in himself to lie properly. “Yup.”
He starts speaking before you can call him out on the way his voice rose an octave, “Just ask him. Bring it up, or you know tell him what you want. If he doesn’t suck like you say he doesn’t, he’ll do it.”
You’d never say it outloud, but it wasn’t the thought of your boyfriend that was making your lower belly burn.
“God,” You breathe out, shaking your head as if you could shake out the thoughts of Steve between your legs plaguing your deepest darkest thoughts, “If only I had dated you or something.”
Steve jerks so abruptly that the car shakes, and your heart falls into your stomach.
“What-“
“I didn’t mean it like that-“
“Course not.” He coughed out, running a hand anxiously through his hair. “Yeah, no I knew what you meant.”
“I was just saying, well I mean that,” you continued, trying to save yourself from the awkwardness, “it’s nice that you actually think about whether the other person is enjoying themselves. That’s an attractive trait. Lots of men don’t have that.”
“Hmm.” He nodded slowly, looking anywhere but directly at you. “Yup.”
“Sorry,” you said eventually cutting through the silence, shaking your head as your hands searched for the door handle in the dark. “This has been awkward. I made it awkward.”
“You didn’t.”
You gave him a look.
Steve sighed, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “I promise, you didn’t.”
You laughed softly, ignoring the fact that you were suddenly noticing the warmth of his shoulder beside you, the sound of his voice, or how his lips looked, or the way he looked at you like you were something worth paying attention to.
“Listen,” you said, still smiling as you reached for the door, “to make it up to you, I’ll smoke some of the stuff Eddie gets for me from out of state this weekend with you. Deal?”
Steve knew what the right answer was.
He knew he should laugh and tell you that wasn’t necessary. He knew he should remember that this was already complicated enough, that every little moment between you lately felt like another step toward something he wasn’t supposed to want.
He should say no. His inner voice is screaming, pleading with him to say no. No, no, no, no.
Instead, a grin slowly spread across his face.
“Sounds like a deal, Y/l/n.”
”Good,” You wave, “Goodnight, Stevie.”
You closed the door and walked toward your house, but you looked back once before going inside.
Steve was still watching you, and you pretended not to notice, because it felt nice to be wanted. You ignored that feeling when you crawled into bed alone.
The sunset painted the sky in muted pinks and blues; it reflected off the water of Lover’s Lake like a watercolor painting. Steve was too busy propping open the back of the van to notice you staring. His back muscles flexing in his plain t-shirt, the defined muscles of his arms begging to be touched. You’ve always known Steve was attractive, but ever since the night he took you home, you’ve been watching. Staring, imagining things you shouldn’t. Not with your boyfriend at home, waiting by the phone for your call. All while you were letting Steve lure you into the back of the Squawk Van, the joint Eddie underpriced for you tucked behind his ear.
“Figured it’ll be quiet. Not many teenagers down here on a weeknight.” He said, plopping down on the shag carpet. Letting his feet dangle out the back. You joined him, leaning back on your elbows to watch the water ripple.
“Because they’re all adults now.” You stuck your tongue out at him, handing him your lighter.
He rolled his eyes, accepting it from you, your fingers brushing a bit longer than necessary.
“Now, just to make sure Hopper doesn’t bust us with pot.” You teased, watching him take the joint into his hands, setting it between his lips. His pink pouty lips wrapped around the filter, and all you could think about was how they’d feel against your skin. You watched him light it and exhale shakily before handing it back to you.
“If he busts us, I’m blaming it on you.” He coughed, making you gasp at him.
“You’re the one who offered to smoke it out here. Luring out a poor, innocent girl to Lover’s Lake in his sketchy van.” You grinned, the two of you splitting the joint until it was burned down to ash. With each inhale, you could feel your body going lax, the filter between your mouth and brain wearing down with each second. He was feeling it too, you could tell by the way he leaned. His dark brown eyes were glossy, his cheeks flushed.
As the two of you rambled on about work, and movies you couldn’t stop watching the way his thick lashes fluttered against his cheeks when he looked at you.
“So, did you take my advice?” He spoke up, his back now leaning against the wooden wall of the van. You mirrored him on the other side; your shoes were now off. Boots thrown somewhere in between speaker equipment. Knees tucked into your chest, your skirt riding up your thighs.
“What advice?” You giggled, brain too hazy to recall what he was talking about.
“You know,” He whispered, “The plan to get laid as you deserve.”
Steve wasn’t sure if it was the weed making him brave, or if it was you looking at him for what felt like the first time with unguarded eyes. You faltered, just a moment. But it was enough for Steve to notice.
“Oh, that.” You waved your hand, dismissing it. “Didn’t really work.”
You didn’t offer any details, too embarrassed to tell him that your boyfriend denied your advances. Content on asking for a blowjob, then going to sleep. It was even more embarrassing that you accepted it, trying to focus on the stable life he’d bring you. A nice house with a white picket fence, a fancy diamond, and kids in a few years. The life your parents envisioned for you, the one they were determined you’d have.
“What do you mean it didn’t work?” He scoffed, “What happened?”
You groaned, putting your face in your hands. “I don’t know. I dressed up all cute, lay in bed waiting for him. He came home, barely gave me a second glance. Then I asked him about going down on me, and he said no.”
“He just said no?” Steve spluttered.
You just nodded, “Said that’s not something he’s into. Then he asked for head.”
“You told him to fuck off, right?” He laughed, then went quiet at your silence. “Y/n..”
“He makes me happy.” You lied straight through your teeth, “Figured I could deal with it, for all the other upsides.”
“Upsides. Like what? Making your parents happy?”
“You’re one to talk.” You scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “Mr. Trust fund.”
He clicked his teeth. Maybe you did have him there. The two of you were two peas in a pod that way, content on making your insufferable parents happy no matter the personal cost. Different circumstances, different families, different expectations, but the same exhausting habit of bending yourselves into whatever shape would make other people comfortable.
Steve had spent years trying to be the version of himself his parents wanted. The golden boy of Hawkins. The kid who had everything handed to him, the kid who was supposed to be successful and charming and impressive enough that nobody would notice how lonely he actually was.
You knew what it felt like to have people decide what your future should look like before they ever asked what you wanted. You knew what it felt like to have love measured in expectations, in appearances, in whether you were making the “right” choices. Sometimes it was easier to accept something mediocre than disappoint the people who had already written your life story for you.
“Money isn’t everything.” He shakes his head, “Trust me.”
You laugh, “Coming from someone who’s always had it.”
You didn’t grow up with the kind of safety net Steve had. You didn’t have parents who could buy you out of mistakes or cushion every fall. Steve could walk away from his parents’ expectations because, at the end of the day, he knew there would still be something waiting for him.
You weren’t sure you had that, but you knew you would with your boyfriend.
“At least I know how to eat a girl out,” Steve shrugged, the vulgarity of his words making goosebumps rise on your skin, “Makes me like 80% less of an asshole, automatically.”
Frustration is still thrumming in your chest, “Right, do these girls even actually cum? Or do they just fake it like the rest of us?”
Steve’s not sure what came over him. Between the weed coursing through his veins, the chill night air, or the smell of your perfume invading his senses he couldn’t stop the next words from leaving his mouth.
“Wanna see for yourself?”
His words cut through the air like a knife, the tension from the bickering getting replaced with something thicker.
You’re not sure what came over you, either. If it was the way you’ve been staring at his lips ever since that night he took you home, or if it was the way you were so sexually frustrated you would have done anything to feel his hands on you.
“Yeah.”
One of you should have laughed the whole conversation off, should have redirected it into something else entirely. It should have been a stupid joke, the argument turning into something nasty. But instead, the two of you couldn’t stop looking at each other. Both of your chests rising and falling in anticipation, like predator and prey waiting for each other to pounce first.
“Are you serious?” He asked, all the bravado in his voice now replaced with something gentler. Something that reminded you he was still your Steve.
“Yes.” Your voice was small, shy even as you shifted on your legs.
He tilted his head, as if he didn’t believe this was actually happening before he pushed himself up off the wall slowly.
“You really wanna do this?” His voice was deeper than before, his eyes darker. The timber tone in his words made your stomach burn with desire.
It took you a minute to find your voice, but once you did it came out breathy, “Steve. Please.”
“Fuck.” Slipped out of his mouth as he leaned forward ready to crawl on his hands and knees to meet you on the other side of the van.
“Spread your legs for me.”
This, was a different side of Steve. One that made you tremble with anticipation as you let your legs spread wide for him. Exposing the no doubt damp spot on the pale lacy underwear you had on.
A strangled noise left his mouth, his eyes never once leaving between yours.
“Pull your panties to the side for me.” He ordered, and you did. The fabric was clutched between your fingers, allowing him access to your trembling, wet heat. Your skirt was quickly rolled up to your hips, as he crawled in between your legs. Before his face could get any closer to the place where you ached for him, your back straightened nervously.
“Wait,” You whispered quickly, “I’ve n-never- I don’t know if I can even, I don’t know.”
His eyes looked up at yours, darkening even more if possible. “Never? Not once?”
You take your bottom lip in between your teeth, shaking your head.
He made a pained noise, and let his eyes travel back to your glistening cunt. “Don’t worry, I’ll go slow. I’ll make you feel good. baby.”
When his tongue made contact with your clit, both of your moans bounced around the walls of the van.
It was nothing like you had ever experienced before, it was warm and wet and had every single nerve in your body lit ablaze. You couldn’t help but watch, your eyes locked on his as his tongue made paintings between your legs. One of your hands wrapped itself in his hair, the other gripping the shitty shag carpet like your life depended on that.
“S’okay?” His eyes fluttered open to match yours, your back arching at the vibration of his words.
You couldn’t help but gasp, “Fuck, yes. Don’t stop, please don’t stop Stevie.”
He answered by suckling your swollen clit into his mouth, his tongue slipping past your entrance. He was gentle, but hungry. His mouth opened wide, drinking in each last drop of you he could.
A familiar, yet foreign feeling began to creep in your belly. A warmth started in your toes, your jaw dropping open as your thighs began to shake. His fingers gripped your thighs, forcing your trembling legs to stay apart.
“Steve..M’gonna,” You cried out, “You’re gonna make me cum, please, please.”
Your pleas were loud, and pathetic and each one went straight to Steve’s cock that was currently grinding against the carpet, desperate for relief. He pressed himself even further into you if possible, his nose brushing against your clit in each frantic swirl of his tongue. He wanted, no he needed, to feel you come apart against him. He needed to taste it, to relish in the sounds, to memorise the look on your face as he made you feel otherworldly.
He did just that, it didn’t take much more for you to cum against his face with a wanton moan. Your fingers gripping, pulling at his now disheveled brown locks. He couldn’t stop his own moans from synchronizing with yours as you writhed and ground your soaking heat against his open mouth.
When you came back down to earth, your body was putty in his hands. Your back slumped against the wall, body trembling with aftershocks as he gently licked you through the orgasmic haze. His eyes drinking you in.
“F-fuck.” You whimpered, eyes still squeezed shut. “That was…There are no words…”
“Want me to keep going?” He spoke up, his head still firmly between your legs. His mouth and chin soaked in your release, his eyes twinkling with eagerness.
A laugh escaped you, and it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard.
“You’re insane,” Your fingers push his sweaty hair back from his forehead, “And really fucking good at that.”
He grins, “And you doubted me.”
You resist the urge to roll your eyes, biting down on your bottom lip. “You can eat pussy, but can you fuck me even better than that?”
Somehow, his eyes twinkled even brighter. It took him no time to react, he pulled himself up on his knees his hands going to his belt. The bulge in his pants was enough to make the heat rise in your chest again.
“Turn around.” He panted, tapping your hips gently as he unbuckled his belt.
You flipped on your knees quickly, resting your palms on the scratchy carpet aching, begging for him to fuck you. It felt carnal, like something you needed to survive. He pulled your underwear down your legs harshly, lining his hard cock up with your entrance.
When he finally slid inside of you, you nearly fell to the floor, only being held up by his hands splayed across your hips.
“Fuck, you’re so fucking big.” You cried out, chest heaving as he slid each glorious inch deeper and deeper inside of you until his hips were slapping against yours.
“I know,” He cooed, “You’re taking me so well, god, no one’s fucked you this good before huh? Squeezing me so hard I can barely move.”
Your jaw fell at the dirty words leaving his mouth, you’ve known of Steve’s proclivities, but now you were seriously thinking that maybe the girls of Hawkins didn’t talk about him enough.
He fucked you hard, and deep. Each delicious drag of him inside of you had your toes curling and your knuckles turning white from where you gripped the wall.
“Stevie,” You panted, his body leaning over yours caging you in. His teeth nibbling at your ear, whispering filthy things over and over.
“Say my name, who’s making you feel this good?”
You’d answer with a wail of his name, and he’d respond by snaking his hand between your legs rubbing harsh circles on your clit to feel you clench around him.
“Perfect pussy,” He babbled, “So wet n’tight for me. Wanna feel you cum. Wanna make you cum around my cock.”
“You’re gonna make me cum,” You gasped, “Yes, baby. Don’t fucking stop, right there. I’m gonna- oh Steve I’m cumming.”
If Steve thought feeling you cum against his tongue was heaven, nothing compared to the way you exploded around him. Your thighs shaking, your cunt leaking around him as you fell apart. Your eyes shut and your nose scrunched, only wanton moans leaving your lips as he fucked you through the aftershocks.
“Good girl.” His breath flared out his nostrils, gritting his teeth as you clenched so tightly around him he had to rock his hips into you even harder. “Such a good girl, you’re gonna make me cum. Where do you want it?”
You were barely holding yourself up, but managed to push your ass back against him harshly drinking his cock in. “Inside, please-“
“You don’t have to beg baby.” His thrusts sped up, the lewd wet sounds of him inside your frothy cunt only pushing him to the edge. “M’gonna cum. Gonna go home with my cum deep inside of you. You want that? Tell me you want it.”
“Yes, yes.” You sobbed, letting out a final moan that matched his as you felt his warm cum spurt inside of you. You pressed back against him, milking him for every last drop before he slid his softening cock out of you with a wince.
“I don’t think I’ve ever needed anything as bad as I needed that.” You panted, barely holding yourself up on shaky arms as he used a random work shirt to clean up the mess he had made of you.
A gentle kiss is pressed against the small of your back when he’s done, helping you roll onto your back.
Your clothes are scattered around you, his hair a mess from the way you had been running your fingers through it. You look over at him with a sleepy smile, completely unbothered by the weight of what had just happened.
“That was…” You trail off, unable to find the word, because there really doesn’t seem to be any.
Steve watches you reach for your shirt, pulling it over your head before smoothing the fabric down over your stomach. Your cheeks are warm and your eyes soft as you glance over and catch him staring.
“What?” you ask, smiling.
“Nothing.” Steve forces the word out, reaching for his own clothes. “Are you okay?”
You suppose you should feel something, dread, guilt, maybe even despair. But there’s nothing there, not when the ache of Steve is so strong in your gut.
You press another kiss against his shoulder before pulling away to find your shoes, humming quietly as you get dressed.
Steve watches you.
He watches the girl he has been trying so hard not to fall in love with button her skirt in the back of his van, and something inside him sinks with the realization that this isn’t going to be something he can just forget tomorrow.
It hadn’t really sunk in what Steve had done until he dropped you off, staring at the flickering streetlights ahead. You had spent the drive beside him smiling, your hand resting comfortably on his thigh, completely unaware that he was replaying every second in his head. You kissed his cheek before climbing out, told him you’d see him tomorrow, and shut the door with the same easy smile you’d had when you’d gotten in.
“Fuck.”
That should have been the end of it. A one-time thing, a combination of drugs and poor decision-making. You were pent up, upset, and that’s all it was: a simple mistake. But it wasn’t. It was just the beginning. Weeks went by of the two of you falling into a dangerous routine. There was now a permanent indent in the back of his van in the shape of your body, where he’d fuck you senselessly into the carpet. You’d go home with rug burn on your back and bite marks on your shoulder.
There was a point where you wanted your boyfriend to see you walk back inside with a limp. To peek at the bruises on your hips, the bite marks on your chest, but he never did.
Supply closets at the radio station had been christened. Your knees bruised from hiding underneath the sound deck, his cock sitting firmly in your mouth in between songs. His fingers deep inside of you during morning announcements, and quickies in between song breaks. If either of you had spare time, you were clinging to one another. Your body held a new piece of him each time, and you were addicted. He was a drug you couldn’t stop. A drug you didn’t want to stop, selfishly.
“So, you and Y/n?” Robin asked one morning, in between announcements. Her feet lazily draped on the counter. Steve stilled, pausing too suspiciously for Robin not to pick something up.
“What d’you mean?” He coughed awkwardly, nearly dropping the stack of cassettes he was switching out.
“You guys are just getting pretty close,” She shrugged, “Was wondering if you finally manned up and asked her out.”
His eyes nearly bugged out of his head, staring at her. “What do you mean?”
“Dude, you’ve had the biggest crush on her for like ever; everyone knows this.” She laughed.
“Dude, no.” He scoffed, slamming the cassettes down harder than he needed to. “Besides, she’s got a boyfriend anyway.”
Robin’s eyebrow only shot up higher in confusion, spinning around in her chair to face the man. “Wait. She’s still with him?”
All Steve could do was nod; he couldn’t speak the words. His mouth refused to form the shape. It still made him sick to think about the idea that every night, he wasn’t the one you were going home with. But it wasn’t enough to stop; he’d gladly take whatever scraps of you that you’d offer up to him.
Robin has known Steve long enough to be able to read him like her favorite book. It took one pathetic, far-away puppy dog look from him for her to know exactly what was going on between her two friends.
Robin said his name with a saddened tone, her face falling. A look of pity, of shame even crossed her features. Steve kept his head down; he should’ve known she’d find out. He can’t hide anything from his best friend; and now she knows he was a dirty little secret. She took his silence as a confession, inhaling a deep breath.
“That’s fucked.” She decided on it after the silence had rung through the booth long enough. “Steve, that’s really fucked up.”
“I know,” Steve muttered, barely audible. “I know Robin.”
There wasn’t much left for Robin to say that he didn’t already know. That he deserved more than to be a dirty mistress. That you were walking all over his heart, selfishly. Steve also knew how pathetic he was. How pathetic it was to love someone so much that you’d let them destroy you, because at least you had them at all.
By the third week, Steve was fully embedded into your routine. The two of you knew each other’s bodies like the back of your hands. As soon as the music in the sound booth was nothing but a faint hum in the background, and the recording light was switched off, your eyes would gravitate towards each other. His legs spread in his chair, your fingertips pulling at threads on the end of your skirt. Both of you anxiously waiting to hear the front door slam close upon Robin’s departure.
SLAM
“Come on.” Steve patted his lap, beckoning you to come over. You hated how you didn’t hesitate. Hated how you gathered your skirt up in your hands, the skirt you only wore to make this easier. To pull his cock out of his pants and slide down on top of him. Sheathing himself deep inside of you. No matter how many times this happened, he took your breath away each time.
He’d take you right there in his chair, or sometimes he’d lift you up and fuck you against the soundboard. Then if that wasn’t enough, and it never was, he’d take you home, spend the whole drive with his fingers knuckle deep inside of you. Long enough to stretch you out so you could crawl right there in the driver’s seat with him and take him one last time for the night.
It felt like coming home after a long day, each time you rocked your hips against his. Even now, in the driveway of your house. Tits spilling out of your top, the van rocking back and forth for any passerby to see. But you didn’t care, it was hard to care about anything when Steve was near. Especially when his cock was pressing against your sweet spot, the patch of curly hair above it rubbing deliciously against your clit.
“He’d never please you like this.” Steve seethed through his teeth, his hips bucking wildly into you. Your head turned to your house, the light in the bedroom off. No doubt where your boyfriend was lying asleep, another night of neglecting you. All while Steve was balls deep inside of your cunt, just a few yards away. “Would he?”
“No.” You sobbed, clinging to him like a lifeline. Your fingernails left marks on his shoulder blades. You knew this was wrong, but it was the sort of wrong that just felt so good in the moment. So good that it outweighed the guilt that came after. So undeniably worth it, that the guilt just stopped coming after a while.
You came with a shaky scream of his name, and he followed not long behind pumping his seed deep into you while kissing up and down your collarbone.
In the filthy afterglow, you met his hooded eyes with a grin. “That was fun.” You panted, ready to slip out of his van and into the arms of a man that wasn’t him. Leaving Steve feeling hollow, with a bad taste in his mouth as you gave one last wave before shutting the door.
It didn’t feel like harmless fun, no matter what came out of your mouth. Not when you’d trapeze around his house in nothing but one of his oversized shirts with his cum dripping out of you. Not when you’d help him take the kids to the movies, splitting popcorn with Dustin because you knew he hated asking. Not when he’d hand-feed you strawberries dipped in cream while you sat on the kitchen counter, looking at him as if he had hung the moon for you.
He would have, if he could. You knew this. You knew him. You knew exactly how Steve liked his coffee, which records he played when he was in a bad mood, and the look on his face when you walked through his front door after he’d been waiting for you two to be alone all day. You were also very aware of how Steve Harrington looked at you. Everyone knew it, and it wouldn’t be long before the entire town knew just how madly in love with you he was. That included your boyfriend.
It didn’t feel casual when you’d hang off of his arm around his friends. It didn’t feel casual when you’d hang off of his arm around his friends, laughing at something stupid he said, letting your fingers curl around his bicep because you liked the way he looked when you touched him. It didn’t feel casual when you’d steal his jackets and leave your things scattered around his bedroom as though you belonged there.
It didn’t feel like nothing when he held you in his arms. It felt like everything, and more. That was the cruelest part. You knew exactly what you were doing to him.
Now, you weren’t cruel enough to do it deliberately, but you weren’t selfless enough to stop. You liked him. You loved being around him. You loved the way he made you laugh, the way he looked at you, the way he made you feel, the way everything felt lighter when you were with him.
You just didn’t love him enough to choose him over a life so safe. A life planned long before he stepped into the picture.
And Steve knew that, too.
He had never been stupid, no matter how badly he wanted to be when it came to you.
So he continued to take whatever you were willing to give him.
A few hours in his bedroom. A stolen afternoon at Lover’s Lake. Your laughter from the passenger seat of his car. Your hand slipping into his beneath the table when nobody was looking. Your head on his shoulder during a movie, your fingers absentmindedly playing with the hem of his shirt. Your lips on his skin, the shape of your lips gasping out his name.
For all intents and purposes, the dalliance had been going well. You refused to call it an affair because the word itself felt too ugly, too sharp, too final, and who was Steve to disagree when you looked at him with those tired eyes and insisted that what the two of you had was different? It wasn’t some careless mistake. It wasn’t some cruel game you were playing at someone else’s expense. At least, that was what you told yourself when the guilt became too heavy to ignore.
Despite Robin’s harsh glances towards you, things were going without a hitch. She never said anything directly, which was somehow worse. She saw the way Steve’s whole face softened before he caught himself. She saw the way he found reasons to be near you, the way conversations that should have ended five minutes ago somehow stretched into another hour. She saw the way you started looking for him too, how your eyes instinctively searched the room for him before you even realized you were doing it.
She also knew exactly how this would end, but when Steve loved he loved hard. Her and Dustin’s pleas fell on deaf ears. All she could do was watch, and help him pick up the pieces you’d no doubt shatter.
Your boyfriend was never around long enough to see just how far away you really were. He was always working, always distracted, always promising that things would slow down eventually. There was always another deadline, another meeting, another reason he couldn’t make time. You became something that existed in the background of his life, something comfortable and familiar that he assumed would always be waiting for him whenever he decided to look up.
Steve was always looking. Wherever you were, Steve would find you. And you liked that, you needed that. So you kept stringing him along, kept letting yourself believe that this was working the way that it was.
It wasn’t until Stacey Haskin’s party that the first crack in the mirage appeared.
You weren’t one to go to parties, not parties like this. But with your boyfriend on your ass about hanging out with his friends instead of going out, it seemed like the easiest thing. You could get through one night of adults pretending they were living out the glory days of high school, all of them stuck in the rut of living in their hometown.
The house was exactly what you expected when you arrived. Loud music rattled the walls, the smell of alcohol and perfume clung to the air, and everyone seemed just a little too eager to prove they were having fun. Your boyfriend seemed to come alive around them in a way you rarely saw anymore, laughing louder, drinking faster, acting like he had something to prove.
You stood beside him and played your role to perfection, smiled and made easy jokes. You nursed a beer you hated, and pretended your mind wasn’t floating feet above your body. You were in the middle of grabbing water, before his arm slung lazily over your shoulder, nearly making you wince at the contact. He was never one for PDA, he swore it made him seem weak and clingy. You nearly stumbled back, feeling him pull you into his side more harshly than before. You didn’t know why until a familiar mop of brown hair was in your peripheral vision.
“Steve?” You stopped, causing your boyfriend to jerk his head back.
“Y/n?” He asked, his eyes wide and doe-like.
“Who?” Your boyfriend slurred, smoothing down the collar of his polo.
“Steve Harrington.” You said slowly, “My coworker?”
Steve pretended that didn’t sting, and gave a half-assed wave, “Hey, man.”
Your boyfriend, so drunk he couldn’t even pretend to care just nodded. “Right, I’m gonna go get another drink. Don’t be long.”
Then he was off, running into the open arms of his buddies who were hollering over a beer pong table.
“Didn’t think this was your scene,” Steve said, taking a drink out of his cup trying to appear more nonchalant than he was.
You could feel the bass of the music in your chest, rattling around in your ears. “I didn’t think it was yours either.”
Steve shrugged coldly, “Guess we don’t know each other as well as we thought, huh?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Your name is being called from a distance, a chorus of cheers following.
You open your mouth to speak, but Steve beats you to it.
“Don’t want you to be too long.” He held his hands up, a small gesture of surrender, like he was backing away from a fight he didn’t want to have.
He goes to walk away, and in a moment of fury you follow. Your boots clunking against the linoleum tile and all the way through the sliding glass door.
“Don’t walk away from me, don’t do that.” You hollered, following him into the driveway where he headed for his car.
Steve doesn’t stop immediately. His shoulders rise with a heavy breath, his hands curling into fists at his sides as he stares at the pavement like he is trying to find the patience to keep himself from saying something he’ll regret. When he finally turns around, there is something exhausted in his face that makes your anger falter.
“Why do you keep doing this to yourself?” He asked, “To us?”
“Doing what?” Your hands are shaking as you rummage through your purse for your pack of cigarettes. A horrible habit you’ve started again. Who knew the stress of an affair would cause you to start chain-smoking again?
“You’re not happy with him,” He stuttered, “I know you’re not, you don’t love him.”
“I can learn to love him.” You said through your own tears that threatened to break through, fingers gripping the cardboard box in your palm. “I can learn.”
“Y/n,” He grips your shoulders gently, as if he could shake the stupidity out of you, “He is sloppy drunk and you’re out here crying? In what world is that love?”
“The only love I’ve known, Steve.” The words tear out of your chest, “It’s safe! It’s stability in my life.”
“What does he really give you, huh?” Steve presses, “A big house? Shitty sex? Your parents’ approval?”
“You don’t understand,” You cry, letting a stray tear finally fall. “You got away from your family, I can’t-“
“Yes you can-“
“No!” You cry out, a little too loud, causing passersby to turn their heads. You don’t care this time, your chest heaving as you try to swallow down the sob threatening to break through your throat. “It’s all I’ve ever had, it’s all I’ve ever known. It’s different for me, so different, Steve.”
“Y/n,” He whispers your name, too affectionately for what you feel you deserve, and something about the softness of it makes you want to cry harder. “I know you, I know you’re scared, but honey, I promise you everything would be fine. You could stay with me, you can finish school, we can get you a car-“
“You don't even know me Steve, not really!”
He laughs, and it’s the cruelest thing you’ve ever heard from your sweet boy’s mouth.
“You wanna play that game Y/n?” He asks, bending down so his nose is touching yours. “I buy all of your favorite snacks every time I go to the store. I have a blanket of your favorite color on my couch because you run cold. You talk in your sleep, you wear socks with sandals, and hate the smell of patchouli. I know the exact scrunch of your nose when you’re about to cum on my cock. I know all your biggest fears but I know none of your dreams because you won’t talk to me about the future, because you just won’t admit that I’m not in it. So don’t ever accuse me of not knowing you.”
“You knew what this was,” You snapped, jerking your arm back from him harshly, “If you can’t handle it, then maybe we should stop.”
“Tell me,” Steve knew he should stop talking but all his frustrations were pouring out of him, “Who fucked you up this badly? Was it your parents, or was it him?”
“Fuck you, Steve Harrington.” You spit.
“Too late. You already have, and nothing else will compare, baby.” He leaned forward, his lips just inches from yours before your hands pushed against his chest pushing him far away.
“Go to hell.”
The next day you still found yourself at Steve’s front door. Jutting out your bottom lip, and asking for forgiveness. Your clothes were left behind in a pile leading up the stairs into his bedroom. You let him inside of you, you let him fuck the memories of last night out of you. You scream his name when you finish, and you let him cum inside of you. You tell him you think you love him, he doesn’t pretend to believe it anymore. It’s as if you knew it was ending, as if you needed to feel him one last time.
And Steve, he was going to keep taking whatever it is you gave him.
After it was over you lay on his chest, memorizing the pattern of his breathing, tracing shapes in his chest hair. His arms were wrapped around you, his mind far away as he stared up at the ceiling. No words were spoken, just the hum of each other’s breath.
When it got too much, you slunk out of the bed and leaned against his window. Clad in nothing but his crumpled-up shirt, lighting up a cigarette when you heard him mumble something under his breath.
You took in a deep drag, “You say something?”
Suddenly you could see the tension in his shoulders, the sad faraway look in his eyes. You braced for impact when he sat up on the corner of the bed, his hands gripping his knees.
“What are we doing, Y/n?” The words left his mouth with such a heartbreaking tone, you flicked ash on your leg by accident.
“What do you mean?” Your thumb is now rubbing at the burnt spot on your thigh, self-soothing as best you can.
“You know what I mean,” He glares, “This. Fucking and saying things you don’t mean just to go back with him.”
“It’s complicated-“
He laughs, and it's cruel and you guess you deserve that. “It’s not complicated, you’re just making it complicated.”
“Steve,” you barked, turning toward him as frustration finally began to overtake the shame, and you stubbed the cigarette out against the glass harder than necessary. “You told me you were okay with this, whatever this is. I told you I can’t, I can’t just leave him.”
“Bullshit.” He scoffed, shaking his head as he stood. “It’s fucking bullshit. You’re scared and just using me in your spare time.”
Your face falls, swinging your legs back to the floor. “Steve-“
“Does he take care of you?” He asks, emphasizing each word. His words echo the same ones he spoke to you on the night all of this started.
“In some ways, yes.” You cry out, your hands tugging at the roots of your hair in frustration.
“I could easily fill his shoes, Y/n. Come on.” He scoffs. “What can he give you that I can’t?”
You wanted to cry because the answer felt so cruel when you said it aloud, even though it was the truth.
“Stability? My parents not cutting me off-“
“Money, money, money,” He raises his voice, “It’s just money and sex with you, isn’t it?”
You narrow your eyes at him, “Is that really how you think of me?”
“You haven’t given me much else.” He admits, standing up from the bed and slipping on his sweatpants hastily. “What are you still doing here? I mean we might as well just fuck, s’all I’m good for anyways.”
“Steve-“
“Stop!”
He yelled so loudly that you sank into yourself, the sound reverberating through the bedroom and leaving a terrible silence behind it. His chest rose and fell heavily, his hands trembling slightly at his sides, and for one awful second you thought he might take it back.
“Stop,” he said quieter this time, and somehow that hurt more. “Stop saying my name like it means something to you when you’ve proved over and over again that it doesn’t.”
You choke on your breath, standing up to meet his eyes. “What are you saying?”
“I can’t keep being your dirty mistress, someone who you come to crying, who loves you more than anything, does anything for you, to be what?” His voice broke, and he looked down for a second before forcing himself to continue. “Treated like someone who gives you what he can’t. Like I’m just a good fuck.”
“No.” You shook your head frantically, tears finally spilling over as you stepped toward him. “You’re not just someone-God, don’t ever say that. Stevie, you have to know that. I love you. You’re one of my best friends.”
The words sounded so desperate that you hated yourself.
Steve stared at you for a long moment before his hands found your hips, pulling you flush against him. He pressed his forehead against yours, his eyes closing as his breath shook between you, and for a moment the anger disappeared entirely, leaving only the exhausted grief of two people who had wanted something they could never seem to give each other.
“So be with me, Y/n. I’m pleading with you. Let me give you the love you deserve. Please.”
Your hands curled against his chest, gripping the skin there because you needed something solid to hold onto, something that would keep you from collapsing beneath the weight of the choice he was asking you to make.
Tears were welling in your eyes as you looked at him, and every part of you wanted to say yes. You wanted to let yourself be selfish for once. You wanted to stop thinking about your parents, your boyfriend, money, expectations, and the future everyone else had already planned for you, and you wanted to choose the person standing in front of you.
“I can’t.”
Steve’s eyes closed.
And you felt his hands slowly loosen at your waist, as if even holding you had suddenly become too painful.
He cleared his throat, “Then I think it’s best we keep some space.”
You nod, knowing the moment a word left your mouth you’d be choking down sobs.
“Okay, yeah.” Your voice was small, but Steve turned away giving you privacy as you hastily changed.
Neither of you looked back at one another when you left. Your eyes cast downward on the floor, his fixated on the wall. Neither of you let the tears fall until his front door slammed shut.
Space. Space. Space.
When you say a word so many times it starts to lose its meaning, hell it starts to barely feel like a word anymore. It becomes nothing but sounds, syllables that roll around in your mouth without ever settling into something real. But space had become painfully real.
Space was empty seats where you used to sit beside him in the break room. Space was leaving five minutes earlier than usual so you wouldn’t run into Steve in the parking lot.
It was strange, discovering how much of your life had quietly wrapped itself around another person.
You couldn’t walk into work without thinking of him. Couldn’t hear a certain song on the radio without remembering the way he drummed his fingers against the sound board. Even stupid things had become all about Steve. Strawberry ice cream. Cigarette smoke. The smell of leather. The sound of aerosol. The stupid horror movies he made fun of but always watched anyway.
You had built little shrines to him in places you hadn’t realized could become holy.
Work was awkward in a way that felt almost unbearable. The kind of awkward that sat heavy in your chest and made every minute stretch longer than it should. Robin didn’t even pretend to be civil with you anymore, you respected her honesty. Steve needed someone in his corner, but it left you calling out more days than you should have, inventing headaches and family emergencies because it was easier than seeing him look at you like that.
Steve pretended not to sulk on the days that you were there.
He pretended not to watch your boyfriend pull into the parking lot. Pretended not to notice the smile that spread across your face before you climbed into another man’s car. Pretended not to watch your boyfriend lean over the center console to kiss you. Pretended not to feel something ugly twist inside him every time.
What had once been your sacred time had become someone else’s.
Steve stood beneath the buzzing lights of WSQK Radio and watched another man have all the things he had once foolishly let himself imagine could belong to him.
He had gotten through almost a month of ‘space’ before he caved. Relapsing on the drug that was you.
Steve knew you’d be here. Maybe that’s why he decided to come again, a shitty beer that’s gone warm gripped tightly in his hand as he watched you glued to his side, a fake smile plastered on your face.
A glimpse into the future that he wanted, and would probably never have.
He told himself he was only going to stay for one drink.
Then one drink became two, and two became three, because every time he thought about leaving, he caught another glimpse of you through the crowd and found himself rooted to the spot. It was pathetic, really. A month of trying to teach himself how to exist without you, only to walk into a party and immediately start looking for you as if his eyes had never learned anything else.
You look different, in a way he can’t place. It takes him two more beers and feeling like a perv by watching you through the crowd before it hits him. You don’t look like you. The floral dress you have on, the stepford wife red lipstick. It’s not the same girl who’d show up to work in day-old eyeliner and high tops. It’s definitely not the same girl who would curl up on his couch in nothing but his t-shirts.
Your boyfriend was drunk, his head shoved obnoxiously into the crook of your neck as he paraded you around his equally drunk friends. His hand stayed possessively at your waist while he laughed too loudly at something one of them said, and you smiled because you were supposed to smile.
He stayed until the room became too loud to think in, until the beer in his hand was already warm and flat and the sight of your boyfriend’s mouth against your neck had become something he couldn’t keep swallowing down. He tried to convince himself he was leaving. He was drunk, because he had work in the morning. After all, Robin would probably make fun of him for showing up to a party he hadn’t even wanted to attend in the first place.
Then you slipped away.
It was subtle, the way you did it. You waited until your boyfriend was distracted by one of his friends, laughed at something you hadn’t heard, and gently peeled his arm from around your waist with some excuse about needing air. Steve watched you disappear through the back door, and for a few seconds he stayed exactly where he was, staring at the space you’d left behind.
He should have let you go.
That was the whole point of the month, wasn’t it? Space meant leaving you alone. Space meant allowing you to have your boyfriend and your life without Steve constantly hovering around the edges of it, waiting for whatever scraps of affection you were willing to throw to him. But then he remembered the pack of cigarettes that were always tucked into the little purse hanging from your shoulder.
He remembered the way you always smoked when you were overwhelmed, the way you’d take the first drag too quickly and cough before glaring at him when he laughed. He remembered all the nights he’d sat beside you on his back steps while you complained about your boyfriend, your parents, work, everything that had ever made you feel like you were living a life somebody else had picked out for you.
And before Steve could talk himself out of it, he was moving.
Outside, the air was cooler, and the music became muffled behind the door, reduced to a dull pulse that barely reached the porch. You were standing near the edge of the yard with your arms folded, staring out into the darkness as you dug through your purse. You didn’t turn around when the door opened, because you knew. You memorized his outline long ago.
You pulled a cigarette from the pack and rolled it between your fingers, staring at the end of it instead of him. Steve glanced down at your hands, then at your face, and something about the familiarity of the gesture nearly undid him. You looked exactly like yourself now. You finally held it toward him, an offering.
He took the cigarette from your fingers and brought his lighter up, shielding the flame with his hand when the wind caught it. You leaned toward him, and for one brief second your faces were close enough that he could smell your perfume beneath the smoke and the alcohol clinging to both of you.
The first hit makes your skin tingle, the smoke blowing out of your mouth quickly before you passed it to him. He took it, more out of impulse than he wanted.
Your lipstick stains the filter of the cigarette when you pass it back to him, a faint reminder of you left behind on something temporary. His lips closed around the same place yours had just been, and you watched him inhale. Steve watches the mark without meaning to, watches the way your fingers linger for half a second before letting go, and he hates how much meaning he has started finding in the smallest things.
The strap of your dress is still hanging loosely against your shoulder; er, it takes all of Steve’s willpower not to reach out and fix it for ,you out of habit, of a a of dto love you.
When you open your mouth, he doesn’t know what he’s expecting. Anything, but this.
“He’s gonna propose.” You say, your voice devoid of all emotion. “I found the ring last week.”
The cigarette burns slowly between his fingers as he closes his eyes, letting his head fall back against the rough brick wall behind him. The impact is sharp enough to ground him, but not enough to pull him away from the reality settling over him.
“Are you gonna say yes?”
The question leaves him softer than he expects, stripped of all the anger he thought he would feel. He thought if this day ever came, he would be furious. He thought he would fight. He thought he would list every reason you deserved better, every reason you were making a mistake, every reason you should choose something else. It occurs to him then, that this was always how your story was going to end.
You can’t answer, instead, you let the hum of the cicadas answer for you.
He made a noise, a combination of heartbreak, anger, and cruel amusement.
“Did you ever actually love me? Did I ever even have a chance?”
This is the part where you’re supposed to break down, to confess your misgivings and plead for forgiveness. This is where you are supposed to fall apart and admit that you were scared, that you were wrong, that you chose the wrong person because you were too afraid to choose yourself. This is where you are supposed to tell him the truth.
But life is not like the movies.
There is no perfect confession waiting on your tongue. There is no grand gesture that fixes the damage. There is no version of this where nobody gets hurt.
You believe that Steve deserves the truth.
He deserves to know that every glance, every conversation, every moment you stayed just a little too long was real. He deserves to know that he was the person who made you feel seen when you had spent your whole life trying to disappear. But you cannot give him that, because you’re afraid it’s going to break him.
And maybe that is the most selfish thing of all, convincing yourself that breaking his heart is kindness. That letting go is your final act of selflessness, even if he’ll never see it that way. You can’t give him what he deserves, and that’s okay. So you take a shaky breath, and let your eyes fall on the ground.
“No.”
You pretend not to hear the cry that leaves him, or the uneven breath that follows. You pretend you don’t notice the way he wipes at his face like he’s embarrassed for letting himself get hurt, when he knew better. When everyone told him so. You pretend because if you acknowledge it, if you look at him, you know you will take it back.
Some selfish, desperate part of you wants to reach for him. Wants to tell him you were lying. Wants to tell him that every time you imagined a future, his face was somewhere in it. But wanting something does not always mean you are allowed to have it.
Steve stands slowly, brushing off his jeans even though there is nothing there. It is a meaningless gesture, something to do with his hands because he doesn’t know what else to do with himself.
He walks away. And your heart stops for one terrible second when he turns back, because there’s a cruel, evil selfish part of you that thinks he’s going to plead, to think he’s going to convince you to change your mind.
“One day,” he says, his voice rough and tired, “when you’re his trophy wife, when you’re standing in some huge house pretending you’re happy because everyone told you that you should be…” He swallows.
“You’re gonna wake up and realize this was the worst decision you ever made.”
The words hurt because somewhere deep down, you know he might be right.
You flinch, but you force yourself not to look away. You force your tear-filled eyes open and make yourself watch him disappear into the darkness of the alley. You make yourself feel every piece of the pain you’ve caused and hope that one day, it’ll be worth it. No, not for you, but for him.
You know with every ragged breath and tear that slips down your cheeks, that he’s right. That you’ll regret this every last second of your life.
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steve harrington x fem!reader
(18+; MDNI; 1.3k words)
A night out, a warm apartment, and a boyfriend who knows how to take care of you when you're drunk.
cw: reader is drunk, that's about it. steve is soft and in love
-> this was born from a conversation between @girlfailurearchivist and me so she's pretty much a co-author. everyone go say thank you frances because of her beautiful wonderful brain. frances ilysm ty for letting me write this <3
masterlist || divider/banner by @designlikenonsense || ao3 link
The first sign of you coming home doesn’t come with an announcement, but with the sound of the deadbolt turning.
Your giggles slip through the front door of your shared apartment, along with the sound of your friend’s voice desperately trying to quiet you down.
(It doesn’t work.)
Not that Steve’s surprised by any of this; You’d told him a few days ago that you were planning on having a girl’s night once the week ended. To let loose, you’d said. After a rough month at work.
And Steve—
He had only pressed a kiss to your forehead and tucked an extra twenty into your wallet when you weren’t looking, telling you to have a good time and reminding you to call if you needed a ride home from the bar.
Evidently, you hadn’t needed that ride.
Steve rounds the corner at the same time you manage to get the front door open, stumbling in as laughter peels from your lips. Your friend, clearly sober and unhappy with being the designated driver for the night, gives him a tight smile as he catches you under the arms.
“Fun night?” he asks lightly.
“Don’t even start,” your friend says with an aggrieved noise. “I still have two more drop offs, so I’m gonna go.”
“Fair enough,” Steve says. “Get home safe.”
She nods, and he’s left with an armful of you leaning heavily on him, smiling up like he’s the best thing you’ve seen all evening.
“My knight,” you say, sighing softly as you bring your hands up to his cheeks, squishing them as you drag him down towards your mouth. “Knight Steve, here to save the day…”
He doesn’t fight it. And though the taste of vodka on your lips isn’t the most pleasant thing, he’s pretty sure there isn’t anything in the world that could ever stop him from wanting to kiss you.
“C’mon, pretty girl,” he says. He pulls back just enough that his nose brushes against your own. “Do you think you’re up for a shower tonight, or straight to bed?”
“Bed,” you say. “Too sleepy for a shower.”
He’s gentle as he leads you down the hall, careful to make sure you don’t tip over as you lean more and more of your weight into his side, and guides you into the bathroom. You grumble something incoherent, clearly unhappy with being here and not the bedroom, but he only circles your waist and lifts you onto the counter.
“I’ll be quick, honey,” he murmurs. “Promise.”
The Pond’s cold cream is easy enough to find — you keep the small pot right next to the faucet — and you soften under his touch as he rubs it into your skin, careful as he works the mascara from your lashes. He pulls a washcloth from the drawer and wets it, and you giggle as he wipes the cream from your face until every last trace of makeup is gone.
He grabs your toothbrush and runs it under the faucet, shaking his head when you try to bury your face into his shirt.
“Open up, baby,” he says. “You’ll thank me tomorrow.”
You tilt your face up, giving him your most petulant look, but open your mouth without argument and let him scrub the night from your teeth.
He keeps you steady when you lean over to spit the paste out into the sink and, after a minute of searching, applies balm to your lips so they don’t dry out.
It takes a bit more time for him to locate your moisturizer (he’s watched you carry it around the apartment as you apply it to know that it never stays in one place) and you’re half asleep as he smooths it across your cheeks, paying careful attention when he uses his thumbs to rub your eye cream in under your eyes.
He combs your hair and applies your hair oil the way he’s seen you do a million times, wrapping it up once he’s done and, finally, helping ease you from the bathroom.
Across the hall, you sit on the edge of the bed as he searches through the dresser. You mumble something that he doesn’t understand, but when he turns to see you blanketed in the golden light from the lamp, he finds that he doesn’t quite mind.
I love you, every molecule in his body whispers as he makes his way back to you. I love you, his heart sings as he pulls your top over your head. I love you, I love you, I love you, his soul screams when he kneels down to drag your pajama pants up your legs.
You let out a giggle when he ties the drawstring, and it’s only then that he looks up. There’s an adoring smile on your face and you card your fingers through his hair, your voice soft when you breathe out, “You’re so handsome, Steve. I’m so lucky that you’re mine.”
He stands, his heart beating just a little bit faster, and he can’t stop himself from pressing a kiss against your temple.
(Not that he’ll ever tell you, but every compliment that falls from your lips, every confirmation that he’s enough — that he’s enough for you—)
(It means more than he can put into words.)
You whine when he pulls away, reaching out for another kiss, and he feels guilty when he pries your hands from his face.
“Later,” he promises. “Let’s get you into bed now, yeah?”
He’s careful when he tucks the covers around you, making sure to arrange the pillows around your head the way he knows that you like them. He glances down, and there’s something about the way your lashes frame your eyes that has him leaning down to brush his lips against your forehead before saying, “I’ll be right back, okay?”
You hum, eyes slipping shut, and he slips out of the room.
It’s second nature, really, to fill up a glass with water and rummage around for pain killers in the kitchen cabinet, the same way that arranging them on the bedside table so they’re within arms reach comes to him without thought.
(He’s spent so long trying to keep everyone around him safe and out of harm's way. He’s spent the longest nights of his life, bruised and bloodied and aching, vision blurry as he counted the heads of those he loves the most, making sure they were still there and still breathing—)
(Who knew that it would lead him here? In a warm home filled with love and laughter, one where the worst thing he has to fear is you having a hangover in the morning?)
He flicks the light off and slides into bed behind you, tugging you until your back is pressed to his front, and finally—
Something in his chest eases.
“Steve?”
Your voice is quiet, thick with sleep, and it takes a moment for him to even realize that you’d spoken. You turn in his arms, tracing your fingers down his chin as you meet his gaze
“What’s up, honey?” he asks.
“Love you,” you whisper, earnest in a way a person only is when drunk, like it’s very important for him to know this right in this moment.
He huffs out a laugh. “I love you, too.”
“You’re just…” You clumsily pat his face. “You’re so nice, and so good. Do you know how good you are? Always takin’ care of people, takin’ care of me… So nice. Even when I’m a bother.”
He can’t help the smile that spreads across his face anymore than he can stop himself from turning his head, kissing the pads of your fingers with a kind of reverence that feels sacrilegious.
“I’ll always take care of you,” he says, resolution laced into every syllable. “And you’re never a bother, baby.”
You sigh, clearly content, and bury your face into his shirt. “Will you still love me in the morning?”
warnings: some swearing, idiots in love, jealous!Steve, slow burn(ish), they’re so in love it’s gross, neighbor!reader, Dustin Henderson being a little shit
an: i wrote this a while ago but i’m v proud of it :)
summary: you wanted to bring your videos back on time, you really did, but somehow the threat of a fine was worth it to see Steve Harrington's amused frown when you waltzed in late. besides, he was more than welcome to start fining you - but that meant he'd miss the feeling of how his body turned to goo when you gave him that little smirk, knowing you'd gotten away with it once again.
Summer in Hawkins was near unbeatable. The mornings were scorching, enough that the local pool was packed to capacity with screaming kids and nonchalant parents lounging close by - but by evening: Hawkins would cool to a warm breeze up over the roofs of suburbia.
It was almost six on one such balmy Thursday night, the wind slipping in through the open window as your mom's Toyota sped down the longest strip of road leading almost to the edge of town.
You loved Thursdays. Mondays and Thursday, actually.
They were the two nights you didn't work the evening shift and consequently the two nights Claudia Henderson attended bingo nights down at the diner on Maple.
She'd called you up, as she did every Monday and Thursday, just before five.
“Oh dear, won't you come watch Dusty Bun for the night? Just for a couple hours, I won't be late.”
She always was, but that didn't matter.
The Henderson's had lived next door for almost eight years, since Dustin was no taller than your knee.
"Of course Ms Henderson, I'll be there by six."
You'd agreed, like you did the week before and the week before that. You and Dustin were slowly making your way through the slasher horror section of the video store, promising to never mention it to his mother who would undoubtedly collapse in shock at the notion.
It's how you found yourself pulling with a loud screech and a lurch into the open parking spot right in front of Family Video.
The center parking lot was empty, spare for a red truck near the back of the lot that you were sure had been parked there for weeks.
There was a video store closer to your neighborhood, Mr Video, but going to find your flicks there would rob you of the opportunity to see Steve Harrington's exasperated expression when you slammed the video against the counter late, again.
You sold the bit by complaining that there wasn't as big a selection at Mr Video when anybody ever asked.
The copy you'd rented on Monday afternoon stared up at you from the passenger seat. A Nightmare on Elm Street: Freddy's Revenge.You grinned at it.
"Store policy, you need to bring the video back 48 hours after renting."
You were pushing it on hour 76.
Unfazed, and stomach sloshing with warm, soft excitement for your biweekly encounter with your favourite head of hair in Hawkins, you grabbed the movie off the seat and slid out the car.
The front door jingled behind you, alerting not only the woman standing in the sci-fi section near the window, but also the man behind the counter.
Steve looked up from where he was flipping through a three-month old TV guide, looking painfully bored.
When his eyes met yours, they flickered between expressions quickly before settling on unimpressed.
He leaned to push himself off the counter, glancing dramatically down at the watch over his wrist.
"Punctual, as always."
A grin slid over your lips, using the case of the movie in your hand to fan at the threads of sweat tickling down the side of your neck.
"Listen, I've got a real reason for bringing it late this time—"
He didn't offer you the chance to finish what you both knew was a lie. "And I'd love to hear it if I knew it wasn't bullshit."
You placed the video down onto the counter sliding it over to him, trying to look as nonchalant as possible while quietly soaking in the light freckles speckled over the bridge of his nose.
"What can I say, you know me too well, Harrington."
As was the curse of Hawkins High, you never knew Steve in your time there despite being the same age. He ruled blindly in his kingdom as King Steve while you gravitated in the outer-lying fields of friendship. It wasn't until his maroon BMW started to frequent the driveway between your place and the Henderson's that you were reminded - or in Steve's case, made aware of - each other's existence.
"A good thing too. I didn't have much of an idea where I was gonna go with that story anyways."
He rolled his eyes, but the curl of amusement at the edges of his lips was impossible to miss. A lick of pride bit at your beating heart.
"Right." He grabbed the video from the counter, dropping it into an unseen bin by his feet. "What're you and the little twerp watching tonight?"
Your chin fell into your hands, glancing over his shoulder at the Horror Section near the back of the store, not entirely ready to leave the desk for a proper look and risk losing the light waft of the Dior cologne drifting from over the countertop.
"We've finished the Elm Street stuff ..." you huffed, squinting to read the label off another bloody cover. "Sledgehammer?"
His nose crinkled at you, "Don't. It's shit."
Lifting your face from your hands, your head tilted up to meet his eyes. "Any suggestions then, Scorsese?"
A funny expression ghosted over his face and you watched as his bottom lip was sucked in between his teeth. You almost frowned.
"Well, uh," He fidgeted with a drawer behind the desk, "A new one came in this week, I thought you guys might—might like it so I held onto it for you."
His hand emerged with a blue and red cover on a video, setting it into the space between you - shrugging as far from nonchalantly as you'd ever seen from Steve Harrington.
Was he nervous?
Your hand closed over the copy and you tried to hide how your heart lurched when your fingers brushed over his.
"Slaughter High?" You eyed it, glancing periodically up between the cover and Steve's slowly but surely reddening face.
"I thought y—Dustin might like it."
He was right. It looked like the exact ratio of gore to cheesy plot-line that Dustin adored, that you mostly watched from behind your hands.
"Saving movies for us? This feels like a desperate attempt at gaining an invite to the exclusive Henderson Movie Night." You pressed lightly, watching as Steve's mood dissolved again into Mr Charisma.
"Please," he rolled his eyes, "if I wanted to be there I would. Besides, it takes only one little phone call to good old Claudia to end this whole little horror-fest of yours."
You gasped theatrically, pulling the film up to your chest, "you wouldn't dare."
"Try me."
Setting your hands back on the counter you giggled softly, "You blackmail all the girls that come in here or is it just the pretty ones?"
Steve's cheeks rung red again, you loved the shade on him.
"Just the pretty ones." It was accompanied by that smile you were sure could win Nobel prizes.
A tight pang echoed in your chest.
It was easy to tease him, to pretend for even a minute that maybe he could look at you with the same fondness that forced your eyes over the smile at the corners of his mouth, or the rogue strands of hair that stuck to his forehead in the Indiana heat.
What wasn't quite as easy was forcing aside the nauseous gurgle in your stomach when you noticed how the prettiest girls from every corner of the state would come to lean over the Family Video countertop just as you were doing now, pop their bubblegum in his face and send their cherry lipgloss smiles just to melt him all over.
They were his type, of course.
King Steve had always loved the princesses.
The AC unit wheezed loudly somewhere behind you, forcing you back to where you stood.
Steve was watching you carefully.
You couldn't help noticed how close your hands rested by his on the desk. If you just stretched out your index finger, his would be in yours. You pulled them back slowly, grabbing the movie as you did.
"It looks good," you smiled, motioning to the movie. "I'm sure Dustin's gonna love it."
Steve nodded slowly, "Great. Don't forget to bring—"
But you had already turned on him, half a foot out the door and laughing loudly over your shoulder, "To bring it back on time, yeah yeah I will!"
The door shut loudly, the jingle of the bell against the hinge echoing in the space you'd left. He sighed loudly, forehead coming down against the counter.
"You're pathetic, you know that right?" Robin's voice washed over him from where she had no doubt been lurking in the staff room, following the interaction with her ear against the door.
Not lifting his head, but rather shifting it to offer her a side eye, he groaned: "thanks for the vote of confidence, Robs."
The smell of burnt popcorn hit your senses like a truck when you pulled the door open to the Henderson household. You coughed against your elbow.
"Dustin!"
The teen peeked his head into the hallway from the kitchen, smiling sheepishly. "Hey, I'm just ... sorting out the snacks."
You gave him a sharp look before tossing the video onto the couch, "If you burn down the house your mom is never gonna let me come by here again, you know that right?"
"Yeah, yeah stop being dramatic." He called from the kitchen as you flopped back against the couch. Your eyes found purchase on the blank yellow wall above the television.
The image of Steve in that cute little Family Video vest swirled around in your brain and you were suddenly plagued by the question of how he tasted. Those puffy pink lips, when they twisted into an amused frown. You were sure his kiss would be minty, or maybe sweet from the Twizzlers that were constantly in his hands—
"What you get?" You jumped when Dustin fell into the spot beside you, a tub of nearly black popcorn in his lap.
You eyed it wearily, slowly picking up the video and flashing it in his line of vision.
The teen grabbed it greedily, almost tipping the tub over his knees, raking over the cover. "Hey! This is brand new, I heard Lucas saying that people threw up in the cinema because it's so scary."
He turned to you, "How did you get it? Everyone's gonna want their hands on this."
"It was Steve actually." You leaned over him to reach the packet of Skittles he'd discarded by the arm of the couch, ripping it open. "When I got there he said he'd held it for us, that you'd like it."
Dustin's eyebrows tightened, "That's weird."
"I think it was sweet of him." You sunk further back in the couch, trying not to look too dreamy eyed when Dustin's curious gaze worked over you.
"Ew."
You punched him lightly in the shoulder, laughing. "It's not like that dipstick."
The growing darkness allowed for the disguise of your reddening cheeks.
"Now go put in the movie before I make us watch Golden Girls."
Dustin stood to slot the video into the machine, the television lighting up.
It carried on like that for weeks, well into July and past the end of the Summer break for the high schoolers.
Family Video wasn't as busy as it was with the kids back at school, the hours dragged between shifts with seemingly endless rounds of Crazy Eights and rewatches of whatever romantic 60's flick Robin had chosen that week.
But come Monday or Thursday, Steve would linger excitedly near the counter. Robin would tease him, "you need to pluck up the balls and just ask her out".
He'd roll his eyes at her.
"I've told you, it's not that easy."
It wasn't.
Girls came in every day, leaning indulgently over the counter with smiles to pursue him - and he loved it, don't get him wrong - but somehow twice a week you'd skip into the shop with that grin that made his words fold over each other and his heart feel like it was beating from his throat and he couldn't remember the names of a single one of the others who'd slid their numbers flirtatiously across the desk.
He wasn't sure he was ready for the destruction your rejection would subject him to.
So around five o' clock every Monday and Thursday, when your beat up Toyota screeched into the parking spot in front of the shop, he'd beg Robin to keep her mouth shut for just five minutes and she'd shrug, grinning like the cat who caught the canary before mumbling, "Whatever you say, Casanova."
The door would jingle and you'd come bouncing in with your tank tops and denim shorts or sometimes with a skirt flirting at the tops of your thighs - the image of which would keep Steve up at night - and you'd lean over the counter with the overdue video in your hand.
Except one day you're pushing the door open with your hip, cradling a suspicious pink box, with the video balancing on top.
Steve perked up, tossing aside the Rubik's cube he'd been pretending to be busy with in the moments between you parking the car and stepping into the shop.
You slid the video across the desk at him. The Hills Have Eyes.
"Hi." You grinned before peering over his shoulder, "Hey Robin."
Robin glanced back from where she was restocking the snack shelf. "Hey."
"You know I'm gonna have to start charging you late fees for these eventually, right?" He picked up the video, no substance to his threat at all.
"I know, I know. That's why—" you set the pink box carefully up on the counter, "I've brought a peace offering."
Steve's eyes met yours, eyebrow pinching in confusion. "What is it?"
You rolled your eyes and Steve couldn't help notice the length of your eyelashes, how they fanned at your cheeks: "Well there's only one way to find out, smarty pants."
He lifted the lid of the box, allowing the sugary sweet scent to fill his lungs. Five pink and white donuts stared brightly up at him.
His eyes widened in delight and a warmth flooded his stomach at the thought of you going out to buy pastries just for him.
Steve's silence seemed to make you nervous, because you began speaking quickly into the space: "They're from the Yellow Piglet, you know the diner on Maple? They're really good, I didn't know if you guys were allergic or—"
"No, no." He cut you off, feeling his cheeks warming. "They look delicious."
Robin had apparently heard the commotion, or perhaps sensed the arrival of food - Steve always had a suspicion that her nose was too good to be human - and appeared at his side.
"Donuts!" She beamed, "For us?"
You laughed. "Yep, both of you look like you're not being fed at home. Thought I might thicken you up."
Maybe it was his imagination, but Steve swore he felt your eyes warm over his biceps after you spoke. His eyes flickered unintentionally to your hips, unable to stop himself from wondering if it was the donuts that helped you fill out the sides of those shorts so nicely.
Robin grabbed a pink one out the box, diving into it before moaning around the mouthful - crumbs dripping over her vest.
"This is the best thing that's ever happened to us at work."
She held it up to Steve, offering him a bite. He shook his head, but didn't miss how your gaze flickered between him and his colleague during the small interaction. Your shoulders deflated slightly and his stomach sank.
You coughed awkwardly, avoiding meeting his eyes again, "I'm glad you like them. I think they're worth at least another month's worth of late returns."
"A month? That's a bit generous isn't it?"
"Taste one and you'll change your mind, Harrington. I tried one in the car on the way here, couldn't resist."
His eyes found the two white sprinkles at the edge of your lips, evidence of your indulgence, and fleetingly wished he could suck them off.
Instead, he pulled out a heavily iced donut from the box and bit tentatively into it. Fuck. It really was good.
He tried to catch his sigh before it escaped him, he wasn't quick enough, but the amused smirk you sent him over the table was enough compensation for him to forget it.
"Fine," he mumbled around a mouthful. "A month."
"Great." You skipped past the desk over to the horror section, reaching up to the top shelf to grab The Hills Have Eyes II, while Steve's mouth watered around the donut over the stretch of thigh that peeked out from under your shorts as you reached. Allowing him to commit the image of the deep fold between your ass and thigh to memory.
That was before Robin dug her elbow into his side, meeting him with a stern look that said "you're being a fucking creep".
Before he could retort, you were back at the desk, flashing the cover at him. "I'll take this one."
He quickly typed in the name and you were on your way again, only the jingle of the door left behind and the light whiff of your perfume to plague Steve for the rest of the day.
Robin bumped his shoulder, starting on her second donut, "That one's a keeper, Harrington."
He couldn't help agree.
Besides Mondays and Thursdays, Steve also loved Saturdays. It was his one off day a week, also the day he'd take Dustin down to the Frozen Frenzy and buy him a tub of frozen yoghurt, allowing him to practically overfill the cup with toppings.
They'd drive from there to the park close to the Harrington household where they'd sit in Steve's car and he'd listen to Dustin ramble about how he hated his maths teacher or how Suzie was teaching him how to code on the computer while he sipped on a strawberry milkshake.
He was listening mostly attentively, eyes trained on the squirrel running up the side of a tree a few feet from the car, but perked up at the mention of your name.
"—she said there's a horror festival in Indianapolis in October and that we could go if I wanted. The guy who played Jason in Friday the 13th is apparently gonna be there."
Steve nodded as solemnly as he could manage, looking at the side of Dustin's face now.
"And... and you guys have fun together?"
Dustin scooped another mouthful of caramel yoghurt and sour worms into his mouth, nodding. "Yeah. She's the best: let's me stay up as late as I want, drives me wherever I wanna go. And she's funny."
Pulling out the straw to mix the remnants of milkshake at the bottom of his cup, Steve nodded again - trying to look casual when he opened his mouth again.
"Does she ever ... y'know, ask about me?"
Dustin's head whipped towards him. "Why?"
"What do you mean why, Henderson. She's ... she's cute I like her."
The curly hair atop Dustin's head trembled as he shook it, muttering vehemently "Oh no, no, no, you're not going for her."
"Why not!" Steve twisted in his seat to face the fifteen year old, "I treat girls well."
"Yeah," he scoffed, "for two and a half dates before you stop taking their calls. All you're gonna do is lead her on and then upset her when you get bored."
Steve's jaw slackened, taken aback by Dustin's scathing, yet mostly honest, review. "Jesus, tell me what you really think Henderson."
"Am I wrong?"
The straw of his milkshake became suddenly interesting again and Steve began to fiddle with it. "No, I mean not entirely, but I ... I wouldn't do that to her."
He could feel Dustin's heated gaze against the side of his neck, "I don't believe that."
"Listen, I ... I really like her, okay? I think she's cool." God, he never sounded this damn pathetic in high school. When did all of this get so difficult? "Just tell me, does she ever mention me?"
Dustin hesitated, "I don't know ... I guess she talks about you when she comes back from getting the movie every week. She said you're sweet."
Steve grinned, a familiar wave of confidence washing over him. "She thinks I'm sweet?"
"That's what I said."
He leaned back against the headrest, bringing his milkshake to slurp at it noisily. "Sweet. I can work with sweet."
That very same night, all the way across Hawkins: you were on the way back from work when your hand-me-down ride pulled to a spluttering stop just a couple miles from home.
Smoke billowed from underneath the hood and you knew better than to go prying beneath it.
After ten minutes of kicking furiously at the wheel and wiping away angry tears, you elected to walk half a mile to the nearest public phone, dropping in a quarter to ring up the mechanic two streets down from your neighborhood.
You didn't wait long. By the time you'd reached your car again and slid back into the driver's seat, turning up the evening radio, a tall white pick up truck pulled to a stop beside you.
Not that you'd been entirely sure what to expect of the man to step out the car, but you almost choked on thin air when the beast of a man climbed from the truck.
"Hi, I'm Ralph," he stuck a large, black-stained paw at you and you took it clumsily. "You must be ..."
You nodded, too embarrassed to attempt words just yet.
Ralph was tall, ginormous actually. He towered over you with big meaty shoulders covered in colorful ink and a thickset beard that wrapped over the borders of his face before dipping into the edges of the long mane of hair atop his head.
He smiled, with a brilliant white set of teeth too, before moving to work. He attached your pathetic car to the truck before offering you a lift home.
The car ride was short but Ralph was endearing, he asked what you did and sounded interested when you mentioned your job at the record store, you asked about his work as a mechanic and he laughed heartily at your dizzy attempts at jokes.
When the truck pulled to a park outside your house, he promised it would be sorted before Monday.
You thanked him, batting your eyelashes maybe a little heavily and offering a soft brush at his arm before beginning to move out the car.
He stopped you before the door shut, "Listen, I'd love to take you out sometime if you'd like. Maybe after you pick up the car, Monday night?"
Your eyes glossed dreamily, was this giant piece of smoking man meat really asking you out?
Wait.
Monday night?
Steve's freckled cheeks came sharply into the view of your mind's eye.
You couldn't do Monday, not when it's the only time you get to visit him—
The image of Steve was replaced by the gum popping, cherry lipgloss wearing blonde you'd seen him leave the local cinema with only a couple months ago.
Your stomach twisted nastily, but you fixed your face before Ralph could pick up on the inner turmoil.
"I'd love to."
Monday came quickly. Steve had spent the better part of the weekend working over what he was going to say when you came into the store. He picked out his favourite blue polo and spent an extra twenty minutes on his hair. He even slid a pack of gum into his pocket.
Robin teased and picked at him, but seemed glad at the prospect of a final end to all his pining.
"Thank god, maybe I can get a break from those pathetic googly eyes you have whenever she comes in here."
Nervousness ate at Steve all day, he tried to busy himself with packing away returns or alphabetizing the customers names on the computer but as the minutes ticked closer to five, he could feel the buzz on the surface of his skin.
"I don't know why I'm so worried about this." He muttered irritably over his shoulder at Robin who was sitting rewinding tapes on the floor, "I've asked out a thousand girls. Those all mostly went well."
"Yeah but you've never been scared that one of them was gonna say no."
Steve's knuckles tapped agitatedly at the counter. "Right. Whatever, but she's not gonna say no. I'm gonna woo her."
"Woo her?"
"Woo her."
As slowly as dripping honey, five o' clock arrived. Steve's eyes flickered between the door and the clock.
And just as slowly, it disappeared again.
Five. Half past. Ten to. Six thirty.
You'd never been this late. Twice a week for going on three or so months, at around five pm you'd step into Family Video. Into the view of Steve's googly eyes and churning stomach.
The sun was beginning to set over Hawkins, basking the little video store in an orange light that only served to make the yellow painted walls seem brighter.
Steve could feel Robin's little sympathetic glances at him from the back of the store and they were making his hair stand on end.
He chewed his bottom lip carefully, but there wasn't a rumble of even a single engine on the one road into the center.
After another ten minutes of tapping the counter loudly, he huffed and pulled the phone closer to him from down the desk. He slipped his wallet out from his back pocket where he kept a small list of important numbers, a list he'd been hoping to add yours to by the end of the day, and dialed up the number for the Henderson Household.
The phone rang six times before a resounding click echoed over the line and Dustin's unmistakable voice streamed through.
"Hello?"
"Dustin, it's Steve."
He could feel Robin's gaze on the back of his neck: "Oh. Hey Steve, what's up?"
"Listen, is— are you guys not having movie night tonight, because—"
"Oh, no we're not ... uhm, she's not here."
Something twisted nastily in Steve's stomach.
"What do you mean she's not there? Where is she?"
Robin approached him from behind, leaning up against the other side of the phone to try catch the snippets of conversation.
"She went out on a date, said I could stay home alone as long as I didn't tell my mom—"
"A-A date?" Steve choked and Robin gasped beside him, "a date!" she mouthed.
Steve could feel blood rushing to his brain and suddenly his fingertips were ice cold, the phone trembled for a second in his hand.
"Yeah."
He ran a tight hand through his hair, ruining in seconds the hairdo he'd spent almost an hour on that morning. He struggled for a words, "A date with who? How could you let her go on a date—!"
"She said it was a mechanic from I don't know, and what do you mean how could I? You didn't ask her out so what was I supposed to do!"
Steve barely registered the commiserative pat against his shoulder.
"Did she says what time she'll be back?"
"She's my babysitter, not the other way around. I don't know."
Steve sighed, dropping his forehead into his palm and pressing tightly against the sides of his forehead. "Thanks dipshit. Do you know what time they left?"
"Uh ... a big white pickup was parked outside at like three. I saw her get inside."
The tick of the clock pulled Steve's gaze towards it. Quarter past seven. Their shift ended at seven thirty.
"I'm coming over, I'll be there in twenty minutes."
The phone slammed back against the dial before Dustin could respond. He turned to Robin, who's eyes were wide in unease: like Steve was a wild animal that could attack at any moment.
"Come let's pack the last of this shit away, we're going to Dustin's."
The last of the videos were packed haphazardly onto the shelves, Robin wasn't even sure they were in alphabetical order and didn't dare mention when Steve put Sixteen Candles on the Sci-Fi shelf.
Within ten minutes she was thrown into the passenger seat of his BMW and Steve was screeching down Kilney Road towards Dustin's neighborhood.
It was dark by the time they pulled up. Steve marched up the driveway, barely attempting a knock before throwing the door open. Dustin leapt up from the couch where he'd been lazily channel surfing, the half finished pizza he'd bought with the money you'd left him sitting on the table.
Steve situated himself at the kitchen window, the one over the stove that looked directly onto your front yard.
"Steve, she could be still another couple hours." Dustin pressed, really just wanting to go lay back down on the couch.
"If she comes home at all." Robin quipped. It earned her a hard, hot glare.
"Jeez." She mumbled.
Dustin turned to look up at her, "I didn't know he liked her that much." He whispered.
"God, you have no idea," she sighed, "it's like watching a kicked puppy every time she leaves the store."
After a short-lived and futile attempt at consoling Steve to at least come sit on the couch, Dustin and Robin fell in front of the television.
The teen put on one of his old copy of The Fox and The Hound and Robin picked at the pepperoni on his forgotten pizza.
Steve sulked by the window. He periodically called back self-pitying remarks at them like "you could've at least told me you know, before I called!" every twenty or so minutes.
They generally ignored him.
"You think she'd make me a bridesmaid?" Robin asked Dustin offhandedly.
He shrugged, "She's cool. I'm sure if you asked nicely."
"Sweet."
The movie was drawing to a close near nine thirty - they could tell Steve had been watching from the doorframe of the kitchen when he gasped at the Fox being caught, but they didn't mention it - when the rumble of a truck echoed down the street outside the house.
"Henderson!"
Dustin and Robin perked up, leaping off the couch and skidding towards the kitchen where Steve was practically crawling over the stovetop.
A dirty white truck pulled up into the driveway outside your house before stilling.
"That's the one." Dustin whispered, leaning to turn off the kitchen light and avoid being spotted.
Steve was biting furiously at the insides of his cheeks, his eyes trained on the car.
The windows were tinted and despite the engine being off, there was no movement from the car. The lack of a visual was setting Steve on edge.
"You think they're making out?" Robin mumbled.
Steve didn't even look when he pinched her hard in the arm.
"Ow!"
"Hey, hey, look!" Dustin's forehead pressed against the window, forming round circles of mist against the glass.
The truck was big, but absolutely nothing compared to the man that stepped out of it.
"Holy shit."
Steve swore he felt the ground tremble when the man stepped out the car onto the pavement, tall as a house with enough muscles to rip down a billboard.
"What the fuck—" He squeaked.
The man was rounding the car, obviously to open your door. Oh, and he has manners too. Asshole, Steve though bitterly.
"He's fucking huge!" He turned to Robin, "How am I supposed to compete with Goliath!"
She spluttered, "I—"
"Look, there she is." Dustin was pressing a greasy finger to the glass.
Steve looked and almost wished he hadn't.
You walked beside the mountain man, smiling up at him in the prettiest little sundress Steve had ever seen. His knees buckled beneath him. It was short, hiding just the tops of your thighs, and covered in a green flower print that reached down to your wrists.
"Woah, she looks really pretty."
A heavy wave of self-pity sloshed around in the pit of his stomach, almost forcing up his lunch.
You looked pretty every day, beautiful, but the thought of you dressing up in a tiny little dress and the black eyeliner that he could make out all the across the yard for another man in a way he wished you would do for him was about to make him sick.
He'd probably dream about that dress for the next hundred nights. Maybe you had others, in different colours.
God knows what he'd do to you in one of them.
After the date he'd dreamed of taking you on, in the driver's seat of his car. He'd kiss you the way a girl as mettlesome as you is meant to be kissed, maybe pull you into his lap and run his hands all the way up those massive thighs, up past the edge of that dress—
"I don't know what to tell you Harrington. This isn't looking good for you, pal." Robin pulled him sharply out of his fantasies.
You and the mechanic neared your doorstep. Steve's heart clenched tightly in his chest. This would be around the time he himself would try for at least a soft peck.
"It's make or break now." Dustin whispered.
The pair stopped, your hand on the door as you looked up to meet the massive man's face.
Steve sucked in a sharp breath when he leaned his hairy face down closer to your level and thought he might faint when you pressed up onto your tippy toes to leave a kiss on his—
"Cheek!" Dustin yelped happily, "She kissed him on the cheek, that's good!"
Steve let out a long breath, a fraction of warm relief dripping into his bloodstream.
"Yeah, a cheek kiss is good." Robin nodded, arms supporting her against the stone countertop. "If she really liked him she would've kissed him properly."
Steve knew that Robin maybe wasn't the best person to offer any accurate commentary on a heterosexual encounter such as this, but he was too busy clinging to any sense of hope to bother mentioning it.
When he looked up again, the man was heading back towards his car and you'd already disappeared into the house. The three of them watched as the living room light flickered on in the distance.
Steve slid off the counter, dragging his feet towards the couch before falling back onto it - as if he'd just completed a half marathon.
Robin and Dustin squished in beside him.
"There's hope." Dustin said.
"Definitely hope." Robin concurred.
"Hope? Did you just see the same man I did? How am I supposed to compete with ..." he motioned vaguely over his shoulder, "he looks like a gladiator!"
"You just have to ask her out before their next date, if she even wants one!" Robin consoled, leaning over to begin picking at the abandoned pizza again.
"Yeah, he just took her on a date, he didn't propose to her. There's plenty of time."
Steve nodded slowly, allowing their wisdom to sink in - trying to ignore the fact that he was taking advice from a teen boy who's girlfriend lived across the country. "You're right ... there is hope."
An idea began to sink into his pretty little head.
The two on either side of him sighed gratefully. Dustin picked up the remote again, pressing play on the movie.
"Great. Now let's finish—"
"Invite me to your movie night." Steve turned to face Dustin, hands meeting the boy's shoulders.
"W-What?"
"Yeah, it's perfect! You invite me, I come over, then you make some excuse and then buzz off to Lucas' or something."
Robin looked affronted, cheeks full of dough, "We have work?"
"I'll call in sick." He waved vaguely at her. "Dealing with Keith is the least of my problems. Dustin?"
The teen's face twisted in consideration, "I... don't know how I feel about pawning my neighbor off on you."
"Come on, please?" Steve's tone dripped in sincerity, "I'll treat her well, I swear."
Dustin sucked in a breath, "Fine—"
All three of them jumped when the ring of the phone against the wall split into the room between them.
"That's probably her." Dustin remarked, climbing up off the couch again and quickly peeling the phone off the dial. "Hello?"
You sighed against the line, grateful that the poor boy was still alive.
"Dusty Bun," you teased, tugging unconsciously at the chain around your neck. "did you survive the night without me?"
He laughed a little against the line, "Yep. Everything is fine."
You smiled, a little bit sad that you'd missed out on your night with your favourite boy. "Hopefully not too fine, or I'll be out of a job."
"Right, sorry. What I meant to say was that it was barely survivable. You'll be here on Thursday, though, right?"
Leaning against the wall you nodded before remembering that he couldn't see you, "Of course. We need to finish Psycho."
Glancing out the window from your living room, you noticed the kitchen light off at the Henderson's. You plucked at the edge of your dress, the question scalding your tongue:
"Dustin, is Steve there?"
You'd recognize that maroon BMW anywhere, seen it already as Ralph pulled into your driveway.
You suspect that it was the reason you ducked to kiss his cheek when he was obviously intent on your lips.
"No!" Dustin choked against the other side of the line, "He's not—"
There was a scuffle on his side and you couldn't help grin, hushed voices echoed in the background and the phone rustled against what you could only assume was Dustin's shirt.
"Well, his car is parked in front of your house—"
"I mean yes." The boy's voice cut through the line again, "Steve and Robin are here, they came to check on me."
An uneasy feeling settled in your chest. Had Steve seen you and Ralph?
You shook the thought off firmly. Good, you hoped he saw you.
A part of you wanted to march over to Dustin's, to step in there looking as good as you did tonight. After you put effort into your hair and makeup, dressing a little bit up for the evening, and maybe parade a little bit in front of Steve but you knew it was only going to hurt the progress you'd made by accepting Ralph's date in the first place.
Steve Harrington was the King of Women in Hawkins and if he could have his pick of the princesses, you knew he wouldn't pick you.
You'd feel nothing less than sick to your stomach and end up crying into your pillow if you went in there and Steve didn't bat an eyelash in your direction.
"Okay good. Well then I don't need to come check on you, right? You should be heading to bed soon, there's school in the morning."
"Uhm, yeah I'll be fine—" He cut himself off with a groan, like he'd been hit. There was hushed murmurings before he returned to the line. "So, how was the date?"
Your mind flickered back over the evening, how Ralph came to pick you up, took you to a nice restaurant in town and made good conversation. Made you laugh.
He wasn't Steve, but then again, nobody was.
"It was good. Really good." You sighed against the line, from exhaustion or content you weren't sure. "I think I'm gonna see him again. He said he rides motorbikes, I told him how you said you'd like to try and he mentioned that he could take you for a spin whenever you want?"
"Ah, awesome!"
You giggled, "Yeah, I thought so too. You should get to bed, bud. I'll drop you at school in the morning if you like? To make up for my absence?"
"Sure."
Even biting your lip couldn't help the words that slipped, "Tell Steve I said goodnight. A-and Robin, tell them both."
"Will do. Night."
The phone clicked loudly against the dial and you pushed off the wall, beelining towards the stairs.
You took an extra long shower, hoping that Steve and Robin would leave in the time you were busy so you wouldn't be tempted to watch by the window from your room.
They did.
The shutters blocked the last of the light from the street when you dropped them against the pane, steeping the room in darkness.
You sighed loudly before sliding into bed, pulling a pillow closer to your chest.
The night had been nice, it really had. Ralph was sweet, he was doting and made noises at all the right parts in your stories. Yes, maybe he was a little boring, not many of his interests aligning with yours.
He spoke about cars and motorbikes and you tried to be interested, the fact that he was willing to entertain Dustin was attractive in its own right.
At the end of the night, before you climbed out the car, he'd asked if you wanted to go to a movie on Friday night. You'd agreed.
He wasn't Steve, but he was nice. And for God's sake you wanted to be treated nicely for a little bit. Was it so wrong to just want to be looked after? To hold someone's hand and have a warm body beside you when Winter inevitably crawls over Hawkins?
The thought was enough to let you close your eyes and slip off into sleep, allow you to pretend that Steve Harrington doesn't matter.
The days that followed were good. Ralph rang the next night, just to check up on you, your car was finally cooperating again and your shifts at the store had been as entertaining as they came.
You'd put Steve's existence firmly out of your mind until you pulled into Family Video at nearly five-fifteen on Thursday afternoon.
Hesitance rumbled through you. Your hand wavered on the door handle, but a tugging in your stomach gave away how excited you were to see him again. To be able to tease him over the counter.
Deciding that making it fast was the best course of action, you climbed from your car and slipped quickly through the entrance, the familiar light jingle pooling your chest in warmth.
Robin's big eyes glanced up at you from where she was examining the contents of a packet of gummy bears.
"Hey, you." She grinned.
You couldn't help how your eyes swept over the store, in desperate search of a moussed and quaffed head of brown hair.
"H-Hey Robs." You pulled your attention back to her.
"Well don't look so disappointed, it's just little old me today."
Passing the counter you offered up as genuine a chuckle as you could muster.
"I'm never disappointed when I see you, Robin," you called over your shoulder, glazing over the horror section to find Psycho II on the top right corner. You swore every time you came in looking for a movie it ended up being on the topmost shelf, always needing to ask Steve for help or just embarrassingly reach at it from your tippy toes.
"Where's your partner in crime?" You hoped you came off nonchalant as you turned back towards Robin, sliding the movie over to her.
The amusement dripping from her smirk was slightly unsettling. "Oh, he had other plans tonight. Ditched me."
A sharp sting plunged through your chest. There's only really one reason why he would abandon Robin in the shop alone.
"Let me guess, that little brunette I saw in here last week wooed him into taking her to see Pretty in Pink tonight?" There really wasn't another feasible reason for you to ask, Robin would likely probe and you shouldn't care, but you just had to know.
"Wooed him?" She laughed, taking you by surprise. "God, you guys are made for each other."
Your head nudged to the side, squinting. "W-What?"
She shrugged you off, "Never-mind, but to answer your question: yes, something like that."
Both ideas tugged at each other for the space at the front of your brain. What is Robin talking about? versus So Steve really is out with someone tonight?
Jealousy twisted hotly through your veins, as if you had any right with Ralph coming to fetch you for your second date in less than twenty-four hours.
In the couple seconds you'd been preoccupied by your thoughts, Robin had already rung up the movie - offering it back to you. "Here you go."
You smiled lightly, "Thanks Robin, I'll ... I'll see you around."
She nodded, smirk dripping in mischief. "Have fun with little Dusty Bun."
The drive back to your street was distracted. The thought of Steve making out with a girl in the back-most row of the cinema during the end credits was enough to almost make you miss the red light on the corner of Walnut and Oak.
Your head was so wrapped around your five minute interaction with Robin in the store that when you stopped at Dustin's house, you marched straight past Steve's car without even noting it's presence.
The cool air from the blasting air-conditioner blew straight past you when you opened the door.
"Dustin!" You called into the house, bouncing down the corridor, desperate to put Steve Harrington out of your mind: "Are you ready for Psycho?"
You began making obnoxious gestures, pretending to be stabbed by imaginary knives from different angles in the abdomen and faking loud grunts of pain.
You rounded the corner to where you could make out the curly topped head of your kid neighbor over the back of the couch.
"Oh, Norman, stop—!"
Staring up at you from the very same couch was just the man you'd intended on pretending didn't exist: Steve Harrington.
"Hey," he grinned at you, making to stand. You blinked down at him, lips frozen around your words.
For god sakes, did he have to make everything so hard by looking so fucking good?
His hair looked fluffy, like it had just been washed - not too much hairspray that it stood very tall, but rather so a couple strands were allowed to swoop down to hang over those warm brown eyes that were looking expectantly up at you and a dizzying yellow sweater that made his skin glow.
"Steve," you sighed. "Hi."
Dustin cleared his throat awkwardly, "I... I invited Steve to join our movie night, if that's fine?"
Steve grinned.
It took a couple seconds to process Dustin's response before you considered them playfully, "Sounds like Harrington is slowly working me out of a job here. Should I send in my application to Family Video now or later?"
Sooner or later you'd have to make peace with Steve's company. Ralph or no Ralph, Steve Harrington was high on the roster of Dustin Henderson's favourite people and if you intended on keeping your substitute little brother around, you were going to have to keep your feelings in your back pocket until they slipped quietly out of existence.
"Maybe wait 'till I resign." Steve chided, "I figure by the end of the week I'll be the full-time nanny here. Claudia already adores me."
You tossed the movie at Dustin, scoffing.
"Go put it in before I leave both of you to have your play-date alone. The nerve of you two ..."
He nodded, shifting off the couch towards the player.
A neat pile of snacks was waiting against the coffee table in front of the couch, you couldn't help notice all the favourites you'd usually pick when you stopped past Family Video.
You slid off your shoes before crashing against the edge of the couch, intentionally as far from Steve who had situated himself in the dead centre.
Dustin returned, taking the opposite end of the couch. You observed him curiously, noting the large gaps between each member on the couch - but said nothing on it.
"So this is what you're ditching work for, Harrington?" You mentioned absently, slowly turning Robin's words over in your mind as you reached for a bag of Twizzlers.
Yes, something like that.
"Yep. I couldn't turn down such a prestigious invitation." His hand dug deeper into the Doritos packet, "Wanted to see if you're actually watching the movies I give you, or you just come past to flirt with me."
A hot red blush raced up the sides of your neck over your cheeks, you didn't look at him - instead trying very hard to focus on the loading television screen. You pulled hard at the piece of your candy with your teeth, chewing slowly.
"In your dreams, Steven."
A shrill ring pierced through the room against the hum of the opening credits. Dustin jumped up quickly, "I should get that—"
Behind you, you heard the phone lift off the wall.
"Hello?"
There was quiet, you'd paused the movie while you waited for the call to end - only the loud munching of Steve's Doritos to distract you.
"Really?" Dustin sounded dramatically excited, your eyebrows pinched curiously at him. "Yeah, yeah, I'll be right over. Bye."
The phone was slammed haphazardly back against the wall, you looked at Dustin confused.
"What's happening?"
"It was Lucas, he said his mom just bought him the new Legend of Zelda. That I could come over and try it out."
You glanced slightly sad between him and the television, "What about the movie—?"
"You guys can keep watching. I'll watch it when I get home, I won't be late." Dustin's eyes clouded with an emotion you couldn't quite make out.
But your duty was to babysit him, not imprison him, so you nodded slowly, "O-Okay sure, have fun I guess."
Dustin was out the door quicker than you anticipated. He grabbed his backpack from his room and the door slammed behind him.
"Guess it's just us." The sound of Steve's voice startled you.
You turned to face him, nodding carefully. "Sure ... do you want to keep watching or, if you don't want to I can head—"
"No!" You jumped at the volume, he chuckled nervously and he reached a tentative hand to your arm. "Sorry, I mean, no ... I'd like to keep watching. With you. If you want to."
Starting to laugh, you shrugged at him, "Sure, but I have to warn you that I'm a really bad movie talker. It drives Dustin nuts."
He visibly eased, "I'm sure I can handle it. Robin's the same."
The movie was clicked back on and you chewed on a freshly opened pack of sour worms loudly.
You commented on the most obvious of moments, pleased when Steve giggled at you - also somewhat puzzled because you definitely knew you couldn't be that funny - and recoiled back into the couch when bloody guts would splatter across the screen.
"I mean, how dumb do you have to be!" You yelled obnoxiously at the television, as if the woman on the screen would turn from entering the obviously dangerous house.
"You know she can't hear you, right?"
Settling back against the couch, you huffed. "Whatever. She's going to die anyways."
The sun had long since disappeared out in the street, the neighborhood lit by the street lamps. Dustin must have been gone an hour already because cool evening was creeping in through the floorboards and the hair on your naked calves stood on end. Although, you couldn't entirely contribute that to the temperature when Steve was sitting less than a foot from you.
You side-eyed the tin of Pringles in his lap. "Can I have some?"
"Come get it."
The sentence pierced a hole in your chest and you felt momentarily breathless. Steve's smugness was radiating off of him in waves.
Trying to avoid meeting his face with your blushing one, you shifted over towards him. "Asshole." You mumbled, dipping your hand into the can before focusing back on the television.
"You're welcome." He nudged you with his elbow, making you suddenly aware of how close he was next to you - his thigh pressing hotly against yours.
A slash of metal splashed ruby red blood across the screen and you flinched back against him, giggling. "Dustin's gonna love this."
"Especially when he realizes they've shown boobs twice now."
You dug your index finger into his ribs under where his arms were folded over his chest. "You're so gross."
"Hey!" He winced from your prodding, "Breasts are one of the few great pleasures in life."
You looked back at the screen, pretending to be unbothered. "If you wanted to see boobs, Steve, you could've just asked."
The breath Steve sucked in was loud. A short silence followed it.
"W-What?"
You glanced up at him, working hard to hold down your smirk, "Why so shy, Stevie?"
It was Steve's turn to blush hot red over the bridge of his nose and up to the apples of his cheeks. The laughs slipped broken from your lips, you wheezed in breaths between them.
"I'm—I'm sorry, I'm just joking Harrington." Your head was tilted back again to match his gaze. He was smiling sheepishly.
"Was starting to get my hopes up there, it's not fair to tease people." His attempt at a counter-strike was weak and you brushed it off.
Your giggles softened, holding his gaze. "I'm sorry, but the look on your face was priceless."
Steve didn't reply, but his eyes were holding yours. Suddenly everything except him felt very far away. You'd never seen the spots on his cheeks from this up close before.
"You've got a nice laugh, has anyone ever told you that?" He whispered, as if divulging some secret.
Despite feeling very exposed with Steve's eyes raking over the edges of your face and down the length of your nose, you couldn't look away.
"You're the first."
A warm hand closed over the skin under your right ear and he sighed when your lips just barely brushed over his.
He tilted his head down to pull you against him when a shriek echoed from the television and you jumped back in fright.
Steve's heart sunk. You've got to be fucking kidding me.
You sat back: eyes wide and alternating between him and the screen.
"Uhm, sorry..." Steve coughed awkwardly and you shook your head, avoiding his gaze.
He glared up at the woman on screen as if she could actually feel his irritation towards her, but still felt a swelling pride in his chest that he'd gotten you so close against him, practically in his arms as he'd dreamt for weeks.
Somehow though, he swore he could feel you buzzing against him, that you wanted it as bad as he did.
Now, you were sliding back down to your original spot at the end of the couch - face bright red in the dim light of only the lamp across the room. "No, it's ... it's fine, I'm sorry." You were speaking more to your chest than to him.
The image of Ralph standing on your doorstep appeared in his mind like a blinding vision. How you'd dodged his lips, instead planting a kiss on his cheek.
You'd just done the same to him.
God, when is this movie gonna end ... Thoughts swirled around Steve's head. He folded his arms carefully.
Did this have something to do with the mechanic? Or did he really just stand no chance with the girl that's been plaguing his dreams since the day he met you?
The air between you was thick. Steve let it permeate while the movie played in the background. It brought him small joy to know the woman who'd screamed earlier and crushed his dream, had just been murdered.
You were quiet, but he could still feel your flickering gazes against the side of his face. He wondered if maybe you were reading his thoughts through the side of his head.
Curiosity nagged at him.
"I didn't see you in the store on Monday." He tried carefully, unable to ignore the itch anymore.
A smile curled at your lip and Steve was suddenly glad he decided to speak. You turned to meet his eye, "Did you miss me?"
"Desperately."
Your smirk stuttered, unsure about the honesty of the response. "Well, I skipped babysitting on Monday. I was out ... I-I went on a date."
"Oh, okay. That's ... nice?" Steve tried to sound as if it was the first time he was hearing this information. "I mean, was it? Was it nice?"
You nodded quickly, very quickly.
"It was nice. Very nice, actually. He's taking me to the movies tomorrow night."
Steve's stomach sank. He had less time than he thought. Maybe that's why his mouth began to run faster than his brain.
"You like him then?" He pressed, "Doesn't look much like your type though."
The words settled into the room. Your eyebrows pinched, turning in your seat to look at him. He could already read the questions forming in your head, biting down on the corner his lip and was slowly realizing that he'd said the wrong thing.
"M-my type?" You asked, "I don't— wait, when did you see him? When did you see Ralph?"
Ralph.
Steve stuttered, scrambling for a way to explain his story in a way that made sense without admitting that he'd been spying on them that night. "Robin and I saw him on Monday night, when we ... when we came around."
"So then you knew where I was on Monday? Why did you ask?"
"Oh, I didn't think you would be on a date ... I thought maybe he was a friend or something." The second he saw your face, he knew he'd only made it worse.
"Right, because I don't go on dates. I can't possibly." You seemed to be growing more offended the more you unwrapped his answers. "And my type? Since when do I have a type? What in your opinion is my type, Steve—"
"I don't know!" He was stumbling now, grasping at straws. "You went out with Jackson Gillespie in high school..."
"And what does that mean?"
Your face was red again, but this time you weren't blushing. The twist in your expression was dripping in hurt.
"Well compared to your Ralph they ... they look nothing alike!" Words were slipping from his lips like water through his hands, too fast for him to consider before they're gone. "He looks like you found him in the forest, like ... like a grizzly bear or something!"
"And who, in your high and mighty opinion, Steve, am I supposed to date?" You guffawed, not a single trace of humor dripping from your tone. "You get to run around with any Ms America lookalike in Hawkins because they're all in love with you, and I'm not allowed to go on one date with a very good looking man who actually shows interest in me!"
"Oh please," he was scoffing now and a little voice at the back of his mind was warning him that he definitely shouldn't be. "As if you don't see how men fall over themselves for you. You skip around town in your cute little skirts and your smart mouth—"
"Like who?" It felt like your eyes were burning a hole through his skull, he'd only just noticed the way your eyes were beginning to well up - fat pools of tears hanging onto your waterline. He felt sick. His tongue stuck immediately to the floor of his mouth. Like me!
"And even if that's true, which it's not, what do you expect me to do? Sit around and wait for them to find the balls to ask me out?"
The room was sweltering.
"Okay, wait—"
But it didn't stop you.
"The only person I was willing to wait for has his pick of any Barbie in the state of Indiana, and it will never be me. But I'm not waiting anymore. I can't be stupid forever."
A heavy tear had broken loose and was running down your cheek.
He squinted, wait. Were you talking about him?
The silence was broken by a wet sniff and the shuffle as you went to stand.
"I-I'm gonna wait for Dustin at home." You were whispering now, he barely caught it.
Steve called your name softly, but you didn't turn. Only the sound of the front door shutting remained after you fled.
Steve sat back against the couch, sighing loudly and running both hands through his hair.
How had the conversation gotten away from him so quickly? A pang of guilt resounded in his chest. He shouldn't have insulted the mechanic. Or implied that you don't go on dates. Honestly, he wished he'd just pulled you in to kiss you even after the interruption.
Maybe if he had, he'd be lying with you between his arms right then instead of occupying the couch alone after sending you home in tears.
The old bed frame creaked when you fell against it.
You tore open the sheets in darkness, the pursuit of light abandoned as you crawled beneath them. Pressing your face against the pillow did little in muting your gasping hiccups, you could still hear when Steve's car pulled out the driveway next door and raced off down the street.
Screwing your eyes shut, you worked to dissolve the image of Steve's confused face from your head.
After less than a half hour, the throbbing against the side of your head had grown to unbearable. You reached blindly in your bedside drawer, lifting out a rattling bottle of pain medicine and swallowing two tablets before crashing back against your mascara stained pillow.
Morning arrived hot after a long night of restless tossing.
You would've stayed in bed until the evening, but the sweltering heat forced you from the sheets and declared you face your reflection in the bathroom mirror.
The house creaked around you, empty and alone as it stood most days. Thoughts tormented you, embarrassment tore through you every time your mind wandered to the night before.
You couldn't believe that you'd lost your cool on Steve like that.
Nausea was a constant companion as you tried to move through your day. Sickened by how you allowed yourself to think there was a sliver of hope for reciprocation when he almost kissed you. Clearly you meant nothing more to Steve than any of the other girls who batted their eyelashes at him.
At some point in the afternoon, you phoned the Henderson house. Claudia answered and you stuttered your way through an excuse for calling.
"Dustin said he wasn't feeling well last night ... I just wanted to check if he's okay?"
"Oh, well he seemed fine this afternoon. He just left for Mike's house, I'll tell him you called."
It took a whole twenty minutes after you'd hung up with Dustin's mother, standing at the phone, that you decided to call up Ralph.
"Listen, I'm really not feeling well today ... yeah, could we do a rain check on the movie tonight?"
"Yes, of course. Maybe next week sometime?"
You couldn't see Ralph that day, not after what happened in the Henderson living room. Your forehead pressed against the wall beside the phone and you sighed loudly.
Dustin was going to be upset. You'd abandoned him to ride his bike to school and ruined what was a perfectly good friendship with someone he cared for deeply.
By almost seven o' clock, the time which Ralph was intending to pick you up, the couch had practically swallowed you whole.
The jingle from the television hummed against the rumble of the cars heading home, you watched only half-attentive - pajama clad legs splayed over the edge of the chair.
The first knock made you shift slightly, only partially sure you'd heard anything at all. But when a second rang through the corridors, louder, you were forced up from the couch.
You were sure it was Ralph. That he hadn't taken the hint, decided to come past anyways, and when your hand closed over the doorknob you were completely ready to feign a cough and kindly nudge him away.
What you weren't ready for, however, was to face Steve Harrington staring down at your across the doorframe.
Your breath caught in your chest, freezing over.
"Hey." He said softly.
Maybe it was your hopeful imagination, but his eyes looked tired: like he also hadn't slept at all. He was in his green Family Video vest and your gaze fell to the small bouquet of pink roses swinging at his side.
"Hey."
He noticed your gaze, lifting the flowers to look at them as if he'd only just noticed them. He dropped his arm back to his side.
"At work," his empty hand fidgeted against the side of his jeans, "they take off fifty cents from my salary for every movie that's returned late and isn't fined."
Your shoulders sank guiltily. "Oh."
Steve tried to ignore the way the look on your face made his head spin. He came on a mission. With a plan. And a pre-planned dialogue so he wouldn't fuck it up again this time.
"But I-I don't fine you, I've never charged you for a late movie ... you're the only person in the whole of Hawkins that I don't fine because of the —that fucking face you make when you know you've gotten away with it again. The way you smile, that full-of-shit smile, it makes me forget my own name."
"Steve—"
But even your eyelashes batting up at him couldn't pull him from his pre-rehearsed lines.
"And I lied. Last night. I knew you were on a date with Rick—"
"—Ralph—"
"Whatever. When you didn't show up at the shop, I phoned Dustin's house to ask where you were then he said you were on a date and I freaked out," The smile creeping up onto your face was only spurring him to keep talking.
"So Robin and I drove over and we were spying on you from his kitchen window."
A gap opened into the space that had gotten smaller since he'd started talking. He sucked in a deep breath.
"So," your voice was soft and lined in that smugness Steve loved so much. "What you're saying is that ... you were jealous? And spying on me?"
"Yes, because you make me crazy." He took another tentative step forward, hoping to inch the crevice between you and him to nothing. "And that guy is really scary looking so I'm really hoping he's not gonna be arriving soon to beat me up, because if I thought I was gonna lose you to some twig from the video store, I'd also kick my ass."
You fidgeted nervously, Steve couldn't help find it endearing, chewing on your bottom lip like you didn't know what to say - a rare phenomenon for your generally smart mouth.
You gestured towards the roses in his hand, "Those for me?"
He lifted them up, nodding slowly.
"Yes." Steve took your hand gently, passing them into your hold. "I came to ask if you wanted to go out on a date with me ... because I think I'm falling in love with you."
The smile curling at the edges of your lips and the way your eyes were twinkling made Steve wonder if he was even awake or if he'd dreamt you up.
"You're very chatty tonight, Steve. Can tell you've got lots on your mind."
He shifted his weight from his one foot to the other, his previous admission still hanging in the air. "Is that a bad thing?"
You shook your head.
"Not normally, but right now I wish you'd just shut up and kiss me."
Steve didn't need telling twice. He cupped your face between his palms, pulling you all the way against him so the roses crushed between your bodies - but he couldn't find the tiniest bit within him to care.
Your lips were warm. So warm. He concluded that the nights he'd lain awake imagining what they'd feel like came nothing close to the hint of spearmint and buttery popcorn against your tongue.
You whined softly against him, hand running up to curl into the hair at the base of his neck and Steve knew immediately that he wouldn't need another kiss from another faceless town girl for the rest of his life.
Still lapping softly at his bottom lip, you began to mumble against his mouth - eyes still screwed shut, Steve was pleased to note - "I'm sorry for losing my shit at you last night ... I was also jealous of all your little girlfriends from the video store. And I promise to make up for the money from the videos ... I'll pay for the first date."
His grip around your waist tightened.
"First off, any girl that's not you doesn't matter. Secondly, shut up about the money - if that's what it cost to get a date with you, then it was worth every cent."
You pulled off of his lips, blinking earnestly up at him. "And when you get bored of me, Harrington?"
He scoffed, a preposterous implication.
"That's not going to happen." His fingers curled between yours, tone twisting sarcastically: "I don't know if you heard me earlier - you might not have because you kind of haven't addressed it and it’s stressing me out - but I did say that I think I'm falling in love with you—"
"I think I'm falling in love with you too, Steven."
A grin overtook him, closing in to kiss you again. "You sure? Not just saying that so I'll shut up and kiss you again?"
Giggling, you nodded. "Pretty sure. Only love can make you look this attractive in a Family Video vest."
Ship(s): Eddie Munson x fem!reader, Steve Harrington x fem!reader
Summary: Steve finds himself pining over the one girl he can't have, and he has no idea how to handle it. It's a good thing you notice before Eddie does, and, by God, is Steve's timing perfect.
Word Count: 9,330 words
Warnings: suggestive content (18+), jealous!Steve, Eddie slander, reader kind of cheats (emotionally?), pining and glum Steve, Steve's a little mean-spirited, reader wears a bikini, swearing, Stancy mention, everyone is a bitch to everyone, Eddie's an asshole, therapist Steve, insecure Eddie, talk of addiction, time skip
18+ Warnings: description of moaning, whimpering, veiled allusion to sex from another room, Steve & Dustin overhear
Note: Inspired by Rick Springfield's "Jessie's Girl". Set two years post-s4. (It didn't quite go in the direction I wanted it to, so I might rewrite this at some point. Or make an alternate version at least.)
☟ Continue below the fold ☟
May 15, 1986
Steve had seen plenty of beautiful women in his life. Pretty faces, pretty bodies, pretty eyes, he'd seen it all. But the woman currently browsing his organized shelves was, without a doubt, the most beautiful he had ever seen.
He couldn't exactly pin down what it was about you—maybe the way you were standing, or the way you cocked your head to the left while you read the titles, or even the way your hair was falling—but you were the most beautiful creature he had ever set eyes on.
You had been in the store multiple times recently; this was probably your fourth appearance this week. Steve gawked at you while you chose a movie every time, and he stuttered when he checked it out for you every time, and he blushed every time you met his gaze. He knew it, but he knew it was useless to try and cover it up. He'd just become more obvious if he tried to hide how in awe of you he was.
Robin hadn't been in the store the first few times you had been here, but she glanced over at you today, seeing where Steve's gaze had fallen.
"That's the girl?" she whispered, the color draining from her face.
Steve nodded. "She's gorgeous, isn't she?"
"Steve, you do not want to go after that one, I promise," Robin hissed frantically under her breath.
He frowned. "Why?"
Before Robin could answer, there was a screech from outside of the store. Their heads whipped toward the sound, seeing Eddie's van outside, Eddie himself hopping out and strolling into the store with his hands in his front jean pockets.
"Hey, Harrington!" Eddie said. Where he would normally lean on the counter to be a nuisance, he sauntered over to where you were standing.
"Hi, Eddie," Robin said, when Steve's usual reply didn't come, his eyes instead narrowed as he watched Eddie approach you. She opened her mouth and shut it quickly, knowing there was no way to soften the fall Steve was about to take.
Eddie looped his arms around your waist. You squeaked in surprised, but you were already smiling when you turned in his arms. "Eddie!"
He grinned at you. "Hiya, princess." He bent down, kissing you softly. You indulged in the kiss for a minute before pushing him away.
"Not now, Eds, we're in public," you said, voice shy and cheeks burning with embarrassment. You glanced in Steve's direction, concern flickering over your face when you caught sight of him.
Robin quickly spun Steve around so that you couldn't see his face. She took in his slightly dropped jaw, the shock in his eyes, the tiny tremble in his lower lip. "That's why," she said softly.
Steve cleared his throat with some difficulty. "Yeah," he said, throat constricted. "I get it. That's why."
~❊~
The usually lighthearted night laying on Steve's bed had turned sullen. In fact, it hadn't started lighthearted at all. When Robin finally got to Steve's house after spending the afternoon with Vickie, she found him awake yet unmoving on his bed, curled up on his side and staring at the wall.
"Steve?" she asked, setting her stuff down on the floor. "You alive over there?"
He gave a noncommittal hum of acknowledgement.
Robin sat down on the opposite side of his bed cautiously. He didn't move, and when it became clear he wasn't going to talk, she said, "Are you okay?"
Silence filled the next few seconds. Then Steve rolled onto his back. "No," he mumbled, looking the most despondent she had ever seen him. "It's not fair, Robs. How does Eddie "the Freak" Munson get a girlfriend before I do?"
Robin shrugged. "They've been together for a long time—before high school, before he became the social outcast."
Steve glared at her, but Robin knew it wasn't directed at her; Steve tended to glare at everything when he was upset about the girls he didn't successfully date. "And you know this how?"
"Because she's been my best friend for the past four years."
He pouted. "How come I've never seen her before now?"
Robin flopped down beside him. "She was in Eddie's original graduating class. She's been in college the past two years, and she didn't come back last summer—she was on an internship abroad. That's why Eddie's so clingy this summer. She's been complaining he hardly leaves her alone—"
Steve sat up. "She's complaining about him?"
A warning entered Robin's eyes. "Not like that, dingus. Don't you try anything. They're still happily in love."
Steve harrumphed. "I'm doomed, Robin."
She heaved a sympathetic sigh. "No, you're not, Steve. You're gonna find someone, it's just..."
"Just that everybody else found their someone first?" he groaned. "I just can't win, can I?"
Robin looked down at her hands, awkwardly playing with the bracelet Vickie had given her. She glanced over at Steve's glum face, feeling an echo of the pain he felt in her chest. He looked like she had when she found out Vickie was dating someone else, a year prior.
She patted Steve's shoulder. "It'll get better, I promise. Just look at me, right?"
Steve sighed. "Yeah, I guess so," he said, but Robin could tell he wasn't convinced.
~❊~
Steve felt like the universe was against him. Of course the girl of his dreams was already taken, he wasn't surprised just looking at her. But by Eddie Munson? Now that made Steve want to scream into a pillow.
And it wasn't like Eddie had managed to score you with his winning charm, either. You'd been friends with him for so long, you'd dated him for so long—it was like he was the default option just because he was familiar.
Steve knew his thoughts weren't fair to either you or Eddie. He'd seen the two of you interact time and time again since the day his heart dropped to his feet, and he knew you were infatuated with Eddie. Even if Eddie was the familiar, default option in your love life, you had no problem with it. You looked at Eddie like he'd hung the moon and stars. Eddie looked at you no differently, and he was constantly holding you and touching you and Jesus Christ it made Steve sick.
Romance of all kinds was making Steve's stomach churn these days. Every time he saw Nancy and Jonathan, he felt so bitter and angry he had to put as much distance between himself and the happy couple as he could. It was just another reminder of the girl he'd lost.
Every time he saw Robin and Vickie, bittersweet tears welled up in his eyes. He was happy for Robin, of course he was, and he was incredibly proud of the fact he'd been right about Vickie all along. But, God, did it hurt to see his advice work for somebody other than himself.
The same went for Dustin and Suzie, every time Dustin got off the phone with her and came to Steve to gush about her. Steve usually loved hearing about it, but that didn't take away the sting when Dustin happily described in too-great length how Suzie had told him she loved him that day.
And when he saw you and Eddie... Oh, Steve just wanted to sob. There had been too many days when he had gone home and cried in the shower, all without meaning to and sometimes not noticing until he was unable to breathe from how fast the tears were coming.
~❊~
July 10, 1988
Brutally hot July days had arrived at Hawkins, which meant Steve's pool had become a community pool for his friends. These days were Steve's favorite days—when he could have everybody near and see that they were all safe and happy and just fine, contrary to the nightmares that still plagued him.
The kids got there first—not that they were kids anymore, but Steve couldn't quite break out of that train of thought. They were four years younger than he was, after all.
Steve and Lucas helped Max into the chair Steve had installed into the pool for her, and Steve gave her his sunglasses to protect her already weak eyes.
Max shrieked as Dustin jumped in, dousing her in water. El slid into the water beside her while Will and Mike argued over which of Steve's deck chairs they wanted to sit in.
Slowly, the others began showing up—Nancy and Jonathan just seconds after the kids, evidently having been the ones to drive them, carrying fold-up chairs and a cooler. Robin and Vickie came with umbrellas and food about a half an hour later.
As time passed, the sun began to dip in the sky, but the heat was relentless. It was late in the afternoon when Dustin finally stopped splashing around long enough to ask, "Steve? Is Eddie coming?"
Steve glanced around his yard and then at his watch. "He was supposed to, after he got out of work."
Dustin made a face. "That was hours ago! Where is he?"
Steve shrugged. "I don't know, I'm your babysitter, not his."
Dustin scowled. "You are not my babysitter."
"Still feels like it," Steve muttered, rolling his eyes.
Dustin's response was to shriek and dunk Steve under without warning.
Laughter met Steve's ears when he surface, glaring at the grinning boy. "Oh, you're gonna pay for that, Henderson." He sent a tidal wave in Dustin's direction, relishing in the resulting fearful shriek.
"Aw, don't drown the little shrimp without me!"
"Eddie!" was a chorus that came from the kids. Steve glanced over his shoulder and found both you and Eddie walking toward the pool, Eddie already shedding his shirt to join them in the pool.
Steve's stomach dropped when he saw you, several thoughts processing simultaneously.
First, he had not technically invited you to this gathering, because he avoided speaking to you as much as possible, lest you detect his cursed crush on you.
Second, you were wearing a pretty (and skimpy) bikini with shorts and a see-through coverup over it.
Third, his formerly perfect hair was practically a wet mop on his head.
"Brought my girl along," Eddie said as he jumped into the pool. "Hope you don't mind."
Steve pushed his wet hair out of his face, shaking his head. "Nah, man, it's cool," he said, even though he could feel his skin warming even more, the pool no longer cooling down that persistent burn. You gave him a little, cheery wave, and the urge to hide in his room swept over him.
Robin greeted you with an enthusiastic hug. "I hope you like burgers! Or fruit, or salad, or chips, or fries, because we brought them all, so there's something you're gonna like—"
You laughed, the sound like music to Steve and Eddie's ears. "Of course, I do, Robs, how could you forget?"
"Must be the heat," she said, but Steve barely heard her, because you called Robin 'Robs' too!
Eddie clapped his hands together, tugging Steve's attention away from you. "Alright! Why are we drowning Henderson?"
"Because he tried to drown me!" Steve lunged at Dustin in the water. Dustin shrieked and swam away as fast as he could.
Eddie laughed. "Must've been a big wave to drown the captain of the Hawkins swim team," he teased, poking Steve in the shoulder. Steve swatted his hand away.
"He caught me off guard," Steve complained.
There was a soft splashing behind him. Both he and Eddie turned to see you sitting at the edge of the pool, your feet in the water. Eddie's face split into a wide grin and he swam over to you. Steve watched discreetly, trying to tamp down the fire in his belly, as Eddie put his hands on your knees and you leaned down to cup his face and kiss him.
"I love you, sweet girl," Eddie mumbled against your lips.
"I love you more," you whispered. "My lover boy." You smiled at him, pushing his hair out of his face.
The moment remained peaceful for a single second more, before Eddie abruptly pulled you into the pool. You shrieked, clinging to him while he laughed (Steve thought his laugh was a bit too obnoxious for your obvious panic at being yanked in).
"You are an ass," you complained, but there was no bite behind your words. You looped your arms around Eddie's neck and his grin widened, becoming sickeningly in love. Steve felt a twisting in his chest, painful as a knife. When your gaze darted over to him, he hoped his expression wasn't too revealing of his current hatred toward Eddie or his longing for you. "I'm sure Steve's never yanked any of his girlfriends into the pool without warning."
Before Steve could open his mouth, Nancy said, "No, but he has pushed me in before—while I was wearing clothes."
Steve blushed. Guilt bubbled up in his chest. "Nancy, I..."
"It's okay," she promised, "I don't hold it against you."
Your mouth had become an O. "Is that when you two were...?"
Nancy nodded, casting an awkward glance toward Steve, who refused to look anywhere near her. He rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a long breath.
"Awkward," he muttered and pulled himself out of the pool. He grabbed a towel on his way back toward his house.
Your voice sounded behind him, guilty and apologetic. "Steve, I didn't mean to—"
"No, no, it's fine," he called over his shoulder. "I'm just grabbing a drink."
Robin frowned, gesturing to the cooler full of ice and sodas. "We have drinks right here, Steve!"
"Not that kind, Robs," he said.
"Hey, grab me one, Harrington!" Eddie shouted. Steve gave him a thumbs up before shutting the sliding door behind him. He didn't let out his breath until he got into his kitchen and leaned over the kitchen sink.
"Get ahold of yourself," he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut. He hated that it bothered him so much, that every time someone brought up his relationship with Nancy he practically shut down. He hadn't in a while, and he hated this time even more, because it was you who brought it up.
No wonder he hadn't had a real relationship since Nancy. Every girl knew about it, and every potential girlfriend brought it up, and it reduced him to this—unable to flirt with them, unable to talk to them, unable to forget the smell of Nancy's perfume or her hand in his or—
"Stop it," he hissed at himself, leaving the sink and yanking open the door to his fridge. He grabbed two beer cans, paused, and grabbed a third. He downed one right there, standing at his kitchen counter and glancing out the window to where you and Eddie were practically slow dancing in his pool. Eddie spun you and then his hands dipped below the water, visibly squeezing your ass. You yelped, blushing in his arms, and Eddie giggled at you.
And then his hand slipped around to your front. "Fuck," Steve said, ashamed of the whimper in his voice and glad no one was around to hear it.
The kids started to jeer, Dustin mimicking vomiting, and Eddie lifted one hand out of the water to flip them off. You, however, seemed relieved.
"Steve will kill you," Robin warned, glancing inside. Steve wondered if she saw him standing and watching from the open window. Eddie just laughed off her warning. "I'm serious, Eddie, not in his pool, not in his house."
"I'm sure the maid will clean the sheets," Eddie said, winking at you.
Shocked and bashful in the face of all these people, you pushed away from him. Steve could see your mortification, your unease with the whole situation. "Eddie, stop," you said. "Robin's right. Don't piss him off just because you're jealous of him."
Silence fell from the others. Eddie's face twisted into an ugly, angry expression. "I'm not jealous of Steve fucking Harrington."
You scoffed, climbing out of the pool the same way Steve had. "Yeah, right." You glared at him. "Then tell me why you've gotta one-up him all the time, yeah?"
"I do not—" But you were already walking away, so Eddie turned his glare on Robin. "Now look what you've done!"
"What I've done?!" Robin echoed, incredulous. "This is on you, Munson!"
You snatched up your towel from one of the lounge chairs. "You started this, Eddie," you snapped. "What did you think was going to happen? I was gonna let you—"
Nancy cleared her throat. "There are children present," she said from behind her hand. She glanced at Jonathan, who shook his head slowly, a clear don't get involved.
You shook your head at him, at a loss for words. You turned your back on him and the others and started for the house.
Eddie scoffed. "Oh, yeah, just walk away from me. Why don't you go cry to Steve, huh? Go fuck your other boyfriend!"
You flipped him off over your shoulder and slammed the door behind you. You stopped in the kitchen, leaning against the wall and pushing your hands against your eyes. Steve heard a muffled cry fall from your lips.
"Are...you okay?" he asked. You jumped, looking up at him. "Sorry, stupid question, I know. I can...leave you alone, if you want, I just...wanna make sure you're okay."
You sighed, wiping your eyes and pinching the bridge of your nose. "I take it you heard everything?"
"Yeah, I think so," he said. "Um...I didn't know that he..."
You shrugged. "You're his biggest insecurity and I keep telling him he has no reason to be so damn jealous, but he just...always has been."
Steve raked a hand through his slowly drying hair. "Yeah, that might've been because I was a bit of a dick to him in high school?"
"Might've?" you questioned with a scoff. "Steve, you were the unkind bastard who made him the butt of every joke the moment you stepped in the high school, and Tommy was your reinforcer. It only got worse after you left."
Steve wanted to crawl into himself and disappear. "I...I know, and I'm really sorry about everything, I really wish I could just take it all back, but..."
"No," you said. "Stop apologizing, Steve. I know you're not like that anymore. Believe me, I know, Robin told me everything. It's just that Eddie... He doesn't exactly let go of things easily. So no matter how many times I tell him he's enough as he is, he sees you and his vision goes green with envy."
"I'm sorry," Steve whispered.
You shook your head. "It's not your failing." You huffed a sigh. "I would just hope that after six, nearly seven goddamn years with him, he'd finally get a grip and realize I...I want to be with him. I want to always be with him." You laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You know, when I first met him, I knew I wanted to be his best friend. And then when we finally started dating, I knew I wanted to marry him. Less than a month in and I knew that's what I wanted and now—" You stopped, your eyes growing watery. "Now I'm not so sure."
Steve winced. "Yeah, I know that feeling," he said, glancing back outside. The tension was palpable. "Are you two...gonna be okay? I don't want to be the cause of..."
"If things keep going sour between Eddie and I, it's not your fault," you promised him. "It's just Eddie not being able to grow up and move on from...from petty high school drama."
"Don't you worry, Dustin'll set him straight," Steve said. "He did for me, at least."
You dragged a hand through your wet hair, mirroring Steve's earlier action. "Yeah, but Dustin's a hell of a lot closer to you than he is to Eddie. You're...you're like Dustin's big brother. And I've seen the two of you together, I know you'd do anything for each other. Eddie, though? Not so much. He's...he's more of a mentor than family. And he doesn't take well to people telling him what to do."
You leaned on the countertop and put your head in your hands, letting out a long breath.
"Can I...get you anything?" Steve asked.
You glanced over at his fridge. "Got any wine coolers?"
"Uh...I've got sangria? My mom loves the stuff."
"That'll do."
Steve passed you a bottle. You took a long swig.
"Look at us," you muttered. "We should start a club. We just need a shorter name for 'people who have found the love of their lives and lost them.'"
Guilt tore through Steve's gut. "Hey, you'll talk him around. If you've been together seven years and made it this far, surely you can patch up a fight over little old me, right?"
"Nothing about you is little," you said. Awkward silence fell as Steve tried not to take that the wrong way. "Oh, God, I'm sorry, that sounds so wrong." You groaned. "I get mad at Eddie for being dirty, and now I'm—"
"Hey, no, there's a difference. Eddie was being dirty on purpose, you weren't. It just...came out wrong," Steve added with a laugh.
You rubbed your hand over your face and joined him at the window, looking out. Your gaze soured the moment you saw Eddie sulking with a soda in hand.
"I'm... I don't wanna go back out there," you said, voice hushed. "I don't want to have to try and pretend everything's normal when it's not. Not when I just wanna punch him and I feel like it's all ending and gonna come crashing down any second."
"You'll patch things up," Steve insisted, simultaneously proud of himself for putting you and Eddie first, and so very annoyed he couldn't be selfish just this once.
People are not something to be selfish about, he reminded himself.
"Not if I go back out there right now," you said. "I'll just make things worse if I try talking to him when we're both so angry." You bit your lip. "Will you...will you tell him I'm going home to cool down? That I'll talk to him later?"
"I'll tell him," Steve promised. "You could stay here, if you wanted, so you can talk later? I've got a guest room set up if you wanna hang out there for a little bit—"
You shook your head. "I'm pretty sure it'll just piss him off more. He'll see it as me taking comfort in you and...and...and cheating on him, probably. He's...dramatic that way."
Steve nodded. "Alright, fair point." He tried giving you a smile. "I'll see you soon, okay? Let me and Robin know how things go with him."
You nodded and wrapped the towel tighter around yourself. "I will. Thanks, Steve. For letting me talk."
He nodded. "Anytime." He watched you disappear around the corner and heard the front door open and close softly. He sighed, picking up the two beers and bringing them outside.
Eddie looked up. "Where is she?" he demanded.
"She went home," Steve said, handing him the beer to distract him. "She said she needed to cool down and that she'd talk to you when she's calm." In the face of Eddie's anger, he added, "She just doesn't want to make things worse right now, okay, man? Just let her be."
Eddie sneered at him. "Oh, she told you that, did she?"
"You can leave, too, y'know," Steve said, an edge to his voice. "She's trying to save your relationship, not make it worse. She doesn't want to lose you but God knows you don't deserve her, not when you treat her like this."
Eddie's entire body was twitching. "I don't deserve her? Who the fuck are you to tell me—"
"A concerned friend," Steve snapped. "Now get out."
The two boys glared at each other until Eddie rolled his eyes.
"Fuck this, man," he muttered, grabbing his things with far more force than necessary. He stormed out without a goodbye to the kids, who were watching on in awkward confusion.
After a few moments of silence, Dustin asked, "Steve...?"
"Yeah, Henderson?"
"What just happened?"
Steve hesitated. "They're just...fighting a little."
"Will they be okay?"
Steve glanced back toward his house, hearing Eddie's van start up on the other side. "I don't know."
~❊~
Nobody heard from you or Eddie for several days.
Robin worried about you constantly, often pausing mid-action at work to wonder aloud what had happened to you. Steve was surprised it took her as long as it did to ask him what you had said to him in his kitchen, and he explained it to her as best as he could remember the conversation.
Dustin showed up randomly toward the end of one of Steve's shifts, the kind where Robin stayed to close and Steve went home as the sun set to either go on a terrible date or be bored out of his mind.
"Steve?"
Steve sighed at the sound of his voice. "What do you want, Henderson?"
"Can I have a ride to Eddie's?"
Steve frowned. "What do you want with Munson?"
Dustin raised his brows. "Oh, he's Munson again, is he?"
Steve shrugged. "You heard how he talked to his girl. You saw how he was acting. He'll be Munson until he can prove he's not an asshole."
Dustin processed for a minute, then shrugged, accepting the explanation. "I left the papers for the campaign I'm planning his trailer, I need to go back for them."
"Really? That's what you want me to drive you for?"
Robin poked him in the side. "Hey—doesn't matter what he needs a ride for, you can go talk to Eddie. Find out what happened between those two."
Steve rolled his eyes. "Robin, he doesn't want me of all people there. I'm the reason they're fighting in the first place!"
Robin gave him a shove toward the door. "Go! It's the end of your shift anyway, you'll be fine."
Steve grumbled, but he scooped up his keys and headed for the door. "Alright, Henderson, let's go. But if I get yelled at by Munson for existing, you're backing me up, got it?"
"Thank you!" Dustin clasped his hands together, holding them over his chest in mock worship. "I'll make it up to you, I promise!"
"By backing me up," Steve insisted.
Dustin sighed. "Yeah, sure."
"Was that a sigh?" Steve asked, getting into his car.
"Oh, shut up." Dustin slammed the door of Steve's car shut. "Oh, Suzie called me this morning, too, she said she wants to come visit this summer and meet you guys."
Steve raised an eyebrow, more focused on backing out of his parking space than Dustin's words. "Oh, yeah? There's not much of summer left— Wait, she wants to meet us?"
Dustin nodded. "Well, yeah. I talk about you all the time."
"Who's us, exactly?"
"Oh, you know. Max, Lucas, Mike, El, Erica, Eddie, Robin...you," he added, suddenly shy. At Steve's side glance, he continued, "I talk about you guys all the time, you think she wouldn't want to meet you?"
"Aw, Dustin," Steve said, biting back a smile. "You sentimental dork."
"Says you!"
The rest of the car ride was spent listening to Dustin recount his latest conversation with Suzie, which he had somehow still not gotten to the end of by the time Steve pulled into the trailer park. He pulled up beside Eddie's trailer, his heart in his throat.
Your car was parked next to Eddie's van.
"Looks like they made up," Dustin said.
"Yeah, I guess so," Steve said.
Dustin glanced at him over his shoulder. "At least Eddie can't yell at you now, right?"
"I don't think them making up will stop him," Steve muttered. He cleared his throat. "Come on, let's make this quick."
Dustin practically skipped to the door and yanked it open, Steve trailing behind him, much more apprehensively. He narrowed his eyes when Dustin stopped dead, just feet inside the trailer, and turned around to face him.
"Uh...Steve?"
"Yeah?" Steve stepped into the trailer, and Dustin no longer needed to explain his wariness. The smell of weed, sweat, and sex washed over Steve immediately. His eyes watered. "Oh, Jesus..."
They crept a little bit further down the short hallway leading to Eddie's bedroom. Seconds later, a woman's loud moan reached them, coupled with a man's loud, dirty, verbal encouragements.
Steve clapped his hands over Dustin's ears. "Oh my God."
Dustin was red, but he looked up at Steve with an exasperated expression regardless. "Like you're any better!" He looked back toward the door. "Now what?"
Steve glanced back at the door, trying not to imagine what you and Eddie were doing behind it. Your next gasp was loud and breathy, followed by Eddie's groan of, "You close, baby?"
"Yes, Eddie, oh, God—" You cut yourself off with an abrupt cry that tapered off into a whine.
Steve's ears were ringing. He felt his heart rip in his chest, like the very muscles of his heart had torn, spilling his blood with reckless abandon.
"We should go," Steve said, in answer to Dustin's question. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth.
"Too much, Eds, it's too much!" you whimpered behind the door. "Oh, God, Eddie, please—"
"I gotcha, baby, I gotcha," he crooned. Steve felt resentment bubble up inside him, almost too quick and too angry to tamp down.
"Go?" Dustin echoed.
Steve snorted. "What, you want to wait until they're done?" he demanded, trying to steer Dustin toward the door. Even without the lewdness of it all, he knew he needed to get out of the trailer as fast as possible. It was embarrassing, shameful, how quickly his disgust was overtaken by horny curiosity. He knew that, long after he left the trailer, he would still hear your moans and whimpers echoing in his ears.
He knew something was up when Dustin just stared at him, then turned back to the door.
"Dustin, no—"
"EDDIE!"
Steve groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Oh, you've gotta be kidding me."
The trailer was awkwardly silent. Then Eddie said, in a low voice, "Did you hear that?"
"I think Dustin's in the trailer," you whispered. "Oh my God, Eddie, Dustin's in your trailer and we're—" You squeaked. "Eddie, Jesus Christ, now is not the time—" You whimpered again.
Steve knew his entire face was red. Probably his ears and neck, too. He felt like he was burning up, and he couldn't tell if it was from embarrassment or shame or pure need.
"EDDIE!" Dustin shouted again.
"He doesn't give up, does he?" Eddie asked from behind the door. The two of you moaned in tandem and Steve felt his body flash with heat and cold. "Where'd my pants go?"
"On the floor where you threw them," you said. "Toss me my clothes, please."
Steve turned on his heel. "Alright, this is your problem now, I'm waiting in the car. If you're not back in...in ten minutes, I'm leaving without you!"
He left the trailer and shut the door behind him as quickly as he could. He got in his car and slammed the door shut, letting out a long breath. He slid down in his seat, practically melting into the pleather, and covered his face with his hands.
I'm never going to be able to look at her again, he realized. The sound of you falling apart for Eddie was going to be a track that played in his brain on a loop every single time you showed up to gatherings.
That is—if you or Eddie ever showed up again. It wouldn't surprise Steve if this had been the last straw for the both of you.
He wanted to curl up in on himself. He wanted to run to Robin and freak out. He wanted to know why he never wanted to hear anything like that again but also wanted to hear you for eternity.
I feel so goddamn gross.
Steve pressed his palms into his eyes with a groan.
At least the door was closed, right?
The passenger door opened. Dustin was clutching his D&D things to his chest, but he seemed more worried than relieved. "Uh, Steve—"
A hand shot through the open driver's side window. It wrapped around Steve's shirt collar and yanked him up from where he'd slunk in shame.
Steve made eye contact with a very angry Eddie.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" Eddie demanded.
"Driving Dustin!"
"You were listening to me fuck my girlfriend, you perv? Yeah, my girlfriend, Harrington! Mine! You get off on this?" Eddie's gaze dipped into the car. Steve glanced down at the same time.
"Leave him alone, Eddie, he wasn't doing anything!" Dustin growled.
"What the hell, man?!" Steve snapped. "No! I only stopped by to drive Dustin to get his shit for your stupid game! You're the one fucking her nasty, even after Dustin made it obvious he was here!"
Eddie sneered. "Sure, man, say what you want. I know you just want to get your hands on her, after she came crying to you in your big, empty house. Bet you would've fucked her there in the kitchen, wouldn't you?"
"Eddie!" Dustin yelled.
The door to the trailer slammed open and you marched out, dressed and furious, your hair still a tangled mess and your skin blotchy with exertion.
"Edward fucking Munson, don't you dare touch him!" you ordered. "Sorry for my language, Dustin. Eddie! Away from the car!"
Eddie's anger had lifted, but only a little. "Baby, you can't seriously be sticking up for him, he was listening to us!"
You rolled your eyes at him. "Yeah, like your exhibitionist ass is gonna complain! Steve left, Eddie! He left us to do our thing and Dustin only stayed because he needed something from you. It's you who didn't stop when you knew they were here! And you're calling Steve the pervert?"
"Oh, you're gonna stick up for him now?" Eddie sneered.
"Damn right I am!" You glanced over at Dustin, your expression softening. Steve had never seen you so angry before. You were terrifying when you were pissed. "Dustin, get in the car and get out of here. I'll take care of this." You made eye contact with Steve, who nodded once.
As soon as Dustin was in the car, Steve peeled away from the trailer. Out of his rearview mirror, he saw you and Eddie start shouting again, before you flipped him off and went back in the trailer. When you came out again, just as Steve pulled out of Forest Hills, you had an armful of clothes and you got into your car and left.
"I'm sorry," Dustin whispered.
Steve did a double-take in his direction. "Sorry? What are you sorry for? I'm sorry! If I'd known the two of them were gonna be going at each other, I would never have let you go inside!"
"Yeah, but I made Eddie mad at you again."
"Dustin, listen to me very closely. This is not on you. Got it? This is Eddie being immature over a woman and being insecure of himself and taking it out on me." Steve raked a hand through his hair. "Listen, none of this has to...change how you view him—"
"Of course it does," Dustin interrupted. "He's my friend, sure, but you're my best friend, and he's treating you like shit for something you didn't do!" He shook his head. "I can't just...let it happen."
Steve sat in shock for a while. Maybe Robin was right; Eddie had never replaced Steve, not to Dustin. "Thanks, man," Steve said quietly. "I...I appreciate it."
~❊~
Half-covered by his blankets, Steve laid on his stomach, head turned to the right, toward his nightstand. He'd cleared off most of its clutter, leaving behind only his radio, his lamp, his alarm clock, and a photo of him, Robin, Dustin, and Erica.
He reached past the photo to the dial knob of his radio. He switched through stations, listening for a few moments before turning the knob again.
"I've seen it before, it happens all the time—"
"Men of five, still alive through the raging glow—"
"Streetlights, people, living' just to find emotion—"
"Oh daddy dear, you know you're still number one—"
"And if you say run, I'll run with you—"
"I wanna tell her that I love her, but the point is probably moot—"
Steve groaned, shutting the radio off. He curled up in a ball under the covers. He hated that he felt as miserable as he did, unsure why he did, when he'd spent the entire car ride assuring Dustin they couldn't do anything to fix yours and Eddie's failing relationship.
"Because it's my fault," Steve muttered into his pillow. "It's my fault. If I'd never gotten to know them, then Eddie wouldn't be jealous of me." He rolled onto his back, his legs getting twisted in his blankets. "And I wouldn't have ruined her life."
Steve covered his face with his hands, groaning into them. "Fuck." He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting against tears. "How do I always screw this shit up?"
He laid in silence, staring at his ceiling, too hot with the blankets but too cold without them, so he settled for leaving them at his hips. He stared at his white, blank ceiling; at his horrible, plaid walls; at the boring wall art he left up only because his father insisted on it.
It was well-past midnight, but Steve's brain wouldn't shut off. He wished he could blame the red glow his alarm clock was casting around the room looking a little too much like the Upside Down, but it wasn't cutting it tonight. He saw right through his own excuses.
He sniffled and wiped at the tears gathering on his lashes. "Goddamnit, Harrington."
He was jolted out of his self-pity by a loud rapping at his window. He startled, whipping his head toward the window. His eyes widened at the sight of you waving at him through it.
"Hi, Steve," you said, your voice muffled by the glass.
Steve yanked his blankets up to his chest, drawing a giggle from you. "What the hell are you doing here?!"
"I need to talk to you," you said. "About earlier."
He flinched. "I'm sorry about that, I wish I'd never walked in on you guys."
"You didn't technically walk in on us," you said. "Besides, it's not like it matters anymore."
"Huh?"
You looked away from him, clearing your throat. "Are you gonna open this window and let me in or what?"
"I—I can't!"
"Why not? It's cold and my fingers are going numb out here!"
"I'm—" Steve's body flashed with heat again, his cheeks practically burning. "I'm not wearing anything!"
You rolled your eyes. "Like that's ever stopped you before. Whatever happened to Mr. Confident? Mr. Suave? Mr. Sex?"
Steve huffed, staring back up at his ceiling. "Yeah, I haven't been like that for a long time. And after what happened with Eddie today, I don't think you seeing me naked is a good idea."
"Yeah, that doesn't really matter anymore. It's done. I broke it off."
Steve nearly cracked his neck looking back over at you. "What?"
"Open the window and I'll explain. That's why I'm here, Steve."
Steve glanced down at himself, then at the floor where his boxers and pants lay. "Close your eyes and let me get my pants on, okay?"
You nodded and shut your eyes, squeezing them tight so Steve could see. He pulled the blanket away from himself and yanked on his clothes, then pulled open the window. You yelped, momentarily losing your balance. Steve lunged, grabbing both your hands and helping you through the window without falling.
"Warn me next time you open the window, Stevie, Jesus." You clung to his forearms.
Steve walked backwards until his legs hit the bed. He sat, pulling you to sit next to him. "You broke up with Eddie? What happened?"
You sighed. "I...I'd had enough. Enough of him nitpicking you and being a dick when all he ever complained about was how you did the same thing to him and people he knew in high school. I'd had enough of the hypocrisy and the bitching and the fighting. No matter how many times I told him that he didn't need to be scared of you because I loved him to death, he just stayed angry and defensive and insecure. It...it starts to wear at your after a while, you know?"
Realization struck Steve. "This has been going on for a lot longer than we all thought, hasn't it?"
You nodded. "I...I didn't tell anyone, not even Robin. How could I? How selfish of me would it be to complain about a relationship I'd had for seven years not being enough anymore? Not when Robin can't even tell people who she loves because this town would kill her for it! Not when you were trying so damn hard to find love, and I was...ready to throw it all away. Not when most people would give anything, anything to be known and to be loved by someone the way...the way Eddie loved me."
"How long have you two been struggling?"
"About a year," you whispered. "Ever since...since he died and came back, he hasn't been the same."
"I mean, not many of us have," Steve said, but you were already shaking your head.
"It wasn't like that for Eddie. Sure, he had his nightmares and his flashbacks just like the rest of us, but... He changed. He's not the Eddie I remember. He— He got mean. Nasty. Started fights he couldn't finish, with me, with other guys at bars. He reminded me more of Billy than of himself." You looked down at your hands. "Eddie hasn't been the boy I fell in love with for a long time. He's gone and I don't know if he's ever coming back, but I can't wait around for him."
"What do you mean?"
"My sweet, gentle Eddie is gone. The Eddie that I know would come running back to me within an hour of me telling him to go fuck himself is gone. If he was still in there, he would have called me already. He would have showed up at my doorstep on his knees, begging me to come back, and—" Steve started to protest. "No, Steve, listen to me. I know he would have, because he did." You wiped at your eyes. "Back in high school, in our junior year. He, um, he fell into drugs, hard and fast. Got addicted to opioids."
"Jesus Christ," Steve whispered.
"Yeah," you said. "There was hell to pay when Wayne found out. He'd been doing Eddie's laundry, and there was— It was still in his pocket. It fell out. Wayne flipped out. I hadn't even known until Wayne sat the two of us down to yell at us about it, until he realized I was just as pissed and as clueless as he was." You brushed a tear off your cheekbone. "I broke up with him that night. He wouldn't give me any answers, he wouldn't tell me where he got the drugs, why he got into them. I... I compared him to his dad. Lowest blow I'd ever handed him. We were split for three hours before he was at my door and spilling his guts."
"How many hours has it been this time?" Steve asked, unsure if he wanted the answer.
"Six," you whispered. You choked on a sob, falling into Steve's shoulder.
"Oh, God, I'm sorry," he whispered. He wrapped his arm around you and took your hand in his almost unconsciously.
"It's over, and if he's not willing to make an effort, then I'm done," you said. "I've been done. I'd just...I'd hoped he'd pull himself together, but...he remained an asshole." You laughed bitterly. "I guess the 'I love you's kinda fall short when I stop meaning them. When I only say them in public or when he fucks me after we fight to try and make it seem like we're okay again."
You drew your legs up, curling into a ball similar to the one Steve had been in before your arrival. Steve laid his head atop yours, which seemed to put you at ease as you relaxed against him.
"You know, I stopped enjoying it. Sleeping with him, I mean. It started about a month ago. I think that's when I really knew it was over, when I started thinking I needed to find a way to break it to him gently. Obviously that didn't happen."
"Didn't seem like he gave you much of a choice," Steve said into your hair.
"He didn't," you whispered. You looked up at him, your expression knitting into nervousness. "And...this doesn't have to mean anything, but I...I feel like I owe it to you. That you deserve to know."
"Know what? About Eddie?"
You shook your head, hesitated, then nodded. "Sort of. It's just, um... Maybe he did have a reason to be scared of you."
Steve blinked. Did you mean...? "Um, you're gonna have to clarify, in case I'm having one of my moments, as Dustin calls them, and I'm interpreting this completely wrong."
"I know it...it sounds sketchy and I don't blame you if it bothers you, because I mean, Nancy kind of did the same thing with Jonathan and that was not a good start to his conversation, oh my God." You put your head in your hands.
Steve pried your hands away from your face. "No, no, no. Look at me, honey, please. Talk to me. It's okay. Take your time, it'll come out the right way eventually, right?"
You nodded slowly. "So... You remember how I said Eddie was insecure and intimidated by you because you were everything he wasn't?"
"Yeah."
"He was always afraid I'd leave him for someone like you. Or just you, in general. He was afraid that one day I'd wake up and realize that I didn't have to date my best friend, that he wasn't my only option, that half the basketball team would sell out their families to sleep with me. There was a time when I got asked out every other day by a different boy on the team, and Eddie was so scared that one day I'd say yes. And then you... You became the basketball champion. Hawkins High adored you and you were this perfect golden child with rich parents and your choice of friends, girls, whatever you wanted.
"I'll be honest, I wanted nothing to do with you at first. The first two years I knew you, I knew you from basketball. And I didn't really know you, I knew of you. I couldn't have cared less about you then. And then I went to college for another two years, and you weren't anywhere. Those were...the golden years for me and Eddie, really. He was insecure of himself, sure, but not of our relationship.
"Then...then all that shit happened. I came back for break and Eddie was fucking accused of murder. Murdering my neighbor, no less, a girl I'd grown up with and who Eddie had an embarrassing middle school crush on. And I watched you protect him and everyone else without a care in the world for what happened to yourself. And...and maybe Eddie saw it, just a little, but he started to get worried again."
"Saw what?" Steve whispered.
"How in awe of you I was," you said. "How much I admired that you would do anything for these people because you loved them with your heart and soul. You were nothing like the Steve I remembered in high school and I liked this version better—I still like you better now than I ever did in high school. And...I guess the way you are with Dustin? It kind of reminds me of...of me and Chrissy. And I think that's where Eddie first started to realize he was in trouble in our relationship."
"He started to be afraid of me stealing you again?" Steve guessed.
You nodded. "He didn't really do anything before he died, he was...scared out of his mind. And I can't really blame him for that. But when he came back, all his fears got worse. It was like...everything heightened, I guess? And then he started acting like a dick and I fell out of love with him and—" You clapped a hand over your mouth. "Oh my God, I said it." You bit your lip. "I said it. Jesus Christ. Um. That was..."
"Take your time," Steve said. You leaned into him, sucking in a deep breath and fighting back your tears.
"I'm...I'm okay. Um. I, ah... I fell in love with someone else."
Steve's chest squeezed. "And Eddie automatically assumed it was me because he'd always been afraid of me?"
You nodded slowly. "Sort of. Add gasoline to the fire that I couldn't really fight him on it because he assumed correctly, and he knew me too well for me to hide it."
It felt like all the breath had been punched out of Steve's lungs. "He assumed correctly?"
"It was you, Steve," you whispered. "You were the one who was there for me, not Eddie. You were there when he died and I needed somebody but everyone else was dealing with their own grief. You were there, not him, not after he came back from the dead and wasn't the same as he used to be. You checked in on me, asked me how I was doing every time I saw you, when most times Eddie didn't ask and he saw me every damn day. And when you didn't see me, you were still there, checking up on me through Robin."
Steve blushed. "How'd you know it was me?"
"Robin's not exactly the best at being subtle," you said. You rubbed the back of your neck. "So...that's it. I liked you and I didn't know how to tell Eddie, so I...let it be until things exploded." You looked at your hand in Steve's resting in your lap. "And if that's weird for you, I apologize. I just...needed to tell somebody, and if I told Robin, it would get back to you anyway, so...might as well have told you on my own terms."
Steve processed for a moment. "You know what?"
"What?" you whispered, clearly scared of what he was about to say.
"I'm glad you told me."
"What?"
"I...thought you would have known by now, because I'm not exactly subtle either, and Robin says I'm really bad at hiding when I have a crush on someone. But, um..." Steve brushed his thumb across your knuckles. "The first day I saw you, two years ago in Family Video... God, I knew I loved you then. You were just perfect, pretty and focused looking for movies. Almost broke my heart when I realized you were with Eddie. Robin tried to, uh, break the fall a little bit but, um..." He laughed sardonically. "Here I am, two years later, still pining."
You giggled, pushing yourself closer to him. "Gotta say I'm glad you're still pining."
"Yeah," Steve said with a little laugh.
You smiled. "Oh, I love that laugh." You bit your lip. "It's been a long time since I heard a boy laugh because of me."
Anger flickered over Steve's face. "I swear to God, every time you tell me more about how he treated you, I just wanna punch him."
"Please don't," you said. "I know every time you get in a fight, that pretty face gets punched." You reached up, brushing your fingertips over his cheek. "I couldn't stand to see that."
Steve smiled, his cheeks turning a delicate shade of pink. "You're so sweet," he whispered, bending to press his forehead against yours.
After a moment, you threw yourself down on the bed, tugging Steve down with you. He braced himself with his arms on either side of your head.
"Oh, hello there," he said, grinning down at you. His hair fell into his face and he flicked his head slightly to get it out of his eyes, wanting to see you clearly in this moment. He brushed some of your own hair out of your face, then let his thumb rub your temple.
You looped your arms around his neck, your fingers toying with his hair. "Hi," you said back, voice quiet and coy. You smiled up at him, ran your gaze down his body, his shirtless chest, then brought your eyes back to his.
"God, sweetheart, I just wanna..." Steve caught himself, licking his lips nervously. "Would it be weird if I kissed you after you and Eddie were, um, y'know..."
You shook your head. "I've wanted you to kiss me for a long time, Steve."
"Can I?" he asked.
You smiled up at his small, hopeful voice. "Please, Steve."
He leaned down, guided by your looped arms, until his lips touched yours. The soft, gentle kiss was quick, barely a touch, until you tugged him back down to you, sighing into his mouth. Steve moaned softly, adjusting to prop himself up on his elbows, cradling the side of our face with one of his hands.
Steve pulled back. You whined, trying to tug him back down, until he said, "Wait, wait. One sec. You okay with tongue?" You whimpered and he grinned. "I'll take that as a yes."
He bent his head down again, kissing you softly. You moaned softly into him, opening your mouth for him. As his tongue slipped into your mouth, you yanked him down to lay on your body.
"Steve," you mumbled into his mouth. "Steve."
"Yeah, baby?"
You squeezed him tightly. "Thank you. For...for everything."
Steve smiled at you. "Oh, honey. I'll be here as long as you let me."
You stared up at him, your eyes wide and round, words in them that you seemed unsure if you wanted to say.
Steve kissed you deeply. "You don't have to say it, honey, not yet. Take your time. I know."
"Oh, Steve," you breathed, your fingers fanning over his cheek. "Steve, you're perfect. You..."
He nuzzled into your neck, placing delicate kisses there. "How far are you willing to go?"
"Not too far tonight," you said, fighting your embarrassment. "Eddie wasn't exactly...gentle...earlier. I'm...kinda sore. And not sure if I'm ready to go very far just yet. I might need some time."
"I get it," Steve whispered. "It's okay. I know this is a lot happening really fast."
You nodded. "Thanks."
Steve kissed you again. "You wanna stay with me tonight, though? We don't have to do anything you're not up for."
You smiled at him. "I'll stay."
"Can I hold you all night?"
You giggled. "Steve, you keep kissing me like that and you can hold me forever."
He grinned. "Might as well get on with it then, huh?"
You squealed as Steve tickled you, pushing you into his bed with a needy, wet kiss. He threw the covers over the two of you and turned around to shut off the lamp on his nightstand. He turned on the radio, keeping it a soft, low volume—loud enough to be romantic, quiet enough to fall asleep to.
Steve gathered you up in his arms and pulled you to his chest. "I'm glad you're here."
"I'm glad you're here, too, Steve."
Bruce Springsteen crooned into the dark of Steve's room. "You can't start a fire without a spark—"
Steve held you tight and brought his lips to yours, and you exchanged short, lazy, loving kisses in the dark, the kind of kiss that said all the words it was still too early to say.
"This gun's for hire, even if we're just dancing in the dark."
☞ ❊ ☜
Songs Used/Quoted in this Fic:
Jessie's Girl (Rick Springfield)
Dancing in the Dark (Bruce Springsteen)
Let's Dance (David Bowie)
Don't Stop Believin' (Journey)
As Cold As Ice (Foreigner)
For Whom the Bell Tolls (Metallica)
Girls Just Wanna Have Fun (Cyndi Lauper)
Stranger Things // Steve Harrington
Taglist: {comment and let me know if you'd like to be added to the S.H. taglist!} @ohatropa@nix-rose@live-the-fangirl-life
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summary: you shave your legs for the first time in a while, and your boyfriend gator has opinions and hands.
tags/warnings: boyfriend!gator x reader, no use of y/n, established relationship, soft!gator, domestic fluff, suggestive content, grumpy!gator, manhandling, use of pet names (baby, woman, mama), use of insults as pet names, gator tillman is a thigh man, gator tillman vs. healthy communication
author's note: tumblr is labeling this as mature because of the picture but there is no actual smut!
---
After a long, stressful week, something about an altogether-too-lengthy shower feels like a miracle cure.
You’re aware that the number of scrubs and cleansers and moisturizers you just slathered on yourself is bordering on ridiculous, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Your hair is warm and soft from the dryer, your most comfortable white pajama set is silky against your skin, and everything on your body has been scrubbed and buffed within an inch of its life. You feel fantastic. You smell even better.
What you could really use now is a little quality time with your boyfriend, who’s seemed intent on ignoring you while his attention is commanded by running errands or finishing projects or whatever else has kept him from you for the entirety of his Saturday. The part of you that isn’t sulking petulantly is aware that he’s not doing it on purpose, but that does nothing to stifle your annoyance or your itch to spend a few hours tucked in his arms tonight. You can’t help it– you always need him close.
Rubbing the remnants of your fragrant lotion into your hands, you stroll out of the bathroom intent on wrangling him for yourself for the rest of the evening.
You find Gator in the bedroom, a cap turned backwards on his head, the earbuds in his ears making him practically deaf as he gets ready for bed.
You sneak up behind him and wrap your arms around his waist, and he startles before realizing it’s you. He’s still immersed in his music or his thoughts or whatever task he was doing outside— probably working on the truck, if the faint scent of engine oil is any indication. You don’t really mind the quiet, though– just him being gone for so long. Gator’s always been a man of few words once his pretenses are down.
You prop your chin on his shoulder and reach up to pull out of one of his earbuds. He doesn’t object.
“I’m making tea,” you inform him, your other hand smoothing flat over his abdomen. “You want some?”
He snorts. “You ever seen me drink a fuckin’ cup of tea?”
You huff a laugh. “You’re such a man. I’ll be right back.”
“Don’t take long,” he calls after you as you retreat to the kitchen, still not glancing up.
The annoyance you feel at his preoccupation is lessened by his request you come spend time with him. He’s usually needy at the end of the night, especially once he realizes you’ve spent the day largely apart.
When you return to the bedroom with two mugs of tea in your hands despite his request, Gator’s reclined on the bed over the covers, one hand propped behind his head while the other scrolls aimlessly on his phone.
He notices the two cups you’re carrying and groans softly in complaint. “I told you I didn’t want any ‘a that shit.”
“It’s chamomile,” you inform him. “It’s calming. And you’ve been sleeping like crap lately— it’s keeping me up.”
“It tastes like grass,” he gripes as you set both mugs down on the nightstand on his side of the bed, knowing you’ll probably end up cuddled up next to him anyway.
“I put honey and lemon in it, you baby,” you counter, fully aware that for all his bitching, he’ll give in and drink it no matter what he says. You made it for him, and so he’ll take it. That’s just how things work between the two of you.
Gator lays his phone flat on his chest, staring up at you as though just now noticing how you look. His eyes track up and down your figure, combing over the white pajama set. Before you can retreat from his side, he reaches a hand up and pulls slightly at your top, skimming his fingers underneath the hem to examine the fabric. “You look cute tonight.”
You roll your eyes. “We’re not having sex right now.”
“I didn’t ask,” Gator defends himself mildly, his hand smoothing down your body to touch the fabric of the shorts covering your upper thigh.
“You were thinking it,” you snort. “I just washed my hair. I don’t want to get sweaty again.”
“I wasn’t thinkin’ it,” he drawls, his hand sliding to your waist before tugging at you, pulling you closer till your legs bump against the bed. .
“Mm-hm,” you intone, raising a brow at him.
“Gimme some credit,” he complains. “Just wanna love on my woman at the end ‘a the night. Is that so bad?”
A smile spreads across your face as you turn pliant under his hands. “Maybe you wouldn’t be so clingy if you paid more attention to me during the day.”
Gator grabs your waist suddenly and yanks you down on top of him, and you yelp, your hands bracing yourself against his chest.
“I pay plenty of attention to you,” he protests gruffly. “You’re just a drama queen.”
You shoot him an unimpressed look. “Oh, and you’re so mature?”
Gator’s fighting a smile– one of your favorite expressions on him. It cracks the tough-guy facade completely, that humor, and there are few people you know who can bring it out of him. “Yeah, that’s right,” he teases you.
You stare down at him with lowered lashes, your lips curving into a smile. “And who was it that got pissed off last week because he didn’t realize I picked up a shift, even though I told him the night before and gave him plenty of time to come say goodbye?”
“That was your damn fault,” he argues, though the sting has faded from the fight since he got over his frustration at spending an entire day without, mostly because of the supplemental few hours of makeup sex the next morning.
“You wanna see me more, you better start letting me know you’re thinkin’ about me, Alligator,” you hum, tracing a finger along his pec mischievously. “You’re too preoccupied. I like it when you notice me.”
“If I think any more about you during the day, I’m gonna be jobless and broke,” he informs you dryly. “I’m already thinkin’ about you every minute. You’ve got me fuckin’ obsessed.”
“Creep,” you hum as his hands start smoothing up your waist.
“Your fault,” he murmurs, head dipping to kiss sweetly at your neck. “You’re like a witch, or somethin’. Got me under some kinda spell.”
You giggle as he nuzzles at the ticklish spot on your pulse point, your fingers carding through the loose hair at the back of his head.
You feel a frown pull at Gator’s lips. “Why do you smell so good tonight?”
You fight not to roll your eyes again. “Rude. I always smell good.”
You hear him take in a deep breath, his nose tucked beneath your jaw. “It’s different,” he insists. “Like… I don’t know. Some flower bullshit.”
You laugh and push back, rolling off of him and onto your side of the bed. “‘Cause I just spent an hour making myself all clean and pretty for the week. I had an everything shower.”
“That’s what took you so long?” he demands, turning onto his side to chase you. It’s dimly amusing to you that he remembered the time you explained to him what an everything shower was– even if he scoffed and griped about how stupid it was at the time. “Why the hell are you doing all that bullshit?”
“Because it makes me smell nice and look cute,” you tell him flatly, propping your head up on your hand. “And it feels good. I like being all freshened up.”
“Well, I don’t know what the hell that means,” Gator grumbles, one of his hands travelling down from your waist to your thigh. “I just know I’m tired and you look pretty and I wanna hold ‘ya. Get over here.”
“You gonna ask me nicely?” you challenge, your smile splitting into a grin as his hand keeps wandering.
“Wasn’t plannin’ on it,” he admits, eyes dancing. His hand slides down your thigh, then halts all movement.
Gator’s frowns, tearing his eyes away from your face to study your leg where it sits beneath his fingers. “What the hell did you do?”
Your brows knit. “What?”
Gator sits up, smoothing his hand over your thigh, then back up. “Your leg. It’s, like, slippery, or some shit.”
You laugh incredulously. “What are you talking about?”
“Here–” Gator starts, wrapping his hands around both of your legs and dragging you toward him, spinning you around on the bed so your feet end up by the pillows. “Lemme see.”
You make a noise of aggravation at being tossed around, but you can’t deny the little thrill it sends through you when he manhandles you like this. And Gator’s face has drawn an amusingly skeptical kind of focus as he grabs your leg toward him and runs his hands up over your calves, feeling the softness of the skin.
“Gator–”
“What’d you do?” he repeats, utterly fascinated by the lack of resistance under his calloused palm.
“I shaved my legs, if that’s what you’re talking about,” you return dryly.
“Why’d you do that?” he challenges, raising a brow at you.
You roll your eyes as he keeps at his careful examination. “I just wanted to throw off your routine, Gator.”
“Shit is crazy,” he marvels, the judgement not entirely out of his tone as he lifts your leg toward his face, his fingers smoothing over your shin.
You can’t help but laugh as you inform him, “I have shaved my legs before, Gate.”
“Not while we’ve been together,” he huffs skeptically.
“Yes I have, dummy,” you retort. “I exfoliated today— that’s all. I shave all the time.” Sure, you’re normally too lazy to care about your leg hair growing in in the winter, but you usually keep it pretty maintained. It doesn’t hurt that body hair is something Gator wouldn’t ever think to care about— something his dad probably told him he should hate once, but that he couldn’t give two shits about once he actually ran into a woman.
“No, you don’t,” Gator argues. “I woulda noticed before.”
“Yeah, right,” you snort. “You don’t notice shit. You thought my magenta nail polish was lavender.”
He frowns. “Those were the same damn color.”
“Is this really that fascinating to you?” you drawl.
“You bet your ass it is. You feel like a fuckin’ dolphin,” Gator gripes, and you swat his arm.
“Just relax!” you return, drawing yourself out of his grip. “It’ll grow back in a few days if you really care that much.”
“I never said I didn’t like it,” he corrects you, eyes fixed on your legs. “S’just weird. Come back over here. Lemme feel you.”
You grin wickedly and inch backward, out of arm’s reach from him. “No, you had your look. Now I just want to drink my tea in peace.”
“You better get back here, mama,” he threatens you mildly, humor in his eyes as he advances on you.
You shake your head in challenge, mischief dancing through you as you ease away from him. But before you can get far, Gator’s hand clamps around your ankle, and he yanks you back toward him once more with a triumphant, “Gotcha.”
You let out a little eep as you’re raked back over the bed, and then Gator’s hovering over you, a dopey grin on his face. “Gimme a kiss.”
You shake your head, fighting your laughter. “You think I feel weird. I don’t think I wanna kiss you.”
“Now, come on, you know I didn’t mean that,” he grumbles, his head dipping to capture your lips.
You turn your face to dodge the kiss. “How would I know that?” you challenge, smiling smugly despite yourself. “I spend an hour of my time getting all pretty, and you just want to complain.”
“You’re already pretty,” Gator groans against your cheek. “You don’t need to get any prettier. You get any prettier, I’m gonna be in real fuckin’ trouble.”
“See, look at that,” you coo, running your fingers through his hair. “You can be nice when you really try.”
He grunts. “You gonna kiss me now?”
“You really are clingy,” you huff lightly, then turn your face back to smile up at him. “Hi.”
“Hey,” he says back, already smirking. His face lowers to yours, but you halt him again with a finger pressed up against his lips, and he groans.
“Gator,” you start, “First we’ve gotta do some of that ‘communicating’ stuff.”
He groans again, his head dropping to your shoulder so some of his hair tickles your cheek. “I fuckin’ hate communicating.”
“I know,” you say comfortingly, one of your hands scratching at his head. “But you have to. You wanna keep me, don’t you?”
He lets out an “Mm-hm,” that sounds a little reluctant for your taste, but you let it go.
“If you want me to kiss you and look pretty for you and have sex with you and listen to your opinions about my leg hair,” you go on, speaking gently but firmly into his ear, “Then you have to start noticing me a little more. Not just when you have a spare minute. Not once you’re done working on the truck. You’ve gotta remember I exist every now and again, Gate.”
“I do,” he insists in a grumble. “I’m just busy. Doesn’t mean I’m not thinkin’ about you.”
“But I wouldn’t know it,” you argue. “I need you to understand that part of being my boyfriend is that you get me all the time. Not just when you’re ready or when it’s convenient.”
Gator lifts his head and opens his mouth to speak again, but you shush him.
“I’m not going back to how I felt about our situationship, Gator,” you tell him sternly. “That means you’ve gotta give me a little more effort. You’ve gotta notice me. Alright?”
Gator has that look on his face that’s always reminded you of a little kid that just got told to go clean his room. You disguise your amusement at that fact and stare him down.
“How ‘come anytime I just wanna kiss you, I wind up with another fuckin’ lecture?” he asks you ironically. “I was just tryna’ pet you, woman.”
“I’m not a dog,” you reply flatly.
“Nah, you smell too nice,” he intones, the arm that’s not holding him over you sliding down your waist a bit. “And all your fuckin’ hair’s gone.”
You roll your eyes and loose an aggravated sound. “Do you really hate it that much, you caveman?”
Gator laughs a little, the sound raspy from all those years he spent hooked on inhalables before you nearly forced him at gunpoint to quit. “You’re gonna slip right outta my hands.”
“Maybe that’s why I like it,” you return. “I’m harder for you to catch.”
“I already caught ‘ya,” he determines mildly. “No sense complainin’ about it now.”
“Gator,” you cut in again. “Did you hear me back there?”
He heaves a sigh, though you can tell he’s not really that frustrated. He never really is when you’re underneath him. “I heard ‘ya, I heard ‘ya. We’re not goin’ back to that situationship horseshit you were talkin’ about.”
“So?” you prod him, raising your brows as you lead a horse to water. “What are we gonna do differently?”
Gator huffs. “I’m gonna pay attention.”
“Even when you’re busy,” you clarify.
“Even when I’m busy,” he promises, the sarcasm not entirely gone from his tone. “And you’re gonna tell me when you decide to go all smooth on me again.”
You let out a sigh. “Fine, Gator. I’ll never shave my legs again. Happy?”
“I never said that,” he corrects you, and you finally allow his head to lower again, let him press gentle kisses to your collar. “I like it. You’re… soft.”
The way he says it, the gentle caress of the word, almost makes you shiver. “You actually like it?”
“Mm,” he agrees, working his kisses up your neck. “Want me to show you how much I like it?”
Despite yourself, a grin is pulling at your lips again. “You’ve got selective hearing, Alligator. I said not tonight.”
He finally makes his way to your lips, and the kiss he presses there is so perfectly sweet you can’t help but smile into it. “I heard you,” he says when he pulls back, peppering his mouth against your face. “Just thought you might change your mind after all that good comunicatin’ I was doin’.”
You blurt out a laugh, and you feel Gator’s lips curve against your jaw. “You know, when I shave my legs like this, I like to rub ‘em together like a cricket. It feels cool.”
“You’re so fuckin’ weird,” he mumbles against you, and you laugh again.
“Here, you feel,” you insist, and slide your calf along Gator’s to show him what you mean.
Gator pulls back from kissing you, raising a brow. “Hold on– do that again. Feels crazy.”
“See, I told you!” You smile triumphantly, skimming your leg against his.
Gator reaches his free hand down and wraps it around your thigh, hitching it up to accommodate the press of his body between your legs. “So…” he starts, a wicked smile back on his face as his hand slips up your leg and beneath the hem of your shorts. “How far up did you say this ‘smooth’ thing goes?”
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