welcome! thank you so much for reading my little stories 🫶
mostly writing about soft boys who desperately need a hug
☼ = fluff | ☾ = smut | ⛈ = angst
request status:
🔴 closed
☆ masterlists
steve harrington
-> steve masterlist
joe keery
-> joe masterlist
joel miller
-> joel masterlist
☆ summer fics
-> lovers lake ☼
a hot day at lovers lake turns into exactly what the rest of the gang feared: steve harrington being completely incapable of keeping his hands off you for seven straight hours
-> body language ☼ body language pt.2 ☾☼
joe meets reader in the middle of a sweaty dance festival crowd and spends the entire night hopelessly drawn to her
-> too hot to handle ☾☼
a record-breaking heatwave leaves steve harrington fighting for survival, armed only with determination, increasingly desperate solutions, and a girlfriend who refuses to have sex with him until the temperature drops
-> windows down ☼
a heatwave leaves steve and reader driving around hawkins at 2am with all the windows down because it's still too hot to sleep
-> honeymoon hazard ☾☼
joe thought the honeymoon would involve sightseeing and relaxation. instead, it mostly involves him losing his mind every time his new wife walks into the room
-> hold this for me ☼
steve spends an entire summer party inventing reasons to hand you things because he likes it when your hands touch
-> heatwave ☼
a brutal summer heatwave leaves both you and joe sticky, half-dressed, sleep-deprived and increasingly incapable of keeping your hands off each other
-> strawberry picking ☼
between strawberry fields, stolen glances, and a pair of tiny denim shorts, steve harrington realises he might be having the perfect summer day
-> above the city ☼
when the apartment becomes too hot to sleep in, joe decides the rooftop is a much better idea. somewhere between city lights, old conversations and a blanket that definitely isn't big enough, neither of you notices yourselves falling asleep
-> stay in the shade ☼
steve spends one afternoon discovering you have no sense of self-preservation, which means following you around with water, sunscreen and increasingly specific instructions not to walk directly into the blazing sun
-> freckles ☼
every summer, steve's freckles come back. and every summer, his girlfriend falls a little bit more in love with them
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Summary: Steve expects just another birthday. Instead, he discovers he's spent years building himself the family he'd always dreamed of.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, fluff, hurt/comfort, mentions of a neglectful childhood (steve's), found family, angst, everyone loves steve harrington (lmk if i missed anything)
A/N: pls blame jess (@holawdw) for the emotional damage 😭😭 thank you SO much for giving me this idea and then spending several days screaming about it with me in dms because i genuinely don't think i would've written this without you. i knew the second you said it that this had to become a fic. i really hope i did your beautiful idea justice. thank you for trusting me with it, and thank you for emotionally ruining both me and steve 🫶
W/C: 8k
Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]
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You wake before Steve does.
The curtains are still only half-lit, the early morning sun filtering through the gaps in soft bands of gold that stretch lazily across the bedroom floor. Outside, Hawkins hasn't quite decided to wake up yet. Somewhere in the distance a lawnmower coughs into life before giving up again, birds chatter noisily from the oak tree outside the window, and the whole house sits in that strange, peaceful quiet that only exists before the rest of the world remembers itself.
Steve is still asleep beside you, one arm escaped from beneath the duvet during the night, stretched lazily across the mattress until his fingertips brush yours, as though even unconscious he has some quiet need to know you're still there. His hair sticks up in every possible direction, flattened on one side and hopelessly unruly on the other, his face softer in sleep than it ever is when he's awake.
You smile to yourself.
Twenty-three.
It feels impossible somehow - not because twenty-three is particularly old, but because you've spent long enough loving Steve to remember nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Every version of him that existed between those birthdays and this one. Each year he'd grown a little gentler, a little quieter in himself, as though life had slowly been teaching him that he no longer had to carry everything alone.
Carefully, so as not to wake him too suddenly, you lean across and press a kiss against the centre of his forehead.
His nose wrinkles immediately. A low, sleepy groan rumbles somewhere beneath the blankets before one eye cracks open just enough to find you. "...Morning."
"Morning, birthday boy."
His expression falls with almost theatrical disappointment. "...Do I have to get older?"
You laugh quietly. "I'm afraid you don't have much choice."
"I was hoping we could skip this one."
"I'll write to the calendar."
"You think it'd listen?"
"Probably not."
He sighs dramatically before rolling onto his back, staring up at the ceiling with the sort of resignation usually reserved for tax returns and dentist appointments. "...Worth asking."
You reach over to smooth an impossibly stubborn piece of hair away from his forehead. "You know," you say, "most people get excited about their birthday."
Steve hums. "I know."
"You don't."
Another small shrug. "I've just never really been bothered."
He says it so casually that anyone else might have believed him.
But you've known him long enough to understand the difference between someone who doesn't care and someone who learned, very early on, not to expect much in the first place.
Steve never disliked birthdays. That wasn't it. He'd simply stopped allowing himself to build them into something worth looking forward to.
Growing up, they were... fine.
There'd usually be a couple of presents, carefully chosen by parents who knew roughly what an eight-year-old boy ought to like but never quite what their eight-year-old boy actually did. His mother insisted on the same dense, healthy carrot cake every year because she preferred it to chocolate, somehow never stopping to consider that perhaps the birthday boy himself might have had other opinions.
Sometimes his parents were away entirely, leaving him with grandparents or a childminder and promising they'd celebrate properly when they got back. Sometimes they were there, though never really present. A birthday dinner if everyone happened to be home. A quick "happy birthday" over breakfast before somebody rushed off to a meeting. There was never anything cruel about it.
Just... distance.
Nothing bad enough to complain about.
Nothing good enough to miss.
By the time you'd met him, birthdays had become something he accepted with the same quiet indifference he accepted rainy Tuesdays or running out of milk. Nice enough if somebody remembered. Easily forgotten if they didn't.
He catches you looking at him. "What?"
You realise you've been absent-mindedly tracing your thumb across the back of his hand. "Nothing."
"Your face tells me it isn't nothing."
You smile. "I was just thinking."
"Dangerous."
"Oh, absolutely."
He grins, the corners of his eyes creasing in that familiar way that still makes something inside your chest soften. Then, just as quickly, he stretches with another sleepy groan and reaches for his glasses on the bedside table.
"So..." He pushes them onto his nose. "...What's the plan today?"
The question is completely innocent.
There's no expectation behind it. No hopeful curiosity. No excitement. Just the quiet assumption that whatever happened would be perfectly nice, and perfectly ordinary.
You hold his gaze for a moment before leaning across to steal one more kiss.
"Oh," you murmur, smiling against his cheek. "I think you're going to have a very different birthday this year."
Robin is the first to arrive.
You hear her before you see her.
The front door flies open without so much as a knock, followed almost immediately by, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DINGUS."
Steve has barely managed to look up from the mug of coffee in his hands before something rectangular bounces unceremoniously off the side of his head.
"...Ow."
"You're welcome."
He picks the envelope up from the floor, turning it over suspiciously.
Across the front, written entirely in thick black marker, are the words:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DINGUS.
Beneath them, in much smaller handwriting:
Don't let this inflate your ego.
Steve laughs quietly through his nose. "I haven't even opened it yet."
"I know." Robin folds her arms with exaggerated satisfaction. "I just wanted to establish the tone."
You disappear into the kitchen under the pretence of making more coffee, partly because somebody has to rescue breakfast before it burns, and partly because you've known Robin long enough to recognise the expression she's trying very hard to hide.
She's nervous.
Steve, blissfully unaware, slides a finger beneath the flap and unfolds the card.
Silence.
Then another page unfolds.
And another.
Steve blinks. "...Robin."
"What?"
"It's..." He flips another page over. "...Really long."
She shrugs with studied indifference. "I got carried away."
"What did you write?"
"I don't know."
"You wrote it."
"I wasn't paying attention."
He gives her a look.
She refuses to meet it.
You watch him begin reading.
The smile appears immediately, tugging at one corner of his mouth as he reaches the first insult.
Happy Birthday to Hawkins' second-biggest idiot.
Congratulations on somehow surviving another year despite making some of the dumbest decisions I've ever witnessed.
He snorts.
Robin looks insufferably pleased with herself.
Then the smile begins to change.
It softens almost imperceptibly, his eyes moving more slowly across the page now.
You can't read the words from where you're standing, but you know Robin well enough to know exactly what she'll have hidden between the jokes.
She'll have thanked him for making Family Video bearable, for never making her feel like she had to be anyone other than herself, for listening when she came out without making it weird, without asking questions she didn't want to answer, without changing the way he looked at her afterwards. She'll have written about Starcourt. About Russian secret bases and demobats and everything in between. About the fact that, somehow, Steve Harrington had quietly become the safest place she'd ever known.
By the time he reaches the final page, the kitchen has gone strangely quiet. Robin is studying a loose thread on her sleeve with almost academic concentration.
Steve clears his throat before reading the last line aloud, his voice noticeably softer than before. "'Don't get emotional.'" He smiles to himself. "'I'm only saying this once.'"
Robin points at him immediately. "Exactly."
"You literally wrote three pages."
"I know."
"You called me your favourite person."
"I was clearly concussed."
"You said you'd trust me with your life."
"I mean..." She sighs dramatically. "I would."
His smile grows impossibly soft. "You know..." He glances down at the card again. "...Thank you."
Robin groans so loudly you almost laugh. "Ugh."
"What?"
"Stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're about to hug me."
Steve doesn't even pretend to think about it. He simply walks around the table and wraps his arms around her.
Robin lets out the most exaggerated sigh you've ever heard. "This is disgusting."
"You started it."
"I wrote a card."
"You wrote three pages."
"I regret everything."
"No, you don't."
"...No."
She hugs him back anyway. Only for a second. Only because nobody's looking.
Except you absolutely are.
When they finally pull apart, Robin immediately pokes him in the shoulder.
"If you tell anybody I have feelings, I'll deny the whole thing."
Steve laughs. "My lips are sealed."
"They'd better be." She narrows her eyes. "And if you cry..."
"I'm not going to cry."
"You looked dangerously close."
"I wasn't."
"You were."
"I definitely wasn't."
Robin glances towards you. "He was, wasn't he?"
You smile over the rim of your coffee mug. "A little."
"I wasn't."
"You've still got watery eyes."
"It's allergies."
"In February?"
"...Shut up."
The conversation drifts naturally onto something else after that.
Dustin is apparently running late. Robin immediately starts complaining about his inability to tell the time while Steve joins in as though nothing unusual has happened, the two of them slipping back into familiar bickering before Nancy wanders in from the hallway carrying an armful of paper plates, looking between them with a knowing smile. "He's late again?"
Robin throws her hands into the air. "When isn't he?"
The room fills with laughter, and before long the conversation has moved on entirely.
Later, while everyone else is distracted in the kitchen and Robin is attempting to convince Joyce that frozen chips absolutely count as a vegetable, you catch Steve standing alone in the hallway.
The card is open again.
He's reading the third page for a second time, his thumb lingering over the final paragraph before he quietly folds it closed with surprising care. The smile on his face is small, thoughtful, the sort that only ever appears when someone has managed to tell him something he didn't realise he'd needed to hear.
He slips the card carefully back into its envelope.
Not tossed onto the side. Not left amongst the wrapping paper.
Carefully. Like something he already knows he'll keep forever.
Dustin arrives nearly forty minutes late.
He bursts through the front door carrying three different bags, a box of doughnuts, and what appears to be a screwdriver for reasons known only to himself.
"Sorry!" he announces before anybody has the chance to say hello. "The bus was late, the car wouldn't start, and then I had to help my mum move a bookshelf because apparently I'm 'the man of the house now.'"
Robin raises an eyebrow. "...You brought a screwdriver."
"I know."
"Why?"
Dustin looks down at it as though only just noticing it in his own hand. "...Huh."
Steve laughs. "There he is."
Dustin grins, dropping everything onto the kitchen table with considerably more force than necessary. "Happy birthday, old man."
"Thanks."
"You look ancient."
"I'm twenty-three."
"Exactly."
Steve rolls his eyes. "You'll understand one day."
"I'll never be twenty-three."
"You literally will."
"I refuse."
The conversation dissolves into laughter almost immediately.
Nancy is still trying to work out where everyone's coats are supposed to go. Joyce keeps disappearing back to the kitchen because she insists she's forgotten something. Holly trails after Steve, carrying a balloon almost as big as she is, asking if she can help despite clearly having no idea how. Derek is outside trying to light the barbecue with considerably less success than he'd predicted.
After everything that's happened over the last few years, days like this have become strangely precious. Nothing extraordinary. Nobody saving the world. Just everyone existing in the same place at the same time, talking over one another, stealing chips from each other's plates, and interrupting conversations with terrible jokes as though they haven't spent the better part of adolescence fighting monsters together.
More than once, you catch Steve quietly looking around the room.
Not at anything in particular.
Just... everyone.
It makes something warm settle gently inside your chest.
Eventually, as plates begin disappearing into the kitchen, Dustin freezes mid-conversation. "...Oh."
Steve glances up. "What?"
Dustin slaps a hand dramatically against his forehead. "...I forgot your present."
Robin doesn't even look up from her drink. "No, you didn't."
"I did."
"You absolutely didn't."
"I absolutely-" He stops, sighing with theatrical defeat. "...Fine."
Steve laughs. "I knew it."
"You were supposed to believe me."
"I've known you too long."
Dustin disappears into the hallway before returning a moment later, carrying something wrapped in Christmas wrapping paper. It's awkwardly shaped, too large to be a book and too flat to be anything else. Without meeting Steve's eyes, he thrusts it into his hands. "There."
Steve turns it over carefully. "...What's this?"
"I said don't ask questions."
"You literally handed it to me."
"I know."
"Can I open it?"
Dustin rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck. "...Yeah."
The room gradually quietens. Even Mike abandons the card game long enough to look over.
Steve peels the paper back with surprising care, trying not to tear it.
Inside is a thick scrapbook.
The cover is slightly crooked, one corner clearly glued back into place after an unfortunate accident, and across the front, in unmistakably Dustin Henderson handwriting, is written a single word.
STEVE.
Nothing else. Just... Steve.
His smile falters almost immediately.
Slowly, he opens it.
The first page is covered in old cinema tickets from Family Video movie nights.
The second is photographs.
Robin asleep against his shoulder. Lucas laughing so hard at something Steve had said that he's almost falling over. Max pulling a face behind Steve's back while he remains blissfully oblivious. A much younger Dustin wearing Steve's sunglasses, the frames so oversized they practically swallow his face.
Then come the things Steve doesn't even remember keeping.
Campaign maps from old Dungeons & Dragons sessions. Drawings Holly had made years ago that somehow ended up forgotten in his glove compartment. Polaroids. County fair wristbands. Birthday invitations. Receipts. Little scraps of paper everyone else would have thrown away.
One page is filled entirely with handwriting.
Robin's. Nancy's. Lucas's. Mike's. Will's.
Even Erica's, squeezed into one corner with the words:
"Don't let it go to your head, Harrington."
Beneath each name is a tiny memory.
"Steve bought me fries because I forgot my wallet."
"He waited outside my maths exam because he knew I'd panic afterwards."
"Drove us home in a thunderstorm even though he hates driving in the rain."
"He always says yes."
"Best babysitter ever."
Steve turns the next page much more slowly.
His fingertips linger against the edges as though he's frightened of damaging something.
"...Dude." His voice is barely above a whisper.
Dustin shrugs without looking up. "I know."
"You..." Steve lets out one quiet, disbelieving laugh. "...You made this?"
"...Shut up."
"No, seriously."
"It wasn't a big deal."
Robin snorts immediately. "He spent three weeks chasing us for photos."
"I did not."
"You literally made Joyce search her loft."
"That," Dustin points accusingly, "was research."
"And you bullied me into writing two pages."
"You wrote three because you got emotional."
"I did not."
"You absolutely-"
"Shut up, Henderson."
Laughter ripples around the room.
Steve doesn't join in.
He's still turning the pages. Slowly. As though every photograph contains a memory he'd forgotten belonged to him.
Then he stops. Halfway through the book.
You can't see the page from where you're standing.
You only notice the way his expression changes.
His shoulders soften. His eyes linger. His thumb brushes gently across whatever Dustin has glued onto the paper. "...You kept that?"
Dustin finally looks up. "...Yeah."
Steve swallows. "I didn't even know anybody still had it."
Dustin shrugs as though the answer should be obvious. "You don't throw away stuff that matters."
The words are so matter-of-fact that Dustin probably doesn't even realise what he's said.
But the room falls quiet anyway.
Because Steve is looking down at years of little moments he'd long since forgotten.
Movie tickets. Drawings. Receipts. Photographs. Inside jokes. Evidence. Proof that people had been quietly collecting pieces of him long before he'd ever thought to collect pieces of himself.
You watch him blink rapidly once. Then again.
Very carefully, he closes the scrapbook, resting one hand against its cover. "...Thank you."
Dustin clears his throat. "Yeah." A beat. "...Don't cry, dude."
Steve laughs softly, rubbing quickly beneath one eye. "I'm not crying."
Robin doesn't even glance up from her drink. "Third lie of the day."
Another ripple of laughter breaks the silence, the conversation slowly picking back up around him. But you notice something Steve doesn't seem aware he's doing.
He never lets go of the scrapbook.
Every time somebody shifts it to make room on the table, his hand finds it again almost instinctively, fingertips resting lightly against the cover as though he's quietly reassuring himself that it's still there.
The presents continue throughout the afternoon, though calling them presents hardly feels accurate anymore. Some are wrapped carefully, others arrive in supermarket carrier bags or with the price stickers hastily scratched away, and none of them are particularly expensive. None of them need to be. Somewhere between Robin's card and Dustin's scrapbook, the day has quietly stopped being about gifts at all; instead, it becomes a long series of people finding their own ways to tell Steve Harrington that they love him.
Lucas is next. He hands Steve a neatly wrapped box with a shrug that tries very hard to look casual, though he watches far too closely as Steve begins peeling back the paper. "It's not a big deal."
Steve smiles. "It didn't have to be."
Inside is a new baseball glove, the leather still stiff and untouched. Steve hadn't asked for one, but Lucas had noticed weeks ago that the stitching was beginning to unravel on the old glove he used whenever he played with the kids.
"You remembered," Steve says, turning it carefully in his hands.
Lucas looks almost confused. "Well... yeah."
"You noticed that?"
"You use it every week."
A quiet laugh escapes Steve. "I didn't think anybody was paying attention."
"Steve." Lucas shakes his head as though the answer should be obvious. "We notice everything."
Steve looks down again, his thumb moving slowly across the smooth leather before he thanks him with one of those small, genuine smiles that always reaches his eyes. Across the garden, Erica loudly informs Derek that the new glove still won't make Steve any less terrible at baseball, prompting Lucas to shout something defensive on his behalf while Steve laughs and calls them both ungrateful.
Max wanders over a few minutes later carrying nothing but a dog-eared paperback she'd spent the last month insisting he needed to read.
"You keep stealing mine," she says, pushing it into his hands. "Now you have your own."
Steve turns the book over. "I thought you liked lending them to me."
"I don't. I like getting them back eventually."
"I always return them."
"After six months."
"They're long books."
"They're four hundred pages."
"I'm a slow reader."
"I know." Her mouth twitches despite herself, but the amusement fades as she hesitates, scuffing the toe of her trainer against the grass. "...Thanks, though."
Steve blinks. "For what?"
"For always treating me like..." She pauses, searching for something precise enough. "...Just me. You never acted like I was broken."
His smile softens immediately. "You aren't."
"I know." Max shrugs one shoulder, suddenly fascinated by the book in his hands. "You just made it easier to remember."
She bumps her shoulder against his before walking away, leaving Steve watching after her for a moment before his attention drops back to the paperback. Nearby, Will quietly makes room for her beside him on the patio steps, neither of them saying anything as she steals a crisp from his plate.
Nancy catches Steve later while he's helping Joyce carry a tray of drinks into the garden. She slips a small envelope into his pocket so discreetly that nobody else notices. "Open it later."
He raises an eyebrow. "Secret?"
"I'd rather Robin didn't make fun of me."
"Fair."
When you find him reading it alone in the hallway a little while later, you discover it isn't really a birthday card at all. It's a letter, short enough to fit on half a page but written with the sort of care that makes every sentence feel deliberate. Nancy thanks him for always showing up, for never once asking whether somebody deserved saving before trying anyway, and for reminding her that kindness and courage were never mutually exclusive.
She ends simply:
The world is better because you're in it.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
Jonathan doesn't write anything. That wouldn't be him.
Instead, while everyone mills around the garden balancing paper plates and cups of lemonade, he quietly hands Steve a photograph he'd developed himself. It was taken the previous summer, though nobody had realised Jonathan was holding a camera that afternoon. Steve is sitting on the grass with Holly asleep against one shoulder while Joyce is topping up everybody's drinks without asking. Will is showing Max one of his sketches, Mike is laughing at something beyond the frame, and El is lying flat on the grass looking at clouds.
You aren't looking at the camera either.
You're looking at Steve, smiling in that completely unconscious way people only ever do when they don't know they're being watched.
On the back, Jonathan has written a single sentence.
You always make it feel like home.
Steve stares at it for a long time. "...You took this?"
Jonathan nods. "You looked happy."
"I was."
"I know."
A quiet, bewildered laugh leaves Steve as he looks around the garden. Nancy is collecting empty plates; meanwhile, Robin is stealing chips off them before they can be picked up and taken into the kitchen. Everyone is talking over everyone else. Nobody is paying Steve any particular attention anymore.
The celebration has simply become itself.
"...You all remembered," he says, his voice nearly lost beneath the noise.
Jonathan studies him for a moment before giving the smallest shake of his head. "No."
Steve frowns. "What?"
"We didn't just remember." Jonathan glances towards the garden. "We wanted to."
It's such an ordinary sentence, spoken so quietly it almost disappears beneath the laughter drifting through the open door, but you watch something shift inside Steve anyway.
All day, some part of him has been waiting for somebody to admit they felt obligated; that birthdays are merely something decent people acknowledge because convention tells them to. Instead, every person keeps offering him the same truth in a different form.
Not simply happy birthday, but:
I'm glad you're here.
You make things better.
Life would look different without you.
And, perhaps for the first time in his life, Steve doesn't quite know what to do with the possibility that every one of them genuinely means it.
By the time the sun begins dipping behind the trees, the garden has dissolved into the sort of comfortable chaos that always seems to follow this particular group of people. Dustin and Erica have started teaching Holly a card game that she keeps accidentally cheating at. Mike and Lucas are throwing around a football, while El keeps spectacularly missing the catches and laughing anyway. Hopper has claimed the garden chair furthest from the noise with the determination of a man pretending not to enjoy himself, and Jonathan wanders quietly between them with his camera, capturing moments nobody else seems to notice.
Joyce, meanwhile, has somehow produced enough food to cater for an entire wedding.
Steve stands in the kitchen doorway, staring at the dining table. "...Joyce."
She looks up from the casserole she's carrying. "Hm?"
"There's enough food here to feed about thirty people."
"I know."
"There are, like, twelve of us."
"I know."
He gestures helplessly towards the mountain of dishes covering every available surface. "How did you even make all this?"
Joyce shrugs as though she'd thrown together a sandwich rather than enough food to sustain Hawkins through the winter. "I got carried away."
Robin wanders past and steals a roast potato straight from the tray. "She always gets carried away."
"I heard that."
"I wanted you to."
Steve laughs, shaking his head. "This is ridiculous."
Joyce smiles without looking up. "I know."
Nobody goes hungry when Joyce Byers is involved. Plates are filled faster than they're emptied, second helpings appear before anyone has the chance to refuse them, and every attempt to help clear away is met with a gentle but immovable, "Sit down. I've got it."
Steve tries anyway. Of course he does.
He appears beside Joyce with an armful of empty plates before she's even reached the sink. "I can help."
"I know." She takes them from him. "But today's your birthday."
"I don't mind."
"I know." She smiles at him over the top of the washing-up bowl. "So let somebody look after you for once."
The words are spoken so casually they almost disappear beneath the rush of running water, but you see Steve pause.
Only for a second.
Later, after dinner has dissolved into coffee, cake and half a dozen conversations happening at once, you wander back into the kitchen in search of more plates and find Joyce standing at the counter surrounded by plastic containers. She fills one, then another, then another: pasta, roast potatoes, slices of pie, enough leftovers to feed two people for the better part of a week.
Steve wanders in behind you just as she's clipping the lid onto the final container. "...Joyce?"
"Hm?"
"What's all this?"
She looks at him as though the answer is obvious. "Your dinners."
"My..."
"You work long shifts." She stacks another container neatly on top. "And I know you'll forget to cook for yourself if I don't send you home with something."
Steve laughs softly. "You don't have to do that."
"I know."
"You've already fed all of us."
"I know."
"This is too much."
Joyce finally stops what she's doing, placing both hands on the lid of the last container before sliding the entire stack towards him. "You'll take these."
He hesitates. "I don't need-"
"I wasn't asking."
There's no sharpness to it, no irritation, only the gentle certainty of someone who has spent years making sure the people she loves never leave her house hungry.
Steve looks down at the containers, then back at Joyce, and something shifts across his face so quickly that, had you not been watching for it all day, you might have missed it.
Recognition.
Not of the food.
Of the feeling.
Joyce has done this before: when he'd arrived after a shift looking exhausted, when he'd spent too many evenings helping the kids instead of himself, when she'd quietly wrapped slices of lasagne in foil because she'd "made too much again," despite everyone knowing perfectly well she'd cooked extra on purpose.
You realise, with a sudden ache beneath your ribs, that she has been mothering Steve for years. Neither of them has ever said it aloud. Neither of them has needed to.
Joyce notices his silence. "What?"
Steve blinks, almost startled back into the room. "...Nothing."
"You've got that look where you're thinking too hard."
A small smile finds him. "I was just..." He glances down at the containers again. "...Nobody's ever packed me leftovers before."
The kitchen falls unexpectedly quiet.
Joyce's expression softens almost imperceptibly. "Oh, sweetheart." She reaches out without hesitation, smoothing an affectionate hand over his shoulder as though she's done it a hundred times before. "Well." Another gentle squeeze. "They do now."
Steve doesn't answer. He only nods once, swallowing a little too hard before carefully carrying the stack across the kitchen and opening the fridge. He rearranges half the shelves to make room, setting each container inside with absurd precision before closing the door as though he's placing something valuable somewhere safe.
They're only leftovers. A few plastic tubs that will probably become lunch before work tomorrow.
But as you watch his hand linger briefly on the fridge handle, you realise they were never really about food at all. They were proof that somebody had been thinking about tomorrow on his behalf.
For someone who'd spent most of his life quietly taking care of everyone else, that might just have been the greatest gift he'd received all day.
When he finally wanders back outside, the evening has settled into that soft golden hour where everything seems to slow down. Fairy lights strung between the fence posts have begun to glow faintly against the darkening sky, somebody has started another pot of coffee, and the birthday cake sits half-demolished in the middle of the table, one candle still stubbornly refusing to go out despite Robin's repeated attempts to blow it over with exaggerated determination.
You lean against the kitchen doorway for a moment, simply watching.
Steve barely makes it back onto the patio before Dustin catches him again, insisting he absolutely has to see the scrapbook page he'd forgotten to point out earlier. Mike throws a crisp at him. Lucas joins in without even asking what they're arguing about. Max rolls her eyes so dramatically you're surprised they don't disappear entirely.
And through it all...
Steve laughs.
Not the polite laugh he gives customers. Not the awkward one he used to force whenever his parents invited colleagues over for dinner.
This one is different.
Loose. Easy. It belongs here.
You don't think he'd even realised the difference.
Not until today.
Hopper chooses his moment carefully.
He waits until Steve wanders away from the noise with another cup of coffee, escaping towards the edge of the garden where the old oak tree throws long shadows across the grass. It's the sort of place Steve always drifts towards when everything gets a little too loud - not because he dislikes the company, but because he's always needed a minute to breathe between moments.
Hopper follows a few seconds later.
Not obviously.
You watch from the patio without saying anything.
Steve hears the footsteps and glances over his shoulder. "Oh. Hey."
Hopper grunts something that could generously be interpreted as a greeting before stopping beside him.
For a while, neither of them says anything.
They simply stand shoulder to shoulder, looking out across the garden while laughter drifts faintly behind them. Joyce is gathering empty mugs onto a tray. Nancy is folding paper napkins that don't really need folding. Robin has somehow persuaded Holly to help blow bubbles across the garden while Dustin insists bubbles are scientifically impossible to catch.
Steve smiles into his coffee. "...Nice day."
Hopper nods once. "Yeah."
Silence settles again.
Not uncomfortable. Just... Hopper.
Eventually, he clears his throat. "Happy birthday."
Steve looks faintly surprised. "Oh." A small smile appears. "...Thanks."
Another long pause passes, and you almost wonder whether that's going to be the entire conversation.
Then Hopper speaks again, his eyes still fixed somewhere out across the garden. "You've done good."
Steve frowns. "What?"
"The kids."
A shrug. "They're good kids."
"They are." Hopper nods slowly. "They're better because you're around."
Steve's expression changes almost imperceptibly.
Hopper keeps talking before he has the chance to interrupt. "I've seen the way they look at you." Only then does he turn his head. "They trust you."
Steve opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
"You didn't have to keep showing up." Hopper's voice is as gruff as ever. "Nobody asked you to." Another pause. "But you did."
Steve looks down at the coffee cup in his hands. "I just..." A quiet laugh escapes him. "...They needed somebody."
"They did." Hopper nods once. "They got you."
For a moment, neither of them moves.
The sounds of the party carry on behind them as though nothing extraordinary is happening. Someone starts another round of Happy Birthday purely to annoy Steve. Robin groans loudly enough for the entire neighbourhood to hear.
Steve laughs automatically.
His eyes, however, have become suspiciously bright.
Hopper notices.
Naturally.
He pretends not to.
Instead, he reaches out, giving Steve's shoulder one firm, awkward squeeze before offering his hand.
Steve blinks. "...Really?"
"What?"
"The handshake."
"I'm trying."
Steve laughs through the thickness in his throat. "I know."
He takes Hopper's hand.
The handshake lasts barely two seconds.
It's probably the closest Hopper has ever come to saying I'm proud of you.
When he lets go, he clears his throat. "Don't make it weird."
"I wasn't gonna."
"You were thinkin' about it."
"...Maybe."
Hopper points back towards the house. "Go enjoy your party."
Steve smiles. "...Yeah."
He watches Hopper wander back towards the others before letting his gaze drift across the garden.
Robin has somehow ended up with Holly asleep against her shoulder despite loudly insisting children "smell weird". Joyce is packing slices of cake into foil while Nancy labels the containers before anyone can forget whose is whose. Lucas and Mike have wandered to the end of the garden with a football, Jonathan is crouched beside the flowerbed trying to photograph a butterfly Holly spotted, and Erica is shamelessly raiding the snack table one last time before anybody notices.
You catch Steve's eye from across the lawn.
He smiles at you.
Not because anything funny has happened. Not because he's trying to.
Simply because, for perhaps the first time all day, he's beginning to understand what every single person has been trying to tell him.
He hadn't just been thrown a birthday party.
He was home.
By the time the last of the washing up has been stacked beside the sink, the house has settled into a gentler kind of noise.
The loud laughter has softened into quieter conversations, and the music drifting from the old radio has become little more than background static. Through the kitchen doorway you can still see everyone scattered comfortably around the house, no longer celebrating in any organised sense of the word, simply... staying.
Robin has somehow ended up half-curled across one end of the sofa, arguing lazily with Max over what film everyone should watch before they eventually leave. El sits cross-legged on the rug with Mike, the two of them still passionately debating something that nobody else is listening to anymore, while Will quietly contributes the occasional comment that neither of them acknowledges. Joyce is wrapping the last slices of birthday cake in foil, Hopper pretending not to help while hovering close enough to hand her the tape every few minutes without ever admitting that's exactly what he's doing. Holly has fallen asleep against Nancy's side, Jonathan is carefully packing away his camera, and Erica is wandering through the living room helping herself to whatever snacks everyone else has forgotten about.
Nobody seems in any hurry to go home. Nobody seems to want the day to end.
Steve stands beside you at the sink, drying the final plate with considerably more concentration than the task really requires.
He's been quieter ever since Hopper wandered back inside. Not unhappy. Just... Thoughtful.
You hand him another plate, and he dries it automatically before speaking into the comfortable silence. "...I don't get it."
You glance sideways. "What don't you get?"
A quiet laugh escapes him, though it carries none of its usual ease. "Today." He runs the tea towel slowly around the edge of the plate. "They all..." He trails off, searching for words. "...They actually wanted to come."
The sentence settles heavily between you. Not because of what he's saying. Because of what he's accidentally revealing.
You wait.
He keeps looking down at the plate in his hands. "I know birthdays are..." He shrugs awkwardly. "People feel like they have to come, right? You buy a present. You sing. You eat cake." Another small shrug. "It's just... what people do."
You lean your hip against the counter. "Is that what you think today was?"
"I don't know." His smile is almost embarrassed. "It didn't feel like that."
"No."
"They weren't just doing birthday stuff."
"No."
He looks through the doorway towards the living room, where Robin has thrown another cushion at Dustin, Lucas catches it before it reaches him, and Joyce laughs so hard she has to steady herself against the arm of the sofa. "...They were celebrating me."
You smile. "They were."
He looks back at you, his brow creasing slightly. "I've never..." The sentence never reaches the end. Instead, he laughs quietly, rubbing at the back of his neck. "...I don't think I've ever had that before."
Your heart aches. Not because he's upset. Because he says it with such genuine surprise, as though the possibility had never once occurred to him.
You reach for his hand. "C'mere."
He follows without question.
You lead him slowly through the house without saying anything, simply letting him look.
Nancy is gently lifting Holly so she doesn't wake her. Hopper is quietly locking the back door, while Joyce wraps up slices of cake in individual napkins. Jonathan is wiping down camera lenses, Mike has drifted asleep in the armchair, and El gently covers him with a blanket. Robin is trying to convince Max that one more film won't kill anyone, despite half the room already falling asleep, while Erica is counting how much birthday cake she's managed to smuggle home.
Nobody's performing anymore. The party is over. This is simply what remains. People comfortable enough to exist in one another's spaces without needing a reason.
Steve watches them quietly. "They're still here."
"Mhm."
"They don't have to be."
"No."
"They've all got homes."
"They do."
He looks around again, confusion softening into something quieter. "So why..."
People who had arrived separately, from entirely different corners of his life, and somehow fit together now. People who, before him, had never all belonged in the same room.
"You spent years looking after everyone because you thought that's what made you useful."
His eyes meet yours.
"You drove them everywhere. You showed up. You fixed things. You carried everyone else's worries until they stopped feeling so heavy."
He nods slowly. "I thought..."
"I know." You step closer, your thumb brushing gently across his knuckles. "But somewhere along the way... they stopped needing you because of what you did."
His brow furrows.
"They stayed because of who you are."
The words seem to settle somewhere deep inside him.
"You became loved long before you even noticed."
For a long moment he simply looks at you.
Then his eyes begin to shine again.
You smile softly. "I've still got one more present."
He blinks. "You do?"
"Mhm."
You disappear upstairs for barely a minute before returning with something wrapped carefully in plain brown paper and tied with twine.
Steve laughs quietly. "I thought we'd finished."
"We had." You place it gently into his hands. "This one's different."
He unwraps it slowly.
Inside is a dark leather-bound photo album.
No title. No ribbon.
Just his name, pressed carefully into the cover in tiny gold letters.
Steve.
He opens it.
The first page isn't a photograph.
Just a single sentence:
You spend so much of your life looking after everybody else.
He turns the page.
Steve teaching Dustin how to drive. Steve asleep on the sofa with Holly curled against his chest. Robin laughing so hard she's crying while Steve looks completely bewildered. Max stealing chips from his plate. Lucas teaching him a ridiculous handshake. Jonathan catching him mid-laugh behind the camera. Joyce handing him another plate of food. Hopper clapping him awkwardly on the shoulder.
You.
All of them.
Beneath each photograph you've written a single line.
Not describing the picture.
Describing what it meant:
The day Dustin stopped needing a babysitter and started needing a brother.
The first time Robin laughed like she wasn't afraid anymore.
The afternoon you accidentally became Holly's favourite person.
He keeps turning the pages until he reaches the last one.
There are only six words:
Home isn't always somewhere you arrive.
He turns one final page:
Sometimes it's something you build.
Nothing else.
Steve doesn't realise he's crying until a tear lands quietly on the paper.
He lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, shaking his head. "...Honey."
Very gently, you close the album beneath his hands.
"So..." You smile. "Happy birthday."
He looks at you for a long moment.
Then, without saying a single word, he wraps both arms around you.
Not because he doesn't know what to say.
Because, for perhaps the first time in his life... being loved has left Steve Harrington completely speechless.
By the time the two of you finally climb into bed, the house has fallen completely silent.
The fairy lights outside the bedroom window still glow faintly against the darkness, casting soft pools of amber across the ceiling, and somewhere downstairs the dishwasher hums steadily through the last traces of the evening. Steve's birthday cards are stacked neatly on the dresser, Robin's sitting proudly on top, still slightly bent where she'd thrown it at his head that morning.
The leather photo album rests beside them.
Closed now, but not put away.
You curl instinctively beneath the duvet, expecting exhaustion to pull you under almost immediately after such a long day.
It doesn't.
Some time later, you wake to find Steve still lying beside you, exactly where he'd been when you fell asleep. Only now his eyes are open, fixed quietly on the ceiling, his hands folded loosely across his stomach as though he's trying to untangle a thought that's been sitting with him for hours.
"...Hey."
He turns his head. "Oh." His voice is barely above a whisper. "Sorry."
"You don't have to apologise for existing."
A tired smile appears. "I know."
You roll onto your side, propping yourself up on one elbow. "What're you thinking about?"
For a while, he doesn't answer. The silence between the two of you has never needed filling.
Eventually, he lets out a quiet breath. "...When I was little..." He laughs softly to himself. "...I always wished I'd grown up with a big family."
The confession catches you off guard. He keeps looking at the ceiling.
"I used to imagine one of those really noisy houses. People everywhere. Dinner all squashed around one table. Too many birthdays. Too many Christmas presents." He smiles faintly at the thought before it fades again. "I don't know... I just thought it'd be nice."
You reach across the mattress until your fingers find his. He threads them through yours automatically.
"I thought..." He swallows. "...I thought I'd missed my chance."
You shake your head. "No."
For the first time since he started talking, he turns to look at you. "No?"
"You didn't miss it."
His brow furrows.
"You built it."
A quiet, disbelieving laugh escapes him. "I don't..."
"You've got Robin. Dustin. Lucas. Max. Mike. Will. El. Erica." You smile gently. "Nancy. Jonathan. Joyce. Hopper. Holly." You pause. "And me."
His eyes soften.
"They're your family, Steve."
He looks away again. "They..."
"They are."
"I know they care about me, but-"
"No." You squeeze his hand before he can disappear back into old habits. "They don't love you because you drove them everywhere. They don't love you because you babysat them. They don't love you because you fixed every problem before anyone else even noticed it."
You think back over the day.
Robin's card. Dustin's scrapbook. Jonathan's photograph. Joyce quietly packing tomorrow's dinner before Steve had even thought about feeding himself. Hopper, standing beneath the oak tree, trying to say I'm proud of you without ever using the words.
"They love you because you're Steve."
The room falls quiet again.
"You spent years believing people only stayed because you made yourself useful."
His eyes glisten.
"But somewhere along the way..." You smile. "...they stayed anyway."
He lets out one small, disbelieving laugh. "...When did that happen?"
"I honestly don't think anybody knows."
You think about Dustin, twelve years old, following Steve everywhere. Robin slowly deciding she could trust him. Joyce wrapping leftovers in foil because she'd quietly started expecting him for dinner. Holly climbing into his lap without asking.
None of it had happened all at once.
There wasn't a single moment where strangers became family.
It happened on ordinary Tuesdays. On lifts home from school. Movie nights. Late-night phone calls. Shared meals. Inside jokes.
One quiet act of kindness after another until, somehow, nobody could remember a version of life that didn't include Steve Harrington standing somewhere in the middle of it.
"It just..." Your thumb brushes gently across his knuckles. "...Kept happening."
His breathing catches.
You nod gently towards the bedroom door, beyond which the cards, photographs and carefully stacked leftovers still wait downstairs.
"If every single person chose to spend today celebrating you..." Your voice is barely louder than the rain-soft silence outside. "...it's because every single one of them can't imagine their life without you in it."
For a long time, he doesn't speak.
His breathing catches once. Then again.
He laughs quietly through the tears gathering in his eyes. "...You're really laying it on thick for a birthday."
"I know."
"You trying to make me cry?"
You smile, brushing the same stubborn strand of hair away from his forehead that you'd smoothed back that morning. "No." A gentle kiss against his temple. "I'm just telling you the truth."
Something inside him finally gives way.
Not dramatically. There are no great sobs. No speeches.
Just one quiet exhale that seems to carry years of loneliness away with it.
A tear slips silently down his cheek. Then another.
Without saying a word, he turns towards you and buries his face against your neck exactly as though that's where he'd always belonged.
You wrap your arms around him instinctively, your fingers disappearing into his hair as he lets himself be held. Completely.
For perhaps the first time in his life, Steve Harrington doesn't apologise for crying.
He doesn't explain it away. He simply allows someone else to carry the weight for a little while.
You press one last kiss into his hair. "Happy birthday, sweetheart."
His reply is almost lost against your shoulder. "...Best one I've ever had."
You close your eyes, holding him a little tighter as the fairy lights continue glowing softly beyond the bedroom window.
This morning he'd asked if he could skip his birthday.
Now, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing against your chest, you realise birthdays were never really supposed to celebrate surviving another year.
Sometimes they're simply an excuse for everybody who loves you to remind you how very glad they are that you did.
since summer is over for some regions, can u pls write a cuddly fluff or smut with joe in rainy weather 💔
ahhh i LOVE this idea!! rainy weather fics have such a special place in my heart <3
i actually have a rainy day joe fic already called [the world can wait], so if you like this one then i'd definitely recommend giving that one a read!! it's all pancakes, blanket forts, tea and spending the entire day hiding from the weather together
BUTTTT i don't think there's any rule saying i can only write one rainy joe fic 🤭 i already have a completely different rainy-day idea brewing... thank you so much for sending it in!! x
after the rain
Joe Keery x reader
Summary: Joe convinces you not to run from the rain. Mostly because it gives him an excuse to be the one to warm you up afterwards.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, fluff, smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, showering together, soft joe keery, comfort fic (lmk if i missed anything)
W/C: 8.4k (sue me)
Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]
If you want to be added to my taglist, leave a comment to lmk!
By the time the first raindrop lands on your hand, you're convinced you've still got another hour.
You stop walking automatically, lifting your palm towards the sky. One perfect bead of water sits in the centre of it, catching the last of the evening light before sliding slowly across your skin and disappearing between your fingers.
"...Joe."
"Hm?"
"It wasn't supposed to rain yet."
He glances up from whatever story he'd been telling - something about migratory birds, you think. You'd been listening, mostly. Enough to know they can somehow navigate using the Earth's magnetic field, though you'd admittedly become distracted by the simple comfort of walking beside him, your fingers threaded loosely together, his thumb absent-mindedly tracing slow circles over your knuckles.
He squints at the sky. "Huh."
"Huh?"
"I think you might be right."
"You think?"
A second raindrop lands on your shoulder. Then another against your cheek.
The lane stretches quietly ahead, winding between hedgerows just beginning to bronze at the edges. The air still carries the last warmth of the day, but it's different now - cooler, sharper, smelling faintly of damp earth before the rain has even properly arrived.
Home isn't far. Through a gap in the trees, you can just make out the chimney of the cottage.
You squeeze his hand. "We should hurry."
Joe looks towards the cottage. Then back at the sky. "I think we've left it a little late."
As though the weather has been waiting for permission, the rain arrives all at once.
Not a drizzle. Not a polite shower. A proper autumn downpour.
You let out a small yelp as icy water immediately finds the back of your neck. "Joe!"
"I'm aware."
"Run!"
He laughs. Actually laughs. Not because he's laughing at you, but because somewhere in his strange little brain this has immediately become the highlight of his week. "...Why?"
You stare at him. "What do you mean, why?"
"We're already soaked."
You glance down. Your sleeves are already dark with rain, water dripping from the end of your nose. His curls have collapsed across his forehead, his glasses speckled with droplets he makes absolutely no attempt to wipe away.
"...Joe."
"What?"
"We're getting drenched."
"I know."
"We'll freeze."
"We probably won't."
"You have no survival instincts."
"I have optimism."
"It objectively isn't the same thing."
He just smiles. The same smile that's talked you into midnight drives, swimming in lakes that were far too cold, buying a telescope because "what if Saturn's visible?", adopting the elderly cat everyone else overlooked at the shelter, and taking the longer route home simply because the sunset looked prettier that way.
After all these years together, you've learned there's almost always a moment where you have a choice.
You can keep insisting on the sensible option. Or you can take his hand.
The rain drums harder against the gravel lane, soaking through both your coats with alarming efficiency. Somewhere overhead, thunder rumbles softly.
Joe steps closer.
"If you want to run," he says gently, "we'll run."
No teasing. No convincing. Just the offer.
His hand stays exactly where it is between you. "I mean it."
You look from his outstretched hand to the cottage waiting further down the lane.
Then back to him.
He's already soaked through, rain running down the bridge of his nose, and somehow he's still smiling with that same quiet patience he always has, as though either decision would genuinely make him happy, provided you're making it together.
You don't know exactly when loving him stopped feeling like something dramatic and became something quieter.
Something built out of shared grocery lists, Sunday mornings, forgotten shopping bags, brushing your teeth side by side, and conversations about birds that you only half listen to because you prefer listening to his voice.
Maybe that's what love looks like after years together.
Not fireworks. Familiarity. The freedom to be entirely yourself.
You let out a long breath.
Then, despite every sensible instinct you've ever possessed, you leave your hand exactly where it is.
Joe's grin spreads slowly across his face. "I was hoping you'd say that."
Before you can ask what he means, he laces his fingers through yours, steps backwards into the rain, and gently tugs you after him.
The first puddle is entirely his fault.
You make it perhaps another twenty feet down the lane before Joe deliberately steps straight into one, sending a fan of icy water over both your jeans.
You gasp. "Joseph."
"What?"
"You did that on purpose."
"I absolutely did."
"You are thirty-four years old."
"And?"
"And you're splashing puddles."
He glances down at the water, then back at you with complete sincerity. "...Yeah."
Another splash. This one catches your trainers.
You stare at him. "Oh, that's dangerous."
"What?"
"You've made an enemy now."
His eyebrows lift. "Is that right?"
Before he can react, you swing your own foot through the next puddle, sending a wave of water crashing into his shins.
For a second he simply looks down at himself. Then he laughs. Really laughs. The kind that bends him slightly at the waist before he gives up trying to brush the rain from his face because there's simply too much of it.
"There's that smile."
"What smile?"
"The one you've had for the last thirty seconds."
You hadn't even realised. Your cheeks already ache from it.
He reaches for your hand again as naturally as breathing, and the two of you fall back into step beneath the steadily worsening rain. The fields beyond the hedgerows blur into soft grey, mist beginning to lift from the earth as another flock of birds wheels somewhere overhead before disappearing into the storm.
"You know," Joe says after a while, "I think people forget how to do this."
"Walk?"
"Get rained on."
You snort. "I don't think they forget."
"I do." He glances sideways at you. "When you're little, rain's exciting."
"You also eat mud."
"Exactly."
"...That's not helping your point."
"My point is..." He pauses, searching for the words. "Kids don't spend half the day worrying about whether their clothes are dry, or whether their hair looks alright. They just... exist in it."
You look down at your soaked jumper. Mascara is probably halfway down your face. Your hair has long since given up pretending to stay in place.
You should care. You don't.
Somewhere between arguing about puddles and watching Joe grin at the rain like he'd personally arranged it, you'd quietly stopped.
"I don't actually remember the last time I stood in the rain on purpose," you admit.
"I thought that might be true."
He comes to a stop in the middle of the lane and turns towards you, holding out both hands. "Come here."
You narrow your eyes. "I don't trust that face."
"It's a perfectly trustworthy face."
"It isn't."
"I've had this face my entire life."
"And I've known it long enough to recognise when you're about to do something."
He laughs. "Fair."
You place your hands in his anyway. Rain streams steadily from his curls as he smiles at you, warm despite the cold, before gently pulling you towards him.
"What are you-"
He spins you. It's barely one full turn, but your laugh escapes before you can stop it.
"Joe!"
"What?"
"You absolutely planned that!"
"I absolutely did."
"You-"
He spins you again. This time you don't even pretend to complain.
The lane is empty. The fields are empty. The whole world has dissolved into rain and soft autumn light until it feels as though the two of you are the only people left in it, turning clumsily together in the middle of nowhere while your laughter disappears into the storm.
When he finally lets go, you're slightly breathless, your forehead resting against his shoulder.
"I hate when you're right."
"I know."
"You were unbearably smug."
"I was quietly confident."
"That's just smug in nicer words."
He kisses the top of your rain-soaked head. "Maybe."
You stay there for another minute, listening to the rain drum steadily around you, until a sharp gust of wind slips beneath your damp jumper and sends a shiver through your whole body.
Joe feels it immediately. His arms tighten around you. "...Okay," he says, sounding almost disappointed. "Maybe now we should go home."
You lean back just enough to look at him. "I told you."
"I know."
"I specifically said we'd freeze."
"I know."
"And you laughed."
"I did."
"And?"
He sighs with theatrical reluctance. "...I may have slightly underestimated the weather."
"Slightly?"
He reaches for your hand again. "Come on."
"What happened to 'we're already soaked'?"
"Oh, we absolutely still are."
"Then why are we leaving?"
His grin returns. "Because now I get to warm you up."
You roll your eyes, but let him lead you back down the lane anyway, your shoes squelching in perfect rhythm beside his.
And somehow, despite the rain still pouring from the sky and the fact that you can no longer feel your fingertips, the walk home becomes your favourite part of the evening.
By the time the cottage comes into view, the novelty has well and truly worn off.
Your trainers squelch with every step, your jumper clings stubbornly to your skin, and you're fairly certain you've reached the point where being wet has become less of a sensation and more of a permanent state of existence.
Joe glances sideways at you. "You alright?"
"I'm considering divorcing you."
He laughs. "We're not married."
"Details."
"You still love me."
"I do." A beat. "But I'm also freezing."
"...Yeah."
The front door barely has time to swing shut behind you before you both start laughing again.
Water drips steadily from your clothes onto the wooden floorboards as you kick off your trainers with considerably less grace than you'd like, one skidding halfway down the hallway. Joe peels off his own jacket, hangs both of them over the banister, then looks down at the growing puddle around your feet.
You shake your head. "I'll get towels."
"I'll make tea."
"Builder's?"
"You know me so well."
"I should hope so."
By the time you come back downstairs with an armful of towels and dry clothes, the kettle is already boiling and Joe is crouched in front of the fireplace, coaxing the first flames back to life.
"You started the fire?"
Without looking up, he shrugs. "You looked cold."
"I am cold."
"I noticed."
He always does.
It isn't dramatic anymore, the way he cares for you. It lives in quieter places than grand declarations ever could; mugs of tea appearing before you've realised you wanted one, phone chargers packed because he knows you'll forget yours, favourite biscuits somehow finding their way into the trolley. Years together have turned love into instinct.
He stands, brushing ash from his hands before taking one of the towels from your arms. "C'mere."
You step towards him automatically. The towel settles over your head before you can protest, his hands rubbing gently through your hair until a reluctant laugh escapes you.
"Joe."
"What?"
"I'm perfectly capable of drying my own hair."
"I know." The towel slows, his fingers brushing lightly across the back of your neck where the rain has left your skin icy. "But you don't have to."
Your hands come up almost without thinking, catching his wrists.
"What?"
"Nothing." You laugh quietly, leaning your forehead against his chest. "I just love you."
His arms fold around you without hesitation, towel and all. "I know."
"So arrogant."
"You tell me every day."
"I do."
"And I believe you every single time."
The words settle somewhere deep inside you. Simple. Matter-of-fact. As though believing you're loved is the easiest thing in the world.
Another shiver works through you. Joe feels it immediately. He leans back just enough to look at you. "Still freezing?"
You nod. "A little."
"I've got an idea." He reaches for the hem of your damp jumper. "I think we should probably get you out of these wet clothes."
You stand in the bedroom doorway, both dripping, both grinning, your breath still coming in uneven pulls from the final sprint across the garden. The hallway behind you holds the chill of the autumn night, but the bedroom is still warm - the woodstove's residual heat pressing against your rain-cooled skin like a slow exhale.
Joe shakes his head, sending droplets flying, and a low, breathy laugh escapes him. "We're insane. We are absolutely insane."
Your grin widens. "Your idea."
"You agreed."
"I always agree when you get that look."
He reaches out, catches a strand of wet hair plastered to your temple, and tucks it behind your ear. His fingers are cold, and you shiver - not from the cold, but from the way he looks at you, like you're the only warm thing in the room.
Rain drums steadily against the windowpane, a sound that has been your companion all evening. The single lamp on the nightstand casts a low, amber glow across the room, catching the sheen of water on your faces, the dark patches where your clothes cling to your bodies.
Joe's jumper is the first to go. He grabs the hem with both hands and pulls it over his head in one motion, and the wet wool lands on the floorboards with a distinct slap. You watch it hit, then look up at him - his damp dark hair curling tighter now that it's wet, his T-shirt clinging to his shoulders.
You bite your lip. "That sound. That's the sound of a man who's about to catch a cold."
"Worth it." He reaches for the button of his jeans, then stops, one eyebrow lifting. "You're still fully dressed. I feel exposed."
"You are exposed. Your jumper's also on the floor making puddles."
"That's not-" He laughs, a low, warm sound that makes your chest ache in the best way. "Honey. Come on. You're soaked."
"So are you."
"I'm trying to fix that."
You look down at yourself - your pale blue shirt, translucent now where it sticks to your skin, your jeans dark with rainwater from the knee down. A puddle is forming at your feet too, a mirror of his.
"We're going to have to mop," you say.
"We'll deal with it later."
"The floorboards will warp."
"I'll sand them down. Refinish them. I'm basically a carpenter, remember?"
You laugh. "I think that cabinet you built last summer would beg to disagree."
"In my defence, it was being very argumentative."
"You're ridiculous."
"You love it."
"I do."
You say it simply, without hesitation, and something in his face softens. The grin remains, but his eyes change - that particular warmth that makes you feel like you're the only person in the world. He takes a step closer, his bare feet sloshing slightly across the floor.
"Then let me help you out of that," he says, his voice lower now, his fingers finding the top button of your shirt.
You watch his hands - those callused guitar player's hands that have spent years pressing hard into strings, that have learned the curves of your body just as thoroughly. They move slowly, deliberately, undoing each button one at a time. The fabric parts, and the cool air of the bedroom meets your damp skin, and you breathe in sharply.
"Cold?" he asks.
"Not anymore."
He pushes the blouse off your shoulders, and it slides down your arms, joining his jumper on the floor with a wet sigh. Your bra is thin, pale grey, clinging to you, and his gaze drops, then rises again, and he lets out a slow breath.
"You're beautiful," he says. Not like a line. Like a fact he's reminding you of.
You reach for the hem of his T-shirt. "Up."
He raises his arms, and you pull it over his head, revealing the broad shoulders you know by heart, the slight dusting of hair across his chest, the way his skin gleams damp in the lamplight. You let your hands rest on his chest for a moment, feeling his heartbeat under your palms, steady and sure.
"Your hands are cold," you say.
"So are yours."
"I'm warming them up."
"That's my line."
You grin and press your palms flat against his chest, letting the heat of his skin seep into your fingers. His chest shifts under your touch as he reaches down and unbuckles his belt, the metal clinking softly. His jeans join the pile on the floor, and he stands before you in boxer briefs that cling to his hips.
"Better?" he asks.
"Getting there."
You step back, kick off your own soggy socks, and hook your thumbs into the waistband of your own jeans. They're heavy with water, stubborn against your thighs, and you have to wiggle them down with an undignified grunt. Joe laughs - that easy, affectionate laugh - and you shoot him a look.
"Don't you dare."
"I'm not saying anything."
"You're thinking it."
"I'm thinking you're adorable."
You finally manage to push the jeans past your knees, and he steadies you with a hand on your elbow as you step out of them. Now you're both in your underwear, standing in a widening puddle of rainwater, and the absurdity of it hits you again.
You start laughing. "Look at us."
He looks. Down at the puddle, at your damp bodies, at the pile of wet clothes on the floor. Then back at you, his hazel eyes bright. "I'm looking."
"We look like drowned cats."
"Warm drowned cats." He steps closer, his bare feet sloshing. "With very good taste in rainstorms."
"And each other."
"That too."
He reaches out and brushes a wet curl from your cheek. His thumb lingers on your skin, tracing the line of your cheekbone, the corner of your jaw, the soft spot just below your ear. The laughter fades from your face, replaced by something quieter, deeper. You look up at him, your smile softening into something almost shy, even after all these years.
His thumb still rests on your cheek, and your hand comes up without thinking, your fingers finding his wrist, wrapping around it gently. His pulse beats against your fingertips, steady, and you press your thumb into the soft underside of his arm, feeling the tendon shift beneath his skin. He lets out a breath he's been holding, and the sound of it - quiet, unguarded - makes your chest ache.
"You're cold," you say again, though this time it isn't a statement of fact. It's an invitation.
"I know." His voice is low, rougher than it had been a moment ago. "So are you."
You step closer. The puddle at your feet widens, but you don't look down. The wet floorboards, the pile of sodden clothes, the lamp casting its amber glow across his bare shoulders - none of it matters. What matters is the way he's looking at you, like you're something precious, something he'd been lucky to find and spent years learning how to hold.
"The shower," you say, not quite a question.
"The shower." He nods, but his thumb doesn't leave your cheek. "We should-"
"We should."
Neither of you move.
The rain keeps falling. The lamp flickers slightly, a draft from somewhere, and the shadows sway across his face. You watch the way his jaw tenses and relaxes as he swallows. He's always so steady, so sure of himself in his quiet way, and yet here he is, waiting for you to make the first real move.
You let your hand slide down from his wrist, your fingers trailing along his forearm. He shivers under your touch, and you smile.
"Sensitive," you say.
"Your hands are cold."
"You've mentioned."
"I'll keep mentioning it."
You laugh, soft and low, and the sound seems to break something - not the tension, but the stillness. He shifts his weight, and his thumb finally leaves your cheek, sliding down to your chin, tilting your face up toward his. The movement is gentle, unhurried, and you let him guide you, let yourself be held in the space between his hands.
Your name leaves his lips, quiet as a secret.
"Joe."
He kisses you. Not urgently, not desperately - just a slow, warm press of his lips against yours, a question answered without words. Your eyes close, and you lean into him, your hands finding his chest again, your fingers spreading across the firm muscle, the coarse hair, the steady thrum of his heartbeat. He tastes like rain, like the cold night air, like something familiar, safe, and yours.
The kiss deepens, but only slightly. His hand slides from your chin to the nape of your neck, his fingers threading through your wet hair, and you make a small sound against his mouth - not a gasp, not a moan, just a sound of recognition, of homecoming. He smiles against your lips, and you feel it, the curve of his mouth, the warmth of his breath.
"The shower," you say again, pulling back just enough to look at him.
"The shower," he agrees, his forehead resting against yours.
You reach down and take his hand, your fingers intertwining with his. His palm is broad, callused, warm despite the cold. You squeeze once, and he squeezes back, and together you step out of the puddle, leaving your wet clothes on the floor, leaving the lamp burning, leaving the rain to drum against the window as you cross the bedroom toward the bathroom door.
The bathroom is smaller than the bedroom, wrapped in pale blue tiles that catch the soft light from the single fixture above the mirror. Steam hasn't yet filled the space, but the air is cool, clean, smelling of the cedar soap Joe keeps on the ledge and the lavender shampoo you'd bought at the market two weeks ago. He lets go of your hand only long enough to reach into the shower and turn the handle. The pipes groan, a familiar complaint, and then water begins to hiss against the tile floor.
You stand just behind him, your arms wrapped around yourself, watching the way his shoulder blades shift as he reaches in to test the temperature. Water splashes his forearm, and he adjusts the handle, then again, until he's satisfied.
"It'll take a second to warm up," he says, turning back to her. His boxer briefs cling to his hips, dark with residual dampness, and water still beads on his chest from the rain. He looks at you - really looks - and his mouth curves into that particular smile, the one that reaches his eyes before it reaches his lips. "You're shivering."
"I'm not."
"You are. Your arms are wrapped around yourself, and your teeth are doing that tiny chatter thing they do."
"They are not."
He steps closer, and his hands find your elbows, gently pulling your arms away from your body. The air meets your skin, cooler than his palms, and you inhale sharply. "They are," he says softly. "Come here."
He guides you forwards, one hand sliding to the small of your back, and positions you under the showerhead just as the water begins to steam. The first spray hits your shoulders - hot, almost too hot, and you gasp, your body tensing against the shock of it. But then the heat sinks in, seeping through your chilled skin, and you let out a long, slow breath as your muscles begin to unclench.
"Too hot?" he asks, his hand still on your back.
"Perfect."
He steps in behind you, and the shower is just wide enough for both of you if you stand close. The water runs over your shoulders, down your chest, tracing the curve of your waist before falling to the drain. You tilt your head back, letting the stream soak your hair, and close your eyes. The sound of the water fills your ears - that and the rain against the small bathroom window, softer here, more distant.
His hands find your shoulders. You feel his thumbs press into the tight muscle just below your neck, and you groan - an undignified, entirely involuntary sound - as he begins to work the tension out of you.
"That good?" His voice is low, amused, close to your ear.
"Don't stop."
"Wasn't planning to."
He works slowly, his callused thumbs tracing firm circles along your shoulder blades, up the curve of your neck, back down to where your spine meets your shoulders. The heat of the water, the pressure of his hands, the steam filling your lungs - you feel yourself softening, leaning back into him, letting him take your weight.
"You're tense," he says.
"I ran through a rainstorm and then stood in a cold bedroom peeling off wet clothes."
"Fair point." His hands slide down your arms, warming them, then back up to your shoulders. "Better?"
"Much."
You open your eyes and turn in his arms, the water now falling across both of you. His dark hair is plastered to his forehead, and you reach up without thinking, brushing the wet curls back from his face. His eyes - those hazel eyes that hold so much warmth - are watching you with that soft, unguarded look he only ever gives you.
"Your turn," you say.
"My turn for what?"
"To get washed."
He raises an eyebrow, a hint of his dry humour surfacing. "I'm already wet. I think I'm washing by proximity."
"That's not how showers work."
"It's how I work. Efficient."
You laugh and reach past him for the shampoo bottle on the ledge. The motion brings your chest against his, and you feel his breath catch, just slightly, before he steadies himself. You ignore it - or pretend to - and squirt a generous amount of shampoo into your palm.
"Turn around."
"Honey-"
"Turn around."
He turns, and you press your soapy hands into his hair. The shampoo lathers quickly, and you work it through the wet strands, your fingers sliding from his scalp to the ends of his curls and back again. He lets out a sound - low, satisfied, almost a hum - and his shoulders drop as he relaxes into your touch.
"That feels amazing," he says, his voice muffled slightly by the water.
"I know."
"Humble."
"Accurate."
You work your fingers into his scalp, pressing firm circles with your fingertips the way you know he likes. His hair is thick, soft now that the rain has been rinsed away, and you take your time, making sure every strand is coated, every inch of his scalp massaged. He leans his head back into your hands, and you smile, watching the water run in rivulets down his neck, over his shoulders, tracing the line of his spine.
"You have good hands," he says.
"I have precise hands."
"You have caring hands."
The words land somewhere in your chest, soft and warm, and you pause for a moment, your fingers still buried in his hair. Then you reach for the showerhead, guiding it over his head to rinse him clean. The water runs milky with shampoo, then clear, and you watch the suds disappear down the drain.
"There," you say. "Clean."
He turns back to face you, water streaming down his face, his eyes bright. He blinks, shaking his head slightly to clear the water from his lashes, and you laugh at the gesture - so familiar, so him.
"You look like a wet dog," you say.
"So I've been promoted from drowned cat?"
"You're welcome."
He reaches for the shampoo bottle. "My turn."
"I didn't-"
"You washed mine. Now I wash yours. Fair's fair."
There's no arguing with him when he uses that tone - gentle but firm, the same tone he uses when he insists on carrying the heavier shopping or giving you his jacket when you forget yours. You turn, and his hands find your hair a moment later, gentle, deliberate, as if he's handling something precious.
He's slower than you had been. His fingers work the shampoo into your scalp with patient, circular motions, starting at your temples and working back, then down the length of your hair. You close your eyes, letting yourself be held by the warmth of the water and the weight of his hands. The steam curls around you, fogging the mirror, blurring the edges of the small bathroom until it feels like you're the only two people in the world.
"Your hair is so long," he says quietly.
"It's the same length it's been for three years."
"I know. I still notice it every time."
You smile, your eyes still closed. "You're ridiculous."
"You love it."
"I do."
His fingers press into your scalp, finding a spot of tension you hadn't realised you were carrying, and you let out a breath that's almost a moan. He chuckles, low and warm, and keeps working, his thumbs tracing circles behind your ears, down the nape of your neck.
"You're good at this," you say.
"I've had practice."
"With who?" you joke.
"With you. Every time you let me."
You feel something catch in your throat - the fullness of being seen, being known, being cared for by someone who chooses you every single day. You reach up and cover his hand with yours, pressing it more firmly against your scalp.
"Don't stop," you say again.
"Wasn't planning to."
He rinses your hair slowly, cupping water in his palm and letting it run through the strands, checking that every trace of shampoo is gone before he's satisfied. Then his hands slide down to your shoulders again, rubbing warmth into your skin, and you turn to face him.
The water falls between you, steaming, steady. His chest is flushed pink from the heat, his hair curling tighter now that it's drying slightly in the warm air. You look at him - really look - at the small scar that's always been there, the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, the way his mouth softens when he looks at you.
"Hi," you say.
"Hi."
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For the rain. For the walk. For the shower. For-" You gesture vaguely between you. "This. All of it."
He smiles, and it's the smile that had made you fall in love with him, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes him look younger, softer, more open. "Thank you for saying yes to the rain."
"I almost didn't."
"I know. But you did." He reaches out and brushes a wet strand of hair from your cheek, tucking it behind your ear. "You always do, eventually. That's one of my favourite things about you."
You lean into his touch, your eyes drifting closed for just a moment. When you open them, he's still watching you, his gaze warm and steady, and you feel a familiar ache spread through your chest - the ache of loving someone so completely that it sometimes feels overwhelming.
"Kiss me," you say. Not a question.
He does.
Slow, warm, the taste of rain and soap and him. His hand slides to the back of your neck, cradling your head, and you press closer, your hands finding his chest, the steady beat of his heart under your palm. The water runs over you, around you, and you feel the kiss deepen - not with urgency, but with familiarity, with years of knowing each other's rhythms, each other's silences.
When you break apart, your forehead rests against his, and you both stand there, breathing the same steam, listening to the water and the rain and the quiet of your small cottage.
"We should probably get out before we turn into prunes," you say.
"Probably." He doesn't move. "In a minute."
"In a minute."
You stay under the spray, wrapped in the warmth of each other and the water, until the steam begins to thin and the hot water starts to cool. Joe reaches past you and turns off the shower, and the sudden silence is startling - just the drip of water from your bodies, the distant drum of rain against the roof, the sound of your breathing.
He steps out first, grabs a towel from the rack, and holds it open for you. You step into it, and he wraps it around your shoulders, his hands lingering on the fabric, pressing gently to absorb the water. Then he takes a second towel and begins to dry your hair, the same way he always does - gently, thoroughly, working from the ends up to avoid tangling the curls.
"You don't have to-" you start.
"I know."
He keeps going, rubbing the towel over your head with careful attention, and you let him. When he's satisfied, he drapes the towel over your shoulders and presses a kiss to your temple.
"Go finish your routine," he says. "I'll sort something out."
You look up at him, your hair a wild mess of half-dry curls, your skin flushed from the heat. "What are you sorting?"
"You'll see. Go. Before you get cold again."
You had wanted to argue, but the warmth of the shower was already fading, and the air in the bathroom was growing cool.
You pad out of the bathroom, your feet leaving damp prints on the hardwood floor, and cross back into the bedroom. The lamp is still burning, and the puddle on the floor has spread slightly, but you step around it, reaching for the soft flannel dressing gown hanging on the back of the door.
You shrug it on, tying the belt loosely, and move to the small vanity near the window. The rain still falls outside, steady and relentless, pattering against the glass in a rhythm that feels like a lullaby. You go through your usual motions - moisturiser, a quick brush through your damp hair, the familiar rituals that ground you after a long day - but your mind is on Joe, on whatever he's "sorting out" in the living room.
From beyond the bedroom door, you hear the soft clink of metal, the rustle of fabric, the strike of a match. You smile to yourself, a suspicion forming, warm and sweet.
When you finish, you pad to the bedroom door and push it open, stepping into the hallway.
The living room glows.
Firelight flickers across the walls, casting long, dancing shadows that make the room feel larger and smaller at once. The hearth, which had been cold and dark when you'd left that morning, now roars with a healthy blaze, flames licking at the logs with a warmth you can feel from the hallway. Joe has piled blankets and cushions onto the rug in front of the fireplace - the thick wool throw from the back of the couch, the soft quilted blanket you keep in the cupboard for winter evenings, at least three cushions from the armchairs - creating a nest of fabric and warmth that invites you to sink into it.
Two mugs sit on the low table near the hearth, steam curling from their surfaces. Tea, you realise. He's made tea.
Joe kneels by the fire, a poker in his hand, adjusting the logs. He's pulled on a pair of soft grey joggers, his torso still bare, his hair still damp and curling at the ends. The firelight catches the plane of his back, the shift of muscle as he moves, and you stand in the doorway, watching him, your heart full to bursting.
He must feel your gaze, because he turns, the poker still in his hand, and smiles at you - that soft, open smile that belongs to you alone.
"There you are," he says. "Come sit."
You cross the room, your bare feet silent on the floorboards, and sink onto the pile of blankets beside him. The heat of the fire wraps around you, warm on your face, your hands, your bare legs. Joe sets the poker aside and reaches for one of the mugs, handing it to you. You wrap your fingers around it - warm ceramic, the familiar weight - and breathe in the scent of honey and chamomile.
"You made tea," you hum.
"You were cold."
"I was in the shower."
"You were cold before the shower. And you like tea after a shower. It's a thing you do."
You look at him, at the firelight in his eyes, at the way he sits so casually, so comfortably, as if building a blanket nest and brewing tea by firelight is simply what one does on a rainy autumn evening.
"You're perfect," you tell him.
He laughs, low and warm. "I'm not. But I'm yours."
You set the mug down and reach for him, your hand finding his jaw, pulling him towards you. The kiss is soft, slow, tasting of tea and honey and the faint lingering trace of rain. He leans into you, one hand bracing on the blanket beside your hip, and the fire crackles and pops, and the rain falls, and the world outside your cottage ceases to exist.
The kiss deepens, but slowly - the way you always move together after years of learning each other's rhythms. His hand slides from the blanket to your waist, fingers finding the gap where your robe fell open, brushing the warm skin beneath. You hum against his mouth and lean into the touch, letting him guide you down onto the piled blankets.
The cushions shift beneath you, soft and yielding, and he follows you down, one arm braced beside your head, the other hand still resting on your hip. The firelight plays across his face, catching the damp ends of his hair, the curve of his shoulder, the way his eyes have gone dark and soft at the same time. You reach up and trace his cheekbone with your thumb, feather-light.
"You're warm," you say.
"So are you." He dips his head, pressing a kiss to your jaw, then another just below your ear. "You taste like honey."
"You taste like rain."
He laughs against your skin, a low, warm vibration that travels down your spine. His hand moves from your hip to the tie of her robe, fingers working the knot loose without looking. The fabric falls open, and the firelight sweeps across your chest, your stomach, your thighs. He pulls back just enough to look at you, and the way his breath catches - barely, almost imperceptibly - makes your stomach tighten.
"You're beautiful," he says.
You reach up and hook your fingers into the waistband of his joggers. "You're wearing too much."
"So are you."
"I'm wearing a dressing gown. That's barely anything."
"It's something." He tugs the robe off one shoulder, then the other, baring you to the firelight. The heat of the flames kisses your skin, but his gaze is warmer. "There. Now we're even."
You push at his joggers, and he lifts his hips just enough to let you slide them down. He kicks them off somewhere behind him, and then he's above you, skin to skin, the weight of him pressing you into the blankets. The fire crackles, and the rain falls, and you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down into another kiss.
His hand finds your breast, palm flat, his thumb tracing a slow circle around your nipple. You arch into his touch, a small sound escaping your throat, and he smiles against your lips.
"Sensitive," he says, echoing your earlier tease.
"Always."
He lowers his mouth to your neck, your collarbone, the curve of your breast. His lips are warm, his tongue slower than his hands, and you let your head fall back, your fingers threading through his still-damp hair. The firelight flickers across his shoulders as he moves, and you watch the play of muscle beneath his skin, the concentration in his brow as he focuses on you.
He takes his time. That's the thing about Joe - he never rushes, never treats your body like something to be conquered. He explores it the way he explores a new musical instrument, with patience and attention, finding where produces noise, the places where you're most alive. His mouth traces a path down your sternum, your stomach, pausing at your hip to press a kiss there that makes your breath hitch.
"Joe."
"Mm?"
"I want you."
He lifts his head, his eyes finding yours. The firelight catches the gold in his irises, and he smiles - that soft, open smile again. "I know. I want you too." He shifts, his body sliding up yours until his face is level with yours again. "But I want to take my time."
"We have time." You reach up and cup his jaw, your thumb brushing his cheekbone. "The rain isn't going anywhere."
"Neither are we."
He kisses you again, slower this time, as if he's memorising the shape of your mouth. His hand slides down your side, over your hip, along your thigh, then back up, leaving trails of warmth wherever he touches. You feel yourself opening to him, your body responding to the familiar weight of his, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
When his hand finally settles between your legs, you gasp - not from surprise, but from the relief of being touched exactly where you need it. His fingers are gentle, exploring, finding you wet and ready. He makes a low sound of satisfaction against your mouth.
"You're already-"
"I know." You bite your lip. "It's you. It's always you."
Joe presses his forehead to yours, his fingers still moving in slow, deliberate circles. "I love you," he says. Not a prelude. A fact.
"I love you too."
You reach down and wrap your hand around him, and his breath stutters in his chest. He's hard, warm, familiar in your palm. You guide him to your entrance, and he pauses, his eyes meeting yours in the firelight.
"Ready?"
"I've been ready since the rain started."
He pushes inside you slowly, inch by inch, and you let out a long, trembling breath. The stretch of him, the fullness - it's the same every time and different every time, a feeling you never got tired of. He fills you completely, and when he's all the way in, he stops, just breathing, just being inside you.
"Okay?" he asks.
"More than okay."
He begins to move, a slow, deep rhythm that matches the rain against the windows. The firelight paints your shadows on the wall, a single shape moving together. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groans against your neck.
"Honey."
"I know." You tilt your hips, meeting his thrusts. "I know."
You move together the way you always do - without hurry, without performance, just two people who know each other's bodies and hearts. His hand finds yours on the blanket, his fingers intertwining with yours, and he presses your joined hands beside your head as he moves. The fire pops, showering sparks, and the rain continues its steady drumming, and the world outside your cottage is a distant memory.
You feel the pressure building, slow and inevitable, a warmth spreading from where you're joined to your chest, your thighs, your fingertips. His breathing grows rougher, his thrusts deeper, and you know he's close too. But he doesn't speed up. He holds the rhythm, steady and sure, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes closed.
"Come for me," he says, his voice low, almost a whisper. "I want to feel you."
You let go. The orgasm rolls through you like the tide, slow and inexorable, pulling you under with a soft cry. He follows a moment later, his body tensing against yours, his breath hot on your skin. You hold him through it, your arms wrapped around him, your legs still locked around his waist, keeping him close.
Afterwards, he collapses against you, his weight a comfort. You stroke his hair, still damp at the ends, and listen to his breathing slow. The fire crackles, and the rain falls, and the room smells of woodsmoke and tea and the two of you.
Joe lifts his head after a long moment and presses a kiss to your forehead. "I love you," he says again.
"I love you too." You smile, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "You know, for a man who knows a lot about birds, you're pretty good at building nests."
He laughs, the sound muffled against his skin. "I had good material to work with."
"Flatterer."
"Truth-teller."
He rolls off you, but only to pull you against his side, arranging the blankets over you both. The fire has burned down to a steady glow, casting long shadows across the room. You tuck your cold feet between his calves - an old habit - and he doesn't flinch, just pulls you closer.
"We should probably clean up," you say, without conviction.
"Probably." He kisses the top of your head. "In a minute."
"In a minute."
You close your eyes, listening to the rain, to his heartbeat, to the settling of the fire. The tea sits cooling on the table, forgotten. The world outside your cottage can wait. Here, in the warmth of the fire and his arms, you have everything you need.
You aren't sure when you drifted, but you must have, because the next thing you know, Joe is shifting beneath you, careful not to wake you. You feel him press a kiss to your hair, then ease his arm out from under your head. The loss of his warmth makes you stir, and you blink against the firelight, now low and orange, casting long shadows across the ceiling.
"Shh." His voice is soft, his hand finding your shoulder. "Stay. I'm just adding a log."
You watch through half-closed eyes as he crosses to the woodpile, the firelight tracing the lines of his back, the dip of his spine, the way his shoulders move as he lifts a piece of seasoned oak. He kneels by the hearth, places it carefully on the embers, and uses the poker to coax the flames back to life. Sparks rise, catch in the draft, and disappear into the dark of the chimney.
When he turns back, you're watching him, fully awake now, your cheek resting on the folded edge of the quilt. He smiles, that soft, private smile, and crosses back to the nest of blankets, settling beside you. He pulls the quilt up over both of you, tucking the edge around your shoulder.
"Hi," you say, your voice still sleep-rough.
"Hi." He brushes a curl from your forehead. "You fell asleep."
"Just for a minute."
"More like fifteen."
You stretch, feeling the pleasant ache in your thighs, the warmth of the fire on your skin. "You should have woken me."
"Why? You looked peaceful." He traces the line of your collarbone, his fingers light, unhurried. "Besides, I like watching you sleep."
"Creep."
"Romantic."
You laugh, the sound low and sleepy, and turn onto your side to face him fully. The fire has caught the new log, casting fresh light across his face. You reach out and trace the line of his jaw, the slight stubble that has grown in over the course of the day.
"I love this," you say quietly.
"What?"
"This. Us. The fire. The rain. The fact that you made tea even though we forgot to drink it."
He glances at the mugs on the low table. "We can reheat it."
"That's not the point."
"What is the point?"
You think about it, your fingers still resting against his jaw. "The point is that you thought of it. That you knew I'd want it. That you built all of this-" she gestured at the blankets, the fire, the warm glow of the room "—while I was putting on moisturiser."
Joe catches your hand and presses a kiss to your palm. "I'd build you a hundred fires."
"I know."
You lay there, facing each other, the fire popping softly, the rain a steady backdrop. You trace his eyebrow with your thumb, the way you always do, and he closes his eyes under your touch, a quiet exhale escaping him.
"You're tired," you say.
"A little." He opens his eyes. "But not too tired for this."
"For what?"
He doesn't answer with words. He leans in and kisses you, slow and warm, his hand finding your waist beneath the blanket. The kiss is different from before - softer, more tender, a lingering press of lips that says more than any sentence could. You feel the weight of the evening in it, the years behind you, the quiet certainty of what you've built together.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and his hand finds yours beneath the blanket, your fingers intertwining.
He says your name in a quiet breath.
"Joe."
"I don't say it enough."
"Say what?"
"How much you-" He pauses, searching for words. "How much you've changed my life. How every day with you feels like I got lucky, and I'm still getting lucky."
You feel something catch in your throat. "You say it plenty."
"I want to say it more."
You lift your joined hands and press your lips to his knuckles. "Then keep saying it. I'll keep listening."
The fire settles, the new log catching fully now, casting a warm, steady glow across the room. The rain has softened, a gentler rhythm against the windows, and the cottage feels smaller, warmer, more yours than it has ever felt before. You shift closer, tucking your head under his chin, your body fitting against his the way it always does - like you've been made to lie together.
His arm wraps around you, his hand resting on your hip, and you feel his breath slow, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek. The blanket is warm, the fire is warm, he is warm, and you feel yourself sinking into the moment, letting it hold you.
"In a minute," you murmur, your eyes drifting closed.
"What?"
"We should clean up. In a minute."
He laughs softly, the sound vibrating through his chest. "In a minute."
The rain continues to fall. The fire crackles and pops. And you let yourself drift, held by the heat of the flames, the weight of Joe's arm, and the quiet, unshakeable knowledge that this - this moment, this man, this life - is exactly where you're meant to be.
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⋆˚꩜｡SUMMARY: you walk in on steve pleasuring himself in the bathroom
⋆˚꩜｡TAGS: no y/n, steve x reader, reader insert, college setting, desperate!steve, nervous!reader
⋆˚꩜｡TW: NSFW 18+ content, minors do not interact!! | male masterbation, voyeurism, hand job, praise, multiple orgasms, a tiny bit of overstim
⋆˚꩜｡WC: 1.8k
⋆˚꩜｡A/N: for my djoups<3 this is based on a dream i had in 2023:) enjoy!!
It was a typical Tuesday night. Nearing around 11pm. You sighed, treading down the hall, back towards where your dorm is. Your slippers lazily scraped across the floor, not being bothered enough to fully pick up your feet with each step. You held your towel in one hand, drying your hair as you walked, humming a quiet tune to yourself. The other hand held your overflowing shower caddy.
You preferred showering late at night. The bathrooms were quiet. You were able to actually take your time, not having to rush through your routine.
As you turned the corner you noticed the door to the men’s bathroom was cracked, a soft warm light shining through. You didn’t think anything of it. As you got closer you could hear faint noises coming from inside. You ignored it, too tired to care. Just as you were about to pass it, the sound of muffled moans stopped you in your tracks.
Keep walking. Keep walking.
Your feet betrayed you and began stepping towards the door before you could stop yourself. Your heart began pounding as the noises grew louder the closer you got. You peeked through and what you saw was enough to make your stomach drop.
There stood your best friend, Steve, planted in front of the bathroom mirror. The room was foggy. The air thick and filled with steam from a hot shower. His hair was dripping wet, causing beads of water to fall down to his bare skin and onto the floor.
Your eyes raked down his body. He has one hand on the counter in front of him keeping his balance. His basketball shorts were pulled down in the front just enough so that his other hand could pull and jerk at his aching, leaking cock.
You watch as his head falls back with a quiet moan as he strokes for his own pleasure. The sight has your jaw slacked. Weak. You feel weak. You know this is wrong. You shouldn’t be standing here watching him. Watching your best friend in such a vulnerable state.
And yet, your feet don’t move. They don’t even try. Your stomach tightens. You feel yourself squeezing your legs together to try and subside that stupid annoying feeling that’s happening inside you.
You always knew Steve was good looking. You’re not blind. But you never actually thought about him like this.
You don’t actually know how you never looked at him like this before. I mean…jesus. It was like you were in a trance. His wet hair, the way his eyebrows knitted together and his eyes shut tight. The way his stomach was twitching from the sensations he was causing himself. The occasional flex of his bicep while he jerked himself off.
His hand moved at a steady pace. You almost fell to your knees when he let out a quiet soft whimper of a moan as he worked higher towards his tip.
Oh my god.
Then of course. The universe decided to play its own version of a sick joke on you. Before you could react or even register what was happening, your shower caddy decided right now was the perfect time to finally give out. All of your shower products flew out of the basket and onto the floor with a loud bang.
Steve’s head whipped towards the sudden noise, his eyes immediately finding you. You froze. You looked at all the bottles on the floor and then back at him. Then back at the bottles….then back at him again. What exactly are you supposed to do in this situation?
“I—um—I—sorry I was just—“ you stumble over your words, unable to find anything to say that could possibly make this situation better. You look anywhere but at him, too humiliated to even glance in his direction. “I um…I’m sorry. I didn’t see—“
“Shh, hey it’s okay.” he finally spoke. You were terrified. What he said next was the opposite of what you expected. “Can you help me?” he asked.
Your breathing hitched. You almost choked on your own spit, your body tensing immediately. It’s almost like the world was put on mute. All you can hear is the deep drum of your heart beat. A shiver runs down your spine and you can literally feel your throat close up, struggling to get any words out.
What the fuck? What the actual fuck is going on?
You should leave. You should grab your things off the floor and lock yourself in your room and never come out again. Maybe even transfer schools and forget this ever happened.
That’s not what you do though. Instead, without even realizing it, you find yourself nodding your head to his question.
He speaks again, “C’mere.” His voice was quiet and soft. It was laced with traces of need and want. Maybe even some desperation.
You exhale shakily, setting down the rest of your things. You slowly step into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you. He watches you carefully, as you start to inch towards him nervously.
“I—How do you want—?”
“Get behind me. Can you do that for me? Please?”
Normally you’d be embarrassed by how fast you complied. But right now you couldn’t care less. Your whole body feels like it’s on fire and that’s all you can focus on. Along with the ache between your thighs.
You swallowed hard, your throat feeling dry and heavy. He could see the nerves in your body language. Feeling it radiating off of you.
“Hey, s’okay. I got you.” he looked at you through the fogged mirror, unable to make out any features. “S’just me, mkay? Your best friend. Your Steve.” He reached behind himself, grabbing your hand and rubbing it gently. An attempt to calm your nerves. “Need your help so bad. Would you be a good friend and help me?”
You nod, nervously. You lift your hands to his shoulders, letting them trace gently down his arms all the way to his wrists. Your movements are slow and unsure. You feel him shiver underneath your touch, only to melt into it once your hands find their way to his bare chest. Your fingers gliding over top of his chest hair.
The second he melted into your touch it was like all nervousness left your body. Without a second thought you leaned forward, placing a gentle kiss on his shoulder. He exhaled in pleasure, biting his lip to stifle a moan when your hands rubbed up and down his body.
“Been thinkin’ ‘bout this for so long. ‘Bout you.” he spoke through deep breaths.
The heat in your stomach only grew at his words. The fresh panties you were wearing were certainly growing wetter by the second.
You pulled your arms back, causing him to frown. The sound of you spitting in your hand quickly replaced that frown with a lazy smile. Your left hand wrapped around his torso, running up and down his chest while your other hand found its way to his aching cock.
He hissed the second you grabbed onto him, squeezing with just the right amount of pressure. Your hand finally began to move up and down his length. You started off slow, teasing, pulling a quiet “fuck” from his lips.
Your free hand roamed all over his chest and stomach, wanting to feel every inch you could reach. Keeping your movements slow, you placed a trail of kisses all over his upper back, causing a deep exhale to escape his lips. You squeezed slightly tighter, a real moan finally coming out.
Music to your ears.
It was right then that you stopped holding back. All you wanted was to hear that sound over and over again. The sound of your best friend completely at your mercy. Weak over your touch.
You picked up your pace, your hand moving up and down in a corkscrew motion. His head fell backwards, landing on your shoulder. The bathroom was quickly filled with sounds of his erratic moans and the sound of you jerking him off.
“Doin’ so good—fuck—makin’ me feel so good.” he spoke in between moans.
“Yeah?” you smiled, watching his face scrunch tight through the mirror in front of you two.
You kept a steady rhythm, not too fast, not too slow. His noises and little twitches encouraging you to finally ask what’s been on your mind since he said it. “You said you’ve been thinking about this? You and me?”
“Mhm, ahh fuck.” he leaned into your touch, trying to steady himself. “You came over one day—shit go faster. Please, please go faster.” a loud moan rippled through the bathroom. “You were wearing that one skirt—“
Before he could finish his sentence, your hand reached the top of his shaft, right underneath his tip. He jolted in your hands, a literal whimper escaping from his mouth.
Your lips immediately quirked up into a wide smile, knowing you’d just found his spot. “That feel good?” you ask, keeping your movements focused on that one spot.
“Ahh—fffuck yes.”
“The skirt. Tell me about the skirt.”
“The short black one—“ he struggled to talk coherently, his breathing growing heavier as he reached his climax. “—you came over wearing it. Dropped your keys—m’so close.”
“I know, I know. Deep breaths, you can do it. Keep tellin’ me.”
“Y-you bent over to pick em up. Your little pink panties on complete display f’me.”
Your face reddened. You don’t even remember that.
“Ever since then, been wanting to get my hands on you.”
His words made your knees weak. Like actually weak. You suddenly felt like jelly. Your core clenching around nothing, begging for some kind of relief.
Your arm was burning but that didn’t stop you from going faster, determined to get him to his release.
After a few more moans and curses, Steve threw his head back once again, landing on your shoulder. A loud, breathless moan ripped through him as his come shot all over your hand and his stomach. But you didn’t stop there. You kept your movements going up to his tip, wanting to hear those whimpers from earlier.
He cried out, knees buckling. You stepped back, his sudden body weight almost knocking the both of you over. You didn’t dare stop.
“Ahh fuck I can’t—“ he whined loudly.
You paid extra close attention to where his shaft and tip met, rubbing up and down in tiny movements. He was putty in your hands. He tried to talk but nothing coherent could come out. The overstimulation too much.
Only when a second orgasm ripped through him did you finally stop. He was completely and utterly spent. His chest heaved, struggling to catch his breath.
You released him from your grasp, bringing your hand up to your mouth. He turned around and watched with awe as you licked his come off each of your fingers until your hand was clean.
With wide eyes and dilated pupils he finally spoke, “Jesus fucking christ.”
You smiled. Before you could say anything he grabbed you by your waist, pulling you close. “C’mere, it’s your turn.”
where'd you get that confidence from, last time that i checked i won
"don't go,
go where you don't belong."
***
steve harrington x fem!reader
one of Steve's exes keeps coming into his work in hopes of winning him back over. Despite his persistence that he's taken, after she completely steps over the line you feel the need to step in and remind her that Steve's yours now.
warnings: nsfw mdni, swearing, oral (m. receiving), p in v (protected), making out, dirty talk, slightly rough sex, sub/dom steve, jealous reader, steve's ex won't leave him alone, reader publicly humiliates ex, lovesick steve, nancy is the ultimate bestie
a.n: this might be one of my favourite things i've ever written, i hope you all enjoy this x
part of the 200 follower celebration
***
Thirty seconds. That’s precisely how long it took for you to walk into the Family Video store and realise that something wasn’t right. You were chatting to Nancy, the two of you out shopping for a party you were throwing next week, completely engrossed in her re-telling of the awful date she went on last night when you glanced over to the cash register and stopped with a very loud sigh.
The sigh wasn’t directed at your boyfriend, no. The very moment you’d walked through the door, Steve had met your gaze and not been able to stop looking at you, that stupid grin on his face that always made your knees weak Actually the sigh was meant for the girl who was currently leaning over the counter, chatting your boyfriend’s ear off and seemingly ignoring the fact that he wasn’t even looking at her anymore. This didn’t stop her from casually placing a hand on Steve’s arm as she told him a joke, laughing loudly. Steve smiled out of politeness but he carefully shrugged out of her touch. This girl could not take a hint.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Nancy roll her eyes. “Seriously, she’s here again? Isn’t this like the third time this week?”
Krissy Matthews. She had been the girl that Steve dated before you, the two of them having broken up a few months beforehand when Steve had caught her kissing another guy at a party. It had taken a little while for him to get over it, but as soon as he’d met you Steve had never looked back. Which was more than could be said for Krissy. It seemed as of late that she had realised what a great guy she’d let go of. What a shame that guy was already taken.
You strolled over casually, not feeling the least bit intimidated by her. The relationship you had with Steve was rock solid, you knew he only had eyes for you, which was proved by the way his whole demeanour lit up when you reached him, turning towards you and completely shutting Krissy down.
“Hey, baby.” You smiled at him, leaning over the counter to kiss him. When you pulled away he was full on beaming, gazing at you like a lovesick puppy. Krissy didn’t even exist to him anymore.
“Hey, sweetheart.” He replied. “Hey, Nance.” He nodded over your shoulder to your best friend. She smiled in response before heading off to browse the tapes. “What are you doing here, I thought you guys were going out for coffee?”
“We were just passing by and I wanted to stop in and see you.” You told him. “Thought you might be getting a little bored.”
It was then that Krissy cleared her throat loudly, making her presence known to you. Slowly you turned to face her, giving her your best saccharine smile. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there.” You apologised to her. “I didn’t realise Steve was with a customer.”
“Actually-“ she began.
“You look kind of familiar. Have I seen you in here before?” You were riling her up, she knew that you knew exactly who she was. Krissy had been lingering in her for the last few weeks like a bad perfume, desperately trying to get some facetime with Steve. The idea that it hadn’t fazed you at all made her scowl in disappointment.
“I was actually in the middle of a conversation with Steve.” She told you. “I was telling him about a film I watched last week.” She turned back to your boyfriend. “So, what did you think about my offer?”
“Oh, what offer was this?” You asked, playing along with her.
Steve’s eyes were twinkling as he caught on to what you were doing. “Krissy was inviting me over to watch a movie with her tomorrow night.”
“She was?” You turned back to her, amusement written on your face. “What a damn shame, Steve and I already have plans tomorrow night.”
Krissy glowered at you. “I wasn’t asking you. I was asking Steve.”
You turned back to Steve, awaiting his response. A smile crept across your face when you saw he was already looking at you, no doubt already envisioning how the next evening would play out. Most nights spent together ended up with both of your clothes off, tangled up in the sheets. Butterflies fluttered in your stomach when you thought about it, and he knew damn well the effect he had on you as his fingers intertwined with yours over the counter.
“Sorry Krissy, I’m busy tomorrow night. I’m busy every night, actually. I’m really not interested in whatever you’re doing here.”
The devious smile on her face dropped instantly, and she immediately tried to recover it. “That’s OK. I’ll give you time to reconsider.” She reached over and put her hand on Steve’s arm, causing him to startle a little. “Wouldn’t want to see you settle, Steve.”
You didn’t let her words affect you, but they sure affected Steve. His jaw clenched at her words and he gently brushed her hand off. “I think it’s time for you to go.”
She finally conceded, stepping away from the counter. “OK. I’ll see you around, handsome.”
That was the last straw. You physically had to hold yourself back from launching across and throttling her as she turned her back to you, walking out of the store. The only thing that broke through the red haze was the hand on your shoulder, squeezing gently to bring you back down to earth. “Honey, are you alright?”
You turned back to Steve, seeing his face etched with concern. You were his moon and stars, and nothing else ever came close. He hated the fact that this ghost from his past had come back to haunt both of you, there was absolutely not a chance of anything happening with him and Krissy. When she’d broken his heart, he’s taken it pretty hard and hadn’t othered with anyone else for months. But when he met you, it was a reminder that there were still people who loved every part of him, not just the jokey façade he often wore or the things he could do for people. You loved every piece of him. Krissy never had.
That was why you were it for him.
“I’m sorry, baby. I tried shutting down that conversation so many times, she said she was just here to rent a video.”
“It’s OK, Steve.” You smiled at him. “I’m not mad at you. I just wish she would get the hint.”
“You’re telling me? The prettiest girl in all of Hawkins just walked in and I had to stand there talking to Krissy.”
A smirk crept across your face. “The prettiest girl, huh?”
“God damn gorgeous.” Steve told you, leaning in to kiss you again. You were tempted to lose yourself in it, but then Nancy reappeared next to you, coughing loudly. You smiled at her.
“What is her problem?” She asked the both of you. “Doesn’t she know you guys are dating now?”
“Apparently she can’t get the message.” You replied, glancing to the door that Krissy had just disappeared out of. “The fucking nerve after everything she did.”
“I don’t want to talk about Krissy anymore.” Steve interjected. “If I never have to see her again, that’s fine with me. Besides, I’d rather talk about this party next week, is it still on?”
“Damn right.” You nodded. “Me and Nancy are throwing it at her house. Everyone’s coming. I just need to figure out what to wear.”
“You should wear that cute skirt you just bought.” Nancy told you, smirking at Steve. “Wait until you see her in, you’ll lose your mind.”
You could tell Steve was already picturing you in it by the way he gulped slightly, Shaking your head, you rana hand up his arm. “Alright, I think we’ll leave you to it. But I’ll see you tonight at your place?”
“Absolutely, can’t wait.” Steve had that lovesick grin on his face again as you gave him another quick kiss before heading out the door. Anyone within a three-mile radius could see how down bad he was for you, no one else ever stood a chance as long as you were around. He was already counting down the minutes until he could see you again.
It was just a shame some people couldn’t take a hint.
***
“Steve.” You breathed softly, head falling against the couch cushions as he kissed your neck gently. The TV was still on but the two of you had long forgotten the movie you had been watching. This was how most nights went down when you came to see Steve, neither of you could keep your hands to yourself.
His tongue laved over the sensitive spots of your skin as he groaned lightly. “Taste so good, baby. Can’t wait to taste all of you.”
His words sent shivers down your spine as he reached under the t-shirt you were wearing, one of his that you’d stolen. The second he’d opened the front door to you and seen you wearing it, he was totally done for. You could tell from the way his pupils blew out that he wouldn’t be able to resist you for too long. And you’d been right. He moved to unclasp your bra, ready to take all of your clothes off.
And then the phone rang.
“Oh, Jesus Christ.” He said in annoyance. The one thing Steve hated was to be interrupted when he was with you, he valued your time together more than anything. “Who the fuck is calling right now?”
“It’s OK, you can answer.” You told him with a smile. “I’ll still be here when you get back.”
With a mutter of indignation, he climbed up off the couch and made his way over to the phone, which was still shrieking on the wall. He quickly answered it. “Hello?”
You observed his facial expressions as he listened to the response, trying to make sure nothing was wrong. It was unusual for anyone to call round here so late, you hoped nothing had happened with one of the kids. But then he sighed loudly and rolled his eyes. “Why do you still have my number?”
You could only hear a faint chattering on the other end, but whoever it was Steve clearly didn’t want to talk to them. It wasn’t until he name-dropped that you felt your blood run cold. “Krissy, you need to stop.”
“What the fuck?!” You exclaimed loudly, Steve shook his head at you, sharing in your anger.
“We broke up ages ago, because you cheated on me. It’s over, alright. I’m happy now and you need to leave me alone.” He told her before hastily slamming the phone back on the wall, cutting her off. He stood there for a moment, breathing heavily as he stared at the phone like it had personally offended him.
You slowly got up and made your way over to him, hugging him from behind. He instantly relaxed into your touch, melting against you. “Are you OK, baby?”
“I didn’t even know she still had my number.” He told you. “Why won’t she just leave us alone?”
“I know, honey. I hate it as well.” You told him. “But hopefully now she’ll get the message.”
“I don’t get it, it’s like she enjoys trying to hurt me or something.” He turned around so he was facing you, arms circling around you. “I’m sorry, baby. I can’t believe I let her ruin our date night.”
“Hey, she didn’t ruin anything.” You carded your hands into his hair and his eyes drifted shut as he leaned into his touch, all the tension leaving his body. “I’m still here. Now, can we pick up where we left off?”
Steve pulled you into a hungry kiss, attention completely fixed on you now. “You’re the only one for me, you know that right?” He mumbled against your lips.
“I know, honey. You’re it for me, too.”
You just wished Krissy knew it too.
***
The night on the party finally rolled around, and you found yourself climbing out the car at the Wheeler’s house, decked out in the outfit you’d picked out with Nancy. You couldn’t lie, you did look hot. A lacy pink shirt and skirt was just the right length that you knew it would drive Steve crazy when he saw you. It was a showstopper for sure, and you were pretty sure nothing could dampen your mood right now.
There were already crowds of people there when you walked in through the front door, eyes searching for your friends. You’d told Steve to meet you here, knowing full well if you’d driven together there was no way he would have been able to keep his hands off you. It didn’t take long for you to spot the familiar head of curls that belonged to your best friend, standing next to Robin and Jonathan. When she spotted you, you waved over to her and she hastily made her way over to you. As soon as she reached you, you could tell by her expression that something was off.
“What’s wrong?” You asked her.
“We have a problem.” She told you, before glancing over to the kitchen. You followed her gaze, and your stomach dropped when you saw that your boyfriend had been cornered by the one girl you had not wanted to see tonight.
“Oh, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” You exclaimed loudly.
“I don’t even know who invited her.” Nancy said. “I didn’t even know she was here until Steve went to get a drink, and she just appeared. I was going to step in but then you got there.”
“I swear, the audacity of that girl is something else.” You shook your head.
Steve was obviously uncomfortable, trying to sidle past her but Krissy had him in a corner, clearly hanging on way too hard. She was chewing his ear off about something that he wasn’t listening to. His gaze flickered over her head and landed straight on you, almost as though he had felt you come into the house, like he’d been searching for you all night. His mouth fell open when he saw the outfit you were wearing, taking you in. He’d never seen anyone so gorgeous in all his life. You flashed him a small smile.
Krissy seemed to notice that his attention had drifted somewhere else and she followed his gaze to see you standing there next to Nancy. She flashed you a dirty look, rolling her eyes before turning back to Steve, putting a hand on his arm. Steve was already making his excuses, attempting to move past her. And then it happened.
Krissy tightened her grip on his arm, holding him in place as she leaned in and went to brush her lips against hers.
Before she could, Steve immediately recoiled away from her, shaking her arm off. From across the room, all sense and reason had left your head as you stormed away from Nancy and marched over to them. When you reached them Steve had retracted back, speaking to her in an angry tone.
“What the fuck is wrong with you? I’m in a relationship now. Stay away from me.”
“Oh, come on.” Krissy laughed as you reached Steve’s side, staring daggers at her. “You think she’s better than me. Steve, baby, you could be so much happier with me.”
“No, I’m already happy. And don’t talk about her like that, she’s the best thing that ever happened to me.” His arm instinctively wrapped around you, pulling you closer. It was a good thing, too. It meant you couldn’t strangle Krissy. “She picked me up after you broke my heart. We’re over, Krissy. You need to move on.”
Your gaze flickered down to the jacket wrapped around her shoulders. It was one of Steve’s. “Where did you get that from?” Your voice didn’t waver once.
She glanced down at the jacket. “Oh, this old thing?” She chuckled. “Steve gave it to me.”
You heard him sigh as he leaned in to whisper in your ear. “I left it on the back of the chair just now when I went to get a drink. I think she took it then.”
You knew he was telling the truth. Steve had been wearing that jacket just this morning when you saw him, it was one of his favourites. Except now it was tarnished because she was wearing it. But you weren’t one to get rattled so easily. Instead, you flashed her a smile.
“It suits you, you should keep it.” You told her, before turning your attention to Steve. “Baby, I’m so thirsty. Would you mind grabbing me a drink?”
“Sure, honey.” He leaned into you. “You look fucking amazing, by the way.”
“Thank you, baby.” Before he could leave, you pulled him into a kiss in front of Krissy, making sure she could see just how much Steve had moved on. When you pulled away, Steve was grinning like an idiot, wandering over to grab you a drink and not giving Krissy a second glance. You on the other hand.
As soon as Steve was gone, you whirled around to face her. She was still wearing that smug grin on her face. “Don’t get too comfy, sweetie. It’s only a matter of time before Steve comes crawling back to me.”
“Oh, honey.” You laughed. “You really don’t know when to back down, do you?”
Nancy and Robin appeared next to you, a safe alliance around you. “Want me to throw her out?” Nancy asked you.
“No, no. That’s OK, Nance. Actually she should stay, as a guest of honour. In fact, I should make a speech just for her.” You spotted the cup in Robin’s hand and took it off her, storming into the living room and climbing up onto the coffee table so everybody could see you. “Excuse me, can I have everyone’s attention, please?”
The swathes of people mingling about all turned their heads towards you, clearly excited to see what this new development at the party was. You noticed Steve return, standing next to Nancy and Robin and looking bemused. You held your cup up in the air. “Thank you all for coming, but right now I would love to make a toast to our guest of honour. Krissy Matthews.” You tilted the cup in her direction.
Krissy didn’t look so confident anymore, suddenly feeling like a bug under a microscope as all eyes in the place turned on her. You continued your spiel. “You know, from up here I can see there are a lot of happy couples here tonight. You guys all look so good, by the way. I just wanted to make a quick PSA to all the ladies, you might want to steer clear of Krissy tonight, because she can’t seem to keep her hands off what doesn’t belong to her anymore.” You announced loudly.
Everyone suddenly started booing, but not at you. At Krissy. She folded her arms in on herself as you went on. “But doesn’t she look great tonight, guys? Let’s all give it up for Krissy.” You signed off your speech, climbing down and making your way over to her. As soon as you were close enough, you tripped forward and spilled the remnants of the drink all over the jacket.
Krissy yelled in shock. “What the fuck?!”
“Aw, I’m so sorry babe.” You pouted at her. “Butterfingers and all. But then again, I guess that jacket was never yours to begin with, huh?” You gave her the fakest smile, leaning in so only she could hear you. “The next time you think about kissing my boyfriend, maybe think twice. Steve’s with me now, you lost babe.” You stepped back. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going upstairs with my boyfriend to fuck his brains out.”
With that, you turned heel and left her standing there completely dumfounded. Wandering over to Steve, you planted a kiss on his cheek and he chuckled low..
“Jesus, baby. You know how hot you looked up there, looking like that and defending my honour.”
You shrugged. “Maybe it was petty, but it had to be done.”
Steve’s hand settled on your waist, passing the drink he had gotten you to Robin before leaning in to you. “I’m not going to lie, I’m kind of turned on right now. You look damn good in that skirt.” Steve confessed, whispering in your ear. A shiver went down your spine at his words.
“Oh, yeah?” You smirked. “Well, how about we go somewhere quiet and you show me exactly how much?”
You grabbed Steve’s hand and began pulling him through the crowd, flashing Krissy a wink and a smile as your pushed past her, heading for the stairs. Steve followed you up and you located the first room you could find, dragging him inside. It turned out to be one of the guest bedrooms which worked perfectly for you. You took no time in pushing Steve up against the wall and crashing your lips with his.
He groaned against your lips, secretly loving how much you were taking charge right now. “Jesus, baby. You’re fucking killing me right now.”
You broke away from his lips and began peppering kisses along his jaw and down his neck, feeling him melt into you. “You know what I want to do to you right now?”
“Mmm?” Steve was a little too preoccupied with how good your kisses felt in that moment, heat creeping up his back.
“I want to fuck you until you forget all about Krissy Matthews.” You told him as you palmed him through his jeans, feeling how hard he was.
“Fuck, baby.” Steve moaned in surprise. “You know it’s only you for me.”
Your hands moved up to card into his hair, tilting his head back and leaning in to lick a long strip up his neck, revelling in how you felt him shudder under your touch. “I know, baby. I just want to make sure.” You moved down to unbuckle his belt.
“Honey, let me touch you first, please?” Steve practically begged but you shook your head, pulling his pants down and dropping to your knees.
“Not just yet, baby. Let me take care of you, first.”
Steve was pretty sure he had died and gone to heaven, seeing you down on your knees for him. You removed his boxers slowly and before he knew it, you were taking him in your hand, pumping slowly. His head fell back against the wall, a series of curse words falling from his mouth. You picked up the pace a little, and Steve saw stars. “Jesus Christ, baby. Please, you’re killing me.”
“Please what, Stevie? You want my mouth.”
“Fuck yes.” His breathing was ragged.
“Hmm.” You hummed in contemplation, still stroking him. “I don’t know, have you forgotten about Krissy yet?” You knew what the answer was, and the jealousy from earlier had completely dissipated now. Steve was all yours and you knew it. You were just slightly enjoying having him as putty in your hands right now, seeing his face completely wrecked from your touch gave you a little thrill.
“Baby, I never thought about her. It’s only ever been you.” Steve breathed. “Please.”
That was good enough for you, and without any hesitation you licked a strip up his length, causing him to jolt in both surprise and pleasure. “Oh, fuck.”
You took him in your mouth, expertly bobbing up and down. This wasn’t your first rodeo and you knew exactly how to ruin Steve. You started off slow, knowing how much it would drive him crazy. His hands snaked into your hair, desperately trying to keep himself grounded. “Oh God, baby. You’re so good at this, please don’t stop.”
You glanced up at him, head thrown back against the wall, breathing heavy and eyes drifted close in pure ecstasy. “You look so pretty right now, honey. You briefly paused to tell him, before taking his entire length back in your mouth. He groaned loudly.
“Shit, I’m not going to last much longer, baby.”
You hummed in response, feeling his hands tighten in your hair and his legs start to shake. After a moment, he cursed loudly and tried to pull your head away but you doubled down as he spilled his release into your mouth, moaning as he watched you swallow. You finally pulled away with a smile. “You’re so good for me, Stevie.” You grinned up at him, watching as he tried to catch his breath, holding his hand against the door frame to steady himself. As soon as he had come back down, he reached down to pull you up, kissing you softly as his hands found their way into your hair again.
You sighed against his lips, and he took the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth, deepening the kiss. Steve was the best kisser you had ever met, you could have stayed there for hours, but apparently he had other ideas. He was in control now, moving to kiss down your neck and sucking at a particularly sensitive spot, making you moan.
“Does that feel good, baby?” He asked, hands toying with the hem of your shirt. “Think it’s my turn to make you feel good.”
“Please.” You were begging now, which only fuelled Steve’s ego. He leaned in to whisper in your ear.
“Gonna fucking ruin you, baby. Show you that you’re the only one for me.”
He pulled your shirt over your head and immediately trailed kisses down your neck, hands coming up to your nipples as he circled them slowly. Your head fell forward against his shoulder as he played with your tits, caught up in how good it felt. “Shit, Stevie. That feels good.”
“Yeah, baby?” He kissed the top of your head softly, not stopping his assault on your nipples. “Swear I could do this all day.”
“I need you, Steve.”
Steve cooed. “Poor baby, gone all dumb for me now? Need me to take care of you?” His hands moved down to pull up your skirt. “Gonna let me make you feel good?”
“Please, baby, want you inside me.”
“Since you asked so nicely.” He lined himself up with you and slowly pushed himself inside. Even after all this time, it still took you a minute to adjust to his size, fingers gripping his shoulders tightly as Steve stroked your hair gently. “It’s OK, honey. I’ve got you. I’ll start slow.” As soon as the pain bloomed into pleasure, you squeezed his shoulder, a green light. Steve began moving, slowly at first and he groaned at the feeling of you around him. “Fuck, baby. You feel amazing.”
“Feels so good, Steve. Always so good.”
Steve pressed kisses to your neck as he picked up the pace. “God, no one ever felt as good as you do, honey. You know how much I love you?”
You did, you always had. Steve was the one for you, no one ever made you feel as good as he did. “Love you too, Steve. So much.”
His groans were getting louder, mixed with your moans and you knew for sure that if anyone was outside right now, they would hear you. Not that you cared, you wanted everyone at that party to know that Steve was yours.
“Say you’re mine, Steve.” His head was nestled in the crook of your shoulder as he thrusted in and out of you, not hearing you at first. “Baby, please say you’re mine.”
“I’m all yours, honey. No one else’s. Yours.” He whispered in your ear.
You moaned loudly. “God, you feel so good, Steve. I’m so close.”
Steve picked up the pace tenfold, pounding into you knowing how much you loved it when he got a little rough. “That’s it, baby. Take it like that, you feel fucking incredible.”
“Steve.” Feeling the coil tighten in your stomach, you knew how close you were to the edge. Steve was right there with you.
“Let go for me, honey. You know how much I love to hear you fall apart on my cock.” He said, voice low and husky. That was all it took for you to tip over the edge, feeling as though you’d been sent to another planet as Steve held you through your orgasm.
“Oh God, Steve.” You moaned loudly. “Oh, Steve.” His name fell from your lips like a prayer and it was enough for him to follow you over the edge, groaning loudly as he spilled his load inside you. You were grateful to be on the pill, as there was no way you were pulling away from him right now. The two of you held each other as you both came down from your highs, breathing slowly returning to normal.
You looked up and brushed some hair out of his face, revelling in how fucked out he looked right now. He gave you a grin right back, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You’re fucking amazing, you know that?”
“I do, but it’s nice to hear it.” You giggled. “I love you, Steve.”
“I love you, too. I swear, it’s only you.”
“I know.” You nodded. “Hopefully now everyone else does too.”
A sudden banging on the door had you both startling in surprise. “Hey, guys!” It was Robin. “If you’re done screwing in there, we might need your help clearing up down here.”
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summary. You and Joe broke up a year ago. Now both of you are invited to James Corden’s show: Spill Your Guts, where you and Joe find out about some things you didn’t tell each other before.
warnings & tags. You and Joe are exes! inspired in Harry Styles and Kendall Jenner’s video. pet names. mention of reader with a gap tooth smile. fluff. english isn’t my first language.
a/n. hiii! i MIGHT make a part 2 of this, buuut im not so sure. however hope you love it and if feel like making a request you’re totally invited to!! also credits to the owners of the dividers!!
masterlist
Life had a way of twisting unexpectedly, surprising you more with each passing day. Now more than ever.
A long, wide table stretched before you, lined with dishes that faced the round table where you sat. You were on one side, wearing a confident smile. One that the man across from you knew better than anyone. It was a fake smile that tried to look secure.
You and Joe had started your relationship while filming the third season of Stranger Things. From that moment on, you became inseparable. Wherever you were, Joe was never far behind. While he performed onstage, singing his heart out, you were always in the audience with a genuine smile, watching him.
Your relationship became something people envied. Many fans —or even the opposite— loved seeing you together. The affection and love you shared were so strong that it showed in every interview and every photo.
It stayed that way for years. Until, at some point, the distance between you became impossible to ignore. It became impossible to see each other, or even find a few hours to talk.
The decision had been made. As painful as it was to admit, as much as tears fell from your eyes and sobs escaped your lips, the relationship couldn’t continue.
Still, you both agreed that breaking up didn’t mean disappearing from each other’s lives. And that’s how you ended up on The Late Late Show with James Corden, ready to ask each other uncomfortable questions or eat disgusting food to avoid answering.
“Long time no see,” Joe murmured to you with a crooked smile.
No one really knew why you had broken up. Neither of you said anything once the relationship ended, so countless unconfirmed theories spread across the internet.
“Let’s get this done, Joe,” you said softly, shaking your head at his words. “I can’t believe I actually agreed to this.”
Joe smiled at the audience, then back at you. “Don’t you think it would’ve been better to just go to a normal restaurant and talk?” he joked, resting his elbow on the table and covering his mouth with his hand.
The dishes on the table looked worse one after another. Just the smell reaching your nose was enough to make you grimace.
“Let’s take a look at the food we have on the table,” Joe said again, laughing softly at your expression. “First, we have Bug Trifle.” He looked at the audience, who reacted with disgust.
“Yeah. Ew,” you repeated, scrunching your nose.
Together, you and Joe began naming each dish resting on the table. The audience, meanwhile, noticed the tension-filled glances between you.
“Well, ladies first, don’t you think?” Joe tilted his head, smiling mischievously, though in truth, there was nothing but warmth behind it.
“Always so polite,” you raised your eyebrows, waiting for him to continue.
Joe began spinning the table, searching for the perfect dish for you. “I’ll take a card with one of the questions. The producers didn’t tell us what they’d be, so I take no responsibility for anything,” he said, directing the last part to the audience. “Oh, I have the perfect one. I’ll give you the 1000 year old eggnog.”
Your eyes widened in horror at the dish he’d chosen.
“Oh, no,” you whispered, tilting your head.
“I’m actually so sorry for this.” He let out a nasal laugh, his smile dropping into a guilty grimace.
You waited as Joe grabbed a card. The moment he opened it, he laughed. A laugh you knew perfectly well. It meant he found something interesting, something he knew would draw attention.
“Which cast member have you connected with the most, and which the least?” Joe read the card, then looked at you, hiding half his face behind the paper.
“Oh my god. What?” You lifted your head in surprise. There was no way you could answer that without ending up in trouble. “I—” You stopped, unsure what to do.
“Oh, come on. I think I could answer that question with all the information I have,” he teased, biting the inside of his cheek.
Of course he could. Joe knew every detail about you, just like you knew every detail about him. He knew exactly what answer was running through your mind.
“You know I can’t answer this even if I knew what to say,” you raised your eyebrows, frowning. You glanced at the audience, who were shouting that you should drink. “You guys are evil.”
Without thinking too much, you grabbed the glass filled with a thick, viscous liquid and took a sip of the green contents.
“Oh god. She did it!” Joe raised both arms as the audience erupted in cheers.
“Don’t smile too much. It’s your turn,” you said, watching his smirk grow even wider.
“All yours,” he gestured toward the table, though deep down, you suspected his words carried another meaning.
“I’m all yours, baby,” he had once said, caressing your cheek, his face inches from yours. “I’ll forever be, love.”
You remembered those words, his gaze locked on yours. Your skin prickled at the memory, and you forced yourself to ignore it as you spun the table, searching for the right dish.
“Okay, great. My turn. I’ll do the Cod Sperm,” you said, wrinkling your lips at the plate. You grabbed a card and laughed at the question. “Do you think Steve should’ve ended up with Natalia’s character or mine?”
“Oh, easy. I think it was perfect that he ended up with you. I mean, come on. They were just perfect for each other. I don’t think anyone could’ve been a better option,” he said, extending his hands to emphasize his point.
When he finished, he looked at you again with a soft smile. Your palms grew sweaty around the card. Those were the same words he’d told you while filming the final season of Stranger Things. Except back then, he’d added, “They’re perfect for each other… just like we are, baby.”
“Yeah…” you managed, smiling softly before laughing at the audience’s reaction.
They loved you both, and it was obvious they missed your relationship. Though not as much as you missed it yourselves, and perhaps that was what hurt the most.
“Alright. It’s my turn now,” Joe said, looking at the table like a mischievous child. “I’ll give you the Salmon Smoothie.”
“Oh god. I hate salmon,” you bit your lip, staring at the glass.
“Shit, that’s true. I totally forgot.” He began spinning the table again, not waiting for your input.
His eyes darted between dishes, searching for a better option. You smiled and placed your hands on the table’s edge to stop it. “It’s fine, Joe. I actually think that’s the best option out of all of this.”
He laughed, turning his gaze back to you. “You sure?” he asked, watching you with a hint of concern. When you nodded casually, he smiled again. “Okay, let’s do it.”
Joe grabbed another card. As soon as he read it, his eyebrows lifted with interest. A teasing smile appeared on his face as he held the card to his chest. “Who has been the best kisser out of all the projects you’ve worked on?” he asked, raising a brow.
The audience gasped with excitement, but your eyes stayed locked on his. You shook your head slightly, though a laugh escaped your lips.
He knew the answer. Of course he knew.
“I don’t think I want to try the Salmon Smoothie, so… fine, I’ll answer,” you said, earning applause from the audience. “It’s probably you, Joe Keery…” You crossed your arms and shrugged, trying to downplay it. But Joe saw right through you. Your lip bite, your fidgeting fingers, all the little habits you had when you were nervous.
“I’m so honored, honey. Thank you.” The nickname slipped out before he could stop it.
You tilted your head at his response but pretended not to notice. You spun the table again, searching for your next choice.
“This one looks so yummy,” you said playfully, sliding the dish in front of him. “The Bug Trifle.”
His expression twisted in disgust as he covered his nose. “I’m going to get revenge, I promise,” he warned, eyes fixed on the plate.
“It’s not that bad. You could just answer the question…” You grabbed the card, and your eyes widened. You covered your mouth to hide your laughter, failing miserably. “I really want to know the answer.”
“Oh god.”
“Which of your songs is completely about me?”
Joe opened his mouth, then closed it again, processing your words. He licked his lips, smiling as the audience reacted.
“You really wanna know, huh?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and clasping his hands under his chin. He glanced at the plate, then back at you.
“I didn’t make the questions! This is what the people want to know,” you said, shrinking into your shoulders.
“Yeah!” “Totally!” the audience shouted.
When the room finally quieted, Joe sighed. “I actually don’t think this is that hard to guess.” He bit his lip, looking at you calmly. “It’s Gap Tooth Smile, kids.” He turned to the audience with a smile.
Seconds later, a portion of the song played through the speakers.
“I know that’s my future lookin’ right back at me
I see right through your skin
Yes, I know who you are
Frame up on my baby, she’s my superstar
Big heart, all smile
Come on pretty baby, let’s last a while”
You knew the song had come out a few months before your breakup. Joe had never directly told you it was about you, but you always danced to it together in the kitchen while cooking dinner, or in the car on the way to set. Deep down, you knew.
Joe smiled as he listened. “Yeah… that one.”
The audience applauded, cheered, and whistled. But Joe only smiled at you, squinting slightly, silently asking if you’d expected him to answer. You shrugged with a smile that matched his.
“Okay, let’s get this done. I’m gonna give you the Bull Penis, looks delicious,” he joked, sliding the dish toward you. Then he grabbed a card. “Who is the most surprising celeb to ever slide into your DMs?”
The audience reacted loudly. Joe glanced at them, then at you, waiting. He thought he knew the answer —you’d talked about it before— but maybe something new had happened in the past few months.
You covered your mouth, reacting to the crowd. “I have my answer, but I don’t think I should say it,” you admitted, feeling your cheeks burn.
“It’s okay, you don’t have to answer,” he said, waving it off. Then he pointed at the dish. “But you can’t run from that.”
You pinched your nose as the smell hit you, then quickly took a bite to get it over with.
“There you go!” Joe encouraged, clapping as the audience joined in.
You drank water, then looked back at him. You couldn’t help smiling at his reaction. Your heart raced every time he looked at you with that familiar smile.
Reluctantly, you tore your gaze away and returned to the table. “I think the Giant Water Scorpion is a good option,” you said, spinning the table.
“Looks delicious,” Joe replied sarcastically, raising his eyebrows.
“Oh, Joe…” you said with feeling as you read the question. You wondered why these questions had to be so intense, but you continued anyway. “Have you written any songs about me since we broke up?”
Joe stared at you without blinking as the room fell silent. Then, without warning, he grabbed the dish you’d chosen for him and took a bite.
You gasped in surprise, then burst into laughter at his reaction. “He did it!” you told the audience, laughing.
Both of you stood from your seats, moving to stand side by side as you waved at the crowd. Joe said a few final words, and you followed.
Once the farewell ended, you began walking toward the exit. You could feel Joe close behind you, his footsteps perfectly audible until you also felt his breath against your neck and ear.
summary: Days of petty vacation bickering take an unexpected turn when Steve accidentally walks in on you naked. Now you're icing him out entirely, and he would do anything for you to talk to him again... literally anything.
warnings: accidental nudity (no descriptions of reader's body apart from being afab), SMUT (+18), oral (f), fingering, soft dom! steve, p i v, unprotected sex.
words: 3.8k || masterlist
August finally rolls around, and with it? The long awaited time off work you managed to get.
But it wasn’t just the time off that exited you. You were now finally in the cabin near the lake you've rented with your friends to get out of town for a week.
So these were exciting times. Sunbathing in front of a lovely lake with your best friends. Playing volleyball, chicken, and dumb drinking games. Having sleepovers every night for a whole week. Tripping over big Nikes thrown in the middle of the kitchen floor... Wait what?
Yes. It wasn’t all fun and games the living-together situation. Who in their right mind takes off their shoes in the kitchen and just leaves them there? Well, from the size of the shoe and the fact that they're white and red Nikes... It’s easy to take a guess.
"Steve!" you scream, holding the Nikes in your hand.
"Yeah, sup?" he comes out of the bathroom.
"Why are your shoes in the middle of the kitchen floor?"
"Oh, sorry. I just took them off before I took a shower." he says, grabbing them.
"In the kitchen? And you just left them here?" you question.
"I said sorry!" he looks at you like you're crazy.
"You're leaving your entire wardrobe laying around the house instead of your own room!" you start. "Just yesterday you had two hoodies on the couch. Not one, two! And, oh look at that! They're still laying there!" you glance at the couch.
"Jeez! Sorry, mom!" he chuckles sarcastically.
"Oh, shut up!"
"Well, what about you taking over the bathroom?" he complains.
"What?" you ask, confused at the accusation.
"You're taking up 80% of the sink with your hair products, and make up, and body creams." he lists. "I can't even find a square inch to put down my toothbrush!"
"Hair products that you are also using! Don't think I didn't notice!" you respond.
"Oh, please! That’s so dumb." he rolls his eyes.
And unfortunately, it doesn't stop there. Even though these are things that could annoy anyone also living in this house, it only seems to fire you two up.
"You still haven't done the dishes?" Steve comes into the kitchen already seeking troubles.
"What?" you frown.
"It was your turn! Robin did them yesterday."
"I thought it was your turn! I did them two days ago already."
"No, I already cooked today. So it's your turn to do them." he argues.
"Well, I cooked yesterday. What does that have to do with anything?" you say back.
"I can do the dishes." Jonathan offers.
"Yeah, but it was the princess's turn to do them. But it seems she thinks she's too good for that!" he smiles sarcastically.
"No, but I do think you're way too obsessed with me." you say final, and walk away. Leaving Steve with the next sentence in his mouth.
"Can you believe her?" he asks Jonathan.
"Dude, it's not that big of a deal." he says and starts with the dishes.
But to be fair, Steve is not the only one acting crazy.
"Give me the blanket." you say once you can lie down on the couch to watch a movie with the group.
"What? No, I grabbed it first." Steve says.
"Well, I called dibs on the blanket earlier when we were picking the movie." you explain.
"That’s insane! You can't call dibs on a blanket!" he laughs.
"I already did and nobody complained, so give it to me."
"That’s true, she did." Robin agrees.
"I don't care. You didn't call dibs while I was present, so it doesn't count for me." he argues.
"Oh, now you're just making shit up." you complain.
"Can’t you just share the blanket?" Eddie steps in, tired of the stupid bickering.
"It's not as comfortable!" you insist.
"It's even more comfortable! You can also cuddle while you're at it!" Eddie claims. "Maybe that's best for everyone so you two quit fighting over everything."
"He wishes." you comment.
"No, you wish." Steve responds.
"You both wish! You're acting like toddlers tugging on each other's hair because you like each other!" Eddie shouts and Robin chuckles loudly.
"That’s so true!" she says.
But the big problem comes the day after. You were alone in the cabin while the rest of the group was down by the lake. The sun was setting and you went inside to take a shower now before everyone here starts making a line in front of the bathroom to do the same.
You had everything set in the bathroom. Underwear, pajamas, skin care, hair products. Everything but the towel, you had left it in your room.
You were already butt naked about to run the water when you noticed. But since everyone is still at the lake and you're alone in here, what's the issue?
So you opened the door and walked quickly towards your room, when suddenly-
"Oh, shit!" Steve freezes when he sees you like that. It takes him three whole seconds to take his hands to his eyes.
"WHA- DON'T LOOK!" you try to cover yourself but you have nothing. You run to grab the first shirt you find laying around... his, of course. But you grab it either way and cover yourself up. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!"
"I'M SORRY! I DIDN'T THINK YOU'D COME OUT NAKED!" he's still covering his eyes.
"I WAS ABOUT TO SHOWER BUT I FORGOT MY TOWEL!" you complain. "I THOUGHT I WAS ALONE HERE!"
"I JUST CAME TO GRAB THE CAMERA TO TAKE A PICTURE OF THE SUNSET!" he explains. "I SWEAR I'M NOT A CREEP!"
"GOD! JUST GET OUT!" you scream and he does so.
Not only did that leave you staring at the wall, still covering yourself with his shirt, when you should be taking your shower. But also, you couldn't even look at him that same night when everyone came back inside.
He saw you fully naked... not just half naked. Everything. And the fact that it has to be him out everyone here with you made it ten times worse.
If it were to be Robin or Nancy you'd just apologize and even laugh about it. Hell, even if it were Eddie or Jonathan it would be embarrassing, but not as embarrassing as it was with Steve fucking Harrington!
You've been arguing with him since you got here practically! You were at each other's throats all the time. It was humiliating.
So, no. For the next two days you don't even look at him, let alone speak. It’s not like he didn't apologize ten times more after the first one. He did.
"I'm so fucking sorry, okay? But it doesn't have to be a big deal. I swear I didn't tell anyone, and I barely even saw anything." he tries to comfort you.
But you know he's lying. He saw plenty. Three whole seconds actually.
"Come on, talk to me, scream at me, tell me I'm a fucking idiot." he insists, but no words leave your mouth still. You just leave the room like you didn’t listen.
But it's not like the rest of the group didn't notice something was wrong. The only one who knew was Robin, you told her that same night before going to sleep. She obviously tried to comfort you telling you it didn't have to be so embarrassing. And she even gave you the idea that maybe getting even would solve it. Maybe walking in on him in the shower would work. Kind of an "eye for an eye" situation. But you weren’t going to do that.
You didn't know what you were going to do, actually. You couldn’t ignore him forever, but maybe just enough time until you didn't blush at even the thought of it.
But the gang had a different opinion. Robin didn't snitch, but as I said, they're not stupid, they know for some reason you're not talking to him. So they decide to help by giving you privacy.
One afternoon you notice how empty the cabin is when you get back from a walk around the lake. You thought you were alone until you saw Steve coming down the stairs.
He freezes again for a second when he sees it's just the two of you here.
"Hey," he tries again. "I think they went for a hike."
You just nod slightly, letting him know you heard him, but still didn't feel like hanging out with him.
"Honey, I'm sorry. I don’t know how to keep apologizing. And I don’t entirely know what's the problem because you won't even look at me." he explains. "Please, just give me a hint."
"If I look at you, I’m reminded of why I want to pack my bags and take the next bus home." you finally say to him.
"But why? It was an accident, I didn't plan it like some freak." he explains for the millionth time.
"But you saw." you explain. "You stood there, Steve. For three whole seconds just looking at me, bare. I feel so exposed around you."
"Can you look at me?" he asks and you finally do. "I froze because my brain short-circuited. I walked inside the cabin and you just... took the air right out of my lungs."
You stay looking at him, listening. He's talking like he's admitting, confessing to something.
"I didn't mean to disrespect you, I am sorry." he continues. "But if you're embarrassed around me because of what I saw... then that's just stupid."
You frown, still listening but ready to get offended if he's not careful.
"You should feel embarrassed at all for the body you have. You are stunning. There's not a single bad thought about what I saw when I saw you. I'm just blown away by how beautiful you looked."
"Steve, It's fine-" he cuts you off.
"Don't tell me I'm just saying things to make you feel better. I'm telling the truth. I just saw how gorgeous and sexy you are and that’s all I can think about now. For two days straight, the only thing running through my brain is the image of your beautiful body." he says, almost whispering. "And I'm really sorry for embarrassing you, but you shouldn't be!"
You stay silent, not expecting this confession at all.
"And this is hell, to be honest too. Because at the same time, you're not speaking to me. You won't even look at me when the only thing on my mind is just you."
"You're not just saying things?" you double-check.
"I almost cut my finger off earlier when I was chopping the onions because I had my mind on you." he chuckles, showing you the bandaid on his finger as proof.
You laugh softly. "What were you thinking about exactly?" you ask, ever so innocently.
"I don't wanna say." he smiles, looking down. Shy all of the sudden.
"Come on. You have to now." you smile too.
"You are gonna think I'm a creep." he insists.
"Try me." you shrug.
"I was thinking about how soft your skin must feel." he admits. "Your chest, stomach... thighs."
Your breath hitches. And as he says the word 'thighs' you suddenly feel the need to rub them together. "What else?"
"It only gets worse from here." he warns you. "I can't quite leave the image of your tits off my head."
"Steve!" you close your eyes and cover your face at his words.
"I'm sorry, I just- it's true... they're even better than what I imagined."
"You... what?" you laugh.
"I've wanted you for months. Even more now that I see you every second of the day." he confesses. "And I may or may not have... imagined what's under the swimsuits you've been wearing."
"These are some... serious confessions." you say.
"They're not really helping my case of me not being a creep, are they?" he realizes.
"I know you didn't do it on purpose. You couldn’t have known I'd come out naked to look for my towel... Right?" you smirk.
"Right, obviously!" he nods.
"You know, um... Robin gave me the idea that, maybe, if I saw you naked I'd stop feeling so embarrassed."
"Did she now?" he smiles. "Is that something you wanna try?"
"... Maybe." you shrug again.
Without another word, he takes off his shirt first, showing his glorious chest and arms that you've already been eyeing way too much when he’s in his truck suits. Then comes off the sneakers and the pants. He looks over at you to check you still want this before lowering his boxers until they reach the ground.
And there he stands. A naked Steve in all his glory. And boy, does it help your case. He's... there's no way to put it lightly, big. Probably the biggest you've seen.
You've heard the rumours. You were friends with some girls who hooked up with him in high-school. Also, Nancy has told you how difficult and painful her first time was... you just had to do the math.
But this was more than you expected. He even looks pretty too. As well as the rest of his body that just seems like a museum sculpture in the flesh.
"You can say something..." he reminds you with a smile.
"It's not very comfortable, is it?" you chuckle and he nods. "This is just not fair, you look like a model." you say, smirking.
"Not fair?" he frowns. "You literally have the body I couldn't get out of my head for two days now."
"I think we could do something about that." you comment.
"And what could that be? Care to share?" he smiles.
"I can show you better than I can tell you." you say, and you start walking upstairs as you take your clothes off slowly.
Steve almost trips over his own clothes on the floor as he hurries after you.
When he reaches the room, he sees you standing bare in front of him once again. But this time, you're not trying to cover or hide yourself. You stand looking at him, waiting for him to walk over to you.
And he does so, only two big steps and his hands are on your waist. He pulls you closer slowly, your hands go to his chest.
"You sure you want to do this?" he murmurs.
"I think we've waited long enough. Drove each other pretty crazy already." you smirk.
"Yeah, you do drive me crazy." he whispers and finally leans in to kiss you.
Your hands go up to his hair and pull him closer. Just by a kiss you can already feel yourself getting more wet.
It's no coincidence, he is a great kisser. His tongue moves slowly against your lips and against your own tongue. One of his hands grabs your jaw to deepen the kiss.
It's a rather sweet and slow kiss, in contrast to you two standing bare naked already. But something about that tells you he's going to take his time with you tonight. And you already can't wait.
He walks you both towards the bed until you fall onto it. He takes another second to just stare at you like that, and then moves to kneel on the bed in front of you.
He starts kissing you everywhere, from your neck, down to your stomach, taking his sweet time with every new inch of skin.
"You're so beautiful." he murmurs. "Open these legs for me."
"You don't have to-" you tried to tell him you were wet enough already, but he interrupts.
"I fucking want to." he looks at your pussy, nothing else. Firstly, he opens it up with his fingers. He teases your clit just lightly, to make you squirm.
He leans over and plants kisses there, some licks just to mess with you. You go to grab his hair, move it away from his face. He looks at your eyes as you're looking at him, and he dives in. He sucks and then licks it over, alternating between those two.
His fingers also start teasing. His other hand grabs your thigh harder and harder and opens you up more.
He spits on your clit and then licks firmly. Your moans only working for him to work more fiercely.
"Such a sweet pussy." he murmurs almost against your skin. "This all for me? So wet for me?"
"Yes, Steve. For you." you nod and keep tugging on his hair.
"So pretty, and-" one big kiss. "mine, right?" another kiss. His eyes locked on your.
"Yours, baby." you nod again.
His fingers that were teasing your entrance finally start pushing in. You moan louder once he finds that one spot and curls his fingers towards it.
The combination of those thrusts inside you, right where you needed them, plus his mouth doing everything but stopping on your clit, is making a tight knot on your stomach.
"Don't stop." you exhale. He wasn't planning on stopping either way, but he takes that as fuel to move faster.
"God! Steve!" Your screams work like warning bells to let him know you're about to come, and he wants nothing more.
A strong feeling washes over you, hitting you like a wave in the sea. He still moves only to stimulate you more and drag it out. He loves the way your breath got messier and your hands grabbed him with all their force. He then moves back to let you catch your breath.
"Good girl." he praises you and keeps caressing your legs. After a minute, he speaks again to check on you. "You wanna keep going? Wanna go to sleep?"
"No, we can keep going." you shake your head.
"Alright. Stay like this, but wrap your legs around me." he guides you. Then grabs his big and now almost red cock and lines it with your entrance. "Tell me if it hurts."
"Keep going." you nod to let him know you'll be just fine.
He pushes in, first his red tip inside you, then keeps pushing until he's halfway in. He waits a second and starts thrusting back and forth, letting you get used to that. And with each thrust he lets just a little more in each time.
"That’s almost all of it. Think you can take it, pretty girl?" he teases you.
It's a new stretch that definitely feels different, but it feels so good at the same time. You know the pleasure will beat the pain in no time. "Yes, more."
"Atta girl." he praises you and pushes all of it in. He lets a loud moan out at the feeling of your tight walls wrapping around him completely. "Feels so good, insanely good."
"You're so big, Steve." you moan, what's the harm in stroking his ego while you're at it?
He keeps thrusting in and out at a steady pace, still slow to let you get used to it.
Then a few minutes later, he grabs your legs to pull them higher on his waist and starts going faster and faster.
"Oh, yes!" you let out as you hug him, pulling his body closer.
"You like that? How does my cock feel inside this sweet pussy?" he murmurs. His mouth goes to your neck while one hand is on the bed to keep himself from crushing you, and the other grips on your thigh almost definitely leaving marks.
"So good, Steve. The best."
"Yeah? That's right. Fucking made for my cock."
You don't know nor care if you're still alone in the cabin. Your friends could already be back for wherever it was they went to. And if they were, they would probably be able to hear you two. But that thought didn't even cross your mind right now. The only important thing was the feeling of Steve on top and inside of you.
He puts one of your legs on his shoulder and thrusts slower, this feels so much deeper he wants to feel every second of it. Your moans get higher and pitchier, letting him know it is definitely working wonders for you too.
He enjoys seeing you like this, totally ruined on his cock while he moves how he wants. You look beautiful and fucked out.
His thumb travels up to your mouth and you suck on it. This shouldn't make his cock twitch like it does, but he almost has to take a second to calm down.
With a pop, it leaves your mouth and attacks your puffy clit again. Not roughly, quite the opposite actually. A high contrast to his thrusts that are now going hard again.
One of your hands lets go of the sheets to grip on his arm, putting your nails into the skin. "Too much." you whine.
"Oh, it's too much?" he mocks you. "Poor baby, too bad you're just gonna have to take it."
"Fuck, Steve!"
"You're being so good at taking it, you can do it." The back and forth of his praises and mocks are making you feel dizzy in the best way.
"I'm gonna come." you moan, still digging your nails into his arm, but the movements of his thumb don't seem to miss even a little bit.
"Gonna come on my cock and make a mess?" he moves even faster. Talking to you like this, and knowing it's working for you too makes him feel just as close. "That’s it, come around me. Come on, baby, I want it."
"Steve, oh my god." broken moans that almost sound like cries leave your mouth. You arch back and let yourself be taken away by the pleasure once more.
"Yeah, yeah, just like that. Look how fucking pretty you look coming for me." he whines as well now. He was holding it until you finished first, and now seeing you come undone because of him is enough to drive a man crazy. "Where, baby? Where do you want it?"
"Inside, all inside." you pull him closer and he lets out big and loud breaths mixed with moans as he paints your walls.
His arms give up and he just lets himself rest on top of you. Careful not to hurt you, but definitely crushing you a little with his weight.
You both wait like that for your breaths to even out. A couple of minutes later, his face is nuzzling into your neck.
"You're fucking perfect." he smiles.
"So clingy." your turn to mock him now.
"Yeah, and you'll have to get used to it." he jokes.
"I can live with that."
"You sure? I'm gonna leave my clothes all around the house." he reminds you.
"Yeah, well, I'm gonna fill your bathroom with my things... and your bedroom." you add.
"Sounds great." he whispers.
"The clothes aren't so bad. But finders keepers." you warn him.
summary: you like to have things in your mouth. steve hates it.
tags: reader has a bit of an oral fixation(?), steve has a fixation on reader, kissing, suggestive themes but no smut, brief mentions of steve's childhood, f!reader, touch starved steve, etc. etc. etc.
wc: 1222
note: i saw djo live IN THE FLESH on sunday and the worms are back in my brain....i need him bad. i started writing this before i fell asleep last night and finished it today so idk what it is. first steve fic tho <3 mayb i'll do another eventually. this probably sucks. enjoy!
He can't stop looking at your mouth.
It's something you started doing with it. This instinctual need to have something in it; a sucker, a straw to chew on, a bobby pin.
it drives him up a wall.
Especially now, sitting across from you on the couch as you attentively watch whatever he put on the TV, completely still except for the pen cap rolling around between your teeth.
He's noticed it over time, your inability to sit still. Usually it's your fingers twisting a hair tie back and forth, your foot tapping against the floor, your hair twirled between your fingers.
Nothing ever this distracting.
He's not even sure if you realize you're doing it. Or worse, the torment it's causing him.
"Do you-" he clears his throat, his voice thick with something he doesn't want to name. "Are you hungry? Do you need something to eat?"
Your gaze slides from the tv to him, brows furrowing in confusion. That pen cap falling still between your lips.
God, your mouth. He can't stop thinking about it.
"What?" The word is slightly mumbled, still not having taken the cap out of your mouth.
There's a sheen on your lips, a mix of whatever gloss you put on earlier and spit sticking to them. He feels like he's going to die.
"Steve."
He must have lost a second (or a minute), because when he makes eye contact with you, your eyes are a mix of confusion and concern.
And a bit of smugness too, he thinks. A small tilt to your smile, like you saw him, like you wanted him to watch.
He runs a hand through his hair, tries again. "Are you hungry? I can make something if you want."
"We just ate dinner, though."
"Yeah but," he gets stuck there, on the corner of your mouth. You've taken the cap out, now biting the inside of your lips. "You keep chewing on shit. I don't know if that was a silent message to me if you wanted something else or not."
He looks back up and knows. Caught. Your eyes are clear now, the smugness from your smile spreading to them. Like you know what it's doing to him.
"Are you okay? You look-" you reach a hand out to his forehead, pressing the back of your palm to it, "flustered." The simple contact of your skin on his feels electric and he has to fight to not lean his whole weight into it.
"Fine." He feels like he's gonna pass out.
"You sure?" You lean in, your hand shifting as your fingers start playing with his hair. He shudders, his eyes falling closed as you twist the strands through your fingers.
He can feel your breath on his mouth. Not sure when you leaned even closer, but he swallows as he sits there. Waits.
"I saw you watching," you murmur, "you looked pissed off at the pen."
"I am." He opens his eyes to see you searching his face, for what, he's not sure. "Was wondering why you always have something in your mouth." His gaze drifts back to it.
You hum, your face shifting to the side, your lips pressing to his jaw as your hand in his hair shifts to cup the nape of his neck. "Dunno. Just feels nice."
A bite under his ear. Tasting his skin, rolling it between your teeth before soothing it with your tongue. Feels nice to have his skin on your lips.
Steve's chest heaves, shifting his hips a little to ease the pressure off. "You're messing with me."
He can feel your smile, then. Like you know he's caught you. Like this was your plan all along, to ease yourself closer to him. Your head moves up, back in front of him and he opens his eyes to look at you. Hadn't even realized they'd fallen shut again.
He wonders what you see. Flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, breath falling heavy out of his mouth. A mess.
"Honey," you start. Your gaze falls to his mouth, then. "Do you want me to kiss you?"
The words are quiet, gentle. Like you know that's what he needs. A soft touch, a gentle approach.
Sometimes Steve gets stuck. Caught in a long lost pattern where he wants something but doesn't know how to ask for it. Feels his skin get clammy and his heart rate kick up as that voice in the back of his head becomes louder. Too much. Too needy.
Feels it in his throat, then. Pressure in the back of it, every muscle in his body telling him not to. Too risky. She wants you to say no.
"Please," he rasps out.
You smile. A gentle, knowing one. Like you can hear those voices too. Like you know him well enough to realize when it's hard for him to ask.
Your other hand comes up to cup his cheek as you lean in, lips pressing to his. You're cautious, not out of nerves, but knowing that he might need a second to settle.
Your tongue swipes across his bottom lip and he melts. Reaches across to your hips to pull you closer to him. Needs that touch. Nothing has ever grounded him as much as you do.
You raise up onto your knees so you're above him and you hum warmly when he pushes closer to you in any way he can. Hands tightening, pinkies slipping under your shirt, rubbing small circles against your ribs.
He's warm all over. Your mouth is hot and wet against his, letting out little breaths that go straight through him like a live wire. You kiss like that for a few minutes, the time lost to him as he gets lost in you.
"Steve," you start, pulling back just slightly. It's a reflex for him to lean back in, to get more from you. You let him before reaching into his hair and tugging just enough to get his attention.
He whimpers at it, leaning back and opening his eyes to see you smiling at him again, eyebrows raised in surprise. "You know you can kiss me whenever you want, right?"
His throat is dry as he swallows. He feels dazed, back to staring at your mouth again. Pink, a little swollen. He's obsessed with it a little, he thinks.
Tells you that too. "You drive me insane sometimes," his thumb reaches up to run across your bottom lip, sinking in a bit until he feels your teeth. "Always playing with stuff in your mouth. Can't think about anything else when you're doing it." You close your lips around his thumb and suck a little. Steve feels like he's going to die.
"Well," you lean closer, lifting one of your legs over his hips and resting your weight on him. He exhales sharply, knowing you can feel how hard he is. "Lucky for you, there's an easily solution to that."
He's grinning when you lean back down, pressing your mouth to his in a way that shows him how badly you want it.
And later when Steve starts stealing little items from you, rolling them around in his hands and twisting them between his long fingers, you may have to cross your legs and turn your attention elsewhere, (but he doesn't need to know that).
PLEASSSSEEE having sex in a hot tub with joe when staying in an airbnb on tour!!!
AHHHH WHAT A GOOD REQUEST 🤭
i fear this one completely ran away with me in the best way 😭 it ended up being much softer and more intimate than i originally expected - lots of tour exhaustion, wine, and joe being impossibly gentle and atrociously hot
i really hope it lives up to what you had in mind!! thank you so much for sending it in 🫶
until noon
Joe Keery x reader
Summary: After six relentless weeks on tour, one quiet night in an Airbnb outside Vienna reminds you both what it feels like to finally have nowhere else to be.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, smut, oral (f receiving), fingering, p in v sex, unprotected sex, alcohol consumption, praise, mutual pining, body worship, they're so in love it hurts (lmk if i missed anything)
W/C: 5.1k
Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]
If you want to be added to my taglist, leave a comment to lmk!
The hot tub jets rumble against your lower back, a low vibration that works into muscles you forgot you had. You let your head fall back, the stone edge cool against your neck, and watch steam curl off the dark water into the night sky. The Airbnb sits somewhere outside Vienna - you've lost track of which country you're in, let alone which city - and the silence is the kind you haven't heard in weeks. No tour bus engine. No hotel hallway footsteps. No distant bass from a venue's walls vibrating.
Just water. Steam. And the faint smell of chlorine and wet cedar from the patio deck.
You sink deeper, the heat pulling a sigh from somewhere low in your chest. Six weeks. Forty-two days since you last sat in silence and let your body remember what stillness felt like. The tour had been good - great, even - but good in the way a long run feels good when you're still moving. You haven't stopped long enough to feel the ache until now.
The water ripples as you shift, adjusting to the heat. Your hair floats around your shoulders, darkened with moisture, and you tuck a strand behind your ear. The silver ring on your thumb catches the faint light from the patio lanterns - warm amber glow strung along the railing - and you turn it absently, the motion automatic.
Somewhere beyond the patio wall, a church bell tolls. Distant. Low. You count the rings without meaning to. Ten. Eleven. You stop counting.
The glass door slides open behind you.
You don't turn. You know the sound of his bare feet on the stone tiles - the particular heel-toe rhythm that means he's carrying something in both hands and walking carefully. The clink of glass confirms it.
"You took your time," you say, voice carrying easily through the steam.
"Had to find the good bottle." His voice, low and warm, wraps around the words. "You think I'm bringing you cheap Austrian red after Berlin?"
A smile touches your mouth. "I think you'd drink gasoline if it came in a wine bottle."
"Yeah, but I wouldn't make you drink it."
You turn now, just your head, enough to see him. Joe stands at the edge of the tub, two glasses in one hand, the other already reaching for the stone edge to steady himself. The lantern light catches the veins on his forearms - lines you know by heart, know the feel of under your fingers at 3 AM in a tour bus bunk. Water sluices over his shoulders as he sinks in, a controlled descent, and the sight of him - chest bare, hair already darkening at the hem, hazel eyes finding yours through the steam - sends something warm through you that isn't the water.
He sets the glasses on the stone edge beside him. Red wine. Two of them. Condensation beads the rims.
"One of these is yours," he says, settling in. The water rises around his chest, lapping at his collarbones. "The other one's mine. But I'll share if you ask nice."
"I don't ask nice."
"No." He grins, and it's the same grin that made you laugh in the dive bar where you met two years ago - easy, crooked, like he knows something you don't. "You ask mean. That's the part I like."
You roll your eyes, but the warmth stays. It's been there since you crossed the German border, actually. This particular quiet between you, the kind that settles when you're alone and the tour falls away and it's just you in a room, or a tub, or a bed that isn't moving.
The water shifts as Joe adjusts, settling deeper. Steam curls between you. You watch the way it catches in his hair, beading on his lashes, and something in your chest loosens another notch.
"We should rob more Airbnbs," you say. "This is better than the last one."
"The one in Munich with the shared bathroom?"
"The one in Munich where we had to share the bathroom with Wes."
He groans. "Don't remind me. I still haven't forgiven him for the toothpaste incident."
"He said it was an accident."
"He squeezed from the middle, honey. That's not an accident. That's a lifestyle choice."
You laugh, and it comes out easy, surprised - the way it does when you're comfortable. The sound hangs in the steam between you. Joe's watching you. He does that. Watches you laugh like it's something he wants to remember.
"What?" you say.
"Nothing." Joe picks up one of the glasses and takes a sip. "Just glad we're here. That's all."
You know what he means. The tour has been a blur of cities and soundchecks and borrowed beds. Two nights max in any one place. Never enough time to breathe, let alone be together the way you're used to. The way you are when there's no bus idling outside, no call time in the morning, no gear to load.
You pick up the other glass. The wine is good - deep, earthy, a little sharp on the tongue. You let it sit in your mouth a moment before swallowing.
"I forgot what quiet sounded like," you say, more to yourself than him.
"Yeah." He's quiet a moment, thumb tracing the rim of his glass. "I forgot what you sounded like. Just you. Not the crowd, not the monitors. Just your voice in a room."
You look at him. The steam has softened the edges of his face, made him look younger somehow. Or maybe that's just the absence of the stage lights, the hours of travel, the weight of the road. Maybe this is who he is when no one's watching.
"We have the whole place until noon tomorrow," you say. "No checkout. No soundcheck. No anything."
"I know." Joe's voice drops, that raw edge slipping in. "I've been thinking about that since Prague."
"You've been thinking about the checkout time since Prague?"
"I've been thinking about what we could do with it."
The words settle between you, heavier than the steam. You take another sip of wine, let the warmth spread through your chest, and don't look away.
Joe sets his glass down on the stone edge. The clink echoes off the patio tiles. Then he shifts, the water rippling, and you feel it - his hand finding your ankle under the surface.
You don't flinch. You're waiting for it, maybe. The touch is warm, deliberate, his fingers curling around your ankle with an ease that speaks of practice. Of knowing your body's geography.
"Come here," he says. Not a question.
You let him pull your leg across his thigh, the water sliding warm against your skin. His thumb finds the arch of your foot and presses - slow, deep, the kind of pressure that knows exactly where to dig in. You exhale, a sound you don't mean to make, and your eyes flutter half-closed.
"That hurt?"
"That's the opposite of hurt."
His thumb works a slow circle into the arch, and you feel tension you didn't know you were holding release through your toes. Thirty-six shows into the tour, your feet are having the last laugh.
"You've been standing the whole set," Joe says, his voice quiet, his thumb pressing deeper. "Every night. Heels. Wooden floors."
"My boyfriend's in the band. Of course I'm gonna be on my feet the whole show. That's the deal."
"Doesn't mean you have to do it on your toes."
"It's the shoes. They make my calves look good."
He looks up at you, his hand stilling on your foot. "Your calves look good in everything. Including nothing."
The air between you thickens. Steam rises. The water laps at your thigh where your leg rests across his, and you can feel the solid warmth of him under the surface. His hand resumes its work, thumb finding a knot just below your heel, and you let your head fall back again, watching him through your lashes.
The lantern light catches the water beading on his chest. His shoulders are bare above the surface, and you watch the way his arm moves as he works your foot - muscle shifting under ink, tendons standing out. He's all lean lines and easy strength, and you know exactly what that body feels like over yours, under yours, beside you in the dark.
You finish the wine in one long swallow and set the glass on the edge. The stone is cool against your forearm as you lean forward, the water sloshing gently against your chest.
"You're allowed to do more than my foot," you say.
Joe's eyes meet yours. That same hunger you saw in that bar two years ago, the one that told you he wasn't just a charming musician. The one that told you he knew exactly what he wanted, and it wasn't just a night.
"I'm pacing myself," he says.
"Since when?"
"Since I realised we had until noon tomorrow." His thumb drags a slow line from your heel to the ball of your foot. "I'm not in a hurry."
The words land low in your belly. You hold his gaze, let the silence stretch, let the steam do its work. The jets rumble against your back, and the water laps at your ribs, and you feel every inch of the distance between you.
You could close it. You could slide across the tub, straddle his thighs, feel the stone at your knees and his hands on your hips. You could kiss the taste of Austrian wine from his mouth and let the night take whatever shape it wanted.
But Joe's waiting. His hand on your foot, his eyes on yours, the water dark between you. His other hand rests on the surface, palm open, fingers slightly spread.
Waiting for you to close the distance.
You watch his open palm. The water laps at his fingers, and a bead of condensation slides down the wine glass he set aside, catching the lantern light before it lands on the stone edge with a sound you barely hear.
The church bell again. Farther now, or maybe just softer through the steam. You stop counting after three.
Your foot is still in his hand. His thumb has stopped moving, just resting against the arch, and you can feel his pulse through the contact - or maybe that's yours, hard and slow in your throat. The heat of the water has settled into your bones, and the wine hums warm in your chest, and the space between you feels like a note held too long, trembling on the edge of release.
You don't move toward him.
You don't move away.
The steam curls between you, and you watch the way it catches in his hair, the way his chest rises and falls with breaths he's keeping slow. Deliberate. Like he's reading you the same way you're reading him.
Your thumb finds your silver ring again, turns it once. Twice. The motion is older than the tour, older than him - a habit from long before you knew each other.
"Joe," you say. His name in the steam. Not a question. Not an answer. Just his name, the way it sounds when the rest of the sentence hasn't caught up yet.
"I'm here."
His voice is quiet. No edge. No hunger in it, not the way he said it before. Just presence. A statement of fact. He's here. He's not going anywhere.
The water shifts as you adjust your weight, and your leg slides an inch along his thigh. His hand tightens on your foot, just barely - a reflex, not a demand.
"I know," you say.
The silence settles around you again, but it's different now. Fuller. Like the space between you has weight, and you're both holding it.
You look past him, past the steam, past the patio railing. The city lights beyond are scattered and distant - a glow against the dark, not quite stars. Vienna. Or wherever this is. Somewhere with old stone and church bells and a bed that doesn't vibrate when the tour bus engine idles.
The night jasmine you noticed when you first arrived, climbing the trellis by the patio door, sends a faint sweetness through the chlorine and cedar. You breathe it in. Let it settle.
Then you look back at Joe.
His eyes haven't left your face.
You reach out. Not to take his hand - not yet. Your fingers find the waterline, trace a slow line through the steam, and rest on the stone edge beside his open palm. Close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off his skin. Not touching.
His fingers don't move towards you. He's waiting. The same patience he had when he learned your body's rhythms - the way you like to be touched, the way you need to be held, the way you pull away before you get too close and come back when you're ready.
You remember that. The first time you slept together, in a hotel room with thin walls and a view of the parking lot. He'd waited then, too. Not rushed. Not pushed. Just waited, with that same open palm, that same steady gaze, until you closed the distance yourself.
The water laps at your fingers. His are still, just beside them.
You let your hand drift the last inch. Your fingertips brush his. Light. Barely there.
His breath catches. Just a fraction. Just enough for you to hear.
You don't pull away.
Your fingertip against his. The barest contact, skin to skin, and the water lapping at your hands like it's part of the conversation. You feel his pulse through that single point - or maybe that's wishful thinking, wanting to feel him the way you feel yourself, hard and slow and hungry in your chest.
He doesn't move. Doesn't curl his fingers around yours, doesn't pull you closer. Just waits, that open palm beside your hand, letting you decide how much of this distance you want to close.
You trace a line down his palm. Slow. Deliberate. Your fingertip follows the lifeline, then the heart line, and you feel the slight catch of callus at the base of his fingers - guitar callus, worn into his skin from years of strings and frets. You know the feel of those hands on your body. Know what they can do.
"Baby." Joe's voice is low, barely above the rumble of the jets. "Look at me."
You do. His eyes are dark in the lantern light, the hazel swallowed by the pupil, and there's nothing easy in his face now. The charm is gone. What's left is raw, open, the same hunger you saw in that bar, but stripped of the grin that usually carries it.
"I've been wanting this," he says. "Since Berlin. Since Prague. Since the night we crossed the border and you fell asleep on my shoulder in the back of the van."
"You didn't say anything."
"You needed to sleep."
Something cracks open in your chest. Not painfully - the opposite. Like a door you didn't know was locked, swinging inward.
You slide your hand fully into his. His fingers close around yours, warm and sure, and he squeezes once - a question, not an answer.
You answer by pulling his hand towards you. Under the water, past your thigh, until his palm rests flat against your stomach, just below the surface.
Joe's breath catches.
Your skin is slick and hot from the water, and you watch his face as he feels you - the soft swell of your belly, the jut of your hipbone, the way your breath hitches when his thumb traces a slow circle just above the waistband of nothing. Because you're not wearing anything. Haven't been since you stepped into this water.
"You're sure?" he asks.
"I'm sure."
His hand slides lower.
You spread your legs under the water, a small shift that opens you to him, and his fingers find you wet - not from the tub. His knuckles brush the inside of your thigh as his palm cups you, and you exhale, long and slow, your head falling back.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You're already-"
"I know."
His middle finger traces your slit, featherlight, barely there, and you jerk like you've been shocked. The water ripples around you, sloshing against the stone edge.
"Look at me," he says again. "I want to see your face when I touch you."
You force your eyes open. His are dark, fixed on yours, and his finger slides into you without resistance. One knuckle. Two. You're so slick he glides in like you were made for it, and the pressure - the fullness, the stretch, the way his finger curls inside you - draws a sound from your throat you didn't know you could make.
"Yeah," he says, low. "That's it. That's what I wanted to hear."
He works you slowly, his thumb finding your clit in a steady circle, his finger curling and pressing, and you grip the edge of the tub with your free hand, knuckles white against the stone. The water slaps against your chest as you breathe - short, shallow, your hips starting to roll against his hand.
"I've been thinking about this," he says, his voice rough, almost a whisper. "Every night in those shitty hotel rooms, you in the bunk across the aisle. Hearing you breathe. Wanting to touch you and not being able to."
"Joe-"
"I'd lie awake and imagine your hand on my cock. The way you look when you're on top of me. The sound you make when you come."
You whimper - actually whimper - and his thumb presses harder, his finger driving deeper, and you feel the edge approaching, that familiar coiling heat in your belly.
"Not yet," he says.
He pulls his hand away.
You make a sound of protest, raw and desperate, and he grins - that same crooked grin, but darker now, edged with something possessive.
"I said I'm pacing myself." He lifts his hand out of the water, brings his fingers to his mouth, and sucks you off them slowly. His eyes never leave yours. "And I want to taste you for real."
He shifts, turning in the water, and before you can process the movement, he's between your thighs, lifting you out of the water onto the stone, his hands on your knees, pushing them apart. The water sloshes against the stone, and you feel the rough edge of the wall at your back, the sky open above you, the steam curling around Joe's shoulders as he settles in front of you.
"Hold onto the edge," he says.
You do. Your fingers find the stone, wet and cool, and you grip it as he lowers his mouth to you.
His first lick is slow, flat-tongued, from your entrance to your clit, and you jerk so hard you almost lose your grip. He hums against you, a sound of approval, and does it again - slower this time, like he's savouring you, like the taste of you is something he's been craving.
"You taste," he says against you, "like everything I've been missing."
His tongue circles your clit, wet and precise, and you let your head fall back, your fingers slipping on the stone. The steam rises around you, the night air cool on your wet shoulders, and all you can feel is his mouth, his hands gripping your thighs, his tongue working you closer to the edge.
"Joe, I'm-"
"I know." He doesn't stop. Doesn't slow down. His tongue presses harder, faster, and you feel your hips buck against his face, and you're gone - falling apart in the hot water, a sound tearing out of your throat that carries across the patio, into the night, into the dark Austrian sky.
He rides you through it, his mouth gentling as you come down, his tongue soft and soothing against your oversensitive clit. You're trembling, your thighs shaking, your grip on the stone so tight your fingers ache.
He surfaces slowly, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then your hip, then your stomach as he rises out of the water. His face is wet, his hair plastered to his forehead, and his eyes are dark and hungry.
"Scoot back," he says. "I want room."
You shift backwards in the tub, the stone seat pressing against your spine, and Joe follows, his body crowding yours. His chest presses against yours, the water warm between you, and his hand slides down your stomach, between your legs again.
"You're still so wet," he murmurs. "That's for me, isn't it?"
You nod, not trusting your voice.
His fingers find you again, sliding inside, and you're so sensitive from the orgasm that you gasp, your hips twitching.
"One more," he says, his lips against your ear. "I want you to come on my fingers before I fuck you."
You feel his cock against your thigh, hard and thick, and the thought of what's coming - of him inside you, of the stretch and the heat and the way he feels when he comes - sends a fresh wave of wetness through you.
Joe feels it. His fingers curl, his thumb pressing your clit, and he whispers in your ear - filthy, low, things he's been thinking about since Prague, since Berlin, since the night you fell asleep on his shoulder in the van. You can't make out all the words, just the shape of them, the way his voice drops on the dirty ones, and it's enough - his fingers, his voice, the water lapping at your legs - to push you over again.
You come with your face pressed into his shoulder, your teeth sinking into his skin to muffle the sound, your whole body clenching around his fingers.
He holds you through it, his other hand cradling the back of your head, his lips brushing your temple.
"That's it," he says, soft now. "That's my girl."
You lift your head, your eyes finding his. The steam has thickened around you, and the lanterns cast long shadows across the water. You reach down, your hand finding his cock under the surface - hard, hot, slick from the water and from you.
He hisses through his teeth.
You stroke him once, slow, your thumb tracing the head, and he shudders.
"I want you inside me," you say. "Now."
He doesn't argue. He wraps his arms around you, lifts you, and you feel the stone edge of the tub against your hips as he settles you on his thighs. The water laps at the small of your back as you straddle him, his cock pressing against your stomach, and you reach down to guide him.
The head catches at your entrance, and you both freeze.
His eyes meet yours. Dark. Waiting.
You sink down.
The stretch is everything - the slow burn of him filling you, inch by inch, the water warm around you, his hands gripping your hips as you take him deeper. You feel every ridge, every pulse, the way your body opens to accommodate him, and when he's fully inside you, seated to the hilt, you both exhale at the same time.
"Fuck," Joe breathes. "Honey."
You start to move. Slow at first, a gentle roll of your hips, the water sloshing around you. His hands find your waist, guiding you, and you set a rhythm that drags him out of you almost completely before you sink back down.
"Like that," he says, his voice strained. "Just like that."
You pick up speed, your hands braced on his shoulders, your nails digging in as you ride him. The water slaps against the stone edge, splashing onto the patio tiles, and the steam rises around you like a veil. You can feel the pressure building again, a third orgasm coiling tight in your belly, and the sound of your bodies meeting - wet, rhythmic, obscene - fills the night.
His hand moves between you, his thumb finding your clit, and you cry out, your rhythm faltering.
"Come for me," he says, his voice rough, his hips thrusting up to meet yours. "Let me feel you."
You do. Your body clenches around him, your back arching, a scream tearing out of your throat that echoes off the patio walls. He follows a second later, his hands gripping your hips so hard it will bruise, his cock pulsing inside you as he comes with a groan that sounds like your name, like a prayer, like something he's been holding in his chest since the day you met.
You stay like that, tangled together, the water slowly settling around you. Your forehead rests against his, and your breath mingles in the steam, ragged and warm.
After a long moment, Joe kisses you. Soft. Tender. A different kind of hunger.
"Noon tomorrow," he says against your lips.
"What about it?"
"We have to make it count." His hand slides up your spine, settling at the nape of your neck. "But first, I'm taking you inside. There's a bed in there, and I'm nowhere near done with you."
You laugh, breathless, still trembling in his arms. "That so?"
"That's so." He shifts beneath you, and you feel him still hard inside you, softening but not gone. The water has cooled around you, the steam thinning, and you're suddenly aware of the night air on your wet shoulders, the goosebumps rising on your arms.
"Inside sounds good," you say. "But I'm not sure my legs work."
He grins, that crooked grin, and wraps his arms around you. "Good thing I've got two."
Joe stands, lifting you with him, and you gasp as the water sluices off you both, the cold air hitting your skin where the water had been warm. His cock slips out of you, and you feel the loss - a hollow ache between your thighs, the slick evidence of him running down your leg. He carries you up the stone steps, water streaming off both of you, and you wrap your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck.
The patio tiles are cold under his bare feet, and you feel him shiver as you cross the stone. The glass door is still open, and the warm air from inside hits you as he carries you through, steam rising off your bodies in the room's sudden stillness.
The bedroom is dark, the curtains drawn, the only light a sliver of streetlamp filtering through a gap. He lays you on the bed, the sheets cool against your wet back, and you watch him as he stands over you, water dripping from his hair onto his shoulders, his cock half-hard and glistening.
"You're beautiful," he says. "You know that?"
You reach for him, your hand finding his, pulling him down to you. He comes willingly, his body covering yours, his skin cool and damp against your warmth. You kiss him, deep and slow, tasting yourself on his lips, tasting the wine and the chlorine and the night.
His hand finds your thigh, slides up, settles at your hip. "Roll over," he says against your mouth.
You do, turning onto your stomach, and Joe moves behind you, his chest pressing against your back, his cock pressing against the cleft of your ass. He kisses your shoulder, your spine, the nape of your neck, and you shiver - not from cold.
"I want you like this," he says, his voice low, his hand sliding between your legs. You're still slick, still open, and his fingers find you easily. "I want to watch your back arch when I fuck you."
You push up onto your elbows, your knees spreading, and he positions himself behind you. The head of his cock presses at your entrance, and you feel the stretch again - different from before, deeper, the angle changing everything.
"Ready?" he asks.
"Yes."
He pushes in, slow, so slow you feel every inch of him filling you. You drop your forehead to the sheets, a sound escaping you that's half moan, half sob. He's so deep like this, hitting places he couldn't reach before, and you feel yourself clench around him, pulling him deeper.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You feel-" He stops, his hips pressing flush against you, and you feel him everywhere. "You feel like home."
He starts to move. Slow strokes at first, pulling almost all the way out before pushing back in, each thrust a deliberate claim. You grip the sheets, your knuckles white, and let him set the rhythm. The bed creaks beneath you, a steady counterpoint to the wet sound of your bodies meeting, and you feel the heat building again, low and insistent.
His hand finds your hair, gathers the wet curls, pulls gently until your back arches and your head lifts. "I want to hear you," he says, his voice rough. "I want the whole neighbourhood to hear you."
You bite your lip, and Joe pulls harder - not enough to hurt, just enough to make you gasp.
"No," he says. "Let me hear you."
His next thrust is harder, deeper, and you cry out - a raw, broken sound that fills the room. He does it again and again, building a rhythm that drives the sound out of you with every stroke. Your thighs are shaking, your arms trembling, and you feel yourself climbing toward another peak, faster than you thought possible.
"That's it," he says, his voice strained. "I can feel you. You're so close."
His hand slides under you, finds your clit, and you break - shatter - your body convulsing around him, a scream tearing out of your throat that you can't control, can't contain. He keeps thrusting, riding you through it, and you feel him pulse inside you, feel him come with a groan that vibrates through his chest into your back.
You collapse together, a tangle of limbs and sweat and cooling water. Joe pulls out slowly, and you feel the warmth of him leaking out of you, pooling on the sheets beneath you. You don't care. You can't bring yourself to care about anything except the weight of him beside you, the sound of his breathing, the way his hand finds yours under the covers.
"Noon," you say, your voice hoarse. "That's still hours away."
He presses a kiss to your shoulder. "I know."
"What are we going to do until then?"
He's quiet for a moment. Then his hand slides down your stomach, dips between your legs again, and you feel his fingers trace the evidence of what you've just done.
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★ summary: you and steve were tangled in each other’s lives from birth, sharing scraped knees, midnight secrets, and every promise two kids could make without understanding the weight of them. as years passed, the two of you shifted with every change the years threw at you, and time kept moving the way it always does. fast and unrelenting. you could only push down the inevitable for so long before you realized all you've ever wanted has been right in front of you, all along.
★ pairing: steve harrington x reader, slight omc x reader
★ warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, cursing, canon character death, slow burn, childhood friends to lovers, angst, emotional cheating, p in v, oral f recieving
★ word count: 16.2k
★ notes: this is an au where nothing supernatural happens in hawkins btw!!! i've spent soo long on this that i kinda hate it but i really hope you all enjoy! i appreciate the feedback so much <3
You had never known a life without Steve Harrington in it. From the moment you were walking, he was standing there right beside you. Your mothers were friends, often leaving you two with the same sitters. With matching sticky hands and loud babbles of nothing, you found a friend in the messy-haired boy.
Steve was there through all of life’s biggest moments. The first time you rode your bike without training wheels, losing your first baby tooth, and your first heartbreak in the fourth grade, when Adam Kelly put gum in your hair. Steve pushed him off the slide, splitting his lip open. He thought the punishment was worth it to see the smile on your face.
Similarly, you were there through his horrible prepubescent hormones, his growth spurt hitting later in life. You tripped Christy Morris after she called him short, embarrassing him in front of the class. Her accident overshadowed his embarrassment when she went crying to the office, chocolate milk staining the front of her white dress. Steve’s eyes met yours across the lunchroom, and you sent him a simple shrug. It was mindless, the urge to protect him. It went both ways. It was soon clear to everyone in Hawkins that the two of you would do anything for the other.
Steve held your hand when your dog died, letting you sob into his shoulders. He came to your house the next day, a bundle of picked dandelions in his hand. It was the first time a boy brought you flowers; he told you that you deserved them every day since it made you smile. And you believed him. When his parents got a new job, leaving him at your house or with strange relatives, he’d hide his face in your pillow, pretending tears weren’t racking his body. You’d run your tiny hands through his hair, and once he was done, you’d force him to watch movies with you. Making him laugh so hard that he no longer felt the absence of his parents. He would never be abandoned, because you’d never leave him.
The summer before high school, the two of you made a pact. Bound in the blood of scraped knees and years of friendship.
“We’re gonna be friends forever, you know that, right?” Steve asked, both of your backs pressed against the hot fabric of the trampoline. His hair was getting longer, his voice already deeper.
You had changed, too, your body developing in ways that made boys in school look at you longer. You started caring more about your appearance, making Steve call you gross every time you’d put on lip gloss. In the same way, you’d smack him with the hairspray can he stole from you.
“Of course I know that,” You said, “Why?”
He huffed, throwing his arm over his forehead in an attempt to quell the Indiana heat. “High school is just scary. What if we make new friends?”
You shrugged, not really thinking too much about it. “We both have other friends already.”
“But none of them are like you.” He said the meaning of his words wouldn’t come to him until much later.
“I know.” You smirked, kicking his shin with your foot. “Even when the world changes, our friends, school, and even when we change as people. It won’t matter because our friendship never will. We’re unchangeable.”
He laughed at your word choices, pushing your foot away from his playfully. “Growing up is scary.” He admitted after a brief moment of silence.
You hummed in agreement, reaching your hand down to grab his. Lacing your fingers together as if you’ve done it a thousand times, because you have.
“You make it not so scary.” You smiled, the two of you staring at the clouds.
“Pinky promise?” Steve asked, his voice betraying him. You just smiled, bringing up your other hand that wasn’t in his, holding out your pinky. He did the same, lacing your two pinkies together in an unspoken vow.
Time is a fickle thing. Nothing ever happens as you plan it; it’s the only consistency in the world. When the two of you stepped foot into Hawkin’s High, it was inevitable that things would change. He made the basketball team, coming over to your house with his jersey in hand. Jumping up and down, swearing you needed to join the Cheerleading team. You smacked him upside the head for even entertaining the idea. He made fun of you for joining the library club, a realization coming over you two that your High School experiences were heading into different directions. You promised to go to each of his games, and he said he would read one book a year for you. A compromise of sorts.
At his first basketball game, Trina Robbins kissed him courtside, her pom poms shaking wildly at her sides. It was the first time you saw him as a man, not just the little boy who’d help you catch fireflies in the backyard. You ran to him after the game, arms slinging around his shoulders in congratulations. He spun you around, his joyful laugh ringing in your ears.
“I’m so proud of you!” You gawked, his arms still wrapped around you. It wasn’t until you heard a loud cough from behind you. Trina and her friends were standing behind you, evil smirks on their faces.
“Y/n! This is my girlfriend Trina.” He smiled widely, his arm leaving your body quickly. He walked over to her, his arm slinging across her shoulders. “Babe, this is my friend I grew up with.”
Her perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched, “Oh? Steve didn’t mention you.”
You hoped the sound of the rowdy gymnasium covered the sound of your heart shattering. He didn’t even tell you he had a crush, let alone a girlfriend. Then he didn’t mention you at all. You knew Steve, your Stevie, would never do this. You brushed it off, a hopeless, dumb teenage boy in love. It was fine.
You braved it with a smile, ignoring their judgmental glares that Steve seemed oblivious to. “Well, nice to meet you, Trina. You did great.”
“I know.” She smirked, pulling Steve away. “Come on, I want ice cream.” And he was dragging her out the door.
He turned back, waving at you. “I’ll see you around!”
You sent him a wave back, riding your bike home in pitiful silence. Absent was the sound of his bike pedaling next to yours, his incessant complaining about assignments and practice.
It was just a simple interaction, one you tried not to dwell on. But little did you know it would be the first crack in the glass. Your interaction with Steve at school was becoming little to none as the weeks passed. Trina was glued to his hip, and when she wasn’t, his mean older teammates were. You still saw him some weekends, helping him study for his English tests. Inevitably, doing the assignments for him. He was still the same Steve you knew and loved, but something was different.
He no longer reached for your hand as much as he used to, and there were no more hugs goodbye. You knew this would happen when the two of you started dating, but soon the phone calls stopped. The weekend hangouts in his parents' basement were replaced with him going to parties. He no longer rode with you to school, biking halfway across town to let Trina ride on his pegs. You passed each other in the hallways, soft smiles and waves were all you got for the majority of the year.
It was the week before Summer break, and you were excited. You and your friends had planned a slumber party, painting nails, hair rollers in, and the stereo in your room blaring your newest cassettes. Preparing your future Summer plans. Celebrating the end of finals, gossiping about going into your sophomore year. You were flipping through a magazine, ready to point out a pair of shoes, when there was a loud tapping at your window.
The girls jumped, eyes wide at the sight of none other than Steve. His arms were clinging to the ledge, tapping on the glass. It feels like it has been ages since you’ve spoken to him, let alone seeing him, ready to climb into your room.
“What the hell?” Imogen yelled, her hand cradling her chest.
You rolled your eyes, ripping open the window. “What are you doing?”
“I just wanted to-oh oh, hi ladies.” He paused, looking past you to wave flirtatiously at your friends.
Your fingers flicked his forehead, “Out with it.”
“Mom wants you over Sunday night for dinner. Said it’s been too long. Still thinks she loves you more than me. Also, just wanted to see you.” He cheesed, to which you pretended it didn’t make your heart pound.
“Okay. You could've called.”
“Can’t see your annoyed face through the phone.”
You glared at him, making him cower. “Okay, okay. See you Sunday!” Then he was off, his feet hitting the ground with a thud. You lay back down on the floor, content to skim through he magazine once again. Trying to calm the thud of your heart. But your friends were not letting it go.
“You have the Steve Harrington sneaking through your window?” Jessica gawked, running and watching where he ran back to his bike.
“He’s my best friend.” You laughed nervously, watching her and Imogen stare at each other. An all-knowing look in their eyes. “He could’ve used the front door; he probably just wanted to show off.”
“Does that happen often?” Jessica asked, her line of questioning not done.
“Not as much as it used it. Sometimes I’ll go to his, but I’ll use the front door like a normal person. “ You shrugged mindlessly, “His bed is comfier anyway.”
What you thought was an innocent moment turned out to be anything but. When you walked into school the last day, you were met with too many eyes on you. From the moment you walked to your locker, the whispers were evident. Your palms were sweaty as you stumbled, unlocking the combination lock.
“Y/n.” Imogen rushed towards you, out of breath from seemingly running to you. “I’m so sorry. I told Jessica not to say anything, but she really wants to be on the cheer squad next year-”
“What?” You sputtered, “Say what?”
Before Imogen could spit it out, the school doors slammed open. Everyone’s eyes are on you. There stood Trina, complete with her group of friends. Her face was red, anger evident. You had zero idea what was happening, assuming Steve broke her heart and she was coming to take it out on you.
“Hey, you whore.” Trina spat, getting in your face within seconds. Your back pressed against your lock, eyebrows raised. Imogen had run off, muttering something about being back. You were left alone, nothing but a pissed off squad of cheerleaders at your neck, with half the school watching. You felt like you were in a bad 70s movie, living out your worst nightmare.
“What’s your fucking problem?” You asked, fingers clutching your stack of books like your life depended on it.
“I knew from the moment Steve introduced us that you’d be a problem. With your pathetic “poor me” face. You just couldn’t accept that he wanted me, huh?” She spoke, your mind still reeling.
“I literally have no clue what you’re talking about.” You tried to push past her, her friends pushing you back roughly into the lockers. Your books going flying from your hands.
“We’re talking about you fucking my boyfriend.” She spoke slowly, “I heard that you guys crawl into each other's windows and you spread your legs for him.”
Jessica. That fucking bitch Jessica. Your heart ached; you thought she was your friend. She knew nothing was happening between you two.
“I never fucked Steve.” A blush crept up your neck at your words, “He’s just my best friend. I’ve known him since I was in diapers.”
“Bullshit. You can lie to me, but she saw him literally hanging from your window.”
You didn’t know where the bravery came from, clinging to your pride as much as you could. “You know, Trina, I know no one ever wants to be around you unless you’re putting out, but there’s this thing called friends-”
Her hand backhanded your cheek before you could finish, the sting making your eyes water. On instinct, you raised your hand back, unable to get anything in before one of her friends kicked you in the shin. The other’s joining in. Pain bloomed through your body as you fought back, getting outnumbered within seconds. It was a blur; in seconds, they were on you, only stopping when they heard a yell down the hallway.
Imogen was running back, Steve in tow. He was in his gym clothes, his eyes wild.
“Get the hell off her.” He barked, his arm coming up to pull Trina’s shoulder back. “What the hell is your problem?”
Her other friends scattered, leaving you slumped on your feet. Arm cradling your stomach, which was bound to be covered in bruises. You couldn’t meet his eyes, but you felt his worried gaze on you.
“What’s my problem? My problem is you. Cheating on me with this loser?” She screamed, getting the attention of teachers who slowly poured into the hall.
“Y/n? Nothing happened. God, she’s like my sister.” It wasn’t the first time the comparison had been made, but it was the first time Steve had said it. He didn’t like the way the words shaped in his mouth, his throat going dry before he spoke back up again. “Y/n is my best friend. I told you that.”
He pushed her aside, dropping to his knees to look over you. He cupped your chin, forcing you to look up at him. Unshed tears were heavy in your eyes, blinking them away when he checked you over for injuries.
“Are you okay?” He whispered, helping you stand upright. You didn’t answer, keeping your gaze on the floor. Willing yourself to wake up from this nightmare.
“Steve, I’m sorry.” Trina whimpered, watching her social status flash before her eyes. Steve pushed you behind his back, his eyes wild with fury, while looking at her.
“You know what, Trina. I don’t think you have the right to call anyone a whore, considering you put out on our first date.” Steve’s words were cruel, an ice to them you’ve never heard before. “You can go to hell. If you ever come near her again, you or your bitchy friends. I will ruin your life. Understood?”
He was met with silence, tears falling down her cheeks. Little did Hawkins know this was the start of the infamous King Steve.
“Matter of fact, if anyone has issues with her, they come to me.” He yelled, right before the teachers swarmed in, grabbing Trina by the arm.
Steve held your hand in silence to the nurse’s office, his eyes squeezing shut when you showed the nurse your reddened skin.
“It’ll probably bruise, nothing bad enough to go to the hospital for.” She said, snapping her gloves off. “I’m gonna have the office call your parents up here.”
All you could do was nod, picking at the skin around your nails harshly.
“Y/n…” Steve whispered, his hand finding yours. You let him lace your fingers together tightly. It had been so long since you held his hand, but it still fit perfectly in yours. “I’m so sorry.”
You shook your head, “S’my fault. I made a joke to Jessica about how your bed is comfier than mine. I didn’t think she’d take it wrong, definitely didn’t think she’d tell half the school about it.”
“No, no. It’s not your fault. I haven’t been the best of a friend lately.” He admitted, letting his thumb rub over the top of your hand. “Can’t believe I let a stupid girl get in between us.”
His pained laugh made you roll your eyes, “Don’t care if you get a girlfriend, Stevie. Just want you to still talk to me.”
“I promise. God, I promise it’ll never happen again.” He laughed shakily, pressing soft kisses to your hand.
Things had still changed, changed so much sometimes it seemed like you were lifetimes apart from the two kids that sat hand in hand on that trampoline. But you’d accept any change, as long as he was still in your life. Without him, there was a hole in the shape of him, lodged in the middle of your chest. You felt the hole close, each moment Steve grinned at you. Promising to take you out for ice cream as soon as your parents show up.
Sophomore year rolled by so quickly, you wished you could have grabbed time, and begged her to slow down. Steve had grown a new reputation in school. King Steve, they called him, claiming him the royalty of Hawkins High. Little did they know the king of Hawkins made you blow-dry and hairspray his hair every morning. His girlfriends, or trysts as you liked to call them, all knew you. Whispers of the Trina incident followed every relationship of his; he just smiled and told them you’d always be more important than them. They either accepted it or they didn’t.
Dating for you didn’t come nearly as easily; most of the boys at school were so scared of Steve they steered clear of you with a ten-foot pole. It only got worse when he began hanging out with Carol and Tommy G. You hated them, despised how they fed into Steve’s ever-growing ego. They were kind to you, most of the time. It was clear they tolerated you only.
Every time Steve would grab you by the shoulders, pulling you into a hug in the hall, they’d groan.
“Gotta hug my girl.” He’d shrug, kissing your forehead goodbye before going off to class. Imogen would just roll her eyes, swearing up and down that the two of you just needed to start dating. You’d cringe, shaking her off. He was just your best friend you’d tell her. When she’d swear her and her best friend didn’t act like that, all you could do was shrug. “That’s just me and Steve.”
You didn’t have your first official boyfriend until the summer before Junior year, and Steve hated him. Hated him for reasons you were still unclear about. He was on the debate team, the most innocent, nerdiest of boys who had captured your heart. So when he broke your heart three weeks into the year, Steve had held you in his arms as you sobbed, brushing your hair down, swearing he’d kill him.
“I really will, I promise. I’ll use the beamer. Catch him on a foggy night and just boom,” Steve spoke, making your chest rattle with laughter. “Blood and guts everywhere.”
“It would ruin your nice and shiny car.” You pouted through your tears. For his 16th birthday, Steve’s dad had presented him with the infamous burgundy BMW. He’d almost spun the tires out pulling into your driveway. That night, the two of you went through a whole tank of gas, driving everywhere around town. You couldn’t imagine your ex-boyfriend's murder ruining that car.
“Would be worth it to see you smile.” He said, watching your puffy cheeks as you sat up.
“He was such a dickhead.” You frowned, rubbing your tired eyes. “I really thought what we had over the summer was good. Then he sees Rebecca in chemistry and thinks she’d be a better lay than me.”
Steve’s brows furrowed, “Did he say that?”
“It was implied.” You grumbled, fumbling with a loose thread from his shirt. “Can’t believe I lost my virginity to someone who asked if he was going to put it in the wrong hole.”
A loud laugh tore from his chest, “Wait, what?”
“He wanted to make sure, and I quote: “Is it in your vagina or your pee hole?” You burst out laughing, rubbing your face.
The two of you laughed until your chests hurt, Steve going on and on. “Dude, poor fucking Rebecca,”
“Poor Rebecca.” You wheezed, taking a deep breath in. It was good to laugh. It was good to be in Steve’s arms, the two of you lazily lounging in his bed.
“Hey,” Steve spoke up, “Do you wanna order pizza and disgrace his yearbook picture?”
You scoffed, “I’m offended you’d even ask Stevie.”
The two of you did just that, you ended up falling asleep on his bed. The two of you waking up in a tangled mess of arms. His body pressed against yours. In an awkward shuffle, you pulled away, and he nearly flung off the bed. Stuttering that he had to go to the bathroom, the door slammed shut. All you could do was laugh.
He drove you to school that morning, and you walked alongside. When you passed by Nancy Wheeler and her friend, Barb, Steve paused, sending a flirty wave her way. Your eyes squinted, waiting to speak until you got to his locker.
“Nancy Wheeler, huh?” You asked, ignoring the blush creeping up on his face.
“We’ve just been talking a little.” He admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. You hadn’t seen him this flustered before. Not over a girl. You ignored the weird sinking feeling in your stomach, smiling teasingly at him.
“Oh, so someone has a crush.” You sang, making him shush you. Looking around, like everyone would hear.
“Just because my love life failed this year doesn't mean yours has to; ask her out.” You encouraged him, closing his locker for him.
He gave you a sympathetic look, patting your cheek gently. “Just because that loser broke your heart doesn't mean you can’t try again. Now I don’t think any men in this town deserve you, but I do want you happy.”
You nodded against his hand, mourning the loss of warmth when he pulled away.
“Go get him, tiger.” You smirked, watching him run down the hallway.
It was no surprise you were once again regretting your words a few weeks later, doing your best to avoid where Steve had his tongue shoved down Nancy’s throat in the middle of the hallway.
“They’re disgusting.” Barb had spoken; you didn’t know the girl well, but as Nancy joined your orbit, she had followed.
“Sometimes I wonder if she ever gets tired of him slobbering all over her face.” You said, causing Barb to giggle.
“Hey, you and Sam aren’t much better. Staring longingly at each other in homeroom.” She teased, making you roll your eyes. Sam was your friend, just a friend. There had been a few moments you thought something more could bloom between the two of you, but you shrugged it off. Unsure if you wanted to deal with another inescapable heartbreak.
“Y/n! Barb.” Nancy stuttered, just now realising the two of you were standing next to her. Her face was flustered, and Steve stood there unbothered as usual. “What are you talking about?”
“How Y/n needs to woman up and ask Sam out,” Barb said.
“No, don’t ever ask a man out. That’s the man's job.” Steve shook his head, pulling Nancy to his chest.
“I think if she wants to ask him out, that’s fine. Cute even. I have art with Sam, he’s really sweet.” Nancy smiled, staring nervously at you. You were friendly with Nancy, but the two of you didn’t have much in common, it felt like sometimes. Steve went on and on about how Nancy thought you hated her.
“I’m not asking anyone out, but thank you, Nancy.” You sighed, your head hitting the locker. “I’m just gonna die alone.”
“Little Y/n not able to get laid?” Tommy’s shrill voice ruined the moment the four of you were having.
“That’s not what your dad said last night.” You squinted your eyes at him, Carol responding with a sarcastic laugh.
“You kiss Steve’s ass with that mouth?” He asked, making Nancy tense. You didn’t miss it, Steve did.
“He has this running joke that I feed Steve’s ego blindly, that’s why we’re friends. Tommy finds friendship as this impossible-to-grasp concept. One could only wonder why.” You told her with a smile, “He also thinks he’s much funnier than he actually is.”
“Hey, cut it out. God, you two fight like animals.” Steve sighed, “While we’re all here. My house. Tonight. Parents are gone.”
“It’s Tuesday.” You deadpanned, not ready to get roped into another one of the Harringtons' infamous get-togethers.
“It’s Tuesday.” Tommy mocked, grunting when Steve elbowed him in the stomach.
“A party?” Nancy asked, her innocent face looking up at Steve.
“Ding, ding!” Carol laughed, making you roll your eyes.
While they broke into conversation about the party, your eyes followed Nancy’s. Watching Jonathan Byers tacking up missing posters for his brother.
“Oh, God, that’s depressing.” Carol snickered, and Barb walked away before the conversation got worse. You didn’t blame her; every time the couple spoke, it made your skin crawl.
“Should we say something?” Nancy asked, eyes full of empathy. You knew her little brother was friends with his.
“I don’t think he speaks.”
“How much you want to bet he killed him?” Tommy laughed, your head turning to meet Steve's.
You scoffed, “Your friends are fucking assholes. You know that?” And with that, you stormed off, determined to find Sam. You were going to ask him out; you deserved your own happiness. Your own life outside of Steve’s little bubble.
-
Your fingers twirled in the phone cord, “Y/n, please. Tommy said he’s sorry. Please just come.” Steve begged through the phone. You could hear them snickering in the background. He wanted you at this stupid party; he cleaned his pool out and everything. Even got your favorite wine coolers.
“I’m with Sam.” You blurted out, The man you spoke of caught your eye. He was sitting on your bed cross-legged, shirt askew. Maybe you did decide to ask him out and sneak him in through your window.
“So bring him,” Steve said after a brief pause. “Barb is here. If she’s here, there’s no reason you can’t be. Please.” The begging in his voice made your resolve crumble. Sucking you right back in.
About an hour later, you were stalking into Steve’s backyard, hand in hand with Sam. Sam was beautiful. Taller with shaggy hair, you couldn’t help but immediately notice how different he looked from Steve. Wondering why your brain forced you to compare the two. There was no time to dwell on that.
You introduced him to everyone, making sure to flip Tommy the bird while doing so.
“Steve. I heard a lot about you, man.” Sam spoke, holding his hand out for Steve to shake. It took Steve a moment to shake his hand. Probably gripping harder than he needed to.
Once that was out of the way, you all found a good rhythm, chatting and drinking cheap beers. You're sipping on your strawberry wine coolers, Carol cringing with each sip of beer.
“No fair, why did she get nice drinks?” She whined.
“Because she doesn’t drink beer. They’re her favorite.” Steve laughed, a billow of cigarette smoke falling out of his mouth.
You couldn’t help the smirk that graced your lips, leaning back into Sam’s chest. As much as they loved King Steve, none of them knew him the way you did. He knew you like it was the easiest thing in the world, while Tommy and Carol barely scratched the surface. They knew it too. Nancy was different; you knew she really cared for Steve. You just worried he’d break her heart; you warned him if he did, he’d never hear the end of it. She was different from the other girls.
“It’s different this time, Y/n.” He swore, flicking his pencil on the library table.
“What, like you love her?” You asked.
He paused, thinking for a moment. “I think so. Not as much as I love you, and not in the same way. “ He hummed.
“Aww, wait, so you’re really falling in love with her?” You cooed, “What happened to King Steve?”
“Oh shut up.” He grumbled, right before the two of you were shushed by library goers.
When your brain came back into focus, they were shotgunning beers, your eyes rolling at the dick measuring contest Steve and Tommy were perpetually in. You looked back at Barb, forcing her to join you and Sam’s little group.
“When they’re around women, they turn into animals. Everything is a contest.” You said, making the first smile appear on her face this night.
“Sam, you don’t wanna join?” She asked, making his chest rumble in laughter.
“I don’t think I need to chug a beer to impress Y/n. She’d probably call me a meathead.”
“You know me so well.” You smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.
A large splash made you gasp, watching Carol come up from the pool. Tommy was standing there with a smirk on his face.
“What the hell, Tommy?” She shrieked, him jumping in beside her. It was then Steve’s turn to copy him, throwing Nancy and himself in the deep end.
“I broke my arm in this pool when I was 6. Don’t get any ideas.” You told Sam.
“So you’ve known Steve a while, huh?” He asked, watching the couples play about in the water.
“Since we were babies. We grew up together.”
“You guys couldn’t be more different.” He said it was an innocent comment. But it made you feel weird, frowning slightly.
“I guess I’m a little boring. A lot nicer to look at, though.”
“Disagree with the first part, but agree to the last.” He said, nuzzling his head in your neck.
“Hey, lovebirds,” Steve yelled, ruining the moment by splashing water at you two, “Get in.”
You shook your head, “I’m not ruining my shirt.”
“So take it off.” Tommy whistled. Carol smacking him upside the head.
“Didn’t know you wanted to see me shirtless that bad.” You teased back, Sam’s arm draping across your chest.
“I think everyone would enjoy the show, some more than others.” He whistled, Steve’s eyes shooting daggers into his skull.
“At least get in with us, Y/n,” Nancy spoke up, a smile on her face.
You turned to look at Sam, “I’ll get undressed if you do.” He teased.
“Fuck you all.” You grumbled, sitting up. You let Sam’s hands travel to the hem of your shirt, pulling it up over your head.
“Fold it, it’s cashmere.” You muttered to him, watching him place it gently in one of the chairs. Leaving out the part where it was a Christmas present from Steve’s parents.
Sam tugged his own shirt over his head, ignoring the hollers of the boys. You ignored the gazes, keeping your shorts on. Clad in those and a plain black bra. Thankful it at least wasn’t white today.
“Okay on-” You started, readying yourself for a countdown before you saw Sam running at you full force.
“Wait-no.” You squealed, being pushed into the pool. The cold water shocked your body, coming up with a shriek. “Fuck that’s cold.”
Sam’s hair was dripping all over his face, swimming over to hold you in his arms. You wrapped your legs around his waist, holding onto his shoulders for dear life.
“We should play a game,” Carol spoke up, a devilish grin on her face.
The group of you didn’t stay in the pool much longer after that, a few games of chicken before you were all shivering. There were only so many times you could push Carol into the water aggressively before someone got mad.
“I’m so cold.” Carol’s teeth were chattering while you wrapped the towel around yourself.
“I heard his mom’s room has a fireplace.” Tommy’s eyebrows waved suggestively at her.
“Gross, Steve, you’re gonna let them fuck in your parents' bed?” You groaned. Steve turned back, his eyes locking onto yours for what felt like the first time that night. This was while Nancy and Barb had a heated exchange, Barb storming off. You felt bad, making a mental note to bring her a muffin tomorrow morning in homeroom to apologize.
“Unless you and Sam want it first.” He said, making you cringe.
“We’re probably gonna head out.” You sighed, bidding them a goodnight.
“Hey man, thanks for inviting me,” Sam said to Steve, Steve responding with a tight-lipped smile. All you could do was squint at the man, watching him walk into the house.
“I guess we should head back.” You mumbled as soon as the two of you were alone, his hands resting on your hips.
“I guess,” He sighed playfully. “Or we could take advantage of his empty backyard.”
You gasped, “I’m not fucking you in my friend's yard.”
He shook his head, “I didn’t say all that.” He pulled you to one of the beach chairs, laying you down against the cold plastic.
Your heart was beating out of your chest, his lips pressed against yours hungrily. You kissed him back with fever, letting his tongue enter your open mouth. You gasped against him, feeling his hands cup your chest. Squeezing them before his hand trailed south, popping open the buttons of your soaked shorts.
“This okay?” He grumbled against your lips. You weren’t sure if it was the wine coolers or the warmth of his body against yours, but you nodded.
His hand slipped into your underwear easily, fingers finding the spot that had your back arching against the chair. Your eyes fluttered open when he hit that sweet spot inside you.
Your gaze accidentally landed on Steve’s window, the curtains open and wide. The warmth in your stomach grew as, watched his bare back ripple on the bed. There was no doubt what he and Nancy were doing. You looked away quickly, pressing your lips to Sam’s again. Pretending you didn’t just come around his fingers, looking at your best friend. You prayed he didn’t see it, the guilt radiating off of you. You shoved it down, focusing on his body against yours.
Little did any of you know that Johnathan Byers was in the woods just feet away, snapping photos of all of you.
-
Barb was absent from homeroom, and Sam swore to you that there was no reason to be worried. The roads were hard to navigate on Steve’s road, especially at night. It was more likely that she was too embarrassed or tired to come in. It still made a weird, nagging feeling bloom in your chest.
At lunch, you reluctantly joined the band of misfits again. Sam’s arm was lying against the back of your chair, Steve sitting across from you. Tommy was convinced he got frostbite from the pool, putting his disgusting foot on the lunch table, making you gag.
“Hey, Y/n.” You turned around, watching Nancy walk up to the table on a mission. “When you left, did you see Barb?”
You shook your head, Tommy cutting you off. “What?”
“Barbara. She’s not here today.” Nancy spoke, her patience running thin.
“I seriously have no idea who you’re talking about.” He shrugged.
“Come on, don’t be an ass, man. Did you...Did you see her leave last night or not?”
“No, she was gone when we left,” Tommy answered, Carol leaning over the table.
“Probably couldn’t stand listening to all that moaning.” She moaned, beginning to moan Steve’s name loudly. Tommy joined in mocking Nancy loudly.
Steve kicked him under the table, telling them to cut it out. You rolled your eyes, “I was worried this morning, but I think maybe she’s just skipping. We were out late last night.”
“Yeah,” Sam perked up, “She’s not usually a party goer, you know? Not used to running on a few hours of sleep.”
“Yeah, sure,” Nancy said with a tight lip.
After lunch, you were excited to finally go home, kissing Sam goodbye when he left for his art club. It was then that you saw Steve walking towards you in the hall, grabbing your arm harshly.
“Steve, what the fuck?” You asked, letting him angrily drag you into the parking lot with him. “What’s going on?” Carol, Tommy, and one of Carol’s friends, Nicole, followed along. Steve’s sights were on Jonathan Byers as he walked to his car.
“Steve, if you’re going to be an asshole to him, I’m not-” You were cut off by Carol, looking at you for the first time with genuine sympathy in her eyes.
“Y/n. Apparently, he was taking pictures of us last night.” She said, your eyes widening. Nicole simply nodded. You turned your head back to the disaster that was waiting to unfold.
“Hey, man,” Steve shouted, his voice wavering in anger. You don’t think he was this angry when Trina had you pinned against the lockers freshman year.
“What’s going on?” Jonathan stuttered, looking at all of you with wide eyes.
“Nicole here was, uh, telling us about your work.” He said Carol and Tommy agreed. Swearing, it sounded like the coolest art in the world.
“And we’d just love to take a look. You know, as... connoisseurs of art.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He lied, Tommy snatching his backpack off of him, tossing it over to Steve.
“Please, give me my bag.” He pleaded, Steve, ignoring him. Rifling through it to pull out a stack of photos. You leaned against his shoulder, watching him shuffle through the photos. Your heart fell into your stomach, seeing photos of you all getting out of the pool. Then Nancy upstairs, undressing in the window. Then his focus was on you, Sam’s hands down your pants. Your head tilted back in pleasure. Tears stung in your eyes, ripping the photos out of his hand.
“Let me see,” Tommy said, snatching a few from Steve’s hand. He and Carol taking turns looking through them. “Yeah, this isn’t creepy at all.
“I was looking for my brother.” He tried to defend himself, unable to look any of you in the eyes.
“No. No, this is called stalking.” Steve spoke, “Not only did you trespass, but you took perv photos of my best friend and my girlfriend. On my property. During private moments.”
Nancy took the perfect moment to walk up, her face concerned, watching the tears in your eyes. “What’s going on?”
“Here’s the starring lady.” Carol smirked, “One of them, anyway. I have to say Y/n, looks like he was rocking your world.”
You crushed the photos in your hand, shoving them frantically into your bag. Steve shot Carol a look that could kill, “Shut the fuck up for once, Carol.”
“This creep was spying on us last night,” She said, ignoring Steve’s outburst, handing Nancy a photo. “He was probably gonna save this one for later.”
Her expression matched yours, one of embarrassment and disgust.
“See, you can tell that he knows it was wrong, but…” Steve reached out to wipe Jonathan's sleeve, the boy flinching. “Man, that’s the thing about perverts... It’s hardwired into ’em. You know, they just can’t help themselves.”
You couldn’t watch this; the whole situation made your stomach turn.
“So…We’ll just have to take away his toy,” Steve said, grabbing the camera.
“Steve…” Nancy warned.
“No, please, not the camera,” he begged, watching Steve pretend to give it back. Your whole body cringed when Steve dropped the camera, the lenses shattering on the asphalt.
He stepped into Jonathan’s face again, pulling him by his collar. “If I find out you have pictures of her anywhere on that thing, it’ll be the last thing you see.” He spat, pushing him back roughly. Steve didn’t have to specify who he was referring to by the way he looked at you, before storming away.
You and Nancy were frozen, watching the ripped-up photos crumple to the ground.
“He shouldn’t have done that,” Nancy spoke quietly, eyes on the broken camera.
“Please don’t make me verbally agree with Carol and Tommy.” You begged, “He wasn’t just creeping on you. There are pictures of me on there, too.”
“Yeah, almost seems like Steve’s more upset about those than mine.” She mumbled under her breath.
“What do you mean by that?” You stopped her, grabbing her arm.
She jerked it away, snatching up the rest of the pictures. “Nothing. Just nothing, Y/n.”
You were left standing there, dumbfounded. You looked back between Jonathan and the remains of his camera.
“I hope you find your brother.” You managed out, walking back towards the group. Steve’s arm wraps around your wrist, pulling you to him.
“You still going to the game?” He asked, his skin still warm from frustration. You shook your head no, pulling away from his grasp.
“I’m just gonna head home.”
He looked down at you, concern lacing his features. “Call you later?”
All you could do was give him a weak smile. He paused, holding out his pinky. You stared at his finger; you hadn’t done a pinky promise with him in years. You laced yours with his, “Promise.”
You avoided Nancy’s stares when you walked away, holding your hand close to your chest.
-
They found Barbara’s car in a ditch a mile from Steve’s house, 3 days later. In a ditch you passed on the way home that night, unknowing that her body was pinned inside the vehicle for days.
A week later, they found Will Byers alive in the woods, malnourished and traumatized, but alive. You were thankful there was at least one positive to the recent events in Hawkins. Nancy was in hysterics at Barb’s funeral, and Sam held you through the guilt. The two of you eventually made it official. Dating him was easier than it had been before, almost too easy. Sometimes it felt like you were putting on a show, living your life as you were taught you were supposed to.
Time passed, as it often did. Senior year was full of jobs and college applications, and getting swept up in talk of the future. Despite your insistence on Steve studying and you doing half of his English assignments, his grades weren’t good. You held his hand, swore to him it would all be fine. But you knew his dad, and you knew the type of son his dad wanted him to be. Somehow, Halloween had crept up on you; flyers to Tina’s party floated around the halls.
Despite Steve’s incessant begging to get you to join the pair, Sam was out of town visiting family, and you weren’t interested in third wheeling. Nancy had already been distant with you ever since the Jonathan incident; the last thing you wanted to do was make it worse. Late that night, you stayed in bed, only being roused by your phone ringing. You tried to ignore it, but the caller was only calling again. You rolled over, angrily gripping the phone off the hook.
“Hello?” You barked.
“Y/n..” Steve’s faraway voice came in through the phone.
“Steve?” You questioned, confused as to what number he was calling you from.
“Y/n. I need a ride. Nancy left me.” He mumbled.
Your eyes nearly bugged out of your head at his words, jumping up to slip on some clothes.
“You at Tina’s?” He responded with a mumbled yes.
“I’ll be there in 15. Please do not go anywhere.” You made him promise, not holding drunk Steve to anything. You sped there, parting drunken bodies to find Steve. Sunglasses still perched on top of his head, his eyes hazy.
“Guys, it’s my best friend.” He laughed, flinging his body onto yours. You pushed him off with a grunt, grabbing him by the arm. Dragging him out into the yard. Using all your strength as he kept going, deadweight on his feet.
This wasn’t the first time you had to pick a drunk Steve up from somewhere, but this was the worst.
“Bullshit.” Steve slurred, his body slumping more in your hold.
“What?” You were exasperated at this point, just barely able to toss his body into your passenger seat.
“Bullshit. Nancy said it was all Bullshit. Didn’t love me.” He whined, his face pained with each word.
Your brows furrowed, “Nancy loves you.” That was all you could manage to say, reaching over him to buckle him in.
“No, no, she doesn’t.” He whined by the time you started the car, driving him slowly to his house. You only had to pull over once for him to throw up, thankful he didn’t ruin your floorboards.
Getting him up into his room was easy, seeing as he threw up a portion of the alcohol in his system.
“Come on, Joel Goodson, let’s get you to bed.” You sighed, taking the sunglasses off of him despite his protests. He took his own shirt off, not bothering with his pants, as he curled up in the bed. You watched his eyes flutter closed, his chest rising and falling. He looked peaceful, the frown lines he had earlier melting away. You moved the blanket over him, ready to leave before he stopped you.
“Please don’t leave me.” He whimpered, not even opening his eyes.
Your heart splintered open in your chest, crawling into bed with him. He nuzzled into your side, probably going to drool all over your sweater. That was fine, as long as he got some sleep.
“Thank you,” He mumbled, “M’loving me. Wish it was you.”
“What?” You asked, your heart falling into your stomach. The only response you got was his gentle snores. You didn’t get any sleep that night, content to lie on your back. Brushing your hands through his hair, staring at the ceiling, wondering what he meant. Or if he’d even remember.
That wasn’t something you had the time for, deciding to push it into the back of your mind.
Safe to say he didn’t when you woke up to him throwing up in his side table trash can, making you cringe. You did what you did best, taking care of him. He told you the story of what happened between him and Nancy, not liking your response.
“I don’t think she deserves you, Stevie.”
“Come on-”
“I mean it, I know she’s going through a lot, but you didn’t kill Barb. It was an accident.”
He was quiet for a moment, hesitant to say the rest of the story. “She also thinks I’m in love with you.”
The mood in the room shifted, the tension thick. “W-what? Why would she think that?” You stuttered out.
He shrugged, not meeting your eyes. “I didn’t defend her honor enough with Jonathan, which is funny considering she forgave him.”
“She forgave him?” You scowled, trying to do your best to forget that night ever happened. The pictures were burnt in your fireplace, alongside photos of you and your ex.
“Told her she wasn’t allowed to do that since he took pictures of you, too. She didn’t like that.”
“What a bitch.” You mumbled, grabbing his hand in yours.
“Dating is hard.” He gave you a sad smile, to which you nodded. “How are you and Sam?”
You shrugged, “Fine. I think it's a little too fine. Sometimes I feel bad that he’s too sweet, too forgiving, too- I don’t know, is it mean to say boring?”
“He does seem a little lame,” He teased, you hitting his chest playfully. He winced, holding his head, “I might throw up, don’t do that.”
“He’s not lame. I just think something is wrong with me. Sometimes it feels like I can’t love him like I’m supposed to. Like I'm broken.” You admitted, watching his eyes soften at your admission.
“I think you love me just right.” His words were quiet, heavier than before. “You’re not broken, Y/n.”
“You don’t make it easy.” You joked, unraveling your hands. Maybe one day you’d explain to him that loving him was the easiest thing in the world, because you never had to think twice. From the moment you were born, there was an invisible thread tying you to him. Instead, you pushed it down, slapping his chest playfully.
“Especially when you smell like an expired liquor store.”
“Hey!” He whined.
It was all fine, everything was fine. He went to shower, and you went home. He was going to buy Nancy flowers, and you were going to wait by the phone, waiting for Sam to call. So why did it feel so wrong?
-
You got a call from Steve the next afternoon, asking if you’d come over. You obliged, only to be godsmacked by his bruised and bloodied face.
“Oh my god? What the fuck?” You asked, rushing inside the door.
“Am I an asshole?” He asked, ignoring your concerns.
“What?” You muttered, dragging him into the bathroom. You immediately grabbed the first aid kit, ready to wipe his face with an alcohol pad. He stopped you, grabbing your wrist loosely.
“Am I an asshole?” He repeated, his dark brown eyes heavy with sadness.
“I mean, sure sometimes,” You’d never lie to him, “But you aren’t an asshole, you can just act like one.”
“I did something really stupid.” He admitted.
“Oh, really? I can’t tell.” You snarked, pressing the pad to his face. Making him wince in pain while you cleaned off the dried blood. “Let me guess, Nancy.” Her name tasted bitter on your tongue.
He cocked his head to the side, “You don’t like her?”
“I’m starting not to Stevie.” You admitted, bandaging the cut under his eyes closed.
“Went to apologize to her with flowers for the other night, Jonathan Byers was in her bed. Tommy and Carol convinced me to spraypaint some bullshit at the theatre about her being a slut, he kicked my ass.” You took a moment to soak in his story, finishing with one last pink bandage.
“Well, I guess you deserved a small ass kicking, but not this bad.” You winced. “Am I allowed to beat her ass?”
“Y/n..”
You threw your hands up, “Sorry, sorry!”
In the silence, you cleaned up the bloodied paper, washing your hands in the sink. He stayed still, his brows furrowed in thought. A frown line forming into the crease of his forehead, you wanted nothing more than to rub your thumb over it. Releasing all the tension from him.
“Penny for your thoughts?” You asked, placing your hand next to his on the counter. Propping yourself up next to him, your arms brushing.
“Do you ever think about it?”
“Bout what?” You asked, oblivious to what thoughts were rolling around in that head of his.
“How much easier it would be if we were in love.”
Who would have thought 11 words would tilt your world on its axis? You must have been silent for longer than you thought. Steve speaking up again, “I mean, imagine how easy it would be. We’re already basically a couple anyway. Imagine if we were in love.” There was a subtle hopefulness in his voice; you told yourself you were reading into things.
“Yeah. Imagine.” Your voice felt foreign to you.
The silence was thick again, Steve’s eyes heavy on you.
“Penny for your thoughts?” He copied you, his arm rubbing against yours, intentionally this time. Like he needed your touch to ground himself with each word he spoke. The sensation makes chills go up your spine.
“I think,” You cleared your throat, “That you just got hit in the head a lot. You need ice.”
If Steve was going to speak, you didn’t hear, too busy gliding out of the bathroom into the kitchen. Your hands shaking with adrenaline as you get him an ice pack ready.
“Y-yeah.” He laughed, “Probably have brain damage or something.”
With your doctoring, you gave Steve a clean bill of health, leaving him with instructions to ice and call you if his head hurt any worse. The entire drive home, all you could think about was Sam.
Sam made you feel steady, like you were safe on the shore. Feet planted in the sand, a war, breeze flowing through the air. Why wasn’t it enough? Why didn’t it make you feel alive?
-
Adulthood snuck up on you, graduation coming and going. You were ashamed to admit you were relieved he and Nancy were finally done. He seemed sad, but lighter. You had Dustin to thank for that, the kid he semi-adopted, despite him claiming he didn’t. The kid adored him. When he went off to summer camp, Steve nearly shed a tear, swearing you to secrecy that you’d never tell him that. He’d never live it down.
When the mall opened up, it was the perfect opportunity for ‘real world experience’ as Steve’s father called it. Scoops Ahoy had hired him on the spot, complete with the cutest little outfit to go with it. You found a simpler, less embarrassing job at a bookstore at the end of the hall. The two of you were still able to spend too much time with each other.
His co-worker Robin became your best friend, much to Steve’s chagrin. If he thought you were picking on him, each time the two of you were together, it was Steve’s own personal level of hell.
Today’s topic of discussion was his horrible flirting skills. Being back on the market had made him rusty, fumbling around every single girl that walked in. Robin’s ‘You Suck’ board had made you cry out of laughter when she showed you.
“Ladies, 3 o’clock,” Robin whispered, pulling your head down behind the window. The two of you are ready to spy on him.
“Ahoy, ladies! Didn't see you there. Would you guys like to set sail on this ocean of flavor with me? I'll be your captain. I'm Steve Harrington.” He spoke, too high a volume for the quiet store. The girls cringed with each word.
“Oh my god, he’s hopeless.” Robin sighed.
You couldn’t help but agree, “It’s like a car crash. I can’t stop watching.”
He stumbled his way through offering ice cream samples, the girls taking their scoops awkwardly and leaving in a fit of giggles. Steve closed his eyes, “I don’t wanna hear it.”
“Oh, you’re gonna hear it.”
-
Steve’s freckled shoulders were underneath your hands, your fingers digging into his muscle.
“God, you feel so good.” His voice was raspy, the moan coming deep from his chest. He was deep inside you, his hips rutting frantically against your own. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed in the room. The headboard slapping the wall.
“Steve, Steve.” You moaned his name like a broken record, his lips nipping at your neck. His name fit perfectly on your tongue.
“There you go, honey, you gonna cum around me?” He asked, looking down at you. Your eyes meet his as you..
You woke up in a hot sweat, fingers twisting in the sheets. There was a thin layer of sweat covering your body, chest rising and falling. Sam lay next to you, as still as a board. You let out a shaky breath, the throbbing between your legs reminding you of what you just experienced. Slipping out of bed silently was easy, grabbing a glass of water with shaky hands. The fantasies your mind conjured up played like a highlight reel as you stared into the dark room.
“What the fuck.” You breathed, laying your head down on the cool counter. Hoping the granite would quell the fire blooming through your body.
Steve’s words from last fall echoed in your mind.
“Have you ever thought about us?”
You felt queasy, content to head back upstairs. Crawling into bed with Sam as if nothing had happened. It was fine; you can’t control your dreams. There’s no such thing as bad thoughts, only actions. And nothing had happened, nothing will happen.
-
The dream was haunting your every move, every time Sam tried to initiate anything, his face blurred with Steve’s. It’s like you were cursed. You began to see Steve in everything. Every place around Hawkins you frequented, memories lingered on all of your clothes. You couldn’t escape him, and a sick, cruel part of you didn’t want to.
“You okay?” Sam asked, his hand still steady on your hips. Sam. He was kissing you; he wanted you. You blinked away the faraway look in your eyes, nodding weakly.
“Just got distracted.”
You refused to be haunted by make-believe, bringing Sam down to your level. Kissing him hard. Fingers pressed into his shoulders. Your brain continued terrorizing you, flashing you images of your dream. Before you realised it, you were mirroring the exact position. You moaned and twisted your body every which way, fighting for that feeling. When he slipped inside, all you could think about was Steve. Would he touch you like this?
“Is that good?” Sam interrupted your thinking, noticing how quiet you had been. His hips slowing down. Catching onto your wood behavior.
“Y-yeah.” You lied, smiling up at him. “Maybe just a little harder?”
He obliged, the headboard creaking against the wall. Your eyes fluttered shut again, letting yourself indulge. Just for a moment. You told yourself it was to test your theory, but you knew what it was. It was the carnal urge to let yourself crave him. Just once, to let your mind wander into the feelings you’ve pushed so far back in your mind.
You thought about his plump lips, the way his hair falls on his forehead after basketball practice, the swell of his biceps, and the happy trail you see when he stretches. Steve. All you could think about was Steve, every neuron in your body lighting up at the mere thought of him.
“You like that?” Sam asked, watching your back arch.
All you could do was nod, watching a highlight reel behind your eyelids. You imagined what his body would feel like against yours, heavy and slick with sweat. How he’d feel pressed inside you. How attentive he would be. You couldn’t take it, your legs shaking around his hips.
“Stev-Sam.” You stuttered, covering it up with an obnoxious moan. Pushing it down, pushing down every single thought of him that made you feel alive. Your eyes stayed shut when he came, scared your eyes would tell him everything.
“God baby, you really liked that, huh?” He yawned, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
That night, you cried in the shower, scrubbing every inch of your body raw. Doing everything you could to feel clean, the sin and disgust clinging to your skin like a bad perfume.
-
The next day at work, your hands were shaky. You were spacy, constantly zoning in and out. The mall patrons only occupied you when they had questions. Working at a bookstore was the ideal place for peace and quiet, but now it felt like your own personal hell. Trapped in these walls.
When the clock hit noon, you were running through the mall, nearly knocking down entire families in your path.
The familiar Scoops Ahoy sign made you sigh. Steve would be on break right now. At least you didn’t have to face him. Your body collided with another, his cologne alerting you to his presence before he did.
“Where’s the fire?” Steve laughed, his hands falling to your hips. That was normal, that was something that happened. But now it felt like the fire was inside of you, burning you from the inside out.
“Uh, I just need to see Robin. I’m out of girl things. Pads, tampons, you know.” You stuttered out a lie, trying not to watch the way his lips parted when he spoke.
“I have some in my car for you, you know.” He started, you cutting him off.
“Yes! Thank you. Can you go get them?” Your eyes were wide, your voice too loud, and he just squinted at you.
“Okay..I don’t remember your period making you this weird.” He grumbled, letting go of you. “I’ll be back. I can get you some chocolate from Bon Bon?”
“I’d love that.” Your face softened, feeling horrible for lying to him. As soon as his back disappeared amongst the crowd of people, you jumped over the counter, Robin’s scooper flying out of her hand.
“What the hell?” She asked, eyeing your disheveled appearance.
“Hey Robin.”
“Hey, Y/n.” She mocked your cadence.
“Can I tell you something, if you swear on your life to never mention it to another living soul?” Her face got serious, noticing your expression.
“Yes, of course.”
You took a deep breath, saying the next sentence so quickly that only someone like Robin would have been able to understand it. “I had a sex dream about Steve last night, and that’s never happened before, ever. I’ve never thought of him that way, maybe once or twice in passing as a curious teen, but never seriously, and now I can’t stop thinking about it.”
Her eyes were wide, your chest heaving from the speed at which you word vomited at her.
“A sex dream?” Her jaw was on the floor, “Steve? Your best friend since birth, Steve?”
You shushed her, spinning around the empty Scoops Ahoy like a woman on a mission.
“Yes.”
“I mean, I’ve had a sex dream about Smurfette once, so I wouldn’t think too much about it.” She offered, watching your still panicked face.
“Wait,” She paused, “What do you mean you can’t stop thinking about it?”
“I don’t wanna talk about it.” You grumbled, knowing Robin wasn’t going to let it go.
“Nope, you can’t drop a bombshell on me and not elaborate.”
You grabbed her arm, pulling her into the backroom. Watching through the window anxiously as if he was going to materialize at any moment.
“I just keep thinking about it. Like earlier, he was speaking, and all I could think about was that my dream lips had touched his dream lips. Then I couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to kiss him.” You rambled, “Then I look at him and feel guilty. Like I’m dirty and sinful because I can’t stop thinking about, dreaming about him naked. And inside of me-”
“Whoa! Too much information-” Robin cut you off.
You ignored her, “And he’s my best friend. My Stevie. So what do I do? I can’t even look him in the eyes anymore.”
“Do you like him?” She spoke slowly, like she was poking a frightened bear.
You stopped your anxious pacing, tears welling up in your eyes. You were so overwhelmed you could barely think, and you shook your head. “N-no?”
“Babes, you didn’t sound too confident there.”
“Can I tell you something else awful?” You whispered, there was never a filter between you and Robin. There probably never would be.
She nodded softly at you to speak.
“When Sam and I had sex the first time, I almost called him Steve. A-and I thought maybe I just you know? Two S names and all,” You laughed manically. “Then the dream, so I’m wondering if it’s always been subconscious. So when Sam and I had sex last night, I closed my eyes and imagined Steve. And I did it again.”
When it was off your chest, you felt lighter, albeit dizzy.
“And?” She added, her eyes wide.
“I was really sad to open my eyes and see Sam.” You cried, tears pouring down your cheeks now. “And Sam was like Wow, you’ve never been so into it before and I’m so awful. I’m such a bad person.”
Robin was the only person in the world you could trust to tell. You liked Sam, you really did. But you couldn’t feel a fraction of what you felt just thinking about Steve with him. You felt broken, stringing the man along because you couldn’t face the music.
“Honey.” Robin frowned, pulling your shaking frame into her arms. “I don’t think you’re a bad person. I just think you’re in love with Steve.”
You shook your head frantically, “I can’t be. Can’t. It’ll ruin everything.”
Robin’s lips tightened in a straight line, choosing her words carefully. The entire Summer Robin has had to endure similar conversations with Steve. How they still didn’t see it was beyond Robin. The entirety of Hawkins thought they had been dating for years.
“But there’s that chance he could feel the same way. You won’t know unless you try.”
You were saved by the door busting open. Steve’s arms are full of various bags. Pads, tampons, and various snacks. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted, just got one of everything. Robin, I got you some gummies-” He rambled, looking up to see the two of you embracing, tears pouring down your face.
He held out the bags to you nervously, “I’m sorry your vagina is bleeding.”
The moment the words left his mouth, you and Robin fell into each other laughing, Steve’s face going red.
“Women.” He muttered, tossing the bags onto the table with a thud.
-
Robin’s words sat heavily on your mind, but instead of listening to her sound advice, you ignored it. Ignored the horrible feeling in your gut and prayed it would go away after some time. Now you were walking up to Steve’s front door, Sam’s hand in yours.
The kids had conned him into hosting a movie night, complete with all the junk food you all could gather. You, Sam, Robin, and Steve were the designated chaperones. Although it’s not like they actually listened to anything any of you said. You were bombarded when you walked through the door, getting tugged in different directions by various kids. The girls wanted your advice on something, Dustin needed you to convince Steve to let them swim after dinner, and the rest of the boys were screeching about some game.
“Go ahead,” Sam had chuckled, “Love you.”
That was another new development. Sam had told you he loved you multiple times now. Each time you sent him a tight-lipped smile, no words escaped your mouth. It broke your heart that you couldn’t love him. You loved being loved by him, and you were selfish enough to drag him along.
“That was awkward,” Max muttered. You ignored it. Letting them drag you into the house.
After the kids had run you ragged, you found Steve in the kitchen setting up the multiple boxes of pizza.
“Remind me again why I signed up for this?” Steve sighed, gesturing to the gaggle of children currently destroying his living room.
“Because they were getting sick of the mall. It’s summer break.” You laughed, “And you are the one who designated yourself as the babysitter.”
He sighed, “Still..”
“And you love me?” You giggled, grabbing a stack of plates from the cabinet.
“That I do.” He said, his eyes meeting yours before they caught Sam’s hovering behind you.
“I love you. Love you enough to tell you that I’m not helping you clean this up tomorrow.”
Sam cleared his throat, and you whipped around. Startled by his presence.
“Hi-”
“Can we talk?” He cut you off, shooting Steve daggers behind your back.
“Okay?” You stuttered, taken off guard. Steve excused himself, patting your arm gently before he slid past you two. Leaving you both alone in his kitchen, Sam’s eyes dark on yours.
“What’s wrong?” You asked.
“Why do you let him do that?”
Your brows furrowed, “Let who do what?”
“Steve. You let him give you those pathetic puppy dog eyes.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh come on,” He laughed, the tension growing thick, “He glares at me like I’m going to attack him at any second, then he looks at you like a kicked dog. He touches you whenever he gets the chance. And you just let him.”
“Sam, it’s-” You stuttered, “It’s how we’ve always been.”
“Yeah, well, it’s getting sort of ridiculous, Y/n.” He scoffed, spinning around to head for the door.
You followed, ripping the door open behind him. “What is?”
“You!” He yelled, his hands waving in front of you. With all the commotion, you gave it a few minutes before Steve and Robin followed you outside. No doubt the kids had their ears pressed to the door. What an embarrassing disaster this night has turned into
“Sam-”
“Have you just been playing in my face for over a year?” He asked, his voice thick with emotion.
You shook your head quickly, tears welling in your eyes. “No, no Sam no. I would never.”
“So you love me?”
You went silent, your bottom lip wobbling.
“You can’t even fucking say it.” He spat. “That’s all I wanted from you, but you can’t even give me that.”
“Is this because I told Steve I love him?” You whimpered, willing the tears not to fall. “We’ve been telling each other we love each other since we could speak.”
He shook his head, “No. Something changed. Either you’re too blind to see it or-” He cut himself off, letting out a heartbroken laugh. The front door opens behind you. You knew who it was, without turning around. Steve would always come for you; he always has. What you’ve truly wanted has been right in front of you, and you never realized it until now.
“There’s your knight and shining armor.” Sam scoffed, rubbing his mouth with his hand.
“Y/n, are you okay?” Steve ignored Sam’s words, his soft voice speaking to you only. The voice he used before kissing your bandaids over scraped knees. The voice that got you through the darkest times. The same one that asked you that night, he asked if you’d ever thought about it.
“She’s fine. We’re talking, can we please have a moment?” Sam spoke when you didn’t, tears falling freely down your cheeks now.
“I wasn’t speaking to you,” Steve responded, his hands on his hips now.
Sam laughed, a cruel one. “I know you can’t fight Harrington, so don’t bother.”
“Stop.” You spoke weakly, turning around. “Steve, just give us a second.”
His eyes met yours, the two of you having a silent conversation with your eyes. He was ready to turn inside, but this only angered Sam further.
“Actually, no, Steve, you should stay.” Sam’s voice chilled you to your bones, your eyes snapping to his. Despite your protests, he continued. “We were just talking about how Y/n doesn’t love me. Apparently, you’re all she can think about.”
“Bullshit-”
“You’re dreaming about him, Y/n! You have repressed your feelings so far down that you don’t even realize how pathetic it is. God, it’s so fucking embarrassing being with you, watching the two of you dance around each other.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You cried, confused as to how he would even know about your dreams, your feelings.
“You say his name in your sleep. You say his name during sex.” He let out in a heartbreaking laugh, “You think I didn’t hear you? You think I don’t see that faraway look in your eyes? When you look disappointed to see me there?”
It was as if you could feel your world falling apart all around you; you wanted nothing more than the world to swallow you whole. Steve’s eyes were burning into the back of your head; you couldn’t face him. Not when Sam was laying it all out in the open, flaying your heart open right here for Steve to see.
“That doesn’t mean I never cared for you.” You sniffled, “Sam, I could love you, I could.”
“I wish I could believe that. I really do.” He sighed, shuffling his feet.
Steve stayed quiet, unsure of what to do. He was stuck against the door, his heart aching for you. Even for Sam.
“You know what the worst part of all of this was?” He laughed, tears filling his eyes, “I always knew this would be how it ended. You, running into his arms. Everyone warned me, but I loved you too much to listen.”
“I’m so sorry.” You blubbered, your arms wrapped around yourself. This was it; you couldn’t go back from this.
He shook his head, “No. Not really, you’re not..” Were his last words as he turned around, speeding off down the road in his truck
Everything you had ever known was dissipating in front of your eyes. All the plans you had made. That metaphorical box of feelings you had been cramming to the brim finally crumbled underneath its own weight. You were scared you were going to drown. The unknown picking up your body and dragging you to sea.
“Y/n..” There was that voice again, your forever anchor. You shook your head, wiping away your tears. You couldn’t face him, you couldn't do this.
“We gotta talk about it.” His voice was thick, “We gotta get it out.”
“I can’t.” You whimpered, hiding your face in your hands.
He stepped forward anyway, grabbing your wrists in his hands. Pulling them away to expose your tear-stained cheeks.
“It’s just me. It’s just me.” He reassured you, holding your face in his hands. He held you as if his whole world was resting upon his palms, because it was.
“That’s the problem.” You cried, eyes still squeezed shut. If you opened your eyes and saw him, it would all be real; the weight of this would crash on your shoulders. But you knew he’d be there to catch you.
He let you steady yourself, pressing his forehead to yours. Waiting for your frantic breaths to match his, your shaking hands gripped his jacket. Searching for a lifeline.
“All this time….” He cleared his throat. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Your eyes shot open at his words, his eyes glossy, full of a thousand unsaid words.
“I've spent so many years dancing around it. Pushing it down and just praying it would go away. If I thought about it too hard, if I let the idea cross my mind, it would never go away. So I couldn’t. Couldn’t lose you.” You cried.
“You’d never lose me. Look at me, Y/n Y/l/n.” He promised, forcing you to keep your eyes on him. He wasn't going to let you look away, not now.
“The love I have for you,” his voice cracking, “The love I have for you transcends every possible doubt you have in your mind. I look for you in every room, every time I need you, you are right there, you’ve always been right there. Through it all. If I could go back, I'd kick myself for letting you get away from me for so long, but it doesn’t matter. Because we’re right here. And I'm not going anywhere. However long it takes, whatever it takes. You’ve always been my girl.”
You nodded, “Pinky promise?” It came out as a pathetic whimper, tears slipping down Steve’s cheeks, matching your own.
“Yes,” He gave you a teary laugh, “Pinky promise.” His hand came up, his pinky finding yours. He leaned down, kissing your knuckles. Suddenly, you were both 13 again, the same Indiana sun beaming down on you two.
“I choose you and me, religiously. Through everything, everyone in my life. Not because I felt like I needed to, but because I wanted to. There was no one else, god, there was never anyone else I’ve loved as much as I love you.” He cried, his forehead pressing harshly into yours, “It’s always been us. You hear me?”
“Steve..”
“I love you, Y/n, you’re my best friend, and I am helplessly, unequivocally in love with you.”
“That’s a real big word for you.” You laughed through the tears, making him beam.
“It is a huge word for me, only I even know it because of you.” He sighed, “There are no words to explain just how much I love you.
“I think I’ve loved you my whole life.” You whispered, your noses brushing. “It’s the only thing that’s ever come easy to me.”
Steve’s smile could rival that of a thousand suns, his lips brushing yours. “Can I?” His voice was meek, unsure.
You didn’t even have a chance to nod, closing the gap between you. Your lips pressing softly to his. He kissed you like he was coming home, and you kissed him back as you needed him to survive. The two of you are drowning in the kiss, hands clenching each other tightly as if both of you would wake up from a dream.
When you pulled apart for air, his cheeks were flushed, his eyes dark. What a mess the two of you looked, tear-stained and blushing in the middle of his driveway.
“I love you.” You said, just to say it. Just because you could.
“And I love you.” He pressed a longing kiss to your forehead, pulling back to look at you.
“This has been so embarrassing. Can’t believe I ruined movie night.” You sniffled.
“Those kids are fine. Robins probably distracted them by now with some ridiculous scheme.” Steve said, kissing away the tears running down your face. You both had a lot to talk about, you needed time to think, and grieve. But the crushing weight of your feelings was finally off your shoulders, and Steve didn’t run away. He ran towards you, holding your hand just like he always had.
You were thankful for the kids who acted oblivious, throwing popcorn at you the moment you walked back in the door. Making you pay for having to listen to Robin monologue about Gremlins, before even pressing play on the tape.
Steve simply shrugged, pulling you down against him on the couch. His arms are around your chest. It wasn’t anything different from how he’d held you before, but it was also so different. New intentions, a new feeling sparking every time you two touched.
That night, neither of you was able to sleep, content to tiptoe over the sleeping children. Steve nearly slips on Mike’s blanket, making you have to cover your mouth to stop the laugh from slipping out. The sliding glass door creaked as you two descended into the night. Steve practically pulling you into his backyard like a man on a mission.
“What are you doing?” You giggled, watching the old trampoline come into view. Your heart ached; it must have been in his garage collecting dust.
“Made the kids pull it out.” He answered you before you even asked, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “Robin asked if we wanted candles and rose petals, but I told her this was perfect.”
“It is.” You whispered, your hands running over the rusted springs.
Steve helped hoist you up, the two of you plopping down on the worn-out plastic. Both of you bouncing into each other.
In a rushed fit of giggles, you pulled him down next to you, your head nuzzling into his chest. With his arm around your waist, he held you close. The stars were bright tonight, a rare, clear night this time of year.
“I never thought this would happen,” He admitted, “Always thought you were too good for me. That I’d never deserve you. I still don’t think I do.”
“I didn’t think you’d ever choose me. I mean, out of all the girls in Hawkin’s you’ve been with, and there’s been a lot,” You teased, “I didn’t think I had a shot in the dark.”
“Honey, you are my girl. Everyone knew.” He smiled, thinking back to all the times everyone said you two were practically dating anyway. Looking back, it was painfully obvious; the only oblivious ones were you two.
“Guess I just thought you were fulfilling some pinky promise we made as kids. Like out of some weird obligation to the weird girl who started following you around one day and never stopped.” You admitted sheepishly.
“That’s ridiculous, honey.” That was all he could say, humor lacing his words.
“I mean, looking back, it was kinda obvious,s huh?” You laughed, your mind giving you a highlight reel of the past few years. All the girlfriends of his you hated, the boyfriends of yours he wouldn’t even give a chance. Everyone’s whispers, both of your parents, calling it from a young age. It was always inevitably going to end here, no matter how bumpy the ride.
“Dude, our moms are gonna flip.”
“Ugh, they’ve probably already planned the tackiest wedding imaginable.” You groaned.
“You wanna marry me, honey?” He teased, poking your side.
“Shut up.” You grumbled, your cheeks warming.
“I think,” He said, eyes going back up to the stars, “I think I'd marry you right now if you said yes.”
“I’d say yes.” You admitted, “I’ve never been so sure about something my whole life.”
Suddenly, he was jolting up from the trampoline, leaving you bouncing in his absence.
“What are you doing?” You laughed, watching him stumble around in the dark, hands brushing through the grass. If you knew any better, you’d have thought he finally lost his mind.
“Wait, wait. No! Yes, fuck yes okay.” He muttered, ripping something out of the ground, running back up the trampoline. He was illuminated by the moonlight, his eyes sparkling as he looked up at you. He was on one knee, holding up a dandelion he’d folded into a ring.
“Are you proposing?” You laughed, unable to keep a straight face.
“Yes, not for real, but also kinda?” He chuckled nervously, “Will you, Y/n Y/l/n, take me, Steve Harrington’s hand in marriage? In probably about a year or so from now??”
“You are ridiculous.”
He tsked, “That’s not an answer.”
“What are my options?”
“Yes, and uh.. Oh yeah, yes.”
“God, lots of decisions to think over.”
You smiled down at him, holding out your left hand. “Steve Harrington, yes, I will marry you.”
“Fuck yeah.” He cheered, slipping the weed onto your finger. With the yellow flower against your skin, all you could think about was his bouquet of dandelions he brought you when you were a kid.
“Come here.” You whispered, dragging him back up with you. Your lips meet his. This kiss was different than the first; this was hot and heavy. Your mouth opened, letting his tongue explore. You straddled his hips, pinning him down as best you could while the two of you bounced with every movement.
“Baby.” He groaned, your lips trailing down the side of his neck.
“Hmm?” You hummed, your hand crawling under his shirt. Finally touching the rough patch of hair you dreamed about. His soft stomach underneath your palm.
“Don’t think there’s anyone in the woods with a camera, do you?” He asked, making you fall off of him in a fit of giggles.
“Oh, that’s fucked up.”
“Sorry, I had to.” He threw his hands up, “I mean, weirdly, he’s a cool guy. He and Nancy make a good couple.”
“I think we make a better couple.” You cheesed, pressing another kiss to his lips. Then another, and another. You’d never get sick of it.
“I agree.” He laughed in between kisses. “I also think we should take this upstairs.”
You met his hungry eyes, taking his hand in yours, letting him lead the way. This was one of those times you were thankful for Steve’s rich parents. His room was upstairs on the other end of the house from everyone else.
You had been in Steve’s rooms countless times, even slept in his bed more times than your own. But suddenly it was real; none of this was some dream you found yourself lost in. He was right here in front of you, his hands leading you to his bed.
“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” He spoke calmly, nerves radiating off of you. You looked up at him, the hunger in his eyes matching your own.
“I want this,” You whispered, “I want you.” With every fiber of being, this was all you wanted.
The rest was a blur, messy kisses, hushed moans, and trembling hands as clothes floated to the floor. He hesitated against your bra strap, staring deep into your eyes when the clasp came undone. Pulling it off your body as he was unwrapping a delicate vase.
“You,” His mouth went dry, his eyes still on yours. “Are the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.”
You were burning alive for him. His hands touched you gently, his thumbs rubbing over your peaked buds. With each gasp that left your lips, Steve watched, memorizing every single touch that left you reeling.
“This okay?” He whispered, his face leaning down into your ribcage.
“Yes, Please.”
This was all he needed, his lips trailing wet kisses down your sternum. His tongue flicked over the sensitive bud, flattening before he took it into his mouth, Sucking ever so softly, while his other hand gripped your other tit, massaging the flesh.
“Oh my god.”
You could barely breathe, the pressure between your legs growing with each wet trail of his tongue. He pulled off with a lewd pop, his lips glossy. He didn’t stop there, his kisses trailing down your stomach, until he was perfectly settled between your hips. Arms caging your body in.
“How are you feeling?” Ever the worrier, Steve was going to stop every few seconds, asking if you were okay. Your body was trembling underneath his, in anticipation and nerves.
“Good. I love you.” You panted, his fingers curling in the sides of your underwear.
“Gonna take these off now, that okay?”
You frantically nodded, lifting your hips for him. When he threw them alongside the pile of your other clothes, your legs fell shut on impulse.
He looked up at you, a silent question in his eyes.
“C-can you take your shirt off?” You asked, feeling underdressed. He flung the shirt off quicker than you’ve ever seen before, smiling wildly at you. His bare skin was warm against your legs as he settled himself back in position, hands gripping your thighs.
“Open up for me, honey.”
You let out an embarrassed squeal, “Wait.”
Steve paused, watching your face scrunch with nerves. “S’what wrong?”
“I’ve never…” You trailed off, choking on your embarrassment.
“What?” He asked, taking a minute to put two and two together. He looked down at your clamped legs, and back up to you like he’d seen a ghost.
“Are you serious?” His voice had lowered an octave, hands clenching. “No one’s ever gone down on you.”
“They all said it was g-gross. So I didn’t bother you, know?” You flushed, “You don’t have to.”
He stopped you, unclenching his jaw. “Gross? Baby, I have every right mind to go track them down and beat their ass.”
A squeak escaped your lips, “You’re hot when you’re mad.”
“I am mad, mad because there’s no reason any of those men deserved you. I’ve been wanting to get my mouth on you for years, and they just-” He cut himself off, hand rubbing small circles on your calf. “Baby, do you want me to go down on you?”
You nodded sheepishly, “Just nervous.”
“Don’t be. You just talk to me, okay? If there’s anything you don’t like, anything you want. Need you to promise you’ll tell me.”
“Okay, yeah. Promise.” You leaned back, bracing yourself on his pillows.
“Good.” He grabbed your tights gently, “Open up for me, pretty girl.”
You obliged, letting your legs fall open for him. A shock went through you at the sensation of your wet cunt hitting the cold air. Steve’s eyes were locked on you. Practically drooling at the sight of you.
“Gorgeous.” He babbled, pressing kisses up and down your inner thighs. “You’re so fucking gorgeous. Gonna put my mouth on you, okay?”
You nodded, your body jerking the moment his wet mouth came down on your clit. He took it slow, letting his tongue draw circles over you. You were over the moon, letting out choked moans of his name. You didn’t know it would feel this good.
His tongue flattened, teasing your entrance before suckling your clit into his mouth. He ate you out like a man starved, moaning against you. The sensations had your legs shaking, overwhelmed by new feelings that licked up your spine.
“Steve..”
“How’s it feel, baby?” He panted, your wetness covering the bottom half of his mouth when he came up for air. His hand curled around to your entrance.
“S’good. Bab,y it feels so good.” You basically sobbed, your cunt welcoming in his thick fingers. Stretching you out with each curl of his fingertips. His mouth wrapped around you, and that was all it took; your back arched off the bed. Grinding into his mouth messily as you came. He held your hips still, stroking out each morsel of your orgasm. Sweat clung to your forehead, your chest rising and falling quickly.
“I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard.” You sighed dreamily. Steve had a shit-eating grin on his face, wiping his face on his discarded shirt before crawling back up your body. His lips met yours, kissing you deeply. You could taste yourself on his tongue, moaning weakly when he pulled apart.
“I will do that all day, every single day.” He swore between kisses. His hips pressed against yours; the only thing separating you two was the thin fabric of his boxers. You could feel his hard length pressed against you.
“Can I return the favor?” Your teeth came down to bite your bottom lip, wanting nothing more than to run your tongue down his happy trail straight to his cock.
“Another time?” He smiled, speaking before you frowned, “I need to feel you.”
“Just for a second?” You pleased, giving him your best doe eyes. He knew he could never say no to you. His boxers were pulled off, his cock slapping against his stomach. He was huge; your mouth salivated at the idea of wrapping your mouth around his pulsating tip. He fumbled around in his drawer, holding up a condom in his hand like it was a winning lottery ticket. He lay next to you on the bed, letting you switch positions.
Your hand wrapped around him slowly, barely fitting. He gritted his teeth before you could fully pump him. The length twitching in your hand.
“O-okay, baby-” He winced, his head hitting the headboard when your lips wrapped around him. Licking the precum off of him, savoring the salty taste of him. His hips jerked up, his cock sliding into your mouth deeper.
“Fuck, okay, nope. Nope.” He hissed, gently pulling you off of him. This time, it was your turn to have a shit-eating grin on your face.
“What? Can’t handle it?” You teased, squealing when he gripped your hips. Flipping you back onto your back with a thump.
“Nope, my girl has a perfect fucking mouth,” He smirked, “But I wanna feel this pretty pussy more.”
Your core throbbed at his words, hips rutting against the air for relief. He sat up between your legs, sliding the condom over his length.
“Ready?” He asked, to which you nodded frantically.
“Yeah, baby.”
His tip circled your entrance a few times, spreading your wetness around for him. Before he braced himself, sliding himself in slowly. Your hands found his shoulders, fingers creating half-moon indentations as you welcomed the stretch.
“Doing so well.” He praised, pressing kisses up and down your neck and chest. “Taking me so well. So fucking tight for me.”
When his hips bottomed out against yours, tears sprang in your eyes. You were so full, emotions overwhelming you.
He noticed your eyes fluttering shut, his hand moving to cradle your cheek. “Eyes on me. Eyes on me.” He cooed.
You were scared, so scared you’d open them, and it was just another dream. “I’m real. I’m here.” He reassured, pressing soft kisses to your cheeks. They fluttered open again, and you stared at your brown-eyed lover. Drinking him in, every freckle, every imperfection. You wanted to count his eyelashes and memorize the patterns in his irises.
“I love you.” Your voice was raw, the words spilling out heavier than ever before. Despite the countless times the two of you said those three words to each other over the years, this was the one that meant the most. That held the most weight. It carried every emotion you’ve pushed down over the past decade. Now it poured out of you, oozing from your very being.
His smile was infectious: “I love you so much.” Another kiss on your lips. Something you’d never get sick of, his plump lips against yours. Moving with a passion that can only be built from years of secret glances and repressed feelings.
You both moved as if the other was going to slip through your hands like water. Hands frantic, but focused. Memorizing every bit of each other’s bodies as your body welcomed him in.
“You can move.” You sighed, the discomfort turning into pleasure. He did an experimental rock of his hips, hitting a spot deep inside you that had you mewling.
“Oh, already, baby?” He cooed, using the hand that wasn’t propped up to rub circles on your cheek with his thumb.
“S’deep.” You slurred, with each expert movement, your body was on fire. The wet sounds of him dragging in and out of your cunt only fueled the burning. The bed creaked when he sped his movements up.
“I love you. I love you.” Steve grunted, his fair falling meassily on his forehead. His eyebrows scrunched up, staring down at you, watching you come apart underneath him. Committing every second to memory.
Your legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him even closer if that was possible. His thick patch of hair sits above his cock, rubbing deliciously against your clit, his tip hitting your cervix as he fucked into you.
“I’m gonna cum. Baby gonna cum.” You whined, feeling the tension coil deep in your gut. Steve nodded with a grunt, grabbing your legs and spreading them wide. The new angle had you screaming his name, his fingers rubbed your clit messily while you spasmed around him. Coming so hard your ears began to ring, legs shaking in his hold.
He fucked you through it, keeping you spread wide for him. “That’s it. Take this cock, baby. Feels good? Feels so good.” He muttered, his hips stuttering.
“Come inside me,” You babbled mindlessly, paying no mind to the condom between you two.
“Oh fuck.” Steve gasped, emptying his load into the condom with a gasp. Falling slack against your body with each twitch of his cock inside you.
Your hands curled in his hair, his panting breaths hitting your chest as the two of you came down. Relishing in the sounds of each other’s breathing, and his skin on yours.
After a while, he pulled out of you with a hiss, disposing of the condom and cleaning the two of you up. He crawled back into bed, beckoning you to lie on his chest.
You didn’t hesitate, curling yourself up against him. Letting his hands find your scalp, massaging your head. You cooed into him.
“Penny for your thoughts?” You sighed dreamily, Steve’s fingers expertly combing through your hair.
“My thoughts are worth more than a penny.” He teased, making you roll your eyes at him.
“I have a kiss, take it or leave it.”
“Oh, I’m taking it alright.” He leaned down, pecking your lips gently.
“Okay, pay up.” You ordered, letting his hands go back to caressing your scalp.
“Just thinking about you. Our future.” He hummed, like it was the simplest thing in the world.
You sat up a little, “Oh yeah?”
“Oh yeah, big house. You’ll have a garden out back. We’ll have a pool. So I can watch you lounge outside while I grill. A couple of dogs running around, maybe ten kids?”
“You’re out of your mind, Stevie.” You gasped.
“Okay, what about six?” He compromised, pulling his face down to yours once again.
“Maybe let’s slow down, become real adults first. Then… yeah, maybe I’ll give you a couple kids.”
He smirked. “I knew it.”
Your mind conjured up images of little versions of you and Steve running around. Growing up alongside the battalion of aunts and uncles downstairs.
“You’re gonna have to buy a minivan if you want that many kids. Can you imagine us taking home a baby in the beamer?”
“Our first two babies are definitely coming home in the beamer, babe. It’s when we get to 3, then we need to start looking into minivan territory.”
“If you’re doing the heavy lifting...” You shrugged, imagining Steve in dad jeans. Pulling carseats out of his car. Your children running around the two of you. Family dinners, vacations, and the stable parents that neither of you were afforded growing up.
“Of course.” He scoffed, not believing you’d think otherwise.
“Guess we gotta find better jobs to support this million-dollar idea, huh?” You laughed, Steve pausing for a minute.
“God, I guess you’re right.” He slumped, trying not to think too hard about the stress of that lingering on top of his shoulders.
“Hey,” You whispered, “It’s all gonna work out, we have each other. That’s all that really matters.”
“Yeah.” He smiled wistfully, “You haven’t been able to get rid of me this long, don’t even try now, babe.”
