I'll never see you again, if I can help it.

Heidi didn’t call him out for his bullshit. Heidi didn’t make him laugh like you did. Heidi didn’t roll his eyes when he had kept his cap on during dinner. Heidi was clearly just trying to get into his pants and Gator almost let her. In fact, he went home with her. But the moment her lips touched his, Gator felt dirty. Like he was doing something incredibly, incredibly wrong.

He ended up running out of Heidi’s apartment. She hadn’t even cussed him out for it. You wouldn’t have done that—you would have probably yelled at him and called him an asshole.It had been thirty six days since you had broken up and Gator had had enough.

“Are you fucking kidding me—” you mutter to yourself as you drag yourself out of bed. You grab a nearby sweatshirt and pull it over your head before stomping out of your bedroom. 

Someone—undoubtedly Gator—was banging at your door, apparently not giving a fuck that you had neighbours or that you had to be up in four hours for a shift at the hospital.

“Could you fucking stop that?” You snap at Gator through your apartment door, teeth gritted as you grab your keys. “Or I swear to god Gator, I’ll leave you out there all fucking night—”

“—please don’t.”

The sound of his voice makes you pause. Despite the fact he was banging at your door, he didn’t sound angry. He sounded desperate. Sad even.

You falter. Your keys clatter to the floor but you don’t rush to pick them up. 

“Please, baby—just open the door. Please. I just wanna talk.”

You should say no. You should tell him you had work in a few hours. You should tell him to fuck off. That you broke up with him for a reason, that he was a selfish asshole and he should leave you alone.

But you don’t do that.

Instead you open your front door.

You barely recognise the man standing in front of you. You knew it was Gator because you’d know that gorgeous face anywhere. But it was the defeated, almost broken look on his face that you didn’t recognise. And it was that look that made you step aside to let him into your apartment.

He doesn’t say thank you as he steps inside. He just nods and steps into your space as though he never left.

“It’s one in the morning, Gator,” you say as he sinks down onto your couch, legs spread and large hands resting on his thighs.

“I know,” he mutters, kicking his boots off. “My truck has a clock.”

You take a deep breath in through your nose as you fight the urge to yell at him for his attitude and for taking off his boots like he was expecting to stay. You were starting to remember why you had broken up with him in the first place.

“You wanted to talk,” you begin after a moment. “So talk and make it quick. I gotta be up in like four hours for a twelve hour shift.”

Gator looks up at you properly then, his big hazel eyes looking up at you in a way he never had when you were together.

“You’re wearing my sweatshirt,” he murmurs, pointing at the camouflage sweatshirt you had grabbed before leaving your room.

You look down at the sweatshirt and swallow. Because he was right. It was his. 

“Don’t overthink it,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest and trying your best to keep a straight face. You don’t tell Gator that you had been wearing that damn sweatshirt for almost thirty six days. That you had only washed it once and cried when it no longer smelt like him. You definitely don’t tell him that. Instead, you tense your jaw and look back at your ex boyfriend and try to remind yourself of all the reasons you had broken up with him. You remind yourself that he only started buying you flowers after you had broken up. That he hadn’t wanted to meet your family despite your attempts to have him do so. That he had left you hanging when you had finally said ‘I love you’.

“But still. You’re wearing it,” Gator says. “That means something.”

“It means nothing. It’s just a sweatshirt—”

“—but it’s my sweatshirt. It means something.”

You wanted to throw something at him. Maybe one of his boots. He was such a smug asshole and you just wanted to smack him for it. But you don’t.

“Could you just go?” You ask him, rubbing your temples before gesturing towards your front door. “You clearly just came to piss me off and you’ve done just that so go—”

“—I can’t just go.”

“Why the fuck not—”

“—because I’m fuckin’ goin’ crazy without you!” Gator snaps, his voice cracking the last word. It’s enough to make you look at him. “I’m—shit—I sent you flowers for fuck sake, d’you know fuckin’ desperate I have to be to send you flowers like some fuckin’ sap?”

“The flowers mean don’t shit to me if that’s your attitude about it, Gator,” you retort. “You’re just trying love bomb me and—”

“—I’m not, I’m just—”

“—just what? Just trying to remind me that you never—”

You cut yourself off, your eyes betraying you as they start to well up. You have to look away.

Gator says your name but you don’t look at him. You’re too busy trying to fight the tears that were threatening to fall.

“Are you crying—”

“—could you just fuck off?” You snap, finally looking back at him. Your breath hitches in your throat when you see that he is no longer sitting on your couch but instead, standing right in front of you. “Seriously Gator, could you—”

“—No,” Gator says firmly with a shake of his head as he takes a step closer. “M’not going to fuck off. Not because I want to piss you off anymore than I already have but be—because—I love you.”

The silence that followed was one of the loudest you had ever heard. You blink, wondering if you had misheard Gator until—

“I love you,” Gator repeats, his voice still unsteady but the look he gave you was unwavering. Certain.

You let out a shaky breath before you lift a hand to wipe your eyes, shaking your head.

“No you don’t, Gator. You love stringing me along and you love that I challenge you but you don’t love me—”

“—yes, I do—”

“—no, you don’t—”

“—yes, I do,” Gator practically snarls as he steps right into your space. “I—I fucking love you. I really do. I love you so much that I—I would do anythin’ just to make you smile. I feel like the biggest fuckin’ sap for admittin’ it but I would. And I’ve tried movin’ on but everytime I try I just keep fuckin’ wishing’ it was you on the other side of the table. And I—m’sorry. I’m really fuckin’ sorry for not sayin’ it back t’ya and treatin’ you like I did. For never spoilin’ you like I should’ve. For not going to meet your parents but I—I figured they wouldn’t like you being with an asshole like me and I—I really wanted them to like me—”

“—and you didn’t think to just tell me that?”

Gator rubs a hand over his face in frustration before taking off his cap so he could run a hand through his hair too. You notice how it wasn’t gelled. You once told him you preferred his hair without gel, apparently he had listened.

“No, I didn’t,” Gator admits quietly. 

“Gator, I don’t know if I—”

“Please,” Gator croaks out desperately, reaching for one of your hands and squeezing it. “Please don’t—don’t give up on me. On us. I can do better, baby. I know I can.”

You falter just slightly when he calls you baby. It makes you feel warm, makes your insides feel as though they were made of goo.

But still, you say nothing.

And Gator doesn’t know what else to do.

“Please,” he repeats, his voice desperate once again and you watch in complete shock as Gator Tillman, still holding tightly on your hands, drops down onto his knees in front of you. “Please baby. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good t’ya.”

“Gator—”

“—I mean it, baby,” he continues, pressing his lips to your knuckles as he remains on his knees. “I’ll tell you every fucking day that I love you. I’ll meet your parents. Grandparents. Whoever the fuck else you want me to meet. I’ll get you flowers. I’ll make you coffee every mornin’ before your shift. Maybe even breakfast in bed. Whatever you want just don’t—please don’t give up on me.”

You were speechless. Genuinely speechless. Because Gator Tillman was not the type of man to beg for anything. He could probably count the amount of times he had said ‘please’ on one hand but the fact he was on his knees begging you for forgiveness? Well—it made you think twice about kicking him out of your apartment. You were still undecided on throwing a boot at him.

You look down at Gator, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth for a moment before you give his hands a gentle tug, silently telling him to stand up. He obeys because of course he does. Because he loves you. Because he really would do anything for you.

Gator stands—looking back at you and waiting for you to talk. His hands are still holding yours. Still hoping, praying that you’ll trust him.

“Breakfast in bed,” you ask him quietly with a faint smile. “Really? You're gonna wake up at five in the morning just to scramble some eggs?”

The corner of Gator’s mouth twitches, his hazel eyes sparkling just a little as he looks back at you. “I also make omelettes."

You try not to laugh but it somehow escapes you.

Gator’s eyes soften, he gives your hands another squeeze before he lets go in favour of cupping your cheek with one hand, the other resting gently at the side of your neck.

“I meant every word, baby. I love you and I—”

Whatever he was about to say, whatever speech he had rehearsed, you don’t get to hear. Because your lips were on his before he could finish his sentence. Gator takes a second, maybe two, before he responds and when he does, he lets out a low groan before kissing you back.

Gator kisses you like he was starving, like you were an oasis in the desert, like even the thought of pulling away from you might cause him physical pain.

The hand cupping your face was soft but firm, tilting your head back so he could deepen the kiss. Your hands tangle their way through his ungelled hair as the hand that had been brushing over the side of your neck trails down to curl an arm around your waist, tugging you closer. His mouth was so eager that it made you feel a little lightheaded, your body humming with need for the man in front of you.

And had it not been nearing half one in the morning, you may have given in. May have fallen into bed (or even the couch, you weren’t picky) with him. But the thought of being up in a few hours was the thing that finally pulled you away from him.

Gator whines at the loss and the sound sends heat rushes through you like molten lava but you shake your head, pulling yourself out of it. Not tonight. 

“I’ll be expecting my omelette and coffee bright and early,” you tell Gator with a soft smile as you gently comb a hand through his hair.

Gator hums, leaning in to press his forehead against yours and closing his eyes for a brief moment before nodding. “I’m gonna make you the best damn omelette baby, I promise you.”

It wasn’t perfect and you had more to talk about, a lot more to work out but for now? An omelette, coffee and Gator Tillman loving you? It was more than enough.

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Your boyfriend spills into the condom, with a loud grunt of your name—pressing his face right into the crook of your neck as his hips stuttered against yours.

You keep your hands on his shoulders, trying to keep the disappointed look off your face as James pulls his softening cock out of you.

James was—well, he was objectively a perfect boyfriend. He was kind, attentive, always there when you needed him. He loved your family and in return, your family loved him. But in the bedroom? He left you pretty high and dry.

He never took his time—seemed to look at foreplay as an obligation rather than something to be enjoyed. He never spent more than a few minutes with his mouth between your legs. He never let you set the pace, never made sex about you. It was always about him. And after care? Well, that was a foreign concept to James. He tended to fall asleep less than five minutes after finishing.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care about your pleasure because he did—for all of ten seconds before his own needs started to outweigh yours. He’d press his fingers inside you and the moment it started to feel good for you—when you would let out a few soft moans or start to move your hips, he’d take it as a job well done. Or worse—instead he would start pumping his fingers too quickly, pistoning them in and out of you as fast as he could. As if it did anything for you.

You had tried to tell him this—gently, of course. Trying to let him know what felt good for you but he just wouldn’t retain the information. Or perhaps, when it came to your pleasure over his, he didn’t want to listen. You had tried to convince yourself that it wasn’t the latter.

As James rolled over in bed—you felt that familiar sense of guilt build. The one that reminded you of the date he had taken you on tonight. How much money the fancy dinner had cost and how he had refused to let you pay for it. The guilt was a reminder how lucky you were to have a guy like James. In the past, guys weren't so great to you. In fact, you had dated some downright assholes. Guys who weren’t kind. Guys who didn’t respect you. Hell, some guys you were sure didn’t even really like you. And James was great. Really—he was. You were sure you loved him—sure that he was the kind of man you could marry. The kind of man who was a smart, sensible choice.

But as you looked over at the man you should love unconditionally—already falling asleep with the condom still on—you were beginning to question whether smart and sensible was the right choice.

A year ago, you had been in dire need of a roommate. Your previous roommate, Rachel, had moved out after landing her dream job in a different city. You had been happy for her but it had left you with a two bed apartment that you could not afford on your own.

James hadn’t wanted to move in at that point—you had only been together for a few months back then and neither of you were ready to take that big step yet. And so, you were without a roommate and a monthly rent that was haemorrhaging money from you.

That was until your co-worker Robin Buckley told you about Steve Harrington.

“Wait, Steve as in Steve?” You had asked her, a skeptical look on your face. “As in your girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend—that Steve?”

Robin had rolled her eyes, turning her attention back to the mug of coffee she had been in the middle of making. The sound of Every Breath You Take by The Police drifting into the radio station kitchen from the booth. You still had two minutes and a couple of ad breaks before you needed to be back inside for the remainder of the Rockin’ Robin breakfast show. You were tired from the early morning but mostly, you were stressed out about your current living situation and Robin could tell.

“Yes—that Steve,” she says, stirring in an unholy amount of sugar. “C’mon, it’s not weird. We’re like best friends. I can vouch for him. I’m like ninety eight percent sure he isn’t a murderer.”

You grimace a little, tired eyes flickering over to Robin. “Ninety eight percent isn’t enough for me.”

Robin huffs, turning to face you fully now with her hands on her hips. “C’mon (y/n)—you trust me right? You can trust him.”

You think about it, bouncing nervously on the balls of your feet.

“But he’s a guy, Robs,” you say finally. “I don’t want to live with a guy.”

Robin lets out a snort of laughter despite herself.

“Point taken,” she says before looking at you again carefully. “Just—just think about it, yeah? His parents just kicked him out and he doesn’t have anywhere else to go. He’s been sleeping on my couch for the past week and I gotta say, I don’t think it’s good for mine and Nance’s sex life if her ex-boyfriend is snoring in the other room every night.”

You falter—make the mistake of looking at her face—at her big blue eyes that looked just the right amount of pleading to make you reconsider.

“I’ll think about it,” you told her.

Steve had moved in that Friday.

The first week had been a little awkward—tiptoeing around each other in the hallway and trying to keep out of each other’s space. But after Steve had returned from picking up the last few bits from his parents house—coming back empty handed with red rimmed eyes—you had wordlessly handed him a bowl of homemade macaroni and cheese and suggested watching a movie together.

After that, you stopped tiptoeing.

And living with him? It was pretty great. He was surprisingly neat and an excellent cook. He always took the initiative to go out and do the food shopping when you were running low on the necessities. He didn’t mind that you had way too many houseplants, that the refrigerator had too many magnets on it or that the couch was baby pink—Steve was just happy to be living with you.

Somewhere between making coffees for each other in the morning and watching old movies together on the couch—you had formed a friendship that was built out of a genuine connection to each other rather than out of convenience like it had with Rachel. You had even finally accepted Robin’s offer of going out with her friends now that you lived with Steve. You had met her girlfriend Nancy in the past but Jonathan Byers and Eddie Munson had been complete mysteries to you. They turned out to be just as Robin had described—Jonathan a little quiet but once you got to know him wouldn’t shut up about his short films when you asked how they were going. And Eddie was—well, Eddie was the kind of person who people noticed when he walked into a room. 

In time, they had met James. You had a feeling that they didn’t think much of him. The way Eddie rolled his eyes when James started talking about sports. How Robin would yawn when he bought up his job as a stock broker. How Nancy would bristle when James tried to explain the stock market to her as though she was stupid. How Jonathan would go quiet around him. How Steve glared at James when he would talk over you and would interject to say “actually, (y/n) was talking”.

And so, you had never told your friends about your borderline terrible sex life. Never told them that James had only made you come once. Never told them you had to get yourself off in the bathroom after he had gone to sleep. And you probably never would tell them.

“You know what I love?” Eddie asks the group one Friday night at your and Steve’s local bar. It was grimy, located only a few yards from your apartment—hence why it was your local haunt—but it was yours. Warts and all.

“Weed?” suggests Jonathan.

Eddie clicks his fingers, smiling at Jonathan.

“You know me, Byers,” Eddie says but shakes his head. “But no—that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Something Eddie Munson loves,” Robin muses, tapping the table gently as she considers the question.

“D&D?” Steve puts forward.

“Nancy’s mom?” You say with a wry smile—Nancy shooting you a glare as Steve tries to hide his laughter.

“That deli shop by the record store that is totally going to get shut down for health violations?” Robin offers.

Eddie groans, looking pained as he looks over at Robin.

“Why do you have to remind me?”

“Eddie, that place has given you food poisoning like five times,” Nancy points out.

“And it was worth it. Every damn time.”

You laugh, smiling at Eddie’s dramatics. Sometimes you wondered why he had never considered theatre.

“So what is it you love Eddie?” Steve asks, leaning back in the booth beside you. His arm resting behind your head—comfortable, easy, just like it always was between you two.

“Oral sex,” Eddie says simply.

You choke on your drink while your friends laugh at Eddie’s admission.

“Giving or receiving?” Steve asks while you try to regain composure, face warm and looking anywhere but at your friends. Any talk about sex you tended to not engage in—not wanting to admit to your friends that you rarely enjoyed sex with your own boyfriend.

“Both,” Eddie says, smiling. 

You tried your best to keep a neutral expression—to not involve yourself too much with the conversation. Trying not to recall the last time James had gone down on you—how it had lasted barely two minutes. How you had been thankful it was over. How you had ‘returned’ the favour with all the enthusiasm that James didn’t possess.

“What about you, (y/n)?” Eddie asks suddenly, brows wiggling as you look up at him.

“About me, what?” you ask, because you hadn’t been paying attention to the conversation for the past two minutes, too busy thinking of anything beside how terrible your boyfriend was at giving head.

Eddie laughs—loud and without much care who heard. “Oral—do you prefer giving or receiving?”

Your face warms—you’re sure that your friends can all tell how flustered you were by the question. 

“You don’t have to answer that,” Steve tells you, glaring at Eddie as he pats your shoulder gently. “Eddie’s just being intrusive—”

“Oh, come on,” Eddie groans and nudges your knee under the table with his. “We never hear about your sex life, (y/n).”

“Not everyone is as open as you, Munson,” Nancy says.

Eddie huffs—grabbing his beer and taking a swig. “I’m just curious to know which she prefers,” Eddie says innocently, hands up in surrender.

Your leg bounces beneath the table as you consider giving Eddie an answer or not. Generally, you didn’t discuss your sex life with James with anyone. You were too scared to give away your dissatisfaction with it. It made you feel shameful for even thinking of complaining. To actually voice those complaints? Well—that felt like opening Pandora’s Box. But there was a large part of you that couldn’t help but feel left out.

“Giving,” you say finally without looking up. It was the honest truth. You don’t tell them that the reason for this was because you hated when James tried going down on you. Hated to pretend he was good at it. Hated how much he clearly disliked doing it. “I-I prefer giving.”

You were not sure why you felt the need to answer anyway. Maybe it was how left out you felt during these conversations. How much you wished you were having as good sex as all your friends were. Maybe because you just wanted to be included for once. You feel your face warm but you try not to shy away as you look up at your friends—all looking at you in slight disbelief.

“What?” You ask, eyes flickering between each of your friends before landing finally on Steve.

“Nothing,” Steve says, blinking in apparent shock at your admission. “It’s just—”

“I’ve never known a girl who would choose giving head over receiving it,” Eddie interjects before glancing at Robin and Nancy. “Not a straight one anyway.”

Your face warms, taking a long swig of your drink and wishing you could blend into the furniture.

“I just—prefer doing it, I guess,” you say quietly with a small shrug.

“Well,” Eddie begins with a small smile and a wink sent your way. “Either you’re incredibly giving or James isn’t doing a good enough job.”

Everyone laughs and you know you should stand up for James—for your boyfriend, the man you supposedly loved—but instead, you go quiet. Your face somehow feeling even hotter than before. You seem to shrink back further in the booth. No one seems to notice how you don’t defend your boyfriend—Eddie was too busy already recounting the tales from his latest hookup with a bartender. But Steve’s eyes linger on you for a moment. Noticing the way your jaw tenses, your fingers flexing as though wishing to grip onto the table.

He doesn’t comment on it. Not just yet anyway.

At one in the morning, you walk back with Steve to the apartment as you always did. Both a little bit tipsy and laughing at things that weren’t that funny—the fact Steve had been wearing his shirt inside out the entire evening, how you had tripped over the curb outside the bar.

“Careful,” Steve warns you, laughing as his hands gently steer you away from the curb for a third time. “What would you do without me, huh?”

“Be miserable,” you reply with a tipsy giggle. Steve smiles, hooking an arm around your shoulders as you approach your apartment building. Being the slightly more sober one—Steve is the one to fish out the key from his pocket and open the door. He’s the one to drag you away from the front desk before you could get too distracted by the notice board (“but Steve apartment 9A is selling their microwave!”). He’s the one to manoeuvre you into the elevator and to stop you from pressing all the buttons.

“Okay—next week, I’m the one who is getting drunk and you can take care of me,” Steve huffs as he guides you down the hallway towards your apartment. One arm around your shoulders so you don’t try to escape.

“M’kay,” you murmur as you watch Steve unlock the door. 

Once you’re in the safety of your apartment, Steve breathes a sigh of relief. He watches as you wonder over to that damn pink couch—flop down onto it and kick off your shoes. 

“I’m going to get you some water,” Steve announces, taking off his own shoes and leaving them carefully by the front door before heading into the kitchen.

You simply hum in acknowledgement, head titled back and staring up at the ceiling.

Steve returns with two glasses of water a few moments later. He sets them down on the coffee table before leaning down to pick up your discarded shoes. You bite back a smile as you watch him place them neatly down beside his own shoes near the front door. 

“I was going to put them back eventually,” you tell him as he sits down on the couch beside you, the couch dipping a little under his weight.

Steve shrugs, as though it wasn’t a big deal before he picks up your glass of water and hands it to you.

“Drink,” he tells you gently. You send a small, grateful smile before you take the glass from him and take a generous gulp of water. Steve watches, amused before he sips from his own glass.

It’s quiet then between the pair of you—you tilting your head back up to glance at the ceiling while Steve thoughtfully taps his fingers against the glass in his hands.

“Hey, (y/n)?”

“Yeah?” You ask, turning your head to look at Steve.

He looks back at you, a slightly apprehensive look on his face—one that indicated that he was carefully considering his next words.

“I just—I noticed that you—that you didn’t say anything back to Eddie earlier.”

Even though you were still a little tipsy, still feeling the alcohol hum through your veins—Steve’s words cut through you. Instantly, you knew what he was referring to. That little comment Eddie had made about why you had said you preferred giving oral over opposed to receiving it. You swallow—you knew you had to play dumb. The truth was too embarrassing. It made that guilt take residence in your chest again.

“When?” You ask finally. “Eddie talks so much shit that it all kind of…blurs into one.”

Steve chuckles, leaning back against the sofa—his elbow knocking against yours. “Yeah, no—you got that right,” he says with a quick nod and another glance at you. “I just—it was that dig at James he made. You didn’t—you didn’t say anything. You didn’t—I dunno, stick up for him, I guess.”

You don’t say anything, you just stare wordlessly down at your lap as you try not to react.

When you say nothing, Steve hesitates for a split second before he presses on, “I just—I wanted to check if—you know, if everything was okay between the two of you?”

 “Yeah,” you say, a beat too quickly as you look down at the glass of water in your hands. “We’re good. Why wouldn’t we be?”

Steve doesn’t look convinced. He looks back at you with an expression that plainly told you that he did not believe a damn word you were saying.

“Because you just let Eddie say…what he said,” Steve says. “That James isn’t good in bed.”

Again—you say nothing. Not for any other reason than because you suddenly had the overwhelming urge to be honest. To tell Steve everything. How James couldn’t make you come. How he no longer seemed to care if you finished. How his pleasure was always placed above yours.

Steve seems to understand something in your silence—his eyes on you, watching you with careful consideration, as though he was choosing his next words carefully.

“You know you deserve better, right?”

The words pull at something deep in your chest. The alcohol makes it difficult to control the cocktail of guilt, shame and embarrassment swirling in your gut.

“I don’t,” you murmur finally—the words that deep down, you didn’t really believe. Because you didn’t truly feel as though you deserved James. He was good—not like the assholes you had dated in the past and you felt immensely guilty that you were doubting him all because he couldn’t make you come.

Steve looks at you in utter disbelief, opening his mouth as if he was ready to argue but you silence him by unsteadily getting to your feet.

“M’going bed,” you tell him, clumsily making your way into the kitchen with your glass of half-drunk water. Steve follows—just to make sure that you didn’t break anything (whether that be the glass in your hand or even an arm or a leg).

He watches you tip the last of the water into the sink and he continues to watch as you leave the empty glass on the drying rack.

“You know you can talk to me if something’s wrong,” Steve suddenly says, making you turn to look at him—eyes unfocused due to the alcohol and your world just a little bit wobbly. “Like seriously. Even if it’s about—you know.”

Your face warms, you avert your eyes.

“Just drop it, yeah?” You murmur back, not meeting his eye. “It’s fine—I’m fine, Steve.”

Despite how tipsy you were—the words were final and Steve understood that. He looked at you for a long moment before finally nodding. “Okay,” he says simply before he forces a smile. “Get some rest, yeah? I’ll make sure to have a hangover breakfast ready for you.”

You manage a smile—a genuine smile—because Steve always did thoughtful things like this. Even if you were drawing a clear line in the sand on the conversation. 

“Thank you,” you say, finally looking at Steve’s face and seeing the concern in his eyes which did not help the guilt you felt deep in your gut. Because now you felt awful for not being honest with Steve. And so—before you head to your room, you give Steve a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

You slip away before you see how Steve’s face flushes. 

The thing about living with Steve Harrington meant that you heard him have sex. Like, a lot.

The moment you heard loud moans coming from his bedroom, you would grab your walk-man, some headphones and drown out whatever unholy sounds were coming from the other side of the wall.

Tonight was no different. It was a week after that evening at the bar and after a long day at work, you were in your room when the moaning started. You knew he had been out on a date and you also knew—judging by the giggling that you had heard when Steve had returned ten minutes ago—that him and his date had retreated to his room. And so, what you heard next was inevitable. Your hands reached for your walk-man and—

“That’s it, pretty girl,” you hear Steve say in a low voice. “Soak my fingers—just like that. Do you hear how fucking wet you are for me?”

The words shock you. Hearing Steve say such filthy words makes your breath hitch and then—

To your absolute horror—the words go straight to your core.

Your thighs squeeze together without permission.

Holy fuck.

This is wrong. This was so fucking wrong—

“That’s it. God—keep squeezing my fingers just like that, baby. You’re going to feel incredible around my cock.”

You bite the inside of your mouth. Your fingers closing around the walkman, eyes on the headphones and—

“You want my mouth?”

“Yes, Steve—please—oh, oh god—oh—”

The moans coming from behind the wall had become obscene. High pitched, mixed with Steve’s own muffled groans.

You closed your eyes, imagining Steve’s thick head of hair between your thighs as he sucked on your clit, your slick dripping down his chin—

Oh god, no. You couldn’t fantasise about that, about him—it was wrong, it was—

“You taste so fucking good.”

Your eyes fluttered shut as you felt warmth spread through you at those words. Hot—like lava seeping through your veins.

You felt an ache between your legs you hadn’t felt in a long time. As you squeezed your thighs together to try and ease the feeling, you let out a small gasp when you realised you were wet. Like really fucking wet.

Your fingers seem to have a mind of their own—dancing down your thighs until you feel your own slick coating your inner thigh from where it had trickled down from your cunt.

The urge to move your fingers higher was overwhelming. To plunge your fingers into your aching cunt and get off like you desperately needed to. The moans coming from the woman who was being eaten out by Steve Harrington was all you could hear. 

And that mental image of Steve—your roommate, your friend, the guy who was most certainly not your boyfriend—lapping at your soaked cunt was too much.

Your fingertips danced over the delicate lace of your panties before you knew what you were doing. That tiny bit of pressure was enough to make your hips buck up instinctively, stopping the whimper that threatened to fall out. You repeated the action, moving your finger around the damp spot in your panties and focusing only on Steve’s muffled groans. You have to bite down on your free hand to stop yourself from moaning as your fingers begin to circle your sensitive bud over the lace.

The nameless woman’s moans were only getting louder and louder.

And that’s when you gave in.

Your fingers slipped beneath the lace material of your panties. The first contact with your bare, wet pussy sent shock waves of pleasure through your body. You try not to think about how James never made you this wet as you slide your index and middle finger through your wetness.

You try to imagine James—your sweet, caring boyfriend between your legs. How his big blue-green eyes would look up at you sweetly. You wished it was enough to get you off. You wished he was good. As good as—

“Steve! Oh—fuck—don’t stop!”

And that was it—all thoughts of your boyfriend gone. The image of James replaced by Steve. And the thought of Steve using his mouth on you was enough to make your head fall back in ecstasy as your fingers worked faster—using your wet slick to coat your clit. The sensation sent a surge of white hot pleasure through you. You bit back a moan—your first orgasm in weeks right there. You were so close, you just need a little more—

“That’s it, pretty girl,” Steve’s voice rumbles through the wall. “Come for me.”

That voice—that fucking voice—is what pushes you over the edge. The wave of pleasure was so intense, so sudden that you almost failed to muffle your moan with your hand. You feel it in every nerve in your body. Your legs shake and you feel your release dripping onto the sheets beneath you.

You lay there, chest heaving, the bliss you felt moments before slowly slipping away as the sounds of Steve and the nameless women were drowned out by the shame that had started to creep through your body. You felt it in your very bones—you had just gotten off (for the first time in a long, long time) by thinking of someone other than your boyfriend. And it wasn’t just someone, it was Steve. Your roommate. Your friend. Sweet, kind and caring Steve.

You shouldn’t have done it—you know you shouldn’t have. And yet—you already want to do it again. Especially when you could hear the sound of skin slapping against each other in the next room. It made that feeling in your gut return. Hot, aching where your fingers had just been.

No. You couldn’t. It was wrong. So very wrong.

One time. You told yourself. Just one time.

The next time James went down on you, you were determined to come.

You had decided that the morning after you had been listening to Steve and that woman.

James’ roommates were out and that meant you weren’t confined to his room as you usually were.

He had laid you down on the couch—his shirt half off and belt unbuckled. You could tell he just wanted to fuck you. But you just wanted to see if he could—

“Eat me out,” you murmur against the skin of his neck. “James—please.”

James wasn’t one for talking dirty. Not because he disliked it but because it seemed to affect him too much. At your words he groaned and his hand that had been massaging one of your breasts stilled. You could feel his hardened cock through his jeans pressed against your thigh—swear you felt it twitch at your words alone. Admittedly, it turned you on. That was a start.

“Okay,” James says, leaning back to look at your face. “Okay—I can do that.”

You try not to think that he sounds like he’s talking business. As though going down on you was a meeting—an afternoon meeting? ‘Sure, I can do that’. Need that report by Monday? ‘Sure, I can do that’.

James didn’t take his time—you knew he was aching painfully from how hard he was—and so he just pushed up the skirt of your dress, hastily tugged down your panties before his mouth met your barely soaked folds. You felt his tongue slide between them and you let out a breathy moan. It was nice—not unpleasant just…nice.

His mouth is working overtime, altering between kitten licks and slow, languid licks at your entrance. Again, it’s nice but you get this feeling that he isn’t as into it as you want him to be. It takes you out of the experience entirely. You know he’s just doing it because you asked—that he’d rather be fucking with you with his cock rather than his tongue. He’s not moaning and groaning between your legs like Steve had been with that woman. The memory of your roommates’ groans was still hot in your mind and you were trying not to think about it, trying not to—

But when you look down, you find yourself imagining that James’ shaggy blonde hair was a mop of thick brown locks.

No, no, no—you shouldn’t be thinking about Steve right now. You should be focusing on your lovely, caring boyfriend who has his head between your legs. Not Steve—not Steve. 

But your mind went there anyway. Thinking of Steve’s moans, those filthy words you had heard him whisper. The way the woman he was with had reacted—

And suddenly, your hips were moving. Chasing friction, needing more. Bucking up to meet James’ mouth. Your fingers sunk into James’ hair and he groaned against you—sending a vibration through you that made you feel a spark of something. It was all the encouragement you needed, you moved his head slightly so that his nose would brush against your clit and the effect was instant.

You moaned out, unabashed and barely recognisable from your lips. Not exaggerated for once.

Again, you moved his head so his nose nuzzled your clit as his tongue continued to work in and out of you at a torturous pace. It worked—oh, god it was starting to work. Your head tilted back and moans fell from your lips without your say so. Hips following the movement of his tongue. Heat building in your gut, James’ own groans vibrating in a way that only added to the white hot pleasure that was building, building and—

James lets out a strangled moan against you that could only mean one thing. You blink as he pulls his mouth away from you. A hot look of embarrassment on his face as he glances down at his lap—a damp spot beginning to spread on his jeans.

“It’s okay,” you tell him quickly, breathless as you try to take his hand. “James, it’s—”

But he’s already pulling away from you entirely, face warm and determinedly not looking at you. 

You don’t try to stop him as he gets up and heads in the direction of the bathroom.

You should go after him. Reassure him it was okay. But part of you—the part that had been so desperate to finish—was tired of pretending it was okay. 

And so, for the second time in a week, your fingers slip down between your folds—soaked from a mix of your wetness and your boyfriend’s saliva and think of Steve Harrington. You came right there on James’ sofa in less than three minutes.

Never again, you told yourself. Never again.

But it happens. More than you care to admit.

The next time it happened, it had been while James was inside you.

Your legs were thrown over his shoulders as his cock thrust in and out of you in a polite manner. He was holding back on his groans—his roommates were in the living room watching some ice hockey game. You wished that he didn’t give a fuck when his roommates were home. Wished he was proud to fuck you.

You tried not to notice how quiet it was in the room. The only sound being the squelching between your bodies—not due to your wetness but due to the lube you had needed to use. The sounds of his roommates jeering at the TV in the living room was distracting. And the fact James was making next to no noise while fucking you left you feeling a type of way. It wasn’t that he was doing anything wrong—the angle should be enough to make you feel good. But it was everything else.

And it was enough for your mind to wander into dangerous territory. Back to the guy you lived with who you shouldn’t be thinking about—shouldn’t be—

But of course, you do. You think of Steve as your boyfriend fucks you. It shouldn’t turn you on but it does. Shouldn’t make your walls clench around James’ cock. Shouldn’t make you moan out and claw at your boyfriend’s back.

“Oh fuck,” James groans out quietly, still mindful of his roommates as you lost your ability to keep quiet. “Sweetheart, you need to be quiet—”

But you don’t hear him over the moans you were now letting out. Too in your own head as you imagined Steve slamming his cock in and out of you—imagining him calling you pretty girl and telling you how fucking good you felt.

You should stop, you knew it was wrong. But as you felt that white hot pleasure build and build in a way it had never with James, you didn’t have it in you to stop.

And when it was over and James was looking at you in awe, you felt good. Confident. Sexy. Things you hadn’t felt before. James had even managed to fuck you a second time that night.

You’re aware you shouldn’t be thinking of someone else when you’re being intimate with your boyfriend. But it was the only way you could finish with James. It made you feel guilty after—immensely so. But it was the only thing that worked.

You were also painfully aware that you were fantasying about your roommate—of all people. But things between you and Steve remained normal. He still made you coffee every morning, still sat beside you on the couch while eating dinner and brushing his teeth by your side, completely unaware that you were fantasying about him during sex in order to get off.

You didn’t even feel awkward about it—not really. Not when your sex life was finally good. Not when you finally had your own fun sex stories to tell your friends.

And so, you didn’t stop. Weeks passed and you kept thinking about Steve as your boyfriend fucked you. Kept choosing not to put the headphones on when Steve had a girl over—your fingers pumping in and out of you as you listened to his moans and occasional whimpers. Your juices soaking your sheets and your body practically thrumming with pleasure. And then—the next morning you would accept a hot mug of coffee from your roommate.

And he had no idea what you had been doing the night before.

Steve was out—you think he was at baseball practice—and you had decided to make the most of it.

You invited James over and it didn’t take long before clothes were shed. You were on top for once, moving yourself up and down on his cock at a rhythm that had your head thrown back and listening to James’ muffled groans—his lips busy with your breasts that he couldn’t seem to pull himself away from as they bounced in his face.

Your hands were in his hair, his cock was inside you and yet—your mind was on Steve. Again. You found yourself wondering how big Steve was. You remember Nancy once being so drunk that she had told you just how big Steve was. “Monster cock,” Nancy had giggled to you as she poured herself another shot. Had told you how during her first time with him she had briefly wondered if he was going to split her in half with his cock.

The knowledge was coming back to you now—imagining Steve’s cock filling you so well that you would feel it in your stomach. Even imagined the stomach bulge it was cause—the outline of his cock nearly visible as he fucked up into you.

The mental image had your walls squeezing James’ not-so monster cock—a shameless, wanton moan falling from your lips as you grew closer and closer—

“I’m gonna come,” you gasp out, fingers gripping onto James’ shoulder as you try to keep yourself tethered to the image of Steve—of his cock splitting you open as he whispers the dirtiest words imaginable into your ear. “Steve, I’m gonna come.”

Your orgasm hits you hard. It hits you so hard in fact that you don’t feel how James’ thrusts cease entirely. How his hands fall from your hips. You don’t notice as your head falls into the crook of his neck, your body thrumming, legs shaking.

But you certainly notice how quick he was to pull out. How he didn’t finish.

You blink—heart still hammering, still a little blissed out from your orgasm—as you let him lift you off him a little more hastily than you were used to. You watch James, confused, as he hastily grabs his boxers and begins to tug them up his legs.

“Do you want me to—”

“No,” He snapped suddenly. “No, (y/n). I don’t want you to do anything.”

Bewildered, you began to grab your own items of clothing from the floor and started to dress. James had never snapped at you before and you were utterly confused at the sudden change of tone.

“What—what did I do? Is something wrong—”

“Gee, I don’t know, (y/n),” James resorts, a derisive laugh falling from his lips as he pulls up his jeans. “Does moaning out your male roommate's name while I’m inside of you count as something wrong?”

“I don’t—”

“Cut the bullshit ignorant act,” James interjects harshly as he looks at your face. “You just moaned out Steve’s name. Not my name. Steve’s.”

For a moment, there’s utter confusion. You don’t remember what you had said while you were mid orgasm. You want to deny it, laugh even but you can’t. You knew exactly what you had been thinking about, about Steve and you knew it was entirely possible you had accidentally moaned out Steve’s name in your moment of ecstasy.

“James, I’m sorry. It was an accident. It didn’t mean anything. It was—”

“Bullshit!” James cuts across you, his voice slightly raised. His face was flushed in anger—you could see that he was still hard through his jeans. You could practically feel the embarrassment radiating from him and you couldn’t really blame him. You feel awful—truly awful, feeling as though you wanted to be sick. “You don’t just accidentally say someone else’s name during sex. Especially Steve’s.”

You swallow, your face hot with embarrassment, shame and a growing sense of panic that you couldn’t control. You try to conceal it by pulling on your t-shirt over your head before you look at James again.

“James, I—”

“Save it,” James mutters, pulling on his shirt and not even bothering to button it up before grabbing his jacket and shoes by the front door. “I’m not going to embarrass myself a moment longer. We’re done.”

“James—”

But your boyfriend—or ex-boyfriend now, rather—was already slamming the door to your apartment behind him.

What shocked you most was that you didn’t cry. You had the overwhelming urge to but not because James had left, not because he had just dumped you but because felt so embarrassed by the situation—by the fact you had moaned out Steve’s name instead of James’. Too deep in fantasies about your roommate. And so—when you began to cry you told yourself it was because you were sad. That it was because you had just been dumped by your boyfriend of nearly two years and you were heartbroken. But you were far from it—in fact, there was a part of you that felt relieved.

The tears of embarrassment—now mixed with a sick feeling of shame—had only just started falling when the apartment door opened again. You turned around, a small part of you hoping it was James who was returning to tell you it was all some stupid joke—but of course, it wasn’t.

Steve stood in the doorway, his eyes wide at the sight of you crying on the couch—only in a t-shirt and panties, your jeans slung over a nearby chair, your bra hanging over a lamp. But your state of undress doesn’t even seem to cross Steve’s mind as he rushes over to you—the bag he took with him to baseball practice falling to the floor beside him in his haste to reach you.

“Hey, hey—I saw James storming out—he looked—oh honey, what happened?”

The shock of Steve walking in at precisely this moment had left you lost for words. Tears flowed down your cheeks, your face still felt hot from embarrassment but you couldn’t speak. And Steve, seemingly taking your lack of being able to talk as heartbreak, gathers you into his arm and shushes you gently while you cry into his chest.

“It’s okay,” he tells you, his hand cupping the back of your head in an effort to soothe you. “You’re okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”

And because you felt too much shame and guilt to be honest with Steve, you simply nodded. Clinging to Steve as though your heart was shattered into a million pieces—as though James leaving have devastated you. When in actuality, you were making a silent promise to yourself. A promise to never—never ever tell a soul about what had just transpired between you and James. To never reveal the name you had subconsciously moaned out during your moment of bliss. 

Especially not Steve.

Especially not Steve.

dividers by @cursed-carmine

support banners by @saradika-graphics

you smile at each other—even now, even after five years together and a kid, you still got that funny feeling in your tummy when he smiled at you like you were the only damn thing that mattered (well, you and his daughter).

you look back down at your daughter to watch her feed the ducks. she was holding onto your coat tightly, her little fists curled into the material—desperate to be independent and stand on her own but not wanting to be more than two feet away from you. maisie harrington was a bit of a velcro baby these days—especially with you.

you bend down so that you were face to face with her, your hands gently smoothing her wild hair that she had inherited from her father.

"having fun, ducky?" you ask her gently and maisie nods brightly, her little lips moving as though desperately wanting to mimic you. "try and say ducky, baby."

she tries—she really tries. sweet little babbles falling from her lips as steve crouches down on maisie's other side, encouraging her with all the patience in the world.

"c'mon maisie moo, you can do it," steve says. "copy what mama says—du-ck-y. du-ck-y. du-ck—"

"mama."

the bag full of sweetcorn and peas falls to the floor. ducks quack and maisie's big brown eyes are looking from you to steve with bright amazement at the words—her first word—that had fallen from her lips.

"did you just say mama, baby?" steve asks, an awed expression on his face as he looks back at you. you see his eyes watering and it pulls at something in your chest.

"mama," maisie repeats. "mama, mama, ma—"

you burst into tears—tears of absolute happiness as your daughter babbles mama over and over again. you don't even care about the sweetcorn and peas rolling into the water from the bag you had dropped.

"oh look maisie moo, mama's so happy she's crying," steve coos, pulling maisie into his chest to pepper her forehead with kisses before he looks over the top of her head at you—his free hand finding yours and squeezing. you knew by the look on his face that he was happy. so happy. but you also knew how desperately he had wanted her first word to be dada.

but right now? steve shoved that aside. only caring about the fact this ltitle girl—now babbling 'mama' repeatedly—was really his. his and yours. this perfect little creation that was now talking.

"dada will be her second word," you whisper to steve quietly after you manage to wrangle maisie into her stroller.

steve smiles at you—his heart aching from how much love he was feeling, at this little family that was his. "it better be," he says, ducking down to kiss your cheek. "or i'll bench her when she joins my baseball team."

thankfully, she says dada a week later

dividers by the lovely @zclhs

please enjoy dad!steve, it made me way too broody 🥹🥹 made this in my drafts for a while and wanted to give it some love!

You nod, though you knew simply ignoring the stares would prove to be much more difficult than it appeared. You could feel the glares from the cheer squad as you past by, all glaring at you as though you had personally wronged them. You could hear the snickers from the football team—laughter from Steve’s own friends. All of it made something bubble uncomfortably in your gut and you were beginning to wonder if you had made the right decision in saying yes to Steve asking you to prom.

Steve seems to sense your uncomfortableness—or maybe he too is hearing the whispers. The laughter. Maybe he too feels the eyes of every senior at Hawkins High on the two of you as you make it over to the drinks table.

His hand moves, not to pull away like part of you feared he would, but to pull you a little closer. The gesture makes your face feel warm. Makes you heart beat that little bit faster. Makes the cheer team look at you as though they wanted to skin you alive.

“Ignore them,” Steve repeats, whispering the words right in your ear before he pulls away slightly to grab you both a drink.

You try to let the words sink in—to ignore the whispers and the shameless staring. But it was hard, you weren’t used to it. You hadn’t even planned to turn up to prom but here you were—at your senior prom with Steve Harrington.

You sip your drink—some fruity punch that wasn’t yet spiked as you keep your eyes on Steve instead of the people ogling the pair of you.

He looked handsome. Devastatingly so. You wondered for a few moments if he would be crowned Prom King. The thought made your stomach turn—you imagined him going up without you. Stacy Parker would probably win Prom Queen. You couldn’t even be mad about it. Stacy was nice—not fake nice but genuinely nice.

As if being able to read your thoughts, Steve smiles at you after taking a few sips of his own drinks.

“Don’t worry, if I win—it’ll only be you I’m going to dance with.”

The admission makes your face feel warmer than it already did.

You weren’t exactly sure how on earth you had won the affections of Steve Harrington. You hadn’t even been trying—hadn’t even thought it was a possibility.

But he had asked you one day in the library. You had been so surprised that you said yes without giving it much thought. You had worried it was a joke, a prank maybe. But then he kept turning up to the library. Kept sitting at your table in the seat beside yours. He had asked you about your dress—what colour it was. When you told him it was purple, he had smiled and told you purple would look great on you. And then—a few days later he had turned up to the library with five purple ties, all different colour variations and had asked you which would best go with your dress. He had asked you with flushed cheeks and the tips of his ears turning red. The sight had been so deeply endearing that you found any doubts you had about his intentions slip away.

“I’m not much of a dancer,” you tell him quietly but Steve just smiles at you—carefully prying the cup of barely drank punch from your hands so he can take it firmly in his, his own cup abandoned on the refreshment table.

"Neither am I," he tells you before he starts to pull you towards the dancefloor.

You feel your face burn, panic rising in your chest.

"Steve—wait—"

But he's already pulled you right into the middle of the dancefloor. Time After Time by Cyndi Lauper plays and you feel your brain turn to mush as Steve places his hands on your waist. You feel so flustered that your arms remain pathetically at your sides—until Steve himself guides you to wrap them around his neck before his hands return to their home on your waist—an inch or so lower than before. A fact that makes your heart beat out of your chest.

Five songs in and you're starting to have a good time—a genuine good time. You start to forgot about everyone else. About the people who were still whispering about you and Steve. About the people who didn't get why Steve Harrington had walked in with the girl who blended into every crowd she found herself in.

Steve excused himself to go to the toilet. You smiled and told him you would find a table so you could rest before you threw yourself back into dancing. But as soon as you sat down on an empty table—Tommy and Carol found you.

"So, tell me Mouse—what did you offer Harrington to get him to take you to prom?" Carol asks you.

Mouse—that's what people called you. Because you were so quiet. It made your throat feel tight. You usually didn’t mind the nickname but the way Carol had said it—

"N-nothing," you tell her. "He asked me—"

"—bullshit," Tommy cuts in. "No way is Steve going to prom with you unless you're putting out."

Your breath hitches and you feel your stomach drop at Tommy's words.

Carol—the ‘sweetheart’ of Hawkins High—laughs at Tommy's words and your flustered expression and continues with her boyfriend's torment.

"She wouldn't even know what she's doing," she says loudly, apparently not caring who heard. Or maybe, she wanted people to hear. You had a feeling it was the latter. "Probably going to need a how to book before she—"

You don't stick around to hear the rest—because the tightness in your throat and tears in your eyes told you to run. So you do.

"Bye Mouse!" Tommy calls after you cruelly as you push past body after body to get to the nearest exit.

You could hear people laughing—laughing at your tears. At you rushing out of the gymnasium to get away from Tommy and Carol.

The cool spring air feels welcoming after the stuffiness of the gym. But you don't want to focus on that right now—too busy wiping away your tears as you head towards the gazebo that was typically used for band practise. But for prom night, it had been adorned with warm and glittering fairy lights. You take a moment or so to appreciate its beauty before sniffling and sitting down on one of the benches inside.

Though you were borderline invisible at school—no one had ever really been outright mean to you. People called you Mouse but it had never sounded cruel until Tommy and Carol had said it. Embarrassment is burning deep in your gut and you wondered briefly if Steve would come looking for you. A large part of you hoped he wouldn't.

But just as you had calmed down enough that tears had stopped flowing—you hear quick footsteps sounding up the path that lead to the gazebo.

You turn and—sure enough—Steve Harrington was racing up the path towards you.

He calls your name as he skids to a halt before jogging up the stairs. "Hey—Pete told me what Tommy and Carol said to you and—god, I'm so sorry. Don't listen to them—"

He doesn't hesitate as he takes the seat on the bench beside you. He doesn't hesitate before he takes your hands in his.

"I—yeah, um, I just needed some fresh air," you lie.

Steve doesn't believe it. You know he doesn't. You don’t blame him.

You hear him swallow before you feel his hand on your cheek. You feel him gently tilt your head back so he could look at your face—look at the tear tracks down your cheeks, at the smudge of your mascara, at your red rimmed eyes. You see something in his eyes then, see how his jaw tenses and grip on your face tighten for the briefest of seconds before he appears to collect himself. His focus shifting determinedly back to you.

"They're full of shit," he tells you firmly. "I don't expect anything from you. I asked you to prom because I wanted to. That's it. I promise you."

"I know," you say quietly. "I just—I don't like people talking about me or looking at me or—"

"Hey," Steve says gently, both hands now cupping your face so you couldn't look away from him. "It's just me. Only I'm looking at you now, yeah?"

You look back at him—at his big brown eyes that you found yourself wanting to get lost in—before you start to smile a little. "Yeah," you murmur quietly. "Just you."

Steve smiles back at you and you feel a tinge of disappointment when his hands drop from your face. But then his fingers are lacing with yours as he stands up.

"C'mon," he says as he gives a gentle tug on your hand. "I wanna dance with my prom date."

Your face feels hot again as you allow him to pull you up to your feet. His hands falling back on your waist and your arms hesitantly wrapping around his neck.

"This is silly," you murmur, your body feeling funny things from the close proximity. "There's not even any music."

"I can help with that," Steve says with a wry smile as he spins you out dramatically. You laugh loudly as he pulls you back in and then—Steve Harrington starts to sing to you.

"I feel so unsure, as I take your hand and lead you to the dance floor—"

"—are you really singing Careless Whisper?"

"As the music dies, something in your eyes, calls to mind a silver screen and all its sad goodbyes—"

"—okay, you can stop now—"

"I'm never gonna dance again, guilty feet have got no rhythm—"

You're smiling so hard it hurts as you slap your hand over his mouth to try and stop him—but he continues, the words muffled against your palm. The absurdity of it makes you laugh so hard that you're not even thinking about Tommy and Carol anymore. Not thinking about the people who had laughed at you.

All you could think about was the guy still singing Careless Whisper to you.

Inside—King Steve was announced Prom King. But outside—Steve Harrington was dancing with you as though there was nowhere else he would rather be.

dividers by @cursed-carmine

🪩 changing up the theme for blurbs a little! also since so many people loved the quiet girl, i decided to make it a continuous series/blurb collection. it won’t have a set storyline so you can dip in and out

also i am british, not american so i don't actually know much about proms (idek what punch actually is lmao) so if i got the time of year wrong i'm sorry!

also is the gazebo lowkey inspired by a cinderella story?? maybe