— you spend months thinking steve harrington is just being nice because that’s who he is. turns out he’s been in love with you the entire time and literally signs up for tutoring, memorizes your favorite books, and color-matches his tie to your dress just for the chance to sit across from you.
👔 5.0k — steve harrington x fem!reader, fluff with a side of yearning, nerd!reader, oblivious girl genius x pathetic yearner boy, peer tutoring as a love language, steve matching his tie to your dress like a loser ( affectionate ), memorizing her favorite authors to impress her, mutual pining so obvious it hurts, everyone knows except you, happy fluffy fix-it ending
request — [ @g0lden-sky ] hii, my lovely! i humbly propose a steve harrington request because i am in love with the jock x nerd trope! except it's king steve harrington being completely and utterly in love with nerd reader and she just doesn't even realize until he has to spell it out for her 😭 and she's just like "huh? so you didn't match your snowball tie to my dress on accident?" stuff like that 🥺 i think it's so cute and funny!!
author's note — literally got a toothache writing this. eek thank you thank you so much for the request, sky, this is easily one of the cutest things i've ever written. i hope you all love it !
masterlist : navigation
gif by @sakura-haruka | divider by @/lavendergalactic
No one expected Steve Harrington, the self-appointed King of Hawkins High with his stupidly perfect hair and his stupidly perfect smile and his stupidly perfect life, to fall in love with you.
Not Tommy, who swore Steve didn’t even know how to spell the word “homework.” Not Carol, who said you were “cute in a studious way” like that explained anything. Not the basketball team, not the cheer squad, not even the teachers who still looked at Steve like he was one bad mistake away from detention.
And definitely not you.
But Steve was. Hopelessly. Embarrassingly. Down-bad in a way that would’ve ruined his reputation if he hadn’t already stopped caring about that months ago.
Because when you walked down the hallway with your arms full of books, chin tucked, lips moving silently while you memorized something under your breath, Steve forgot how to breathe. When you pushed your glasses up with your knuckle and frowned at a problem on your worksheet, he felt this weird ache in his chest like he wanted to fix it for you even though he didn’t understand half the stuff you studied. And when you laughed, he looked at you like you’d just invented happiness.
He was even worse at hiding it.
God, he was awful.
He bought strawberry milk from the cafeteria even though he hated strawberry milk, just because he’d once overheard you telling Nancy it was your favorite. He’d volunteer to run errands for teachers if it meant he might accidentally bump into you between classes.
He held doors open for you even when you were twenty feet away and then just stood there waiting like an idiot. He memorized your schedule 'by accident' and somehow always ended up near your locker. He started hanging around Mr. Clarke’s classroom after school even though science made his brain hurt, just because you were there.
He’d stare during lunch, chin in his hand, smiling like a complete loser while you rambled about scholarships and college applications and how you couldn’t wait to see the world outside Hawkins.
Tommy caught him once and snapped his fingers in his face. “You’re doing the heart-eyes thing again.”
“The what?”
“The pathetic, princess-in-love look. It’s disgusting. I need you to get it together.”
He didn’t get it together.
If anything, he got worse.
The whole school knew. The way he lit up when you waved at him like you waved at everyone else. The way he’d drop whatever he was doing if you so much as looked like you needed help.
Everyone knew.
Except you.
You, apparently, were immune to the obvious because in your head, Steve Harrington was just. . . Steve Harrington. Popular. Nice, lately. Weirdly friendly. Probably like that with everyone.
You never noticed how his entire world tilted toward you.
You had bigger things to think about.
Like getting out of Hawkins.
Mr. Clarke had stopped you after class a week ago, papers tucked under his arm, glasses sliding down his nose. He’d cleared his throat in that hopeful way teachers did when they were about to ask for a favor.
“I’m starting a peer tutoring program,” he’d said. “Colleges love community involvement. It would look very good on scholarship applications.”
You’d said yes before he even finished the sentence.
Anything that helped you leave.
You didn’t hate Hawkins. It just never felt like it belonged to you. It felt small, like a sweater that shrank in the wash. Your dreams didn’t fit here. You wanted big libraries and campus buildings covered in ivy and lecture halls and cities where no one knew your last name.
Your family supported you completely. Your mom already saved college brochures in a neat stack on the kitchen counter. Your dad bragged about you to the neighbors like you’d already made it.
Leaving didn’t feel sad.
It felt necessary.
So you signed up to tutor, figuring maybe a freshman or two would show up for help with algebra or biology. Maybe no one at all. You wouldn’t have blamed them.
Which is why, when you walked into the library after school and followed the little handwritten sign that said PEER TUTORING →, you weren’t prepared to see Steve Harrington sitting at one of the tables.
Waiting.
For you.
For a second, you genuinely thought you’d walked into the wrong place.
Steve didn’t belong here. The late sunlight through the windows caught in his hair, turning it gold, and he looked so out of place it almost made you laugh.
Then he saw you.
And his whole face changed like someone had flipped a switch inside him. He sat up straighter so fast he almost knocked his chair over.
“Hey,” he said, a little breathless, like he’d run here. “Hi. You’re— uh. You’re the tutor, right?”
“. . . Yeah,” you said slowly, adjusting the strap of your bag. “Are you lost?”
His heart actually stuttered.
Lost. God. If only you knew.
“I mean,” you added quickly, “this is the tutoring area. If you’re looking for the magazines or—”
“No,” he said too fast. “No, I’m supposed to be here. I signed up. For tutoring. With you. I mean— not with you specifically. I mean— I guess it is specifically. But like, academically. For school. Obviously.”
You blinked at him.
Steve Harrington. The guy who once asked if The Great Gatsby was a real person.
You stared at the neat pile of books in front of him.
“. . . You need tutoring?” you asked, genuinely confused.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Turns out if you don’t pay attention for, like, three years straight, stuff catches up with you.”
You laughed softly and that sound hit him straight in the chest.
God. He’d do anything to hear that again.
“Oh,” you said, pulling out the chair across from him. “Yeah, that makes sense. Don’t worry, I’m pretty good at explaining things. What do you need help with?”
Everything, he almost said.
But not the homework.
He needed help with how you were sitting across from him, sleeves pushed up, pen tucked behind your ear, already focuse like this was the most important thing in the world. He needed help with how you bit your lip when you concentrated. How you leaned closer to his side of the table without even realizing it.
Instead, he slid the biology book toward you with slightly shaky hands.
“Cells,” he said. “They’re. . . confusing.”
You smiled at him like this was totally normal. Like he was just another student.
And Steve swore he’d never wanted to be anything more and anything less at the same time.
“Okay,” you said. “We’ll start easy.”
Easy. Right.
Except nothing about this was easy for him.
Because every time your fingers brushed his while passing a pencil, his brain short-circuited. Every time you leaned over to point something out, your shoulder bumping his, he forgot what planet he was on. He nodded along to explanations he barely heard because he was too busy staring at your mouth forming the words.
You thought he was struggling with science.
He was struggling with you.
“You’re actually catching on pretty fast,” you said after a while, surprised. “You’re not as bad at this as you think.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You’re trying. That’s, like, ninety percent of it.”
Trying.
If you only knew.
He’d rearranged his entire schedule to be here. Asked Tommy to quiz him the night before so he wouldn’t look completely clueless. He’d even read the first two chapters so you wouldn’t think he was hopeless.
All because you were here.
Because the idea of you leaving Hawkins one day, chasing some big, shiny future, while he stayed behind. . . it twisted something ugly in his chest.
He wanted you to fly.
He just selfishly wished he could go with you.
“You know,” you said absently, scribbling notes for him, “I didn’t think anyone would actually sign up for this.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” you said with a little laugh. “But I’m glad you did. It’s nice helping someone.”
He swallowed.
“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”
You kept talking and Steve just. . . stared.
Not in a creepy way. Not on purpose.
He just couldn’t help it.
You had this little crease between your brows when you concentrated. You explained things with your hands, fingers tapping the table, drawing invisible diagrams in the air, and every time you leaned closer to underline something in his book, your shoulder brushed his and his brain turned to static.
He tried, really tried, to look at the page.
Cell membrane. Cytoplasm. Nucleus.
None of it stuck. All he could think about was how close you were.
“Okay,” you said, tapping the paper, “so think of the cell like a tiny city. The nucleus is like the mayor’s office. It controls everything. Does that make sense?”
Steve blinked.
You were looking at him so earnestly, waiting for his answer.
“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Yeah, that actually. . . helps. A lot.”
Your face lit up, proud and pleased. “See? I told you. You’re not bad at this.”
God.
He thought, distantly, that this had to be some kind of cosmic joke. Hawkins High’s former golden boy reduced to putty because you told him he understood a metaphor.
Pathetic.
He’d fought monsters. Literally. And this, this tiny smile from you, was what took him out.
You kept teaching, and he kept pretending to follow along, nodding at the right times, scribbling down notes you handed him. But half the time he was just memorizing you instead. The soft little “okay” you said when he got something right.
By the time the session ended, his chest hurt. Not in a bad way. Just. . . full. Like he’d swallowed too much feeling and didn’t know where to put it.
“Same time tomorrow?” you asked, packing your bag.
He tried not to sound too eager. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be great.”
Great. Like this wasn’t going to be the highlight of his entire day.
The week after that, something was different. You didn’t notice it at first because you were busy, always busy but Steve Harrington started showing up in your life.
The first time, you were juggling way too many textbooks outside your locker, stack wobbling dangerously, and before you could even adjust your grip, a pair of familiar hands reached out and took half the weight.
“I got it,” Steve said.
“Oh— thanks,” you said, surprised. “You don’t have to—”
“It’s fine. I’m strong. Carrying books is kind of my thing.”
You knew it was not but you laughed, and he swore he’d carry the entire library if it meant hearing that again.
Then you started noticing him at your debate competitions, leaning awkwardly against the back wall of the classroom, pretending he was just “walking by” even though debate club met on the opposite side of the school from literally everything he did. Every time you looked up mid-argument, there he was, watching you like you’d hung the moon, clapping a little too hard when you finished.
In class, he’d somehow snag the seat next to you before anyone else could, sliding into it with an almost shy, “This taken?” even though he knew you’d never say no. He’d save you a chair at lunch, push it out with his foot like it was nothing, cheeks pink when you thanked him like he’d done something special.
And the tutoring sessions. God, the tutoring sessions.
He started getting good. Like, actually good.
He showed up having already read the chapters. He remembered things you’d explained days ago. Once, he even corrected himself mid-problem and you just stared at him like he’d grown a second head.
“Wait,” you said, leaning closer to check his work, “this is right. Steve, this is completely right.”
“Yeah?” he asked, trying to sound casual, failing miserably.
“Yeah. That’s really good. Good job, Steve.”
Good job, Steve. It was such a normal thing to say.
You said it the same way you’d say it to anyone else. But to him, it felt like you’d reached into his chest and squeezed his heart. He actually stopped breathing for a second.
Heat crawled up his neck, ears burning, stomach flipping stupidly like he was thirteen again.
“Oh. Uh. Thanks,” he muttered, staring very hard at the paper so you wouldn’t see the way his smile went soft and helpless.
You didn’t notice, just kept going, already onto the next question.
He thought, distantly, that if you ever said you were proud of him, he might actually die on the spot.
He thought about asking you out a hundred times.
Every single session.
When you leaned over him to point at a diagram. When your knees bumped under the table. When you smiled and told him he was improving. When you got excited explaining something and grabbed his sleeve without thinking.
The words sat on the tip of his tongue.
Do you maybe want to get coffee sometime?
Do you want to go to the movies?
Do you want to go out with me?
But then he’d look at you talking about scholarships and universities and all the places you were going to go, all the things you were going to be, and something scared inside him would whisper, She’s out of your league.
You were brilliant. The kind of person teachers wrote recommendation letters for without being asked.
He was. . . Steve.
Former jerk. Former king. Current disaster with questionable grades.
Even if no one else believed it, even if the whole school thought you were lucky to have him hovering around, Steve secretly thought the opposite.
He felt lucky you even talked to him.
So instead of asking you out, he did the only thing he knew how to do.
He tried harder.
He memorized your favorite authors after overhearing you talk about them with Nancy, went home and borrowed the books from the library just so he’d have something to say. He stayed up reading half-asleep, underlining sentences he thought you’d like. The next day, he’d casually drop, “Oh, yeah, I started that book you mentioned,” like it was no big deal while internally panicking.
Your face would light up every time. “Wait, really? You’re reading that?”
“Yeah,” he’d shrug. “It’s pretty good.”
You smiled at him, completely oblivious, and launched into a ten-minute rant about the book and he listened like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.
And Steve sat there every single day thinking the same hopeless, aching thought. If he was brave enough, maybe one day you’d finally see what everyone else already did.
How completely, ridiculously, stupidly in love with you he was.
The opportunity came wrapped in cheap tinsel and paper snowflakes taped crookedly to the hallway ceiling.
You were hunched over the library table with Steve again, pencil tapping against your lip while you explained balancing equations for what felt like the fifteenth time, when the intercom crackled to life with some overly cheerful announcement about the Snowball Dance.
You barely registered it beyond a vague mental note that the gym would be unusable for the next week because student council would inevitably turn it into a dance zone.
Steve, on the other hand, heard the words Snowball Dance and nearly swallowed his tongue.
He tried to act normal, nodding along while you talked, but his brain had completely abandoned chemistry and latched onto one thought like a dog with a bone.
Dance.
Dance meant dates.
Dates meant asking someone.
Which meant maybe, possibly, if the universe was feeling merciful, he could finally ask you. His palms started sweating so bad he had to wipe them on his jeans.
You didn’t notice. You were busy drawing little diagrams and saying, “See? You just move the coefficient here.”
When the session ended, you both started packing up, you sliding your color-coded notes into neat folders, him shoving books into his bag with way too much nervous energy, when a familiar voice drifted over.
“Well, if it isn’t my two favorite nerds.”
Nancy.
You looked up immediately, smiling. “Hey.”
Nancy leaned against the table, eyes flicking between the two of you in a way that felt suspiciously knowing. “I was actually looking for you,” she said to you. “What are you wearing to the dance?”
You blinked. “The dance?”
“The Snowball,” she said patiently. “This weekend. You are going, right?”
“Oh. Uh, yeah. I think so. My mom found this amazing blue dress in the back of her closet. It’s kind of old, but it’s nice.” You shrugged, like it didn’t matter.
“And who are you going with?” Nancy pressed, way too casually.
You laughed. “No one? I mean, I’m not entirely sure anyone’s even going to ask me, so I’ll probably just show up and hover near the snack table or something. It’s fine. I mostly just want the extra credit for attendance.”
Steve felt like someone had just set off fireworks inside his ribcage.
Nancy’s gaze slid to him slowly and then she gave him the look.
It was long and pointed and screamed, If you don’t ask her out right now, I will personally strangle you, Harrington.
Steve panicked.
Nancy patted your arm. “Well, you’ll look pretty no matter what,” she said. “Jonathan’s dragging me, so at least we’ll all suffer together.”
You smiled. “Have fun.”
She shot Steve one last sharp stare before walking away.
The silence that followed felt deafening.
Steve’s heart was beating so hard he was convinced you could hear it. You were still organizing your bag, completely unaware that this was possibly the most stressful moment of his entire life.
Just ask her.
It’s not that hard.
It’s literally just words.
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
He closed it.
Tried again.
“So,” he started, voice cracking like a middle schooler’s. He cleared his throat. “So. Uh. The dance.”
“Yeah?” you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder.
“You said you didn’t have a date.”
“Yeah,” you said. “It’s fine though. I’m not super big on dances anyway.”
Right. Cool. This was fine. He was dying.
“Well,” he rushed out, words tripping over each other, “maybe you. . . I mean— if you wanted we could, uh, like go together? If you want. Totally cool if you don’t. I just thought, you know, since we’re already tutoring and yeah.”
He wanted the floor to swallow him whole.
You just stared at him for a second. Then you smiled. Like he’d just offered you something nice and simple and not the entire fragile state of his heart.
“I’d like that,” you said. “Yeah. I’ll go with you, Steve.”
He stopped breathing.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you laughed. “I mean, you’re basically the only person I talk to after school anyway. Might as well.”
Might as well.
It shouldn’t have made him that happy.
But it did. It really, really did.
The days leading up to the dance were unbearable for everyone around him.
Because Steve would not shut up.
He talked about it constantly. At his locker. In the hallway. During lunch. To Tommy H. and Carol. To random freshmen. To literally anyone who made eye contact for longer than two seconds.
“Do you think blue is, like, a flower color? Should I get her a flower? Is that too much? Do girls still like flowers? What if she hates flowers? Oh my god, what if she hates dancing—”
“You’ve been on actual dates before,” Carol groaned. “Why are you acting like this is your first crush ever?”
“Because it kind of is,” Tommy muttered, annoyed. “He’s gone full loser. It’s painful to watch.”
Steve didn’t even argue. He just grinned like an idiot and kept talking about you.
They were sick of it but he couldn’t help it. He felt like his life was about to start.
When the night finally came, everything felt. . . good.
And then you walked in and you looked like the only thing in the room that mattered.
Steve forgot every single word he’d ever learned.
You smiled when you saw him, waving a little.
“Hey.”
The night blurred after that. He held your hand during slow songs. You talked in the corner about everything and nothing, about college applications and your favorite books and stupid childhood stories. He told you things he didn’t tell anyone, about feeling lost sometimes, about not knowing what came after high school, about being scared of messing up.
You listened and for the first time, Steve felt seen.
You laughed together, danced badly together, shared terrible punch and even worse cookies. At one point your head tipped back when you laughed and he thought, distantly, If this is all I ever get, it’s enough.
Walking you home felt like the end of a movie. His heart was so full it almost hurt.
At your doorstep, you turned to him, smiling, cheeks flushed from the cold.
“Thanks for tonight,” you said softly.
“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
Then you leaned up and kissed his cheek.
His brain shut off completely. He thought he might actually pass out.
And then you smiled at him. “Thank you for being such a great friend, Steve.”
Friend.
It hit harder than anything else. Harder than a punch. Harder than rejection.
Friend.
His heart didn’t just drop. It shattered.
He stood there, frozen, mouth open, watching you disappear inside.
The door clicked shut.
He didn’t move. Just stood on your porch for ten whole minutes, staring at the wood grain, replaying everything in his head and feeling stupider with every second. Of course. Of course you only saw him as a friend. Why wouldn’t you? You were you. He was just some guy who needed tutoring and followed you around like a lost puppy. What made him think you’d ever look at him the way he looked at you?
He laughed once, bitter and quiet.
Idiot.
Absolute idiot.
But then something in his chest twisted, stubborn. If he walked away now, he’d regret it forever. So before he could talk himself out of it, he turned back and rang the doorbell again.
Please don’t be her parents.
Please don’t be her parents.
Please—
The door opened.
It was you.
Hair slightly messy, earrings gone, rings off which told him you were already winding down for the night.
“Steve?” you said. “Did you forget something?”
You stood there in the doorway looking at him like this was the most normal thing in the world, like boys didn’t usually show up on your porch ten minutes after dropping you off at midnight looking like they were about to either confess their love or throw up.
Your hair was half falling out of whatever you’d done to it for the dance, little pieces soft around your face, earrings gone, makeup smudged just enough to make you look real and tired and warm instead of polished and perfect. You had on an old sweater, sleeves too long, swallowing your hands, and Steve thought, distantly, that this version of you might actually kill him faster than the dress did.
“Steve?” you asked again, gentler this time. “Are you okay?”
He opened his mouth.
Nothing.
Closed it.
His brain was screaming at him to abort mission, go home, save whatever dignity he had left, but his heart was louder, pounding so hard he swore you could probably see it through his shirt.
“I— yeah. I mean. No. I don’t know,” he said, running a hand through his hair, messing it up for once. “Can we— can we talk for a second?”
Your brows pulled together immediately, worried. You stepped out onto the porch and closed the door softly behind you so you wouldn’t wake your parents.
“Of course. What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
Yeah, he thought. I fell in love with you and you called me your friend and now I feel like I got hit by a truck.
Instead, he just looked at you.
God.
You were looking at him like you cared.
Like you were already bracing to help him.
It made everything worse and better at the same time.
“I just—” He exhaled hard, hands on his hips, pacing once like he was about to give a presentation. “When you said that thing earlier. The friend thing.”
You tilted your head. “What thing?”
“When you said thanks for being such a great friend,” he said.
“Oh.” You smiled a little. “Yeah. Because you are. You’ve been really sweet lately, Steve. Like, really sweet. You didn’t have to come to my debate stuff or help me carry books or—”
“That’s the thing,” he blurted.
You stopped.
He looked at you like he was about to jump off a cliff.
“I don’t do this for my friends, okay?” he said. “I don’t match ties and memorize your stupid study schedule and wait outside tutoring for forty minutes just to walk you there for my friends.”
You blinked.
“. . . You wait outside tutoring?”
“Yeah,” he said helplessly. “All the time. Because you always show up early and I didn’t want you sitting alone.”
Your brain stalled.
“I don’t read Jane Austen and whatever that other one is— Brontë?— for my friends. I don’t buy strawberry milk when it’s disgusting just because you like it. I don’t sign up for tutoring I don’t even need just to sit across from someone for an hour for my friends.”
Your mouth fell open a little.
“. . . You hate strawberry milk?”
“It’s terrible,” he said immediately. “I don't get how you drink it.”
You stared at him. “Huh,” you said faintly. “So you didn’t match your Snowball tie to my dress on accident?”
Steve froze.
“. . . You noticed that?”
“It was literally the exact same shade of blue,” you said. “I thought it was a coincidence.”
He let out this small, broken laugh and covered his face with his hand. “Oh my god. I spent two hours at the store trying to match it. Nancy almost killed me.”
“Oh,” you breathed.
Oh.
All those times he showed up. All those little things. The books. The seat saving. The tutoring. The way he looked at you like you were saying something important even when you were just rambling about mitochondria.
Your stomach flipped.
Steve dropped his hand and looked at you again, eyes wide and terrified and so soft it made your chest ache.
“I like you,” he said, finally, simply, like it cost him everything. “Not like a friend. Not even a little. I’ve liked you for months. I just— I didn’t think you’d ever look at me like that. You’re. . . you’re you. And I’m just me.”
You frowned immediately. “Steve.”
“No, let me finish before I pass out,” he rushed. “I just needed you to know. Even if you don’t feel the same. I just— I couldn’t go home with you thinking I was doing all this because I’m nice. I’m not that nice. I’m selfish. I do it because I want to be around you all the time. Because you’re my favorite person. Because when you talk about leaving Hawkins, it freaks me out because I can’t picture this place without you in it.”
Your heart was beating so loud you could hear it in your ears.
He swallowed.
“So yeah. That’s it. I like you. A lot. Like, embarrassingly a lot.”
For a second, neither of you said anything.
And then you stepped closer.
Steve immediately tensed like you were about to reject him and he was bracing for impact.
Instead, you reached out and grabbed the front of his jacket.
He short-circuited.
“Steve Harrington,” you said slowly, “you absolute idiot.”
His heart dropped. “Oh.”
“I thought you were just being nice,” you continued. “I thought you felt bad for me or something. I didn’t think. . . I mean, why would I think you liked me?”
He stared at you. “Why wouldn’t you?”
You gestured vaguely at yourself. “I’m me. I carry six books at all times and talk about scholarships for fun.”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Exactly.”
Your throat tightened.
“Oh,” you whispered.
Oh.
The way he looked at you suddenly made sense.
Everything did.
You laughed a little, shaky and fond. “Steve, you’re such a dork.”
He smiled nervously. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve been told.”
“But,” you said, stepping even closer, “for the record. . . I don’t go to dances with just friends either.”
His brain stopped working.
“. . . What?”
“I said,” you murmured, cheeks warm, “I wouldn’t have gone with you if I didn’t like you too.”
The hope that lit up his face was so bright it almost hurt to look at.
“Wait. Really?”
“Really.”
“Like. . . like like me?”
You rolled your eyes, smiling. “Yes, Steve. Like like you. You’re cute. And you carry my books. And you listen to me talk about boring stuff without falling asleep. That’s basically marriage material.”
He laughed, breathless, disbelieving.
“You’re serious?”
“Steve,” you said softly, “I’ve liked you for a while. I just thought you were out of my league.”
He stared at you like you’d just told him the sky was purple.
“Out of— are you insane?”
You both laughed, nervous and giddy and a little overwhelmed.
And then you were just. . . standing there.
Close.
Really close.
His hands hovered awkwardly at your waist like he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch you.
You noticed. So you took pity on him and slid your hands up into his jacket, gripping the fabric.
His breath hitched.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked, like it was the most fragile question in the world.
You smiled.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “You can.”
He leaned in slow, like he was scared you’d disappear if he moved too fast, one hand cupping your cheek so gently it made your chest ache. His lips brushed yours soft.
When you pulled back, you were both smiling like idiots, foreheads touching, noses bumping.
Steve let out a quiet, shaky laugh. “So. . . not just friends?”
You smiled, kissing him again. “Definitely not just friends.”
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Steve harrington x fem!reader, 1.8k words, Steve is an adorable loser for his gf <3
summary: Everyone loves Steve's girlfriend, but he just wants a little bit of your attention for himself. Is that so bad?
It starts, as many things do, with Dustin Henderson.
You’re curled on the corner of Steve’s couch, your legs tucked under his thigh while he flicks through TV channels. The doorbell rings, and before Steve can even mutter “I’m not home,” the door swings open.
“Hey, is she— oh, there you are!” Dustin beams, dropping his backpack with a thud. "Hi!"
"Hi," you say back, grinning up at him, happy to see him.
He mirrors your smile. “Okay, so I need a second opinion on the naming convention for my new campaign NPC. ‘Zargoth the Destroyer’ or ‘Lord Malador of the Shadowed Vale’?"
"Hmmm, I like Zargoth better. It's more intimidating. Plus, short and sweet, you know what I mean?"
Steve stares, remote dangling from his fingers. “Henderson. My house. A ‘hello’ would be nice. An appointment would be better.”
Dustin waves a dismissive hand. “Hi, Steve. This is important.” He plops down on the floor in front of you, effectively blocking Steve from your line of sight.
It doesn’t stop there.
Two days later, you’re helping Steve sort a mountain of mismatched socks that have just come out of the laundry. Weirdly, it's somewhat of a bonding experience, doing laundry together.
Robin lets herself in, her eyes landing on you like a spotlight.
"Oh, thank God you're here," she breathes.
"Where else would I be?" you joke.
She plops down on the bed, messing up Steve's organised sock piles. He sighs.
“My date with Vickie. At Enzo’s. It’s tomorrow. It’s a real, sit-down, checkered-tablecloth kinda date."
You put down the polka dot socks you were holding to beam at her. "That's amazing, Robin! I know how much you were looking forward to that."
"It is amazing! But it's also a crisis!" She grabs your shoulders, her eyes wide. “What do I wear? Do I go cute? Do I go cool? Do I try for both and risk looking like I’m trying too hard? And my hair— can you braid it?"
Steve holds up two socks that are clearly not a match—one black, one navy. "Hello? We're doing laundry. We were in the zone."
Robin spares him a haphazard glance. "This is important, Dingus." She turns back to you. "Please, I need you. I'm vibrating."
You can't help but laugh. "Okay, okay. I like your outfit now. It's chic, but doesn't look like you're trying too hard. And I can totally braid your hair, but I think it might look better down? Light makeup I can help you with, maybe a little eyeliner on your waterline. I have one I think'd suit you, it's in the bathroom."
Robin tugs on your hand, pulling you up to stand. "You're a genius."
Steve watches, helpless, as you're swept upstairs in a whirlwind of pre-date panic, then back down at his socks. "They're both dark," he mumbles to himself.
The true test of his patience comes during a Friday night movie marathon in the Wheeler’s basement. You’re on the floor, leaned back comfortably between Steve’s knees, his fingers in your hair, scratching absently at your scalp. It’s perfect. It’s your spot.
The movie plays, and Steve is content, his world pleasantly narrowed to the familiar weight of you against him and the scent of your shampoo.
Then, Lucas slides over from his spot next to Mike. He looks desperate. "Hey," he whispers, his voice strained. "I need help. It's an emergency."
You tilt your head back to look up at Steve with an apologetic smile before turning your full attention to Lucas. "What's wrong?"
"I pointed out a zit on Max's face," he confesses in a horrified rush. "I wasn't trying to be mean! I just noticed it! I said, 'Is that a new zit?' and she... she hasn't spoken to me in two hours. She's just been giving me this death glare. What do I do? Do I apologise? Do I ignore it? Do I buy her nail polish? Is nail polish even an apology gift?"
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing, but your eyes are sympathetic. "Oh, Lucas. Okay. First, do not buy her nail polish. That implies you're paying way too much attention to her appearance, which is the problem. Buy her new skateboard bearings, she mentioned she needed some. And definitely apologize. Say, 'I'm sorry, that was a stupid thing to say.' Keep it simple."
Lucas nods frantically, absorbing the instructions like they're a military briefing. "Got it. Thanks." He scuttles back to his spot, already planning his approach.
Steve’s hand has stilled in your hair. You feel him take a slow, deep breath behind you.
Before you can settle back against him, you catch Max’s eye from across the room. She gestures subtly with her head towards Lucas and rolls her eyes, but you see the hurt in them.
You give her a small smile in acknowledgement. Mouth, 'he's sorry. He'll make it up to you.'
Then, Dustin’s head appears, blocking the TV. “Okay, one more question about the D&D character convention. If a—”
But Steve has had enough.
He leans down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. His voice is a low, soft murmur, tinged with a vulnerability that makes your heart clutch. “Hey, angel... can we get out of here?”
You twist to look up at him. In the flickering blue light of the TV, his expression isn’t annoyed. It’s wistful. A little tired.
“Yeah,” you whisper back instantly, without hesitation. “Of course.”
You gently extract yourself from his hold and stand up, reaching for your jacket. "We're gonna head out," you announce.
A chorus of groans erupts.
“What? Now?” Dustin whines.
"Yeah, I had a question to ask you!" Mike exclaims. "It's, like, life or death. I think the Chief's gonna kill me if I go see El again—"
“You can’t leave, I haven’t executed the apology protocol yet!” Lucas whisper-yells, panicked.
Steve opens his mouth, a familiar, defensive retort about how you’re not a UN negotiator clearly forming. But you step in before he can.
You smile, soft but firm, and slip your hand into Steve’s. “You guys’ll be fine,” you say, your tone gentle but leaving no room for debate. You turn your smile up to Steve, eyes warm. You give his hand a little squeeze. “I want some alone time with my boyfriend.”
The groans taper into scattered laughs. Max sends you a not very discreet thumbs up.
Steve looks down at you, warmth pooling in his chest. He gives you this look of such pure, dazed adoration it makes your heart skip. He doesn’t say a word. He just lifts your joined hands and presses a firm, grateful kiss to your knuckles, his eyes never leaving yours.
“You heard the lady,” he says to the room, his voice light and full of happy energy. “We’re off-duty. Emergencies will have to wait.”
He leads you up the basement stairs, the sounds of the movie and the kids’ renewed bickering fading behind you.
The second the Wheeler’s front door clicks shut, sealing you both in the cool, quiet dark of the porch, Steve stops. He turns, and in the soft glow of the porch light, his expression is completely unguarded—all soft eyes and a tender, wobbly smile.
“C’mere, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. He wraps his arms around you and sways gently on the spot, his cheek resting against your hair.
“My sweet, perfect girl,” he coos, the words a warm rumble against your temple. "You were so patient with them, solving everyone’s problems.”
He pulls back just far enough to cradle your face in his hands. His thumbs stroke over your cheekbones with a reverence that makes you feel dizzy.
He’s beaming at you, his eyes shining with so much affection it’s almost overwhelming. He leans in and peppers a flurry of soft, quick kisses all over your face—your forehead, your nose, each eyelid, your cheeks—murmuring between each one.
"My smart girl... giving everyone life advice... always being so kind and helpful and perfect..."
He finally lands on your lips, kissing you slow and deep, a kiss that tastes like gratitude and awe. When he breaks away, he’s breathless, his forehead resting against yours.
“I’m gonna melt into a puddle right here on Mrs. Wheeler’s porch,” he whispers, his voice hoarse with feeling. "The way you handle them all, and then you just… you turn those big, beautiful eyes on me and say that? In front of everyone?” He lets out a shaky laugh, his nose nuzzling against yours. “I’m done for. Completely done for.”
He hugs you again, squeezing you tight and lifting you just an inch off the ground. “C’mon, my love,” he says, "let's go to my place. I just want to look at you for a while. Is that okay? I just wanna hold my girl and look at her.”
You laugh, the sound full of softness and affection for your sweet, adorable boyfriend. "It's more than okay. Take me home, please, baby. I'm all yours."
A soft, almost wounded sound escapes him and he hugs you impossibly tighter for a second, his face buried in your neck. "Oh, my heart. You're gonna kill me. You're so perfect."
Steve finally lets you go, but only to take your hand, lacing your fingers together in a grip that feels reverent. He leads you to the car, opening the passenger door for you with a soft, "In you go, gorgeous."
The drive to his house is quiet, but the silence is thick with a new, syrupy sweetness. He keeps your hand in his lap, his thumb stroking incessantly over your knuckles when he's not changing gears.
"Just look at you," he murmurs at one red light, his free hand reaching over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "You're so beautiful. I can't believe you're mine."
"I am," you remind him softly, leaning into his touch.
"I know," he breathes, like it's the greatest mystery and miracle of his life at the same time, somehow. "I know, baby. And I'm never letting go."
Once home, he doesn't even turn on the main lights. He guides you to the living room couch by the faint glow from the kitchen. He sits down and pulls you into his lap, arranging you so you're sideways, your legs draped over his, your head tucked perfectly under his chin. He wraps both arms around you, letting out a long, contented sigh.
"Here we go," he whispers, his lips against your hair. "Right where I wanted you all night. Just my girl and me."
You hum, a soft, contented sound as you melt into his warmth, all the busy energy of the night finally draining away.
Steve presses a kiss to the crown of your head. "You must be so tired, sweet thing," he murmurs, his voice a low, soothing rumble in his chest. "Taking care of everyone all the time." His hand rubs slow, comforting circles on your back. "My sweet, exhausted angel."
He leans down, his lips brushing your ear. "But you know what?"
"Hmm?"
He tightens his arms around you. "It's okay," he murmurs. "You can help whoever you want, baby. 'Cos when you're done taking care of everyone else..." He presses a fond kiss into your hair. "I'll be right here taking care of you."
In which Steve is just trying to love his girlfriend but he forgot he asked for six children.
fem reader, bikini, make out, smut p in v at the end, language, not proof read
The first occurrence was on all accounts, an accident. An annoying one.
"What'd you say, movie, me, you, tonight?" Steve expressed his desire for a date night, leaning over the counter that was splattered with butter and a variation of soda's.
"Steve, baby, you do realise I work at the movie theatres?" you asked, boxing up popcorn for someone who had brought tickets.
"Yeah, and I work at family videos, still wanna see you."
You had to admit, with the both of you in between jobs and babysitting gigs you somehow always got roped into it had been hard to get alone time together. But date night at the place you worked wasn't your idea of magic.
But Steve had turned up, his family video vest still hanging on only half an hour or something after his shift because he wanted to spend a night with you.
It was also humanly impossible to say no to Steve. "Fine. Weekend at Bernie's is on tonight at seven and that's one I haven't actually seen yet."
"Perfect," he grinned. "I'll pick you up when you're done here, drop you off at yours so you can get ready then I'll pick you up for six-thirty."
"Steve, that's too much driving, I can get the bus back."
"The bus?" he gasped dramatically. "I'd never have my girl on a bus." Steve pushed himself over the counter, pecking your sweet and salty lips from the popcorn you swiped between customers.
So at seven on the dot the two of you were walking through the cinema. The perks of working there was the tickets and treats you got on discount that Steve still insisted on paying for. He had Reeses and Boppers while you had the largest box of popcorn that Steve wasn't even sure was an option for regular customers.
You settled into your seats in the rather packed cinema and Steve threw an arm around you as the previews started.
"See, this is nice," he uttered to you. "Just you and me, date night."
Even if this was a room you swept more than fives times a day even you could admit, it all felt different with Steve.
You laid your head back on his arm. "Yeah."
Steve admire you. "I love you."
His lips were as soft as always as they kissed you, not daring to go any further while sitting in the middle of the cinema. If it was the back row, on the other hand-
"Shit, shit, I can't see,"
"Dustin, just move,"
"I am, geez, I just paid for this popcorn I am not spilling it,"
"You're walking like a grandma,"
"Grandma Henderson is spry for her age, asshole!"
Steve's nose brushed yours as he pulled back, dread marking his features. "It can't be."
Your heart sank. "No."
"Holy shit, hey guys!" said Dustin Henderson.
There was a chorus of surprise from them all: Dustin, Lucas, Max and Will. They piled in, pushing and shoving each other on the row below you.
"Huh, what are the chances?" Dustin grinned.
Steve laughed through clenched teeth. "Ha ha, tell me about it."
Lucas frowned at you. "Hey, I thought you worked here."
"I do."
"So don't you see movies on shift? You know, for free?"
"Woah, genius, I hadn't thought about that."
Max rolled her eyes, tugging on Lucas's arm. "They're on a date, leave them alone."
"Oh- oh!" said Dustin in loud exclamation. He apologised to those around him. "Sorry, sorry. We'll just take our seats, don't worry, you two carry on, you won't even know we're here."
Steve and you were not convinced even before they sat down. They sat down right on front of the two of you, the curls of Dustin bouncing as he tried to situate himself with his large soda and even larger popcorn.
Lucas and Max were arguing over who sat where while Will took the seat on the end, quietly munching on his popcorn and watching the preview intently.
"He's my favourite kid," said Steve to you.
Dustin's head turned back. "Sorry, what were you saying?"
Steve pushed his head around. "I wasn't talking to you."
"Oh right, yeah," Dustin apologised. "Not even here, we're not even here."
The movie started and they seemed on their best behaviour for all of five minuets. It was really Steve that started it, un-able to stop himself when he saw Lucas yawn and dramatically stretch out his arms until one of the laid across Max's shoulders. He couldn't not lean in to tell you that was his move.
"It's a classic," he whispered to you. "I've taught all of them that but Lucas executes it flawlessly."
Lucas looked back to the two of you and Steve threw a very proud thumbs up.
The quiet of the cinema room was interrupted when Will opened a large pack of chips. A collective 'shh' came from every party in the room.
Will lit up in red. "Sorry," he whispered.
"Hey, Will," Dustin tried to call as quiet as possible which for Dustin was not quiet enough. Another round of 'shh' started. "Shh yourselves."
"Dustin," you lectured.
"What? I just want some chips!"
Will took some before passing along the bag, letting Lucas take a generous hand full before handing it over to Dustin. The crinkle of the bag as he dove in was louder than the movie.
Dustin turned around to the two of you. "Any for yourselves?"
"No," said Steve. "Turn around."
"Alright, alright, was just asking!"
The rest of the movie went more like that. A passing of snacks and whispers that led to glares from everyone trying to watch the film. Every time you and Steve tried to settle in with each other, his arm around your shoulder or you leaning into his side, Dustin would turn to look at the both of you, seeing if you guys were laughing at the right times or Lucas poking you in the knee to have some popcorn.
It turned into just a regular baby-sitting gig.
When the movie finished everyone seemed happy to be up from their seats.
The four were ahead of you and Steve, talking about their best parts and throwing the last of their snacks away.
"Can't escape them for two hours, huh?" said Steve, fingers entwining with yours as he swung your arms back and forth.
"No, I guess not."
"Hey," he tugged at your arm, stopping you. "I'm sorry about them, we'll get a quiet night, I promise. How about my place, Friday? My parents won't be home."
You grinned. "I guess it's a date."
Steve's lips curled up as he kissed you, hand sliding to the back of your neck to keep you there, his tongue sliding over your bottom lip practically begging for enterance-
"Ew, gross!" Will complained.
"Steve, c'mon!"
Max huffed. "Leave them alone!"
"Steve, can give us a lift home!"
Steve pulled away, his hand curling in on itself on the back of your neck but his thumb was still loose to sooth you. "Shitheads-"
You couldn't help but chuckle. For all the complaining he might give you knew Steve loved those kids like they were his own. Just as you did. You couldn't really be angry at them if you tried. "Take them home, I'll go see Stacy, she'll be finishing up. I'll hitch a ride with her."
"What? No, no, no what kind of boyfriend would I be? Those little a-holes can bike home," he said, hands running up and down your arms.
"Steve," you said. "You'll be a great boyfriend- and even better one- if you take them home. Please, for me." It never did sit right with you that the kids were fine biking home in the dark. What with all the monsters you've already faced.
Steve couldn't say no to you so he decided he wouldn't even try. "Okay, fine but take this-"
The kids awed and cooed as they watched Steve peel of his jacket and drape it over your shoulders.
You rolled your eyes. "Steve-"
"The walk to the car will be cold." He draw you in, pulling at his jacket to do so to kiss your popcorn lips.
"Steve!" Dustin yelled.
"I'm gonna kill him, I swear," your boyfriend mumbled against your lips. He pecked them once and fetched the keys from his pocket before pulling it closer around you. "Call me when you get home, I love you!" he called, trotting back to the kids.
"I love you!" you called after him.
Max turned back, winking. "Yeah, love you too!"
You held your middle finger up to her, with affection.
Lucas clasped his hands over his chest as Steve pushed the kids ahead. "Oh Steve, I love you so much, mwah mwah-"
Dustin and Will laughed, the former making obscene kissing noises while rubbing his arms up and down himself.
"Cut it out!" Steve whacked him on the back of the head.
Really, after all this time, should the kids have been surprised at how the two of you were?
The next Friday came around with sweltering heat. Steve had turned on all the fans he could in his house but he had something better.
A swimming pool.
You'd stripped to your bikini almost immediately, sliding into the water that instantly cooled your body while Steve was upstairs trying to find his trunks and if you knew him getting distracted by his hair in the mirror for an extra ten minutes.
You swam a lap or two before relaxing on the side, arms slung out and head tilted back, letting the droplets of water slide down your neck. The pool stilled, the sun beamed-
"Cannonball!"
Before you could react Steve bombed into the pool splashing you in the process and sending shock waves through the water.
"Steve!"
He popped back up to the surface, shaking his hair out like a dog and wiping down his face. "Oh, now that feels good!"
You laughed. "You're ridiculous."
Steve found you once all the water was out of his eyes, heading your way. "You're beautiful," he said, wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you in. "So beautiful, sexy-"
"Steve-" he kissed along your shoulder, playfully nipping at the skin.
"-mine."
You hummed when he kissed you eagerly, as if he hadn't greeted you the same way when you walked through the door. It had been a hassle enough to get to the pool without Steve un-dressing you then and there.
You wrapped your arms around his waist as Steve's hands cupped your backside, fingers digging into the flesh as if there were no bikini bottoms there. The two of you moved back through the water until you gently hit the wall of the pool.
You gasped at the feel of the tile.
Steve broke away at once. "You okay, baby?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." Your legs squeezed around him, bringing him in until his lips were on yours again, starving.
His hands sort out your back, travelling the expanse and toying with the straps of your bikini top-
When the sound of his backdoor closing alerted you both, followed by the sound of six voices struggling.
"I told you Steve would have ice, you didn't need to bring a bag!"
"Well shit Mike, it's for the cooler."
"Maybe Steve's got some beer for us?"
"He has nice wine," said Max. "y/n told me he has nice wine."
The two of you were still practically entwined at the edge of the pool.
"Please tell me I'm not gonna turn and see what I think I'm gonna see," said Steve, pulling away enough so you could hear him.
The kids, that being all of them, waved at the two of you when Steve turned to look.
Dustin was already throwing an inflatable bed thing into the pool while Max, El and Mike were setting down bags on the lounge chairs Steve had, Mike helping El out with lying out her towel.
"Lucas?" Max called over, clearly wondering if he was gonna make sure she was comfortable.
Lucas was already filling up water balloons with Will's help.
It was as if they hadn't even realised you and Steve were there... at his pool.
"Hey!" he yelled. "What the hell are you doing?"
Dustin grinned. "Hey Steve!"
The rest of them copied his grin at the two of you, waving and greeting you.
Stunned, you held your hand up in a wave.
"I repeat- what are you doing here?" Steve asked.
"You gave us a key!" said Dustin.
"Yeah, for emergencies!"
"This was an emergency!"
"What?" you asked, immediately jumping into action. You pushed yourself out the water, grabbing a towel that wasn't too far and started to dry yourself off. They were all too calm in the face of an 'emergency' "What emergency? Is everything ok?"
"No," said Lucas.
"Well what, what is it?"
"None of us have pools in our back yards."
You deflated.
"Are you serious?" asked Steve, sending a splash of water over to Lucas and Will.
"Hey."
"You can't just waltz in here and make yourselves at home!" argued Steve, reaching out to you to try and pull you back in the pool as you got to your feet.
"It's hot!" said Dustin.
"So hot," added Mike.
"And we needed to cool down!" said Max.
"We were almost dying," said El, "it was really sad."
You smirked to yourself, knowing that if Max and El pulled out the pouted lips and puppy dog eyes, he was done for. The girls were his weakness.
"Yeah... well..." Steve wasn't even trying to argue when he looked up at you.
The red bikini that framed your curves perfectly, the little droplets of water that slid down your body. He tracked each one doing down, rolling down your sternum and further down your legs-
"Steve!" yelled Dustin.
"Wh-what?" he reluctantly forced his gaze away from you to look at him.
Dustin gestured to the floaty that was drifting from him. "Hold it steady!"
"My god," he grumbled.
You had your towel, patting yourself down and sitting with Max and El as Mike went to join Lucas and Will's efforts. You sat with them in the shade.
"Nice suit," said Max. "Pretty sure Steve's eyes were about to jump out his sockets."
"Oh, ha ha," you rolled your eyes. "You guys got swim suits?"
El nodded. "We went shopping."
"Show me!"
Steve was, once again distracted by you. Sure, it was annoying not getting a spare second alone with you. Really he should have pulled you into his room and made it quick before getting in the pool. But the kids meant best... he hoped and the way you were with them, especially Max and El who deserved kindness more than most, warmed his heart.
He could just picture you with the children he hoped to have with you one day. The care that you had, the love. And of course the way of making babies was not lost on him-
"Okay, okay," said Dustin as he stood at the edge of the pool, clearly thinking of the best ways to get onto the float. "Hold it steady... hold it steady..."
"I'm holding- I'm holding it steady!" said Steve.
"Steady!" yelled Dustin.
Steve held it for him but at the last second- when he realised Dustin was going to jump on it- he moved it, sending Dustin crashing into the pool.
The group of them were left laughing as he broke through the water, paddling around. 'Shit! Shit!'
After that you and Steve got busy. It was summer break, so people wanted films all the time and ran Steve off his feet, his days dragging. By the time he picked you up from your shift (which he insisted on) he could sneak a kiss before dropping you off, or sometimes you'd stay with him but the two of you were always too tired for anything. A quiet meal, watch a show then go to bed to do it all again.
Any small moment was special, Steve just wished they'd last.
One day he was at work, fixing up messy shelves and updating the posters at the windows when the door opened.
"Hey Steve!" El and Max called, rushing to two different sections.
El to romance and comedy.
Max to action but Steve knew she'd watch any romance El wanted.
He smiled and was ready to greet them when you practically fell through the door next, arms overflowing with bags.
"Hey!" you smiled, breathless.
"Hey, hey," Steve was in front of you at once, kissing your cheeks and looking down at all the bags. "What's this? You finally moving in with me?"
"Girls day."
Girls day had ran you dry, clearly. You were leaning on the door, feet aching.
"Shopping, snacks and now a film," you said. "And I wanted to see you."
Steve grinned. "Well isn't that sweet." He kissed you deep and slow, dragging the moment out to last.
"Oh gag me!" Robin called from behind the counter. "Porno's are over there, people!"
El peeked up from a shelf. "What's a por-no?"
Max went red in the face, laughing wildly as she turned to you and Steve. "Yeah guys, what's a porno?"
Steve blushed and stuttered.
"Nothing, El, hurry up and get a movie, we need to catch the bus back."
Steve turned back to you. "Bus?"
"Not again," you rolled your eyes.
Steve didn't have an aversion to the bus. He had an aversion of you getting a bus when he could've been using that time to spend a few extra precious minutes with you. "No, no, tell you what, we're almost done here-"
"No we're not!" said Robin.
"Well, we'll close up and I can take you all back and we can all enjoy girls night, how about that?" he asked, inviting himself and Robin along.
Your cheeks ached with the smile Steve brough to you.
Max thought less so. "No, no, no, this is a girl's night, Steve. No boys allowed."
"Yeah, no boys," Said El, joining her friends side.
"Guys c'mon, it's Steve," you argued.
"I couldn't bring Mike," said El.
Steve cringed. "Mike's Mike."
El's brows furrowed in thought. "Mike is... Mike?"
You turned to Max, batting your lashes. "Please..."
Max didn't want to be the 'bad cop' but she also wanted a girls night. And perhaps she was worried, after all, besides Steve she didn't have that much of a positive out look on 'man'.
Lucas wasn't there yet.
Steve jutted out his bottom lip.
Max crossed her arms over her chest and looked away.
Steve knew Max, knew her well. It had come with the years of looking out for each of them. "Okay, how about I get us all a tub of each others favourites ice cream? Vanilla and sprinkles for El, Mint choc-ship for Robbin and strawberry for you?"
It worked a treat, you could practically see Max's body melting at the suggestion.
"Fine," she said, still feigning her annoyance. "But you don't get to pick the movie!" she said, rushing off.
Steve scoffed. "Please, I work with movies," he leant down to your ear. "I cannot watch pretty in pink again, please."
You shrugged as Steve's hands ghosted yours. "Tough luck, babe. That's what happens when you invite yourself to girls night."
He shrugged. "Just spend time with my girl, and hey, if you can't beat them, join 'em." His eyes wondered down to your lips before he kissed you again, slower.
"Earth to Dingus's!" called Robin. "You're blocking the door from actual customers!"
The two of you shuffled away from the door, abashed and apologising as a customer awkwardly made their way in.
"Okay, we've chosen," said Max as El signed out her movie with Robin. "So let's go!"
El joined Max's side after sliding the tape into one of your bags, leaving you stumbling with the bags.
Steve was conflicted. If he were with you he would have taken the bags from you in an instant but clearly you were carrying them for the girls so they would be free.
Max's eyes lit up in mischief. "Oh, if only you had a car, y/n. Then we wouldn't have to walk so far," she pouted.
"With such heavy bags," El added, eyes downcast.
You gave the girls a look but it wasn't enough to stop them.
Steve's eyes rolled and he dug into his pockets before you could tell him no. They had him wrapped around their finger. Never mind El could move things with her mind, she get Steve to do just about anything she wanted. Steve looked at you. "Take my car-"
"Thanks!" Max plucked the keys from him instantly, rushing out with El.
Steve followed her, poking his head out the store. "You're not driving!"
You chuckled and stood tall to peck Steve's cheek. "They have you whipped."
His eyes rolled, mocking you. "Drive safe."
And though Steve wished you could have stayed, or he could have gone with you, at least he'd wormed his way into 'girls night'.
Finally, Steve received the invite he was waiting for. Your family out of town, your house all alone... just you and him.
It wasn't like he'd never been alone in your home with you but it had certainly been so long. Your house was warmer than his, sign that a family might love you whereas his parents didn't know he was in another dimension half the time.
He had a little night bag in the back of the car for the weekend you would have together. Your favourite sweater of his, along with sweatpants and an extra pair of his clothes for you. Snacks, a film and.... a box of condoms. Steve had big plans.
He sped away from work, not even caring if he hadn't clocked out right and trusting Robin would correct it or berate him for it- either way it could wait. He drove quick through Hawkins but took roads that wouldn't take him by Lucas's house in case he got roped in giving Lucas or Erica a ride. He avoided town in case Mike and El had gone on a date and spotted him. At one point he saw a kid with curls on a bike and he swerved, trying to duck in case it was Dustin.
They were great kids. But the only thing greater than them was getting time alone with you.
Finally, after an extra half an hour de-tour of Hawkins he parked up in front of your house, checking over his shoulder in case one of them popped up.
Steve rattled his knuckles on the door.
It took a moment but you swung it open, breathless. "Hey!"
"Hey," Steve stepped in, hands on your shoulders and pecking your cheek. "I'm sorry I'm late, I took the long way, I didn't want to risk the kids-"
"They're here," you said.
Steve frowned. Was your family back? Was their a maintenance guy around. "What? Who's here?"
"The kids."
At your word there was a crash from your kitchen.
Your head whipped around. "Shit- shit-shit- no, no, no!"
Steve was hot on your heels.
Lucas and Dustin stood over a pie that now laid in pieces along with the dish it was in.
"Oh, come on!" Steve deflated against the wall with all his hopes and dreams.
"Sorry," said Lucas.
"It's fine," you sighed, reacting quickly when Dustin went to clean it. "Careful, you'll cut your hands!"
Steve surveyed the area. Max and Mike were having an argument about... well, with them it could have been anything. On the sofa Will was watching the film with El who painted her nails on the coffee table. "Are you serious right now?"
Dustin and Lucas went back to searching through your cupboards, assuming it's for a snack.
Steve knelt next to you, helping you clean the shards and crumbs up. "How did this happen?"
"I don't know," you whispered. "I knew El was coming around for some nail polish but I didn't think she'd bring Max and then Lucas followed her and he radioed Mike who was with Dustin and Will-"
"And you answered the door every time?"
"It was that or they break a window climbing in!"
"Y/n!" Max called.
Your head sagged but you quickly perked up when Max and Mike stood in front of you.
"Can you please tell Mike that Jean Grey is obviously more powerful than the Scarlet Witch!"
Mike spluttered. "What? Wanda Maximoff is literally a Nexus being and can warp the minds and reality around. She created children with nothing but her mind-"
"Jean Grey has the Phoenix force!"
"Like that means shit!"
Their argument started up again and Steve pulled you up, tugging you back into the corridor while everyone was distracted in their own chaos.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," you rambled at once. "I wanted it to just be us, I did, but then El started to paint her nails and Max starting opening up about how hard things have been and I've been trying to get her to open up and then Lucas appeared and you know things have been tough between them and then the others came and I couldn't throw them out without kicking them all and they're good kids and-"
Steve grasped your cheeks and kissed you. Only partly to stop your rambling, and the other because he'd been wanting to kiss you all day. He let himself indulge a moment too long before pulling away. "It's fine. We babysit tonight and then tomorrow, we're not leaving your bed, deal?"
You licked your lips of the taste of him and smiled. "Deal."
Steve pressed a kiss to your forehead as the stairs creaked.
"Oh hey Steve," greeted Robin as she casually walked down the stairs as if he hadn't left her at Family Video not long ago. "I didn't know you were coming tonight too." She pat his back and moved past him.
Steve wondered if Jonathon and Nancy were lurking somewhere in the garden. It seemed half of Hawkins knew you had the place to yourself.
"Oh fuck, Steve!"
"Yeah, yeah baby, you like that?"
Steve had made sure of his promise.
The night ended at midnight exact when Steve realised you had fallen asleep on the sofa. He draped a blanket over you and quietly but urgently shoved all the kids away, putting them on their bikes or cars (their parents collecting them) and sending them on their way.
Steve didn't want to wake you so he carried you upstairs and fell asleep with you.
The next morning you were up early to make breakfast, dressed only in one of Steve's flannels and panties. Just to drive him mad. You were half way through pancakes when Steve's arms wrapped around your middle and all but threw you on the sofa, flattening you there.
That's how you both ended up naked on your parents sofa, you in his lap, his cock stretching inside of you and moans bouncing off the walls.
You mewl into his shoulder, nails digging into his shoulders.
Steve rocked his hips into yours as you continuously grinded down on him. "Wanted you so long, baby, was- was going mad."
"I know, I know!" You groaned, pulling back and holding his face in your hands, laying your head against him.
The two of you bodies sweat together, the cushions on the sofa already fallen off the floor and your clothes thrown anywhere other than around you.
Steve meant what he said. He kissed you, all tongue and teeth, desperate to get as deep inside of you as possible and then some more.
You pulled back, Steve's lips dragging down your neck, collecting your sweat and pulse. "Ah, St-Steve!"
His hand held the small of your back, pushing you deeper into him leaving you biting down on your lip to stop screaming out. "You feel me there, huh? Feel me deep?" he all but whined.
You nodded. Your back arched, cunt squeezing him harder as you leant back, hand on his thigh to steady yourself. "Steve- Steve- I'm gonna-"
There was a sudden pounding at the door.
Your whined but not in the way Steve wanted as he felt your climax escaping him.
"No, no, no baby, focus," he cupped your chin, forcing your gaze on him. "Focus on me baby, let them knock."
You both had already guessed who it was.
Steve's eyes screwed shut as he rutted into you quick but the knocking was just as insistent.
"Steve! Y/N, we know you're in there!" Dustin called.
Steve shook his head, rocking you against him. "They-they don't- arg-"
"Steve! We can see your car outside!" added Lucas.
You sat up on him, a hand on the back of the sofa and another on Steve's shoulder. "Steve-"
You both knew you'd never have the day to yourself if they were there, knocking at the door every time you were going to finish.
Steve looked at the door and back to you.
"Maybe there's a spare key?" suggested Will.
"That's it!" Gently Steve helped you off him and almost regretted it at once at the sound of your small whine and the sight of his hard cock leaking and everything coming out of you-
Quickly, Steve grabbed a blanket and tied it around his waist, brushing his hair back as you picked up another discarded on the floor to cover yourself.
He kicked his jogging bottoms out the way as he went and swung open the door, catching the gang of them scrambling for a spare key under the flower pots.
Dustin noticed the hair on his chest and the sweat first, chuckling. "Damn, Steve, all that hair got you stressing-" he realised half way through just why he was sweating and standing there in only a blanket.
"No!" he said. "You cannot have either of us today!"
Will had the decency to blush and look away, Max's jaw was on the floor at what they'd clearly interrupted.
"We just want-" Mike tried.
"No! Nop! None! Zero! We are closed today!"
"Well, actually you seem pretty open-"
"You want to finish that sentence, Sinclair?" Said Steve. "All I want is a day alone, of peace with my girlfriend, and yes that means doing adult things."
El frowned. "Adult?"
Sometimes he forget El didn't know all the ins and outs of the world.
And sadly they'd caught Steve on the precipice of bursting (literally).
"Sex! Yes, that is what happy and loving couples do, that is what we have been trying to do but we keep getting interrupted! So, no, you cannot come in and no you cannot go to my house to eat snacks or go in the pool cause guess what? We're gonna do it there to!" he actually had no plans for that but he just might. "So please, please just move along and let us get to it!"
Lucas chuckled.
Dustin cleared his throat, his voice stuck in a higher pitch. "Okay. We'll er... we'll just... move on."
"Yes, thank you!" Steve waited at the door, waving them down and watching them go all the way down the street. Every time one of them looked back, he waved. He saw El leaning into Mike and his ears going red but he decided he'd let Mike deal with that one.
When he was sure they'd got far enough, Steve slammed the door, locked it and put a chain on for good measure.
You were laughing, face hidden in the blanket when he returned, standing over you with his hands on his hips. "I cannot believe you just did that."
"Oh," said Steve, dropping the blanket as he fell to his knees, pushing up your blanket and pulling apart your legs. "It was a long time coming. And speaking of coming..."
Summary: Your Valentine's day is rudely interrupted by a desperate phone call from you best friend claiming a medical emergency. But it may work out in your favor.
Warnings: 18+, MDNI, drug use (Viagra), p n v, no protection (wrap before you tap please), hand job, multiple rounds, cream pie.
જ⁀➴ ♡ Yeah no, this one's pure smut, barely any plot
A/N: So I actually ditched my original work I teased for Steve, just wasn't vibing with it and then adjusted this one instead. Happy Valentine's day Steve fan's.
Word Count: 3,529
There's a massive problem with being Steve Harrington's childhood best friend was that you were expected to handle situations like this.
"You're my best friend," Steve whined through the phone, his voice pitched higher than usual, slightly breathless in a way that made your stomach tighten with concern. "My best friend. That means you have to help me. It's in the code."
"There's no code, Steve."
"There is! I looked it up!"
You pinched the bridge of your nose, pacing the inside of your bedroom as much as the cord would allow, watching excited kids outside your window on the way to their dates. A sad record still playing on your turntable - trying to drown out the fact that you didn't have anyone to share the day with.
"Fine," you sighed. "What's the emergency? Did you fail another test? Can't work out what outfit to wear for your date tonight?"
Silence. Then - a sound. A soft, groaning noise, almost a whimper. "I need you to come over. Right now. It's - it's an emergency. A medical emergency."
Your heart skipped a beat. "Steve, are you hurt? Did something happen? Is it the Upside Down?"
"No! Nothing like that! Just - " he lowered his voice to a frantic whisper that vibrated with strain, " - just please come over. And maybe bring ice? Lots of ice? Cold things. Frozen things."
He hung up.
You stared at the phone, equal parts worried and annoyed, then grabbed your bag and headed for your car.
Steve's house was dark when you arrived, which was strange for 4 PM on a Saturday. You let yourself in with the key he'd given you two years ago with a cute, very you keychain attached - "for emergencies," he'd claimed, though mostly you'd used it to feed his mom's cat when they were away cause you loved that little furball.
"Steve?" you called, dropping your bag in the entryway. "Where are you?"
"Upstairs," came the muffled reply, thin and strained. "My room. Please hurry."
You took the stairs two at a time, concern overriding everything else. You pushed open his bedroom door and froze.
Steve was on his bed, fully clothed in jeans and a t-shirt, but his face was flushed a deep crimson that spread across his cheeks and ears. His hair was damp with sweat, plastered to his forehead in dark strands, and he was - oh God - he was holding a bag of frozen peas against his crotch with both hands, his knees drawn up, his whole body curled in on itself like he was in pain.
"Steve?"
"Don't look at me," he groaned, his voice cracking, throwing an arm over his face. His chest heaved with every breath, his t-shirt clinging to his skin. "I'm a monster. I'm broken. I'm - oh god - " he broke off with a whine, high and desperate, his hips bucking upward involuntarily, his hands pressing the frozen bag harder against himself.
"Why are you holding frozen vegetables to your - " you gestured vaguely, " - your area?"
He peeked at you from under his arm, his eyes glassy and slightly wild, pupils blown wide and black. "Remember Cheryl Matthews?"
"Vaguely. Cheerleader? Dated Tommy Hagan?"
"She gave me chocolates." He pointed with one trembling hand to a heart-shaped box on his desk, already empty, his movements jerky and uncoordinated like muscle spasms. "For Valentine's Day. Said she wanted to 'give me something special.'" He made air quotes, then winced, a full-body shudder running through him as he adjusted the peas. "I ate them. All of them. Because I'm an idiot who can't pace himself."
"Okay..." you said slowly, still not understanding. "So you have a stomachache?"
"I wish!" He laughed, slightly hysterical, the sound breaking into another whine as he shifted restlessly against the mattress. "No, Y/N, I - " he dropped his voice to a whisper that shook to your core, " - I can't make it go down. It's been two hours. I've tried everything. Cold showers. Thinking about my grandma. Math equations. Sad puppies - and nothing works! It just - " he broke off with a gasp, his head falling back against the headboard, his throat exposed and vulnerable, lined with sweat, " - it won't stop! It's aching, Y/N. It hurts."
"Steve," you said carefully, fighting a small smile, "are you telling me those chocolates were - "
"Laced with something!" he wailed, his voice cracking on the last word. "I don't know what! But I feel like I'm going to die, and I can't go to the hospital because they'll think I'm some kind of pervert, and I can't tell my mom because she'll kill me, and you're the only person I could think of who wouldn't - " he broke off, groaning, the sound low and wounded and needy, his hips rolling upward in a slow, helpless grind against the frozen bag, " - who wouldn't think I'm completely disgusting."
"Who wouldn't laugh at you?" you supplied.
He peeked at you again, his eyes desperate and pleading, wet at the corners with frustration or pain or both. "Okay, you're clearly laughing now, but I thought maybe - maybe you'd know how to help. Before I have to start thinking about amputation. Or jumping in the quarry. Or - oh god - " he gasped, his whole body going rigid, his knuckles white where they gripped the peas, " - please think of something to help me. Please. I can't - I can't stand it anymore. It won't stop throbbing."
You did laugh then - you couldn't help it, a sharp burst of sound that made him groan and cover his face again, his shoulders hunching with embarrassment. "Steve, I - this is - this is the most ridiculous thing that's ever happened to you. And that's saying something."
"I know," he moaned, the sound muffled by his arm. "I'm cursed. I'm actually cursed. Probably by a witch. Or a demon. Or - "
"Or Cheryl Matthews just wanted to mess with you," you suggested, crossing to his desk to examine the chocolate box. There, tucked under the velvet lining, was a small handwritten note: "Hope you enjoy these as much as I'll enjoy watching you eat them. Happy Valentine's Day! ;)"
You showed him. He turned an even darker shade of red, if that was even possible.
"She poisoned me," he said, outraged and breathless. "This is assault. This is - this is chemical warfare!"
"It's Viagra, Steve," you said, trying to be practical despite the absurdity of the situation. "Or something similar. You're not going to die. You're just... enhanced. For a while."
"How long is 'a while'?" he asked, slightly panicked, his voice rising.
"I don't know? A few hours?"
"Hours?" The word came out as a wail, high and broken. He dropped the bag of peas - finally - and you couldn't help it. Your eyes dropped down.
He was hard. Impossibly, almost painfully hard, the outline straining against his zipper, thick, obvious and there. You could see the shape of him clearly through the denim, the way it curved up toward his hip, the way it twitched slightly with his pulse. He noticed you looking and made a wounded noise, his hands flying to cover himself, his face buried in his pillow.
"Don't - don't look at it," he begged, his voice muffled and miserable. "It's obscene. I've been like this since my lunch break. I had to stand behind the counter at Family Video trying no to crumble. I had to keep pressing my hips into the counter between customers, Y/N. I couldn't walk properly. I had to wait until everyone left, closed up shop and then I ran home and I've been here ever since, trying to make it stop - "
He broke off with a gasp, his hips jerking upward into his own hands, a shudder running through his whole body. "It hurts," he whispered, and you realized he was actually trembling - not just embarrassed, but in real, physical distress. "It's too much. I can't - I can't think. I keep having these - " he broke off, his face screwing up with shame, " - these thoughts. About you. About people. About anything. And I can't make it go away."
You sat on the edge of his bed, careful not to jostle him, and tried to think. You were his best friend. You'd been his best friend since you were toddlers, since he'd chased you around the yard yelling cooties. You'd seen him cry over Nancy, seen him covered in Demogorgon guts, seen him do everything.
But you'd never seen him like this. Desperate, flushed and aroused, his body betraying him in the most intimate way, his usual confidence stripped away to reveal something vulnerable underneath. His hands were still pressed between his legs, but you could see the way his hips kept shifting, rolling, seeking friction he wouldn't let himself have.
And you definitely shouldn't be noticing how good he looked with his hair messy and his pupils blown wide, his chest heaving under that thin t-shirt, his mouth red and bitten where he'd been chewing his lip.
"Okay," you said, forcing your voice steady. "Okay. We need to get you comfortable. Those jeans are probably not helping."
"Can't take them off," he mumbled into his pillow. "Then it's just - there. Out. And I can't - I won't - I'll - " he broke off with a whine, high and desperate, his hips bucking upward again, " - I can't control it, Y/N. I touch it and it just gets worse. I tried, earlier, I thought maybe if I just - but it wouldn't stop, it wouldn't finish, and I was so sensitive it hurt, and I - "
"Steve." You reached out, touching his arm, feeling the heat radiating off his skin, the fine tremor running through his muscles. "It's me. We've been friends for years. I've seen you in swim trunks. I've seen you throw up at a party. I've seen you cry during E.T." He made a small sound of protest. "This is just... biology. Unfortunate, chemically-induced biology. Let me help."
He rolled onto his back, slowly, his movements careful and pained. He looked at you - really looked at you - and something shifted in his expression. Something dark and hungry that he'd never aimed at you before, not in all your years of friendship. His eyes dropped to your mouth, your throat, your chest, and he made that sound again - that low, wounded noise.
"Y/N," he said, his voice dropping an octave, rough and slightly dangerous, strained with effort. "You should probably go."
"What? No, I - "
"I mean it." He shifted, and you saw it - the full shape of him now, thick and hard against his hip, straining the denim. He was bigger than you'd thought, or maybe just harder, more desperate, the outline clear and obscene. "Whatever this is - it's making me think things. Want things." His hand moved, almost involuntarily, pressing against himself, and he gasped, his head falling back, his throat working. "And I can't - " he swallowed hard, his jaw tight, his whole body trembling with effort, " - I can't control it. And I don't want to - " he broke off, his hips rolling upward into his palm, a groan tearing from his throat, " - I don't want to scare you. Or hurt you. Or do something we'll both regret."
"Want what?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.
He laughed, harsh and humorless, his hand still pressed against himself, kneading slightly, his face twisted with pleasure and pain. "You. I've always wanted you. Since sophomore year. Since you laughed at my terrible joke in the cafeteria and I thought - shit." His eyes met yours, dark and desperate and honest. "But we're friends. Good friends. And I didn't want to ruin that, so I never - " he gestured helplessly with his free hand, the other still working against himself, " - I never said anything. And now I'm drugged and desperate and I can't stop thinking about what you'd taste like, what you'd feel like, and you need to leave before I do something - fuck - " he broke off with a gasp, his hips jerking upward, his hand moving faster, " - before I can't stop myself."
The room went silent. Your heart hammered against your ribs, loud enough that you were sure he could hear it.
"Steve," you said carefully. "Look at me."
He did. His eyes were dark, glazed with arousal and something else - fear, maybe, or hope. His hand was still moving against himself, slow, desperate strokes through his jeans, and he didn't seem to realize he was doing it.
"I've wanted you too," you admitted. "Since you helped me with with my scrapped knees and you were so patient, so kind, even though I was frustrating and stupid and - "
"You're not stupid," he interrupted, his voice rough, his hand stilling. "You're perfect. You're - fuck - " he broke off, his hips jerking upward, his hand flying back to press against himself, " - you need to go. Now. I'm not - I can't be gentle right now. I can't be careful." He looked at you, his eyes wet, his face flushed and desperate. "I want to pin you down. I want to fuck you until you can't walk. I want to - " he broke off with a whine, high and broken, his head falling back, " - I want you so bad it hurts, Y/N. Literally hurts. And I don't want to hurt you."
"Then don't be gentle," you said.
You reached for him.
The kiss was desperate from the start - teeth and tongue, need, his hands tangling in your hair, pulling you closer, deeper, his mouth hot and hungry and starving. He tasted like chocolate and mint, familiar and new all at once, and you moaned into his mouth, feeling the vibration of his answering groan.
His hands were everywhere - rough and trembling, tearing at your shirt, your jeans, stripping you efficiently despite his shaking. He was whining into your mouth, small desperate sounds that vibrated against your lips, his hips grinding against your thigh where he was still trapped in his jeans.
"Off," he gasped, pulling back just enough to fumble with his zipper, his fingers clumsy and uncoordinated as you fumbled with your own clothes. "Please, I need - oh god - " he broke off with a gasp as he finally freed himself, his cock springing up against his stomach, thick and flushed a deep ruby red, the tip wet and achingly hard.
He was beautiful. Bigger than you'd imagined, curved slightly upward, a vein running along the underside that pulsed with his rapid heartbeat. He wrapped his hand around himself immediately, stroking once, twice, his head falling back with a groan that sounded like agony.
"Can't - " he panted, his hand moving faster, his hips bucking into his fist, " - can't stop touching it. Feels so good but it's not enough - need more - need you - "
"Steve," you breathed, reaching for him, wrapping your hand around his where he was stroking himself. He was hot - burning - the skin like silk over steel, pulsing and throbbing against your palm. He made a sound - high and broken, desperate - and his hand fell away, letting you take over.
"Yes," he whimpered, his hips jerking upward into your grip, his whole body trembling. "Yes, please, please - "
You stroked him slowly, experimentally, watching his face. He was wrecked already - mouth open, eyes squeezed shut, his chest heaving with every breath. A bead of wetness gathered at the tip and you swiped your thumb over it, spreading it down his shaft, making him slick and slippery in your grip.
"Fuck - fuck - " he choked out, his hips snapping upward, fucking into your hand with uncoordinated thrusts. "Too good - it's too much - but I can't - I won't - " he broke off with a whine, his hand flying to grip your wrist, stilling your movements. "If you keep doing that I'll - I'll finish - and I want - I need - " he looked at you, his eyes dark and pleading, " - I need to be inside you. Please. Please."
You nodded, breathless, and he was on you immediately - pushing you back against the mattress, looming over you with dark, hungry eyes. He was shaking - actually shaking - his whole body trembling with the effort to go slow, to be careful.
"Tell me," he demanded, even as he was already positioning himself, the tip of him nudging against your entrance, hot and wet, right there where you needed him. "Tell me to stop and I will. I swear - "
"Don't stop," you breathed, reaching for him, pulling him down into another kiss. "Please, Steve. I want you inside me. Now."
He pushed inside in one long, hard thrust - no teasing, no hesitation - filling you until you were breathless with it, until your back arched off the mattress with a cry that he swallowed with his mouth. He was thick, big - perfectly, impossibly thick - and he stretched you just right, the burn fading quickly into pleasure so intense it made your eyes water.
"Oh my god - " he groaned, his voice breaking, his forehead dropping to yours. "You're so tight - so wet - so perfect - " He pulled back slightly, just an inch, and thrust back in hard, making you cry out. "Can't - " he panted, his hips already snapping forward, seeking friction, seeking more, " - can't go slow. Can't be gentle. I'm sorry - I'm sorry - "
"Don't be," you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper. "Don't be gentle. Move, Steve. Please - "
He moved. Started a rhythm that was hard and fast, each thrust snapping his hips against yours with enough force to move the bed. He was whining with every stroke - high, broken sounds that vibrated against your neck where he'd buried his face, his breath hot and damp against your skin.
"So good," he panted, his voice wrecked, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. "You're so good - so perfect - fuck - " He shifted his angle, grinding against your clit with every thrust, and you moaned, your head falling back. "Love you - love you so much - can't believe you're letting me - oh god - "
He pulled back to look at you, his eyes dark and wet, his face flushed and desperate. "Touch yourself," he begged, his voice cracking. "Please - I want to feel you come around me - I want to - " he broke off with a groan, his hips stuttering, his cock throbbing inside you, " - I'm close - I'm so close - but I want you to - "
You reached between you, your fingers finding your clit, circling in time with his thrusts. The pleasure built sharp and hot, coiling tight in your belly, and you were gasping, moaning, your free hand gripping his hair, pulling his mouth down to yours.
"Steve," you gasped against his lips. "I'm gonna - I'm gonna - "
"Yes," he whimpered, his thrusts becoming erratic, harder, needier. "Yes, please, come for me - now - "
You shattered. Came apart with his name breaking across your lips, your body tightening around him until he shouted and followed you over the edge, spilling inside you in hot, pulsing waves that seemed to go on forever. He kept thrusting through it, milking his own orgasm, whining high in his throat as he overstimulated himself, until finally he collapsed, careful to roll to the side, pulling you with him.
For a long moment, there was only breathing. The sound of his heartbeat under your ear, still racing but slowing. The smell of sex and sweat mixing with chocolate.
"Still hard," he mumbled eventually, his voice dazed and slightly horrified.
You laughed, breathless, reaching down to confirm. He was - impossibly - still thick and hot against your thigh, still pulsing with arousal, though slightly less rigid than before. "The drugs," you reminded him. "They last a while, remember?"
"Right," he said. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face - wicked,delighted and ever so Steve like, even as his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "So... we have time for round two?"
You laughed, pressing closer, feeling him twitch against you. "You're insatiable."
"Only for you," he said, and kissed you - sweet and slow, full of promise. "Only ever for you."
You'd made it to round three before the effects finally started to fade, leaving Steve exhausted and covered in marks that you'd have to explain to Robin later. You lay tangled in his sheets, your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow to normal, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back.
"So," he said eventually, his voice rumbling under your ear. "Best friends?"
"Best friends who have sex," you corrected. "Best friends who are probably dating now? If you want?"
He tilted your chin up, his eyes soft and serious, all the desperation gone now, replaced by something warm and certain. "I've wanted to date you for three years, Y/N. Of course I want it."
"Good," you said, and kissed him. "Then you should probably know - this was the best Valentine's Day I've ever had."
He laughed, loud and delighted and yours. "Even with the drugged chocolates?"
"Especially with the drugged chocolates."
Outside, February wind rattled the windows. Inside, two best friends who were definitely something more now made plans for pizza, movies and maybe, eventually, sleep.
But for now, this. Sticky skin and soft words and the lingering taste of chocolate on your tongue.
sorry thinking about having to sit in steve’s lap during group car rides because robin gets her license and can’t afford anything but a beater volkswagon that doesn’t fit everyone inside of it
maybe the road gets bumpy or your jostling because eddie said something that made you laugh. and steve is in literal purgatory hell because he can smell your natural scent mixing with your perfume and it’s killing him!! he’s fighting off his boner like this life depends on it :(
you keep leaning back to whisper inside jokes into his ear and the way your breath feels on his face gives him goosebumps. thank god it’s dark in the car because he’s certainly embarrassingly red by now
all his senses are honed in on you: the way your laugh sounds, the way you smell, the skin of your arm touching the skin of his and if he lets himself, he can see a bit of your cleavage over your shoulder and oh no. oh god. the dreadful boner
you can feel it almost immediately against your ass. normally, with any other guy and in any other circumstance, you might’ve been offended. but with steve, you’d almost hoped for it when you decided it was his lap you wanted to sit on tonight
the others don’t notice you shift in his lap to face him better, still not straddling but capable of looking him in the eye. he’s looking at you like you’re about to tear him a new asshole— wet, hazel eyes glaring up at you
you throw an arm lazily over his shoulder, threading a hand through his hair and he lets out a whimper so quiet that even you could barely hear it over the sound of the engine
“it’s okay, stevie,” you murmur low in his ear. he shivers
“i’m—sorry—i don’t know why—“
“hey. it’s okay.”
he nods at your reassurance, trance-like, mouth slightly agape. He breathes, “I just—don’t want you to think—“
“do you think about me like this all the time, steve?” you murmur with your head tilted inches from his face
“no! no— i—“
“do you think about what i look like underneath my clothes when you touch yourself at night?” you ask him this right into the shell of his ear, “all alone and pent up?”
“ohmygod—“ he almost moans
“we’re here!” robin announces from the front seat. the engine cuts and the cabin lights turn on and steve is snatched very suddenly from his hypnosis; his cheeks a very bright crimson
“c’mon,” you smile sweetly but squeeze his shoulder in a way that says: this isn’t over
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summary: Long-time best friends, it's not a surprise that it's you Steve comes to when he needs a fake girlfriend. One little white lie, one perilous family dinner, one evening of pretending to be a couple.
How hard could it be?
[ 12k + best friends to lovers + fake dating + fem!reader]
STEP ONE: THE PROPOSAL
"Be my girlfriend."
The glass held between your fingers slips and makes a loud bang as it hits the sink. The water from the tap pours over it, unaware of the incredibly unusual change in the universe that just occurred.
You tilt your head up, ignoring the lost glass, and raise your eyebrows high. "Come again?"
Steve huffs a little, as though you're the one being rather dramatic, and leans further forward across the island. His hands are planted firmly, his hazel eyes wide as he all but pouts at you. You're still grappling with where the hell that came from.
"Be my girlfriend. Please." He says. "For just one dinner, I promise. I swear I wouldn't be asking if I wasn't actually desperate."
You blink, clearly having missed a beat somewhere.
Frowning, you finally shut off the tap and rescue your abandoned glass from the bottom of the sink. You pick up and give it a quick once over for any chips. Scot-free, luckily.
"Okay, back up." You say, giving a small shake to clear your head. You make a face. "First of all, Harrington, ouch."
Steve sags a bit. "C'mon, you know that's not what I mean."
Not even a hint of a smile at your dig — which tells you he's probably pretty serious then.
"Secondly, what dinner is this? What could be so important that you have to show up with a faux-girlfriend on your arm?"
Steve properly slumps this time, a loud groan accompanying the languished movement. His forehead presses against the counter-top and you bite your tongue to avoid making an unhelpful, teasing comment about it. Instead, you refill the glass in your hand and wait patiently.
"I…" Steve begins, his voice muffled against the counter-top.
"MybrotherisintownwithhisfiancéeandI—"
"Steveeee," You interrupt as you give in to the urge, leaning over and poking him in the head. "If you want my help, please stop mumbling into the counter and tell me the problem."
He doesn't move for a moment, still face down, but you can see the rise and fall of his back as he sighs deeply. He shifts, twisting so his face is no longer hidden. It's noticeably pinker than it was a minute ago.
"My brother is in town next week." He explains. "With his fiancée. And my parents really love to kick up a fuss whenever he gets brought up, whether it's, yanno, like, about jobs and shit or whatever."
Steve waves a careless hand out. He rises from his slumped position, tucking his chin into the palm of his hand.
"And, like, this time it was about relationships. It was all," Steve's voice pitches up, whiny and nasally. "When are you going to get a serious relationship like Brandon, Steve? When are you going to settle down, Steve? When are you going to stop being a disappointment, Steve?"
He huffs another sigh, this one tinged with more defeat. You feel your face twitch in sympathy.
"So, just to get them shut up I…" Steve averts his gaze to study the counter-top suddenly. He draws an idle circle with his free hand. "I said that I was actually dating someone."
You take in his words. "But you're not."
"Thank you, genius. I had no idea." Steve straightens up with a scoff, throwing his hands out. Dragging them down his face, another groan warbles out of him.
"But now they're expecting me to show up to this dinner with someone — someone I'm dating — and I cannot admit I lied. So, please, be my girlfriend for one night."
You snort. His distress, a disaster of his own making, is just a tad bit funny. Just a little. A smidge. "Dude, chill. Just say your girlfriend is sick and she can't come."
Steve laughs mirthlessly. "That's like the adult equivalent of saying oh you don't know her, she goes to another school. No, I can't do that! C'mon, please."
His hands clasp together, raised in a plea.
"Think of it as one hugely, massive favour."
You take a moment to think it over.
"When is it?"
"This weekend, Saturday, 5 o'clock."
"Dress code?"
"Formal. Duh."
"How many people?"
"Uh, my mom, my dad, my brother, his fiancée. Maybe my uncle? Four or five."
Saturday was only a couple days away. He'd left it awfully late to ask—and you're not exactly sure who else would step up for the job if you said no. For the first time since he threw out the insane suggestion, you properly consider it — and feel your face screw up instinctively.
You? Pretending to be Steve's girlfriend?
Sure, to some girls that probably sounded like a dream come true, but it hadn't ever been like that between you and Steve.
You weren't even sure if you could picture it, being tucked under his arm, receiving delicate kisses on the head instead of noogies. Your nose wrinkles again at the oddity.
It wasn't like people didn't like to speculate — men and women can't just be friends, after all — but getting on Steve Harrington's kiss list had never really been a priority to you. Would you even be able to pull it off?
Your mind casts out to the girls that Steve tends to date, nit-picking as you try to think of what separated you from them. While Steve would certainly vehemently deny it, you're pretty sure you can pick a pattern out from the array of girls. A type that you certainly wouldn't see yourself fitting into.
Steve just… doesn't go for girls like you.
Steve, watching you closely, sees the hesitation sink in. He leans forward again, bargaining face on.
"You can veto every movie we watch for the next month."
You squint at him. Raise your chin an inch, forcing yourself not to smile too obviously. It's not often you get to see Steve looking ready to actually grovel for something.
He narrows his eyes, catching onto your deviousness. "Fine. I'll pay for your shakes for the next month, too."
You take another moment to think it over, exaggerating the hmmm sound you make. You tap your finger against your chin, indicating you're not quite convinced yet.
Steve leans further forward, his expression inching toward a bitchy disbelief. A muscle in his jaw twitches.
He looks as though he might start another slew of scoffing, his tongue pressed into his cheek, before he seems to re-evaluate what's at stake here.
He says, "I will drive you up to Indianapolis on—" He holds up one finger. "—one occasion when you ask."
Grinning, you stick out your hand for him to shake.
"You've got a deal, mister."
Steve sighs, his shoulders sagging in relief as he drops his hand to rest in yours. You give it a firm shake and just when you can see the thank-you forming on his lips, you tug his hand forward. You grin wider, almost taunting.
"I would've done it just for the shakes, just so you know."
Steve does scoff this time, ripping his hand back from yours. "You're an awful friend."
You bite down your smile, already dreaming of the free shake you'll be sipping all the way out to Indianapolis. You take a sip of your water and raise your brows at Steve over the lip of your cup.
"Hey. Don't you mean awful girlfriend." You wiggle your brows, not failing to see the hint of pink that colours Steve's cheeks.
Despite the colour in his face, Steve manages to deliver a long, unimpressed stare at you.
His eyes flick down your figure, clearly turning your words over in his head, then back up. As though he's actually realising what he's asked you to do.
He huffs another sigh, running his hand down his face. "Jesus Christ. This is an awful idea."
"Hey, it's your idea, not mine."
—
A stray blouse flies from the closet, landing in an unceremonious lump at the foot of your bed.
You toe at it gently, narrowed gaze travelling from the murky colour up toward the closet, to the perpetrator currently tearing your wardrobe apart. He doesn't even pause, hands still digging, almost resembling a dog burying a bone.
Sighing, you drop your head back, hair splaying against your pillow. The water-stain on your bedroom ceiling greets your sigh with silence.
You had thought that, while sure, yeah, the Harrington's are a fancy bunch, it ultimately wouldn't be that much of a hassle to step in as Steve's date.
You'd have to dig through your closet for the nicest thing you owned (and seldom wore) and you and Steve would concoct a ludicrous story that could be the next John Hughes film.
It would take an hour, tops.
A severe underestimation. Maybe the promise of one hugely, massive favour should've tipped you off.
"Are you being serious right now?" You moan from your place on the bed. You shift your head forward again, eyeing your best friend across the room.
Steve, still buried in your closet, makes a loud harumph in answer. His voice comes out muffled against the clothes, too swamped amongst the fabric. "—Y'know, this wouldn't be so hard if you actually had anything wearable in here—"
You make a noise of indignation, tipping your head further forward. Your necklace shifts, the pendant sliding down the chain and hitting the comforter beneath you.
"And just what are you trying to say?"
Steve pauses for a moment, his hands halted on a pair of coat-hangers. He leans out from the clothing and lets his head loll back, his hazel eyes forming a flat stare.
"Har har." Steve says sarcastically. He turns back to the closet, the coat-hanger in his hand scraping as he pushes it along, assessing each piece with quick, attuned eyes. "I'm just saying you have a lack of clothing that my mother deems acceptable."
He turns back for a second. "Which is a good thing, by the way."
You hum in agreement, letting your head flop back onto your pillow. You've seen the pantsuits Cynthia Harrington wears.
Steve continues his barrage through your wardrobe, making a noise of disapproval every couple of seconds.
You also can't say you had expected to get started so soon; as in immediately post fake-girlfriend proposal. It occurs to you that perhaps you've said yes to something bigger than you expected.
"You're taking this really seriously." You comment.
"Yeah, well," Steve reaches in and tosses another blouse, this one pale-blue, on the bed by your feet. "I know you've met my parents before but they're, like, different when Brandon comes around."
"Different?"
"Like worse. Way, way worse." He draws a line with a flat hand. "Brandon makes them just so—"
His hand curls up, forming a fist. He sighs, dropping it to rest on his hip. For a long moment, he stares into your wardrobe.
You push up on one elbow, brows knitting together. "Steve?"
Steve jolts lightly at your voice, torn out of his thoughts. He reaches out and plucks another blouse from your wardrobe, a maroon pleated one that you'd sworn you had thrown away. It's horrendous and definitely picked out by your mother. He turns and chucks it on the bed, crumpling atop the others and looks up at you, hands perched on his hips.
"Just, like, the smoother this dinner goes, the better, okay?"
You sit up completely, catching the seriousness leaking into Steve's voice. Damn. He actually sounds pretty worked up about the whole thing.
You smile, aiming for comfort. Even if you hadn't quite grasped what you had said yes to, Steve was still your best friend.
His parents were… difficult on the best of days. It was clear he was going for the least eventful, head-down approach as he could for this.
You could do that.
"Okay." You nod, more serious this time, eyeing the blouses on the end of the bed. You miss the relief that shutters across Steve's face. "We got three days til Saturday. What do you need me to do?"
"You can start," Steve says, spinning back to face your chest of drawers this time. His eyes flash over, with a hint of mirth. "By telling me if you even own a skirt that goes below your knees, you scandalous woman."
You laugh and get to your feet, wandering towards your drawers to pull open the bottom most one. Fishing around, you try to recall if you have anything church-worthy, tongue poking out your lips.
A hideous woollen skirt gifted to you for Christmas a couple years ago springs to mind. You shiver.
"Below the knee, huh?" You say. "You better start telling me about the role I'll be playing if I can't even turn up as myself."
You're only half joking. Your fingers curl around the scratchy fabric and you wrinkle your nose in recognition. Tugging it forward, it escapes the confines of your drawers and splays out with a sudden poof. You get the joy of remembering just how ugly it really is.
Twisting, you hold it up to Steve who has taken your place on your bed, laid back.
"Think this'll do?"
Steve's head perks up and he locks onto the skirt in your grasp. "Ugh, it's awful. Perfect."
You drop the skirt, abandoning it to take your place next to Steve on the bed. The springs creak slightly as your weight joins Steve's, the bed dipping and forcing you closer together. A smile sneaks onto his face.
"Okay, but for real," You jab a finger into the softness of Steve's side and he makes a little noise of complaint. "You've gotta tell me what I'm expecting for this, dude. It would be, like, catastrophically mean of you to send me in there blind."
Steve sighs — something he's really doing that a lot recently — and rolls toward you, propping his head up with one arm. The edges of his polo stretch as his bicep bulges. He frowns down at your comforter as he thinks.
"I don't know if I actually can prepare you for it." He admits, raising his gaze to look at you through his lashes. "Like, I think we're gonna have to just come up with a story and fend off the questions as best we can."
Another thought occurs to you. You frown. "Wait, don't your parents, like, know about me already?"
Steve's gaze darts away, this time staring at your comforter with a greater intensity. He gives a mirthless chuckle. "Yeah, well, that's why it'll work. They basically already ask me when we'll be getting together."
Your brows jump. A teasing grin taunts your mouth but you forsake it for a more helpful approach.
"Alright, then," You say. "Then let's do better than fending off the wolves. If I'm gonna be your fake girlfriend, I'm not gonna half-ass it. Let's knock the socks off your parents."
Steve's eyes jump up, meeting your stare and it takes another moment before he realises you're being genuine. You grin, poking him in the side again.
"And Brandon."
"Yeah?" Steve smiles. He sounds a tad awed at your dedication, his eyes roaming over your face gently. After a moment, he shakes his head, as if clearing his thoughts. "Okay. Uh, we have to come up with a backstory first."
"And it has to be one that your parents will believe too."
Steve nods, then pauses, a frown knitting together his eyebrows. "Wait, when did we get together? We can't have just started dating that's— like, almost as bad as showing up without a girlfriend."
You blink, perturbed. "What?"
"Oh, hey mom and dad." Steve says, his tone sardonic and flat. "Oh yeah, this is my girlfriend who I somehow started dating just one week ago, coincidentally just in time for this family dinner."
You cringe a little. He does have a point.
"Fine." You say. A little worry burrows into your brain — the longer you make your 'relationship', the more details you have to construct, to remember, and recall correctly.
You worry your bottom lip. "How long is long enough though? If it's too long, we have to remember more things."
Steve's mouth twists in thought. He gives a hmm.
"I think the last time you saw my parents was… sometime around New Year's Eve, right? They had that party, d'ya remember?"
You wrack your brain and find a memory with glittering fireworks and greasy hot-dogs. Steve had too much champagne and emptied his stomach into a bush. Faintly, the memory of passing by Mr and Mrs. Harrington fits in there— only for a moment.
"Yeah," You say.
Combing over the last years' events, you try to think if there's anything else you would've seen them at.
Graduation? You try to smooth out the wrinkles of that memory too; sunny day, sweltering gown. You hadn't remembered seeing Steve's parents there. "'Cos they didn't come to graduation, did they?"
"Nope." Steve says, popping the p. He rolls back to lie flat on your bed, folding his hands to rest on his chest. "What about after one of my basketball games? The final one of the season." He proposes, eyes tracking back to you.
You laugh without meaning to, spurred on by Steve's surprise.
"Really? At your basketball game? That's when the sparks went flying and we got together?"
Steve's mouth drops open an inch in offense. He throws his hands up. "What? That's, like, totally romantic." He defends. "Besides, it's a good reason for our friendship to have changed."
"You lost that game."
"I still scored!"
"Fine." You appease, laughing lightly. "We got together after you lost the last basketball game of the season."
Steve wrinkles his nose again. "Well, don't put it like that."
You laugh again, soft and light.
"Who asked who?"
"I asked you." Steve says.
You nod, carefully trying to commit the detail to memory. Your head spins as you try to think up the variety of different questions you might get asked at the dinner.
What sort of questions might his parents ask? Or his brother? They'll probably want to know the basics — how you got together, how it's going. You might get a shake-down to see if you're worthy of dating a Harrington.
Then, of course, there is the matter of ensuring you're a convincing couple. In love enough to be brought along to an exclusive family event.
That means… getting touchy. The thought sends a jolt through your stomach— will you have to kiss?
You bury the thought. You'll cross that bridge and have it's subsequently unavoidable, awkward conversation when you get to it.
You're not sure who'll you will have more trouble convincing; Brandon or Steve's parents. But from what you know of Steve's family, you'd bet none of them know him that well.
For all you know, this could well be a walk in the park. Maybe the easiest free trip to Indianapolis ever earned.
"What's Brandon like?" You ask, trying to get a better sense of who you'll be fooling. "Do you think he'll ask many questions?"
"He's…" Steve's eyes shift from you to the ceiling, his mouth forming a flat line. "An asshole, like my dad. He's got this amazing talent for getting under my skin. Which usually includes undermining just about anything I have going for me in my life. Or—" He gestures to you with a sigh. "—what I actually don't have going."
He rolls his head in your direction, his mouth twisted into a bitchy frown.
"He used to always rat on me to our parents when I was kid. He once got me in trouble for going to see Tommy just because he didn't want to walk me over. Said I disobeyed authority." Steve makes quotations with his fingers.
Your brows raise in disbelief. "Isn't he, like, fifteen years older than you?"
Steve huffs a mirthless laugh. "Yep. Told you, asshole. So, yes, he'll probably ask questions but I don't think he'll expect I'd do something as desperately pathetic as faking a girlfriend so hopefully we'll fly under his radar."
Reaching out, you whack Steve on the arm, relishing in his annoyed ow!
Eyes narrowed, you wait til he's looking at you with his what gives? face before you say, "What you're doing is not pathetic, nor is it desperate. It is an act of survival against your shitty family, okay?"
Steve stares at you for a moment before his shoulders seem to melt, the tension leaking from them. He flops his head back.
"Okay." He murmurs in agreement.
"Alright," You say. "Now, let's get this story straight. We got together at the final game of the season, which would mean we've been together for nearly…"
STEP TWO: THE ACT
Your legs itch and you fight the urge to readjust your tights for the umpteenth time.
Steve, in the driver's seat beside you, drums his hands against the steering wheel too rapidly to be casual. He keeps darting one hand to his mouth, teeth worrying at his thumbnail.
You'd reach out and smack him to get him to stop but you're beginning to feel the lurch of nerves yourself. The drive from your house to Steve's has never seemed so, so entirely too short.
"Okay, uh," Steve's throat clicks, clammed up from his silence for too long.
He hadn't spoken much when he had picked you up, other than to laugh at your joke at the mismatch of yourself and your prim outfit.
You'd ended up finding a double-breasted blazer in your mom's closet and you look almost ready to run as the local mayor. You're even wearing tights.
"We got together the 20th—"
"—of June, last year." You finish for him.
Steve nods, his face still facing forward. His eyes look a tad unfocused, even as he reaches out to adjust the collar of his dress shirt. "Right. So we've been together for, uh, about ten months."
You nod encouragingly, checking the details in your head. "You asked me out. Our first date was—"
"—at The Hawk." Steve cuts in, parroting off your memorised answers. "We saw Labyrinth and, uh, then I drove you home."
That part isn't technically untrue. You and Steve had gone to see Labyrinth together back in June of last year, but it certainly hadn't been a date. You find the details lend themselves quite easily regardless.
"That's when we had our first kiss." You remind him, even if it makes your face heat minisculy. "What did you get me for Christmas?" You quiz.
"Uh," Steve's hand rabbits against the steering wheel, nerves evident. He finally breaks his stare from the road to glance at you, his brows furrowed together, eyes worried. "Fuck, I can't remember."
"It's fine," You stress, waving a hand. "You got me tickets to Billy Joel and we drove out to Indianapolis for the concert in April."
Steve nods a bit too manically, his perfectly coiffed hair coming a bit loose. The houses flashing by the window gradually get bigger, fancier. He bites his thumbnail again and this time you do reach out and tug his wrist away.
"Thanks." He murmurs.
He turns the wheel, the engine droning as the car takes the corner to enter his street. Your nerves hike a mile higher and you tug at your tights fruitlessly again. The street is lined with nice cars — not unexpected for Steve's neighbourhood.
What is unexpected is the sheer volume. You and Steve peer out the car windows, eyes wide, as you take in the full street. When you swallow, your throat feels particularly dry.
You turn to Steve. "I thought they said it was a family dinner?"
Steve, his eyes darting from car to car, either trying to find a park amongst the packed sidewalk or maybe just panicking like you are, takes a moment to meet your eyes. He looks a lovely shade of chalky white.
"They definitely did."
There's a free space down the end of Steve's street, the driveway already full with two cars, neither you can recognise.
Steve's foot hits against the brake too abruptly and the car jerks to a stop, rocking forward. You grip the edges of your seat tightly as Steve kills the engine. For a moment, neither of you make a sound.
"What if there's more than just family in there?" Steve croaks, turning slowly to face you.
The paleness in his face has pitched toward something greener. He swallows heavily, twisting back to stare out the windshield and his hands on the wheel tighten. "Oh my god, this is— this isn't gonna to work."
"Steve."
"Valentines, we did Lover's Lake," Steve mutters to himself, eyes still out the window. "Fuck, this is so stupid."
"Steve," You try again. His own panic is worsening your own and if he continues to spiral, you fear you might never make it out of the car and you did not wear itchy tights for that to happen.
"You got me the Michael Jackson record for my birthday," He rattles off again, almost absentmindedly, as though his mind can't pick between panicking about trying to remember all the details or the apparent extra guests.
"This is— oh my god, we're never gonna convince them."
"Steve." You say firmly. His head snaps around, broken from his mutterings. He blinks at you.
You take a deep, exaggerated breath in. Steve follows instinctively, his shoulders rising as he inhales.
"We will convince them." You insist earnestly.
Offering out your upturned hand, you wait for Steve to shift to place his bigger hand in yours. When he does, your fingers curl around it, cradling it.
You can feel the rabbit of his pulse at your fingertips and you meet his eye as you say, "We know each other—really well. We're best friends. We've practised, we look the part, okay? Now, all we have to do is… be a couple for an evening. It's going to be fine."
Steve swallows and for a moment, he doesn't say anything. Then his breath bursts out in a release of tension, his hand finally squeezing yours back. "God, what would I do without you?"
"Crash and burn, probably." You tease, thankful when unease hanging on his frame is replaced by something more familiar.
Steve makes an appalled noise, tightening his grip on your hand so you can't pull it back. His other hand moves, his fingers dancing across the ticklish skin on the inside of your arm til you shriek out in laughter, yanking your hand back.
Your laughter seems to have dimmed the nervousness a bit. You glance over your shoulder, down the street, and track an older couple dressed primly entering the Harrington home. As you turn back to Steve, you swallow to gather your nerves.
"Ready?"
Steve doesn't look like he is, his shifting, unsure eyes and stressing hands. He pushes his palms against his slacks and takes a sharp inhale, before meeting your eyes. "Ready as I'll ever be."
You count the steps up to the doorway without even meaning to, arriving at the Harrington doorstep in approximately 47 steps. The maroon double doors before you seem taller than usual. Steve raises his hand to knock and then halts, his attention shifting to his upraised hand.
He quickly tucks it back against his side, except this time with his elbow held out for you.
A faint pang of surprise in your chest, coloured with something softer, nicer. You’ve seen somewhat what Steve’s like on his dates and you’ve certainly heard plenty of the aftermath. But you’ve never been on one, of course.
As you loop your arm to nook in his, you find yourself unexpectedly eager to find out exactly what it’s like to be Steve Harrington’s date.
Steve knocks on the door, then twists the knob and lets himself in.
Despite seeing the earlier guests, there’s little to prepare you for the room full of people that stand on the other side of the door. Moving on instinct, clinging to Steve’s arm, you step through the threshold and into the lion's den.
Your nerves fry. Never mind lion's den; you feel more like a fly caught in a web. Frog boiling in a pot? No, that doesn't work because you know exactly what you were signed up to when you said yes to Steve.
Well, not precisely. You survey the crowd, counting at least three times as many people as you were expecting with nervous eyes.
Your little white lie with Steve just graduated to having an entire audience. No pressure, right?
“Steven.”
The croon of Cynthia Harrington greets the pair of you.
You feel Steve stiffen up beside you, his shoulders rolling back, his entire body straightening up. His throat bobs as he swallows nervously.
“Mom,” Steve says. His voice is a bit dry and he swallows again. “You didn’t say there were going to be this many people here.”
He’s polite enough to not word it as an accusation. His niceties don’t work, bouncing off the painstakingly sculpted smile of a businesswoman.
“Please, it’s a networking event, I’m not sure what you expected.” She adjusts her diamond earring, swaying and heavy, as she speaks dismissively. “I told you this, Steven.”
You never hear anyone call Steve Steven other than his parents.
“No, Mom, you didn’t.”
There’s a barely restrained bite in his words.
That catches Cynthia’s attention. She stops her roaming gaze to focus on her son, not even glancing at you. After a moment, she gives an exasperated huff.
“Well, why else would we be back, Steven? Your father is trying to close business with Mr. Collings.”
The sting isn’t even for you — in fact, you don’t even think she realises she’s dealt it — but you feel it all the same. Steve’s arm looped with yours tightens, a minuscule motion.
Though you know he thinks they’re all assholes, it doesn’t stop Steve from hoping they’ll come back for him.
“Right.” Steve says, voice tight. “Sure. Of course.”
You’re just thinking about dragging him away from this barbed conversation, clearly pricking all his sensitive spots, when Cynthia’s sharp gaze slides over to you.
Her eyes gleam in recognition and her posture changes.
“Oh, is this the girlfriend you’ve spoken of?”
This time you’re the one who stiffens up. It’s momentary. You know that Steve’s likely freaking out too and at least one of you has to pull yourself together.
The most winning smile you can manage glides onto your face.
“That’s me.” You squeeze Steve’s arm with your hand. It's half in genuine comfort, half in show.
Cynthia regards you for another long moment before she manages to straighten up further, as though pinched.
“Oh! Yes, I recognise you. Remind me of your name, dear?”
It’s a struggle not to grit your teeth. Steve and you have been friends for nearing ten years now.
Still, you relay it politely for her. Your smile feels a bit wooden now.
“Oh, Steven. How nice.” Cynthia says, a touch of patronisation in her tone. Her beady eyes slice back to yours. “He had such a crush on you for the longest time, it’s—”
“Mom.” Steve hisses, cutting her off. Another unexpected jolt of something warm in your chest. Wait, really?
You chance a glance up at Steve. His ears are tinted pink.
You’re not entirely sure what to make of how that makes you feel, so you shelve it for later. Maybe when you’re not being thrown to the sharks by Steve’s awful parents.
Okay, too many animal metaphors. Falling asleep to the Discovery Channel last night is definitely taking its toll.
“We’re gonna mingle, find Dad.” Steve says hurriedly. He moves forward, past his mother, and tugs you with him. Your legs itch with the reminder of your scratchy tights.
“Alright, Steven. Make sure you say hello to your brother!”
Steve huffs, loud enough that you hear it, and you let him lead you through the throngs of middle-aged people. He stops when he reaches the kitchen, finally unwinding his arm with yours.
He does it so he can shove his hands in his hair, a stressed motion from Steve if you’ve ever seen one.
“God, okay, that went well.” He says sarcastically.
“Stop. You’re ruining your hair.” You reach up and rescue his lochs from his harsh grip, fingers around his wrists to tug his hands away. You’re far too aware of how long it had taken him to do.
Steve lets you. When you focus on his face, you notice the pink from his ears is also on his cheeks.
The question jumps off your tongue, unbidden.
“Was she telling the truth? About… the crush? Or was she just trying to tease you?”
The pink dips closer to scarlet. Steve sighs, his eyes closing for a moment.
“I— she- yes,” He admits. Your heart shudders at the revelation. Steve’s eyes open and he twists his hands so he can hold yours in them. “But, like, not now. In the past. Years ago, I promise.”
For his sake, you do your best not to take it too seriously. Even if you wanted to pry, now is not the time nor the place to do so.
However, you can’t resist a small, teasing grin. Steve catches it and his embarrassment gives way to exasperation instantly.
“You likeeed me,” You say in a sing-song voice.
Teasing is not unfamiliar in your friendship with Steve and getting to joke around, even at this strange party, feels nicer. Steve groans dramatically, his eyes closing and his hands pushing against your hands to shove you away.
A new voice interrupts.
“Liked? I sure hope he likes you now, being his girlfriend and all.”
You and Steve both snap out of your easy joking, remembering that you’re supposed to be presenting as a couple. Head turning to who had spoken, it only takes a couple of seconds for you to place who it is.
He looks a little bit like Steve, but not really.
The eyes are different, not as slanted and he hasn’t got any of Steve’s beautiful moles. But the nose, the mouth, put together with matching brown hair and tan skin, you know who this is without having to ask.
“Brandon.” Steve says. The name is stilted in his mouth.
Brandon smirks, his same hazel coloured eyes dragging a long, scathing once-over of his younger brother. He doesn’t look impressed, if his disinterested expression is anything to go by.
Then he does the same to you.
It’s almost tangible, the prickly feeling of his gaze raked over your body. Searching, hunting, nearly making you want to perk up to gain his approval.
God, Steve was right on the money. This guy is like his father but worse.
“The eye-candy of the month, huh?” He says to you, chuckling as if he’s made a joke.
You consider, then make the decision to throw all pleasantries out the window. You don’t smile back.
“Actually, Steve and I will be coming up on one year soon.”
Tangling your hands back together as you say it, you lean into Steve’s side. It’s warm, smells of his cologne. Only when you gaze up at him, do you let a smile grace your lips. It’s soft and genuine.
Steve smiles back down at you, crooked and lovely.
“I’m surprised anyone could settle him down,” Brandon continues and you turn back to him, fighting the urge to narrow your eyes. It doesn’t escape you how he’s jumped from one slight dig to the next.
He’s clever with it. Polite enough that Steve can’t exactly bring it up as an issue.
Brandon continues, swirling his crystal tumbler of whiskey idly. “Surprised he wanted to. Little bro always seemed like such a womanizer. Didn’t think he’d want just one chick.”
He leans in and socks Steve on the shoulder, hard, when he says the word womanizer. He’s grinning.
You have to admit, Brandon’s far too good at this — good at getting under your skin. If you hadn’t been forewarned of his behaviour, if you actually were Steve’s girlfriend, it would certainly rub you the wrong way. He’s certainly doing his best to sprinkle grit and strife between you two.
And you know it hurts Steve to hear — Sure, maybe when he was a thick-headed freshman, with no clue about the world, he had acted that way.
Nowadays... Anyone who knows Steve, even a little bit, knows he wants the real deal, more than anything.
“Not anymore,” Steve says, though it’s not nearly as confident as he usually is. He clears his throat and casts his gaze around. “Where’s Ariel?”
“Ah,” Brandon hums, looking around himself. He takes a long sip of his whiskey. “Not sure. I think I left her in conversation with the Erickson’s from across the street. She’s been pleading with her eyes to be saved but hey, she’s gotta learn sometime, right?”
Your lip curls up in distaste before you remember yourself. Fingers intertwined with Steve’s, you clutch them tighter for some semblance of strength.
You’ve got to get the two of you out of here before you start outright sneering at this man — which is very much not the heads-down approach Steve had asked for.
“Babe,” you say, effectively dismissing Brandon’s comment as you look up at Steve. He looks down at you and squeezes your hand. “Can we grab a drink, please? I’m feeling thirsty.”
Steve murmurs his affirmation and you both turn back to Brandon to bid a polite goodbye. His left eye twitches just once, the only indication that he’s put off by your subtle rejection.
“Well,” Brandon fixes his features, his smirk sliding back into place. “Don’t let me keep you. What was your name again, sweetheart?”
“I didn’t say.” You say, forcing the politest, more nonchalant expression on your face. You let him stew in the awkwardness, waiting for him to break and ask.
He doesn't. Brandon just smiles, though this time it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He holds out his hand and despite how you don’t want to, you place your own in it to shake it.
“Well, it’s been real nice getting to meet you. I hope I’ll see more of you later tonight.” He smiles like a promise. His grip tightens in the handshake.
You grip his hand tighter, matching his strength, and for the first time in the whole conversation, you match his perfectly fake smile.
“Not if I see you first,” You say, spoken pleasantly enough that the meaning of your words doesn’t sink in until you’ve pulled back. You urge Steve somewhere, anywhere that’s not here.
“C’mon, let’s get that drink.”
There’s a punch-bowl out in the living room, thankfully. Displayed next to it is a large jell-o mould, arsenic green, and jiggling gently whenever someone bumps the table. Rich people stuff, you assume.
You eye it curiously as Steve quietly ladles a cup for you, then himself.
The punch is pineapple flavoured but peachy in colour. You sniff the cup Steve gives you hesitantly before you take a small sip. It’s nice. Mostly juice.
You peer up at Steve over the next sip and the cup hides your near hiccup of surprise when his hand slides along your waist. His hand, warm and large, settles on the small on your back and urges you closer.
“That was— wait, this is okay, right?” He pulls his hand back an inch, hovering over your waist. You nod without having to think about it.
“Okay,” He sighs in relief, resting it back down. His thumb moves, soothing along the fabric almost absentmindedly.
He grins at you, “That was, like, amazing to watch. The whole —not if I see you first— just, god, his face. Amazing.” His hand on your waist squeezes lightly. “You’re amazing. I didn’t know you could be so snobby.”
He says the last word slightly too loud and you laugh, worriedly stealing a glance around the room. No one’s paying you much mind. You do notice, however, that Brandon’s meandered into the living room now.
You sidle closer, tucking up under Steve’s arm.
Surprise touches Steve's features; his brows raising a bit, lips parting, and cheeks colouring that ruby colour once more.
It’s as if, despite all your previous agreements, he’s forgotten that you’re supposed to be acting like a couple.
As if he’s forgotten that couples act like this. In love, that is.
“Are you finding this weird?” He murmurs, volume control on this time. It’s said just to you, muffled into your hairline.
From afar, you think it might look like he’s kissing your forehead.
You take another sip of the punch, peering at his dress shirt, and consider his question. It’s not weird, per se. You tell him as much.
“I think it’s just new,” You look up at him — closer than you usually ever see him. His lashes are long and spidery. His hazel eyes are lighter under the lights. “Just different to what we’re used to. It’s… nice, I think.”
“You think?”
You expect Steve to tease you for your own unexpected soft answer but instead, his response comes out with a strange reverence.
If you had to pick a word, something traitorous would maybe call it hopeful. Wait, traitorous? Wait, hopeful?
"Yeah," You shrug a little, no big deal. "I mean it's not that much different from how we already are, right? Just a little more..."
Steve's thumb swatches along your back, more intentionally this time.
"Touchy?" He provides.
You nod and pretend the strange acknowledgement isn't making you feel a tad more flustered.
The touchiness is really quite nice. It’s sweet to have an anchor in this freaky social situation, very much unlike the aforementioned and abandoned Ariel. Steve’s hand on you is a grounding touch, a constant soft reminder of the person who has your back—literally.
And the person is Steve — which, again, isn’t really that different from what you’re used to. He sorta always has your back anyway.
You suppose it hasn't really crossed your mind before, not in depth at least, the small changes that would occur if you and Steve really did date.
How different would it really be?
Chin tilting up, you slyly steal a look at him as Steve scans the party. He's probably planning escape routes, jaw clenched subtly. He's clean-shaven, not a whisper of that stubble that you think suits him rather well.
Would you still be friends, if the two of you dated?
The question feels silly the moment you think it, even if it's only spoken in your mind. You wrinkle your nose lightly and hide it behind another sip of punch. There's an easy answer to that.
Of course you would. It's like you just said: not that different from how you are now. Same teasing dynamic, same loyal history, same sharing embarrassing secrets and same driving around doing nothing, loving it.
Just more. More of this.
Steve squeezes your side warmly, his head twisted to look back down at you. He's asked you a question you realise.
"Hm?"
"I was asking how long do you think it's acceptable to wait to fake a heart-attack to get us out of here?”
Amusement draws your eyebrows up. You grin up at Steve. "A heart-attack? At your youthful, healthy age? C'mon, Steve, they'll never believe it."
Steve's expression twitches closer to bitchy as he considers your rebuttal. You take another sip of punch. He relents.
"Fine. What else? I’m not above faking haemorrhoids.”
The punch in your mouth comes back out in a surprised splutter, thankfully landing mostly back in your cup. A drop of it streaks down your chin.
Your surprise quickly morphs into a glare, eyes shifting up to deliver it to your best friend.
The shit-eating grin on Steve’s face tells you that his timing was not accidental.
“You’re unbelievable,” You hiss because what happened to the polite, head down, and not eventful approach that Steve had all but pleaded from you?
He reaches for a napkin for you without asking — and then tugs you in closer with the hand around your waist, brings the napkin up to your face. He hovers, giving you a moment to realise what he’s doing, before he dotingly swipes away the streak of juice.
“Careful now, honey,” He says, giving the petname a teasing intonation.
How he managed to pick the petname that does actually make your heart perk up in your chest is beyond you. Maybe he knows you better than you think.
“Oh, that’s how it’s gonna be?” You ask, brows raised, pretending to be annoyed. Your bitten-back grin gives you away. “Making me spit my punch and then just sprinkling in a petname—”
“—like you didn’t do that first, with Brandon in the kitchen.” Steve interjects. He crumples the napkin and drops it back on the table.
“Okay," You say. "Fair."
"We forgot to discuss that, actually," Steve says. He sounds casual but he looks away, studying the punchbowl rather intently. "What... like, do you like to be called? In a relationship?"
It is an oversight both of you managed to miss, which makes you feel a little foolish now. You focus on the question.
"I like honey," You admit gingerly. A tepid smile threatens at your lips and when you look up at Steve, he's already turned back to watch you closely. "It's a bit old-fashioned. Sounds more like something you say if you're married but...I think it's nice."
"Yeah," Steve says softly. "Me too."
Something hums brightly in your chest at his gentle expression, his fondness zeroed in only on you. You break his gaze to swallow, your mouth suddenly dry.
"What about you?"
Steve chuckles. "Don't like babe."
"Too late."
“Yeah, well, obviously.”
There’s a beat and you think if you’ve ever had this conversation before. Sweetened preferences didn’t usually make it into your gossip sessions. This is new territory.
“I like sweetheart too,” Steve says, somewhat offbeat. As if he’d thought for too long if he’d say it or not.
He peers down at you, a scrunch in his nose. “Not like Brandon says it though. He might’ve ruined that one for me.”
“He can ruin this dinner, but not that.” You decide for him. “C’mon, sweetheart. We look like we’re stealing all the punch.”
Using your hand in his, you lead him away from the punch table and weave through the people milling about the living room. A touch of resistance makes you glance back. You can see a pink glow painted on Steve’s cheeks.
Your feet come to a halt, twisting back to properly face him. You can’t resist the urge to tease. “Oho, you weren’t kidding- you do like that one.”
“Oh, shut up,” Steve murmurs, his tongue pressed into his cheek and his eyes narrowed.
“I don’t believe I raised you so poorly as to address a lady like that, Steven.”
You jump at the intrusion, realising you’d unluckily managed to stop right beside Mr. Harrington. Fuck, why are all of Steve’s family so good at sneaking up on you? You chalk it up to their snakeish tendencies.
“Dad.” Steve says hurriedly. Then, with a quick swallow, he corrects himself. “I’m sorry, sir.”
Mr. Harrington is not what you’d call an impressive man. Sure, his suit is tailored to fit and you have no doubt his overwhelming cologne costs more than three paychecks combined — but in substance? He lacks. Severely.
You’ve met him thrice.
Every time, you wonder how someone as wonderful as Steve, can come from someone like him.
Though, it certainly explains the god-awful ‘King Steve’ phase Steve had gone through in his freshman and sophomore year. You shiver at the memory.
“It was warranted, Mr. Harrington, believe me,” You jump in to move the attention of Steve’s father back to you, easily shouldering the blame. A smile, cool and collected, graces your face. “I was teasing him, after all.”
Mr. Harrington grunts in disagreement. “Hardly an excuse to speak so crudely, especially in front of guests.”
Opening your mouth to defend him again, Steve speaks first. “You’re right, sir. I apologise, it won’t happen again.”
Steve still shoots you a thankful glance. You clamp down your half-formed response and squeeze his hand instead. He squeezes back.
Maybe the two of you should’ve learned morse-code with all the squeezing you’re both doing. You hadn’t anticipated holding his hand for this long.
You could let go. You don’t really want to — and you’re pretty sure, neither does Steve.
You can’t remember the last time you held his hand.
“Your new girlfriend, I presume?” Mr. Harrington nods to you.
Steve barely gets a moment to respond when his father is waving him forward, stepping back to open a circle of middle-aged men behind him.
“Come, there’s a few associates I’d like you to meet, Steven.”
There’s no question, only a demand. Despite how it feels like stepping into a pit of vipers — damn you, Discovery Channel — you and Steve join the circle.
“Gentlemen,” Mr. Harrington addresses the four men before you, a wry smile on his face. “My son, Steven.”
Then, as an afterthought, with a glance your way. “And his girlfriend.”
“Oh? Not fianceé?” One of the men speaks up. He’s balding, his hair combed over in an attempt to cover his ruddy coloured scalp.
“I’m afraid you’re thinking of my other son, Brandon.” Mr. Harrington says, words suddenly imbued with a proud tone. Steve’s hand grows rigid in yours, though you don’t think he’s even noticed. You send a squeeze back.
A different man speaks up. This man has all his hair, but also has a pot-belly that threatens to send buttons on his dress shirt flying.
“Ah, well, fianceé to be, I bet.” He says, speaking directly to Steve and ignoring you. “Soon it’ll be the ol’ ball and chain. Enjoy your freedom while it lasts, son.”
Then the fucker winks at you—as if you’re in on some big joke. A deep, miserable pity dawns in you for their wives.
“Actually,” Steve begins. There’s an edge in his voice.
You glance up at him concernedly — sure, these guys are douchebags, but you know that. Throwing in the polite and heads-down approach in front of his father might be the worst timing ever.
“I’m not sure what you mean.” Steve says. The bite in his voice has receded and instead, he sounds calm. Polite. “My girlfriend is one of the best things in my life. She’s smart, talented, beautiful— and why she chooses to waste her time with me is a mystery to me.”
He speaks as though he believes every word he’s saying, a hundred percent. You realise you’re holding your breath when Steve turns to look down at you. His hazel eyes are soft, genuine.
“She makes me a better person. She’s… She’s my best friend.”
The line between your genuine friendship and this fake concocted act blurs entirely — and suddenly, you can’t tell what is real and what is not.
Worse, you’re not sure which you'd prefer more.
Does he really think all those things about you?
Steve, who should probably, definitely take up an acting gig after this, plants a quick, nimble kiss on your forehead to sell his loving words.
He turns back to his father’s business friends.
“Believe me, if I ever get so lucky as to marry her, I’d be the ball and chain.” He chuckles. “Not the other way around.”
You’re still holding your breath, heart stuck somewhere halfway up your throat. The businessmen before you show varying amounts of surprise and annoyance—none more of the latter than Mr. Harrington himself.
It doesn’t matter. Steve’s said it all in that perfectly polite way that’s so often been used against him. Something within you glows hotly with pride.
“Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us,” Steve says politely. He drops your hand to re-link your arms once more, then nods to them. “I need to reapply my haemorrhoid cream.”
You’re pretty sure Steve turns you both away from the conversation as fast as he does, knowing that you’re gonna laugh. You do, his last sentence so unexpected it turns your laugh into this foul half hacking, half coughing noise.
Steve pats your back, expecting it, raising his voice as he walks you forward, “There, there.”
There’s a little smugness in his tone. You wait until you pass back into the front hall — now Cynthia Harrington free — to unlink your arms and smack him on the chest.
“Asshole!” You exclaim, but you’re already laughing. Steve’s laughing too, the sound bright and honeyed amongst the dull murmur of the event. God, the looks on their faces.
“I didn’t think you would actually do that.”
“Hey, it got us out of the conversation, didn’t it?”
“Yes, but,” You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, gaze falling from his for a moment. “I mean, won’t your dad…?”
Steve sighs and then shrugs. “I think I’m done trying to impress people like that. If you’re not up to standard to them, why the hell would I care about their opinion of me?”
Your heart feels a little wobbly at that. Steve has always been devastatingly earnest; it’s just less often directed at you. The two of you are used to teasing.
You fall back on it. “Awww,” You coo, gripping his forearms and leaning forward with a coy grin. “You got haemorrhoids for me, honey? That’s so romantic.”
Steve narrows his eyes, trying and failing to suppress his own smile.
“Hey. Fake haemorrhoids, thank you very much.”
“Eh, what’s the big difference?”
“One is my bleeding heart, the other is my bleeding ass, is the big difference.”
He can barely get through the sentence before his laugh takes over. You dissolve into laughter too, cheeks beginning to ache with the force of your grin.
“Steve? Leaving so soon?”
The sweet bubble of laughter around you and Steve pops at the sound of Brandon’s voice. He’s in the doorway that leads to the kitchen and at your attention, he steps toward you, slow and deliberate.
“Yeah, actually,” Steve says. His eyes track Brandon with every calculated step his brother makes til he stops, a few metres from you both.
“Y’know, I heard that hasty exit in front of dad. Did you know that was in front of Mr. Collings? Y’know, the one guy dad’s trying to close a deal with?”
Shit. You swallow heavily. You didn’t know that. You know neither did Steve.
Beside you, Steve grows tense. When he swallows, you hear his throat click from dryness.
Brandon watches and revels in the tiny reactions, his smirk growing. He tucks his hands into his suit pockets casually.
“I talked with mom, too. Learned some interesting stuff, especially about your pretty lady here.”
He nods to you, hazel eyes slicing across to meet yours. Your nerves start to stand on end, something threatening in his calm demeanour setting you off. You grip Steve’s forearms tighter.
“That she is the best friend you’ve been mooning over all these years. And I just thought—” Brandon clicks his tongue. “Man, what are the chances that we don’t hear a thing about you two getting together until this conference? Crazy timing, if you ask me.”
He tilts his head to the side, examining the two of you closely. His smug nature is far, far too much like that of a predator toying with its prey.
“It’s like- wait, no—”
Brandon cuts himself out, fishing a hand out his pocket to gesture to you, grinning smugly like something is funny.
“Is he paying you?”
You recoil back, so baffled and taken aback by the cruel mockery Brandon jumps to make of his younger brother. To make of your best friend.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You snap.
Brandon blinks, surprised, and a bit of his smugness dries up. He draws his hand back, holding it up defensively.
“C'mon, like it's not just the kind of pathetic move he’d pull. I haven’t even seen the two of you kiss.”
He chuckles as if the idea is ludicrous.
STEP THREE: THE KISS
You act without thinking — turning back to Steve, your hands reach up to tightly grasp the collar of his dress shirt.
You see Steve’s hazel eyes widen ever-slightly, then you’re pulling him down, pressing up on your toes, and kissing him.
And… oh.
He’s not half bad at that, you think. It takes Steve a moment, but then his arms circle your waist and after a tentative moment, he kisses back gently, deepening the kiss. Not bad at this at all.
For one brief, precious second, you’re kissing your best friend.
And it's entirely incomparable to any kiss you've experienced before—immeasurable in passion and utterly undoing in a thousand ways.
Steve breathes a little heavier, his cheeks flushed, when you break away. You sink back down off your tiptoes, hands dragging off Steve’s rumpled collar to rest on his chest. You turn to face Brandon.
He doesn’t look so smug anymore. He looks ticked off. Good.
“Brandon, you’re an asshole.” You state plainly. “I hope one day, soon, your fiancée realises what a cruel and shallow bully you really are. And I hope she leaves you for it. Truly.”
The ticked off expression on Brandon's face veers closer to aghast and offended—as if he can’t believe you have the gall to speak to him that way.
“I hope you realise what a stain you are on other people’s life and I sincerely hope that I never have the displeasure of meeting you again.”
Moving to grip Steve’s hand in yours, you move towards the door without a goodbye.
STEP FOUR: THE AFTERMATH
It’s bright outside. Stepping out feels a bit like waking from a stress dream, where in reality, the sun is shining and things that were driving you nuts aren't really problems you actually have.
You stall on the front doorstep, where you were just an hour or so ago.
Well, that didn’t go… awfully, you think. In fact, you’re feeling quite happy with serving Brandon a perfect brand of his own medicine.
You’re about to open your mouth and say as much when Steve drops your hand, brushing past you to head down the stairs, “C’mon, let’s go.”
Your stomach drops at the tone of his voice, a prickly disappointment draped over his words. You’d think you’re reading into it — if Steve wasn’t currently heading for the car, not even waiting for you to catch up. A dead giveaway.
Tights itching from the hasty movement, you quickly follow him and puzzle for a moment. He’s mad. But at what? It takes only a moment to hazard a pretty good guess.
Before the dinner, the awkward conversation of how touchy you two would be had been breached. You and Steve both agreed; no kissing. Even with how close the two of you were, it felt like strange territory to cross into. An unspoken line not to cross.
By kissing him, you’d broken that rule.
Guilt wells up within you. Your moment of telling Brandon to suck it suddenly feels tainted by the sliminess of kissing Steve without permission. You pull at your tights uncomfortably, trailing behind Steve on the sidewalk.
As you reach his car, you swallow the lump in your throat, and speak up.
“I'm sorry, okay?"
Steve, who's reached the driver's side door, looks up and over the top of the car. Then furrows his brow.
"What?"
"For..." The word gets stuck in your throat like wet paper. "Kissing you when we said we wouldn't do that. That was-" You inhale sharply and study the trim along the edge of the car window.
"I just really couldn't stand how he was talking to you. And I thought that would shut him up."
You glimpse back up at Steve. He's softened a little at your words, the crease between his brows gone now. His eyes dart away, a muscle in his jaw working tightly.
"Yeah, well, you were right. It worked."
Steve seems to hear how short his words sound right after he says them, especially as you rear back an inch. He gives a sigh, his eyes falling shut for a moment. "Look, I'm not mad about the kiss, okay?"
His particular wording isn't lost on you.
"But you are mad." You press.
"I'm not."
You step closer to the car, desperate to understand. He is mad but he's not mad about the kiss? Does that mean he is or isn't mad at you?
"You sound mad."
Steve makes a sputtering noise, like he's torn between denying it or not. You catch it, pressing your hands against the car window to lean in even closer.
"So, you are mad. At me? Are you sure it's not because of the kiss?"
“Yes. No." He's furrowing his brow again, confused between how to answer your question correctly. He pinches the bridge of his nose with another sigh. "It’s- no, I'm not mad at you.”
Still not an exact answer. You eye him warily, your guilt still lingering at the front of your chest, aching painfully. It forces out your next words, reminiscent of a rambling apology. You take a step back from the car and begin to pace.
"It's okay if it is the kiss, Steve. I- I mean, we said we wouldn't and I broke that- and I don't want you to ever feel like—"
“I just— I didn’t want our first kiss to be like that!”
That halts your pacing, feet quite suddenly rooted to the spot. You turn rapidly back to Steve, your eyes wider than they were a moment ago, heart jammed back up your throat. Did he just say...?
Steve realises what's escaped him a moment after you do. His hand leaps to cover his mouth as if he can smother the secret he's just let slip.
His eyes crush closed. He smushes his hand against his face more forcefully as though he's trying to push the words back into his mouth.
"What does that mean?" You ask softly. "Steve?"
He clears his throat, dragging the hand down and off his face sluggishly. "That, ah, no- nothing!" He deflects, hands making a crossing motion. "It means—zilch. I just, ah, you know- it's—"
He's thought about it before—about how he'd want a first kiss between the two of you to go.
A glow in you dissolves, the saturated sweetness of it riding through your veins like a sugar rush. You have a sudden wish you weren't wearing such a ghastly outfit for this conversation.
"Steve," You interrupt him. You round the front of the car slowly, stopping with still some distance between you. Let him meet you in the middle. If you're right about all this, that is.
"If there's even a small part of you that wants to do that again," Your breath shudders at your inhale. "You need to tell me."
"A small part?" Steve echoes your words, his tone incredulous. He rounds the car to meet you, his hands out in front of him, flexing into fists. "Don't— don't say what I think you're going to say, if you don't mean it."
He pauses in front of you, eyes blazing with a fierce emotion as he stares down at you. He studies your face and then groans, tipping his head back and burying his hands in his hair.
"It's a big part, y/n. A huge fucking part of me wants to kiss you again and has wanted to for awhile." Steve stresses. His hands sag down from his mussed hair to hang off his neck before he gestures back to the Harrington house.
"What I said in there? About my crush on you being ages ago? I lied. I've had a crush on you for years and I don't think I ever stopped and so if you don’t mean what I think you mean, please don’t… Don’t give me hope.”
There's desperation in his final plea.
A thousand emotions course through you, all competing for your attention. You squint incredulously at Steve, half tempted to sock him for the feeling of a kept-secret. You're best friends for gods sake. Years. Years, he said.
A tremble takes your heart. You open your mouth and try to find the right words.
"Wha... You never said anything."
It comes out a little insulted.
Steve stares at you, flabbergasted. "You never seemed interested!"
"I didn't think I was your type!"
Though it seems impossible, Steve's eyes widen further, his hands shifting to hold out before him, fingers spread wide.
"Are you saying you've thought about it before!?"
"No!" You exclaim, suddenly stressed. You run your hands across your face agitatedly. "I mean, yes. Of course, I've thought about it before!”
Your fingers splay against your cheeks, pulling an expression not unlike the painting The Scream. You're not sure you've ever been this stressed, this undone before.
“Every day through fuckin' high school someone asked me if we were a thing. I just... hadn't, like, considered it til today. Properly."
"Okay, okay," Steve breathes in deeply.
He brings his hands together, clasping them, and he rests them against his forehead. For a second, he stares at the ground before he meets your gaze, dropping his hands.
"And... now?"
Fuck. Right. Cards on the table, you guess.
"Like," You don't know where to put your hands now. They drop off your face and hang loosely at your side. "I told you, I hadn't really, like, thought about it — but we were in there and it just wasn't that different!"
It's a heavy effort to keep yourself looking at Steve. There's no decoding the expression on his face, not when you're already frantically trying to unscramble your own feelings.
"If we did actually, yanno—" You stumble over the words, a fierce and bumbling heat flaming your face. "—date and be—I don't know—boyfriend and girlfriend, like, I guess what would actually change? And now I think we've just been one step removed from dating this whole time!"
Steve takes an almost quivering breath in and takes a step forward, bringing you both closer. He asks the million-dollar question.
"Would you... want that?"
"I," You flex your hands anxiously. "I don't think we can go back to the way things were." You say truthfully.
Something crestfallen ripples across Steve's face. It's hidden away in the next second. You gulp involuntarily. You feel so nervous you can feel it's fizzing inside you, bubbling like a freshly carbonated drink.
But more than that, it feels like you're balancing on the precipice of something good. Like waiting for news on whether you get something you desperately want.
And there it is; the true revelation.
"And I don't think I want to."
The admittance hangs between you, strung out and tinged with your apprehension and Steve's disbelief. He stares at you, brown hair tousled and messy, pink lips parted in his surprise.
He's your best friend and he's been waiting all this time. Holding the torch quietly, the flame flickering low sometimes, but always burning, always for you.
How the hell did you miss it?
"You..." He croaks. He reaches up and tugs at his tie as if it's suddenly too tight around his neck. "You mean that? You'd want to, like, date me?"
What you really want is to kiss him again. To chase away the tender look of disbelief in his eyes with a passionate press of your mouth against his. But you won't kiss him without asking twice in one day.
"I would like to try," You say. It takes a lot of courage to not lose your nerve. You rock up onto the balls of your feet to let out some of the rampant nervous energy.
Steve clocks it, some part of his brain that knows you, and all your tells well, finally coming back online. You're as nervous as he is, and maybe just as unsure.
But you want to try.
That's about all Steve's ever wanted. A chance for more between you.
He closes the distance between you, his hands shifting up and sliding along your neck to cup your jaw. It's ticklish enough to make you shiver and Steve smiles at the motion. He draws your faces closer and you push up on your toes to reach properly, magnetically drawn in.
He pauses just before your lips can touch.
Your eyes scan his face and he does the same to yours, both of you drinking in the intimate closeness. This close, you can see the tiny quiver hidden in his lips.
Fondness percolates between you, sweeter than sunlight and softer than a daydream. You can't resist the smile that toys at your mouth. Steve smiles too.
You're excited.
His pupils are blown wider than usual, only a ring of hazel around them. It might be your new favourite colour.
"I imagined," Steve murmurs lowly, his eyes now trained on your lips. "Our first kiss would be more like this."
The kiss is different from the one in the hallway. There's no surprise in it, no hesitance — Steve cradles your face between his hands preciously and kisses you so fiercely you ache.
He kisses with painstaking reverence. With an unfaltering adoration. Steve kisses you as though he envies anything that's ever touched your lips.
You grapple to find purchase on his suit jacket, your fingers curling around the material and pulling him closer without breaking the kiss. Steve hums into your mouth, his nose pressing against yours. You're both trying to pull each other closer.
"That was-" You breath heavily against his mouth as the kiss breaks. Your eyes open. Steve's gazing at you through his lashes, honey-eyes doting.
"You-" You try again, realising you haven't finished your sentence. You can barely get a word out, a relentless grin overtaking your lips. "I mean—you thought it- like that?"
"I hoped." Steve whispers. He's grinning too, not yielding any of the nearness between you. His thumbs on your jaw swatch softly across your skin.
God, he'll undo you entirely. This newness, this intimacy, it's ruining you. You capture your bottom lip with your teeth and bite it meanly to try to contain your grin.
"So, like, you wanna try? For real?" You say, matching his whisper. Speaking too loud feels like it breaks the moment—and you want to savour it as long as you can.
You can't even imagine how Steve must be feeling, waiting all those years. You take your feelings and multiple them tenfold. It's dizzying. It only endears you even more.
"Like, being boyfriend girlfriend?"
Steve's eyes crinkle in happiness as he scrunches them closed for a moment. His nose scrunches a little too at the motion. He takes a deep inhale and opens his eyes.
"Dating, boyfriend girlfriend, sweethearts, I don't care what you call it." He breathes. "Yes. Yes, to all of it."
Then he kisses you again, stealing the affection off your lips with an ardour that threatens to make your knees weak.
You kiss and kiss until you and Steve are both smiling too much to properly continue.
Only a couple days ago he'd asked the same question you had asked him, except as a begged request to help his ruse. He's the only one you'd have said yes to, you know now, the only exception.
One can only wonder how the two of you would have carried on if you had said no — never gone along with his frankly ridiculous plan, never showed up on his arm to fool an event full of people, never kissed him just to piss off his brother.
Never known the true depths of affection Steve held for you.
As you crowd in closer — your lips skimming across his gently, hearing the hitch in Steve's breath before you kiss him once more— you're thankful you'll never really know.
taggin some peeps below!
@illyrianbitch @headkiss @brettsgoldstein @spideystevie @djotime
just ppl that either expressed interest in the preview or i thought would enjoy! <3 i don't know what possessed me to pick this draft up and straight up like double the word count and finish it in one day but whew,,, i enjoyed that sm
Summary: You and Steve, but its in his golden retriever personality to be unable to stay mad at you
A/N: Slightly inspired by Im gonna miss you by milli vanilli if you couldn't tell from the title
It started over nothing.
Not nothing exactly, because in the moment it felt like something. It felt sharp and annoying and personal in the way small arguments sometimes do when both people are tired, when both people are saying things a little too quickly and listening a little too late.
But looking back, it was nothing.
Steve had been late. Only twenty minutes, which was not the end of the world, but you had been waiting outside the video store for him with your arms folded against the evening chill, pretending you weren’t checking your watch every few minutes and pretending even harder that you weren’t starting to feel stupid for standing there alone.
By the time his car finally pulled into the parking lot, music drifting low through the open window, you had already told yourself you weren’t going to make a thing of it. You were just going to get in, let him apologise, and move on, because it was Steve and you missed him and you didn’t want to waste the night being annoyed.
Then he leaned across the passenger seat, pushed the door open for you, and gave you a rushed little smile.
“Hey,” he said, trying for casual. “Sorry. Got held up.”
That was all.
You climbed in and shut the door harder than you meant to, the sound filling the car before you could pretend you hadn’t done it on purpose.
Steve glanced over at you, one hand still resting on the gear stick. “Okay. That sounded personal.”
“It wasn’t,” you said, looking ahead.
“It definitely was.”
“I’m fine.”
Steve stared at you for a second, and even without looking at him properly, you could feel the way his attention settled on the side of your face. “That’s not a fine face.”
You turned to him. “I don’t have a fine face.”
“Yeah, you do. It’s this little…” He gestured vaguely, as if drawing your expression in the air. “Tight mouth thing.”
“Maybe I wouldn’t have a tight mouth thing if you weren’t always late.”
Steve blinked, like he hadn’t expected the conversation to turn that quickly. For a second, there was still room for him to soften, still room for you to smile and make it less serious than it sounded, but neither of you took the chance.
“I said I was sorry,” he said.
“You said you got held up.”
“Okay, and then I said sorry.”
“Barely.”
He let out a small laugh, but there was no humour in it, only frustration starting to edge into his voice. “What do you want me to do, get on my knees in the parking lot?”
“No, Steve. I want you to show up when you say you will.”
The car went quiet.
Steve looked away first, pulling out of the parking lot with his jaw set and his hand a little too tight on the steering wheel. “I’m twenty minutes late.”
“You’re always twenty minutes late.”
“That’s not true.”
“It kind of is.”
“Right,” he said, nodding once as he looked at the road. “Okay. So we’re doing this.”
You frowned. “Doing what?”
“The thing where one small thing suddenly means I’m the worst boyfriend in Hawkins.”
“I never said that.”
“You’re acting like it.”
“I’m acting like I’m annoyed because I was waiting for you.”
“And I’m acting like I’m sorry because I was late.”
“No, you’re acting like I’m dramatic for being annoyed.”
Steve glanced at you, his eyebrows lifting before he could stop himself. “You are being a little dramatic.”
The second he said it, you both felt the shift.
Your face dropped, and Steve’s expression changed too, just enough to show he knew he had said the wrong thing. But pride got there before the apology did, and instead of taking it back, he tightened his grip on the wheel and stared ahead.
“Seriously?” you said.
He exhaled through his nose. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No, I meant-” He stopped himself, shaking his head as if he already knew whatever came next would make it worse. “Forget it.”
You turned toward the window, watching the passing streetlights blur into soft gold lines against the glass.
Fine.
If he wanted to forget it, you would forget it.
Except neither of you did.
The silence stretched all the way to your house, but it did not make anything better. It only gave you both more time to sit in everything you had said, more time to replay the little digs, more time to feel hurt without admitting that was what you were feeling.
When Steve finally pulled up outside your house, he parked by the curb but left the engine running, one hand still on the wheel like he was already halfway to leaving.
That annoyed you even more, partly because you knew he was probably just unsure what to do, and partly because you hated that he was making you ask.
“You can come in, you know,” you said, though your tone made it sound more like a challenge than an invitation.
Steve looked at you carefully. “Do you want me to?”
“Do you want to?”
He gave a frustrated little laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Why are you answering everything with another question?”
“Why are you acting like being here is a chore?”
“I’m not.”
“You literally haven’t turned the car off.”
Steve looked at the keys, then back at you. “Because I didn’t know if you wanted me to come in.”
“You could ask.”
“I just did.”
“No, you asked like you were hoping I’d say no.”
He leaned back in his seat, his shoulders tense and his expression caught somewhere between hurt and irritation. “I can’t win with you tonight.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
You turned to him fully. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’m trying, and everything I say is apparently wrong.”
“You’re not trying. You’re defending yourself.”
“Because you’re acting like I did something awful.”
“I’m acting like I wanted to spend time with you and you showed up late, then made me feel stupid for caring.”
Steve’s expression changed for a second. Softer. Guilty. Like the words had actually reached him.
But then he looked away.
“I didn’t make you feel stupid.”
The softness in you closed again, because for one tiny moment you had thought he understood, and then he had gone straight back to proving his point.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“I’m not deciding it. I’m saying that wasn’t what I meant.”
“But it is what you did.”
Steve’s fingers tapped once against the wheel. “Okay. So what do you want me to say?”
The question came out tired, but it sounded dismissive, like he was asking for the correct answer instead of actually wanting to understand you.
You stared at him. “Wow.”
“What?”
“Nothing makes a girl feel loved like her boyfriend asking what line he’s supposed to say to stop the argument.”
Steve closed his eyes briefly. “That is not what I meant.”
“Then maybe think before you say things.”
He looked at you then, and for half a second, the hurt on his face was plain before he covered it with a harder expression. “I do think.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
The car went silent.
You regretted it almost immediately. Not enough to say so, not yet, but enough for your stomach to twist and for your fingers to curl slightly in your lap.
Steve looked forward, his jaw tight. “Nice.”
You swallowed. “Steve-”
“No, it’s fine.” He nodded once, eyes fixed on the road ahead even though the car was still parked. “Apparently I don’t think. I don’t try. I’m always late. Got it.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“That is exactly what you said.”
“No, it’s what you’re choosing to hear.”
He laughed under his breath, bitter this time, and you hated it. You hated the way it made you feel like he had already decided you were impossible, like he had stopped seeing why you were hurt and only saw the argument itself.
“Right,” he said. “Yeah. Of course.”
“You know what?” you said, reaching for the door handle because leaving suddenly felt easier than staying there and letting the whole thing get worse. “Forget it.”
Steve turned his head. “Seriously?”
“What?”
“You’re just leaving?”
“You were clearly about to anyway.”
“I was parked outside your house.”
“With the engine still on.”
“Because we were talking.”
“No, we were arguing.”
“Yeah,” he said, his voice rising slightly now, “because you’re mad at me for being late, and I’m trying to explain-”
“You’re not explaining, Steve. You’re making excuses.”
That did it.
His expression shut down.
“Fine,” he said.
The word landed between you like a door slamming.
You waited for him to say something else. To soften. To reach for your hand. To do any of the things he usually did when he realised you were both going too far.
But he didn’t.
He just stared ahead, breathing hard through his nose, and the longer he said nothing, the more impossible it felt for you to say anything either.
Your hand tightened on the door handle.
Fine.
You opened the door and got out.
The cold air hit you instantly, but you barely felt it as you shut the door, harder than you meant to, and started toward your house. Behind you, Steve didn’t drive away, and for one second you thought he might get out.
You wanted him to.
You wanted to hear his car door open. You wanted him to call your name, to come after you, to say the whole thing had been stupid and he was sorry and could you both please just stop before you said something else you couldn’t take back.
But nothing happened.
So you kept walking.
When you reached your front door, you glanced back despite yourself.
Steve was still there, hands on the wheel, head lowered slightly, and for one tiny second your anger wavered because he looked less angry than lost.
Then his headlights shifted as he pulled away from the curb.
Your chest tightened.
Fine.
If he could leave, then you could let him.
You went inside without looking back again.
Hours later, the argument felt even stupider.
That was the worst part.
It hadn’t been about anything serious, not really. It had started with Steve being late, then a comment, then a look, then him saying something sharper than he meant to and you snapping back before you could stop yourself. Within minutes, it had grown into something neither of you knew how to get out of without being the first one to back down.
Now you could barely remember who had actually started it.
All you knew was that Steve had left with his jaw tight and his hands fixed on the steering wheel, and you had let him go because you were too proud to ask him to stay.
You told yourself you weren’t waiting for him.
You weren’t.
You were just sitting on your bed, staring at the same page of your book for the past twenty minutes because the words would not settle in your head. Every little noise outside made your eyes flick toward the window, and every time the phone stayed silent, your chest pulled a little tighter.
He was probably still mad.
Fine.
You were still mad too.
At least, you were trying to be.
You had replayed the argument so many times that the words had started to blur together. One second you remembered Steve’s face when you snapped at him, the way his expression had dropped before he covered it with irritation, and the next you remembered him looking away from you, muttering something under his breath like he didn’t trust himself to speak properly.
You hated that part most.
Not because he had left, exactly, but because you had stood there and watched him go. You had waited for him to turn around. You had wanted him to. But when he didn’t, you had folded your arms, lifted your chin, and pretended you didn’t care.
You cared.
Far too much.
Your room felt quieter without him in it. Usually, Steve had a way of filling the space even when he wasn’t doing much. He would sit at the end of your bed and flick through one of your magazines, making little comments under his breath, or he would complain that your window was impossible to open even though he still insisted on climbing through it half the time.
Now, the silence felt pointed.
Lonely.
You closed your book and threw it lightly beside you before pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes.
“I’m not apologising first,” you muttered to yourself.
The sentence sounded childish out loud, which only made you more annoyed.
Then there was a knock at your window.
You froze.
For a second, you thought you had imagined it. Then another knock came, quieter this time, followed by a familiar voice through the glass.
“Don’t throw anything at me.”
Your heart betrayed you immediately.
You got up slowly, pulling the curtain back to find Steve Harrington standing outside your window, hair slightly messy and jacket zipped halfway, holding a paper bag in one hand and looking far less confident than he usually tried to.
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then he gave you a small, awkward wave with the hand holding the bag.
You opened the window but didn’t move aside yet. “What are you doing here?”
Steve looked down at the bag, then back at you. “I brought you something.”
You glanced at it. “Is that supposed to fix everything?”
“No,” he said quickly. “No, I know it doesn’t. I just…” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as his eyes dropped from yours. “It’s your favourite snack.”
Your expression softened before you could stop it.
Of course he remembered.
Steve noticed things like that, even when he pretended he didn’t. He remembered which flavour you picked out first, how you always claimed you weren’t hungry and then stole half of his food anyway, and the small details you mentioned once and forgot about until he brought them back to you like they mattered.
“I’m still mad at you,” you said, but your voice had lost most of its edge.
“I know.”
“And you were being annoying.”
“I know.”
“And stubborn.”
He raised his eyebrows slightly. “Okay, that one feels a little unfair coming from you.”
You gave him a look.
Steve immediately nodded. “Right. Not the time.”
For a moment, the silence sat between you both. It wasn’t heavy like before, but it was awkward and careful, like both of you were standing on opposite sides of something fragile and neither wanted to be the one to break it again.
Then Steve held the bag out a little.
“I miss you,” he said.
It was quiet, so quiet you almost thought you had imagined it.
Your throat tightened.
Steve looked embarrassed as soon as the words left his mouth, his eyes dropping to the window ledge as he let out a small breath. “I know it’s only been a few hours, and I know that sounds dramatic, but I do. I hate fighting with you. I hate walking away and pretending I’m fine when I’m just driving around like an idiot, thinking about what I should’ve said instead.”
You looked at him for a long moment.
The anger you had been holding onto felt smaller now, not gone completely, but softer around the edges.
“You were driving around?” you asked.
Steve huffed, glancing away. “Yeah.”
“Steve.”
“I know.”
“That’s very dramatic.”
He looked back at you. “I literally just said that.”
A tiny smile pulled at your mouth, and Steve’s shoulders dropped like that one small reaction had taken half the weight off him.
“I didn’t know where else to go,” he admitted. “I went past Family Video twice. Then Dustin’s house, but I didn’t stop because I knew he’d somehow make it worse. Then I ended up buying that.” He nodded toward the bag. “And then I sat in my car for ten minutes trying to decide if showing up here made me look pathetic.”
You bit the inside of your cheek. “A little.”
Steve sighed. “Great. Love that.”
“But in a sweet way.”
His eyes flicked back to yours. “Yeah?”
You nodded, softer now. “Yeah.”
Steve swallowed, his hand still resting on the window frame. “I’m sorry,” he said. “For what I said. And for leaving like that. I shouldn’t have.”
You looked down at the bag in your hands, the paper crinkling under your fingers.
“I’m sorry too,” you said quietly. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”
“You kind of had a reason.”
“So did you.”
“Maybe,” he said, though he didn’t sound convinced. “But I still hated it. The second I walked away, I hated it.”
You glanced up at him.
Steve’s face had gone serious in that way it sometimes did when he was trying not to joke his way out of something. His hair was falling slightly out of place, and there was a nervous little crease between his brows.
“I don’t want us to be like that,” he said. “The whole saying things just to win thing. I don’t want to win if it means you look at me like that after.”
Your chest ached because you knew exactly what he meant. You had both been trying so hard to prove a point that neither of you had stopped to listen properly, and now that the anger had thinned out, all that was left underneath it was how much you hated being apart from him.
“I don’t either,” you said.
Another silence passed, but this one felt different.
Gentler.
You finally stepped back from the window. “Are you coming in or are you planning to stand there looking sad all night?”
Steve blinked, then pointed at himself. “I looked sad?”
“You looked very sad.”
“I was going for regretful.”
“Same thing.”
He started to climb through the window, which would have been much more graceful if his foot had not caught on the frame halfway in.
“Careful,” you said, grabbing his arm.
“I’m fine,” Steve said quickly, despite nearly falling into your room. “Totally fine. Very smooth.”
“You almost face-planted.”
“Didn’t, though.”
You shook your head, but you were smiling properly now, and Steve noticed that too.
Once he was inside, he stood in front of you, close enough that you could smell his cologne and the cold air still clinging to his jacket. For a moment, neither of you said anything, and then Steve reached out gently, his fingers brushing your sleeve like he still wasn’t completely sure he was allowed to touch you.
“I really did miss you,” he said again, softer this time.
Your chest warmed.
You leaned into him before you could overthink it, wrapping your arms around his waist, and Steve didn’t hesitate. He pulled you in immediately, one hand settling against your back while the other cradled the back of your head, holding you like he had been waiting all night to do it.
For a while, neither of you moved.
His hold was firm, almost like he was trying to apologise through it, like he wanted you to understand all the things he had been too stubborn to say earlier.
“I was waiting for you to apologise first,” you mumbled into his jacket.
Steve laughed under his breath. “Yeah, me too.”
“That was stupid.”
“Really stupid.”
“You’re still stubborn.”
“So are you.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him, and Steve’s mouth twitched.
“But, like, in a cute way.”
“Careful.”
“Right. Sorry.”
You shook your head, trying not to laugh as he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. It was slow and soft, lingering just long enough to make your eyes close.
When he pulled back, he brushed his thumb lightly over your sleeve.
“Next time,” he said, “we should probably not wait hours to say sorry.”
“Probably not.”
“And maybe one of us should be the bigger person.”
You looked at him.
He nodded seriously. “I vote you.”
You shoved his shoulder lightly. “Steve.”
“What? You’re very emotionally mature.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet you missed me.”
You tried to glare at him, but it came out too fond to work.
Steve smiled, warm and pleased, then reached for the paper bag still sitting between you. “So,” he said, holding it up, “am I forgiven enough to share these, or is this more of a peace offering I have to surrender completely?”
You took the bag from him. “I’ll think about it.”
“That means yes.”
“That means sit down.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He kicked off his shoes and sat on the edge of your bed like he belonged there, because he did. You joined him a second later, the space between you smaller than it had been all night, and Steve watched as you opened the bag, his knee brushing yours.
“You really remembered my favourite?” you asked.
He looked almost offended. “Of course I remembered.”
“I’m just checking.”
“I remember everything.”
You raised an eyebrow.
Steve paused. “Okay, not everything. But important things.”
Your smile softened.
He nudged your knee gently with his. “You’re important.”
The words were simple, but they settled into you anyway.
You leaned your head against his shoulder, and Steve shifted at once, making room for you like it was instinct. His arm came around you a moment later, warm and familiar, and for a few minutes neither of you said much at all.
The argument wasn’t fixed all at once, not completely. There were still things to talk about, still feelings to untangle, still apologies that would mean more because of what happened after them rather than what was said in the moment. But Steve was there, holding you like he didn’t want to let go, and your favourite snack was sitting between you like a tiny peace offering.
When he pressed another kiss to the top of your head and whispered, “Still mad?”
You looked up at him, pretending to consider it.
“A little.”
Steve nodded. “Fair.”
“But less.”
His smile came back, soft and relieved. “I can work with less.”
Hi! I saw that requests were open and was wondering what Steve would be like with a partner that seems really cold outside and people are scared of contacting, but in reality it’s such a sweetheart and it’s actually very emotional😊
His partner is so cold outside but in reality they come home to Steve crying because a kitten followed them home ☹️
pretty baby
pairing: steve harrington x reader
summary: request above !
word count: 1.3k
content warnings: fluff<33 lil angst, party finds reader scary but she’s just an angel<33
authors note: hi lovely! ty for this ask, I loved writing it<33 i really do hope you meant steve harrington and not steve rogers lmao
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
“I’m not calling her! You do it!” Steve hears Mike whisper heatedly to Dustin.
He can’t help but roll his eyes, he knows they’re trying to be quiet but those two wouldn’t know the meaning of a whisper if it ran in front of them.
He frowns, wondering who they seem to be arguing about contacting.
Everyone is at his house for their weekly movie night.
Eddie and Robin are in comfortable conversation with Nancy and Jonathan as they snack on the food that Steve had left out.
Will, Lucas, El and Max are huddled on one of the couches arguing about what film they’re going to put on.
Current options in the running include Grease, Star Wars, Jaws and The Exorcist.
Steve had attempted to veto The Exorcist but Eleven had turned to him with a pout and a pleading expression that reminded him too much of you for him to say no.
You’re supposed to be on your way over after your shift but it’s been a little while and Steve’s refused to start before you get there.
“Steve!” Dustin whines, pulling Steve out of his thoughts.
He shakes his head and looks towards the two of them who seem to be huddled behind the couch, leering ominously over his phone with dual pleading expressions.
“Yes?” He sighs, if he didn’t know the two of them he’d almost call their matching expressions cute but he knows well enough that they’re just buttering him up for a favour.
“Call your girlfriend,” Mike complains, taking the phone off of its stand and holding it up to Steve for it to look enticing.
Steve raises a brow in suspicion and Mike’s brows furrow as if he’s surprised that Steve isn’t immediately lurching to grab the phone from him.
He’s not that clingy, is he?
“Please,” Mike tacks on belatedly, like that’s just crossed his mind to sweeten the deal.
Steve scoffs a laugh, “I’m not calling her just because she’s a couple of minutes late, she’s probably on her way here.”
Mike and Dustin both let out loud groans of complaint at his statement and Steve hears Eddie snort a laugh from behind him.
Without looking he grabs one of his mother’s decorative pillows and lobs it behind him, smiling it satisfaction when it meets its target and Eddie lets out a yelp of shock.
“And anyways, if you’re both so bothered that she’s late, why don’t either of you pick up the phone and call her?” Steve probes.
Mike and Dustin answer simultaneously.
“We don’t know her number—“
“Cause your girlfriends scary dude—“
Mike yelps when Dustin slaps his chest.
“Dude! You don’t tell someone their girlfriend is scary, what’s your problem?” Dustin hisses.
Steve watches the two of them bicker like a ping pong match, before Mike’s statement renders to him.
“What?” He laughs. “You think she’s scary?”
He’s delighted, sure he thinks you can be a bit intimidating at times but never scary.
He’s seen you go toe to toe with men twice your size and never once falter, but in the same breath he’s seen you take care of his kids with soft words and affection that’s not unlike his own paternal instincts.
So he doesn’t really get the whole “scary” sentiment.
Is that what they all think?
“Hey guys,” Steve calls out, curiosity painting his face as The Party turns to look at him.
“Do you think my girls scary?”
It’s like a record scratch echoes through the room as everyone freezes in place, staring at Steve with wide eyes.
Robin is undoubtedly the first one to break, a nervous laugh breaking past her lips as she shakes her head.
“No! Of course not, only that she can be a bit—off putting? Not in a bad way!” Robin reassures, looking more panicked by the moment as she slumps in her chair and chugs her Dr Pepper without further comment.
Steve is stumped, there’s no way that he’s missed this entire thing this whole time.
“You all think that?—that she’s scary?” He’s sure he must look as adequately perplexed as he feels based on Lucas’ small wince in apology.
“I don’t think that,” Max announces, nonchalant as no other.
All their heads snap towards her as she places her hands up in surrender.
“I’m just saying you guys thought I was scary, I just don’t get what’s so scary about her.” She admits, smirking softly as she looks at both Dustin and Mike who roll their eyes.
“We didn’t find you scary!” Mike defensively argues.
They all start to argue and Steve tunes them out, instead making eye contact with Jonathan who offers him a comforting smile.
Over the sound of heightened voices, Steve hears a meek knock echo off the front door.
So with little attention paid to the group, he makes his way to door to find you on the other side.
Your eyes a wide and welling with tears and Steve is instantly on guard.
“Hey hey,” he rushes out, voice soft as he gathers you in his arms, “You okay? What’s wrong?”
You let out a distressed whine but don’t say much else.
Steve huddles you into the foyer with little fanfare before he notices that you’re cupping your hands close to your chest.
Steve frowns, pulling away to your complaint as he takes note of the small wriggling furry figure in your cupped palms.
“Uh, what is that?” He asks, laughing nervously as it snuggles further into your sweater.
Your lips wobble as you peer down at the small creature and when you turn your eyes back up to him he coos in adoration.
“He followed me home,” you cry softly, your face crumpling leaving you looking far too cute for Steve to even start to take you seriously.
He muffles a laugh behind a cough but by your shrewd look through teary eyes, he hasn’t done a very good job of that.
It’s then that he’s been made aware of the silence that seems to encompass the house.
No longer is it filled with the sounds of arguing voices but instead, it’s as if there’s nobody here at all.
With a suspicious hum, he turns slightly to see everyone huddled in the entrance to the lounge and watching the two of you.
He bites back a groan of annoyance at the interruption and instead schools his expression to focus on consoling you.
“Uh huh, and what exactly…is he?” He asks softly, trying not to flinch away when a small face nuzzles through your hands.
It’s a black cat, tinier than he’s ever seen before.
“Oh,” he replies stumped.
You make a wounded noise, “I noticed him when I crossed the street past the grocery store and I-I thought he was just looking for his momma but he followed me all the way here and I couldn’t just leave him, it was getting dark out!” You whisper distressed and Steve can’t help but think you’re worried he’s going to say no and for you to throw the poor kitten back out onto the street.
He softens, smiling softly at you and acquiescing. He opens his own palms with a small gesture and with little hesitance you help the little guy trapeze off your palm and into Steve’s waiting hands.
He tsks when he feels the poor baby shivering in his hands and can’t help himself but lift him to his face to press a tiny kiss on his forehead.
“Will you get him some water from the tap? I’m gonna get him a small blanket from the cupboard upstairs,” Steve says softly, peering at your red eyes in concern.
You’re eager to have something to do and with a small nod, you rub your eyes with your hoodie sleeves before walking to the kitchen with barely a glance to the small group behind you.
Steve turns to stare at them all with a grim expression, “Not a word.” He firmly states.
All of them have matching shocked expressions but nod before shuffling back to the lounge.
