୨୧ moonstruck
- steve harrington fluff
context - you are a cool quiet, 90s older sister to dustin who finds steve the hair harrington unexpectedly orbiting your world after dustin drags him into another upside down mess. steve is moonstruck and unravelling, he becomes obsessed with you in the softest way by attending classes your in, seeking you out and ruining his cool boy facade as he slowly falls in love.
warning - some of these ideas are not mine, i have mixed ideas from tiktok headcannons so credits to them. Also prob not proofread cus im lazy :)
part one
the first thing you hear that morning is dustin yelling your name like the house is on fire. the second thing you hear is dustin yelling your name again, louder, like the house is really on fire.
you don't move at first, you're sprawled in bed, face buried in your pillow, eyeliner still half on from last night. The sunlight slides across your room in a soft, golden line - catching on posters, the stacks of records and the half empty coffee mug on your dresser. Your hair is a mess of big, brushed our 90s waves and your sleep shirt is slipping off one shoulder. The camaro keys you aimlessley hung on your wall last night hang like a talisman. you look like the cool older sister the neighbourhood kids talk about - which to be fair, you kind of are.
dustin bursts into your room wihout knocking.
"y/n i need you!"
you groan into your pillow. "if something is actually wrong, you should lead with that."
"okay" he pants, curls bouncing wildly as he rushes to your bedside. "something is actually wrong"
you lift your head, suspicious. "what did you break?"
"nothing"
"what did you lose?"
"nothing!"
"what is chasing you through town?"
he hesitates. silence.
"nothing?"
you give him a long, tired, really? stare.
dustin huffs. "okay fine, maybe theres something weird happening. but its not chasing me. nobodys being chased, probably. i mean - not right now."
you sit up slowly. "dustin."
"its under control." he says immediately, like that will solve everything. "totally completely under control."
its never under control.
"so," dustin continues, "i might need you to be cool with someone coming over later."
"who?" you ask, pushing your hair out of your face.
"dont freak out."
"you keep saying that, you realise that makes people freak out more?"
dustin doesn't respond.
he fidgets.
he shifts
and then he blurts it out all together.
"steveharringtoniscomingover!"
'you blink. "who..?"'you blink. "who..?"
"steve harrington!"
you stare at him, unimpressed. "why the hell is steve harrington coming over here?"
you heard the name, obviously. you live in hawkins, rumours travel faster than the actual information.
steve harrington - the rich boy. too much hair. ex-king of the school. apparently hangs around with dustin now. apparently saved everyones asses from a monster last year. apparently carries around a baseball bat around like its an emotinal support weapon.
you've never spoken to him. never been in the same room. he exists in a different orbit, one adjacent to yours but never overlapping.
"because, we need him for.. something."
"which is"
"its not exactly a normal problem."
"upside down?" you ask immediately.
"no! well. maybe. i mean - its fine, its under control, we just - we need steve."
you sigh.
"fine." you say. "but he better not touch my tapes."
"deal," dustin says too quickly.
------
when the doorbell rings, you expect - well you dont know. someone taller, someone louder and who reeks of cologne.
when you get is steve harrington clutching a plastic shopping bag like it contains a live bomb, hair pushed back, wearing that family-video vest over a sweater.
"uh - hey" he says when you open the door.
his voice does a weird jump between confidence and confusion. like he planned on sounding sauve but forgot the script halfway through.
you lean against the doorframe, arms crossed.
and steve just.. stops and stares.
like full on, jaw slightly open, eyebrow lifted stares.
you have no idea what is going on in his head -but from the expression, it is something along the lines of: holy shit. this is dustins sister?
he knows you exist, sure. he has heard your name, heard dustin brag about your car, your music taste. heard rumors about you being 'actually kinda terrifying in a hot way' but he has never actually looked at you. never seen you like this; hair falling perfectly without trying, eyeliner smudged in a way that looks intentional, lips glossed, band tee oversized, jeans ripped at the knees. the kind of girl that looks like she stepped out of a fever dream.
steve forgets how to blink.
you raise an eyebrow. "you okay, harrington?"
his mouth opens. nothing comes out.
finally, he blurts out, "uh, yeh! totally!, im goood. like, really good. healthy. alive, functioning. he pauses. mostly"
you stare at him. yet again. unimpressed, "your here for dustin, right?"
"yeah!, yeah, dustin" he nods aggressively. "love that kid.great kid. the best kid."
"please stop talking"
"yep. shutting up now"
he steps inside like someone unplugged his brain and replugged it crooked.
---
you sit at the kitchen table while dustin and steve huddle in the corner, whispering urgently about something you definitely dont like the sound of.
you hear: "- we cant tell her yet-"
"shes going to figure it out"
"- demobats dont just dissapear dustin-"
"-jesus, stop saying that out loud-"
you clear your throat, loudly.
both boys jump.
dustin tries to smile like hes not plotting world salvation for the second time in a year. "so!, we're working on a .. science thing?"
"a science thing" you repeat flatly.
"yep" dustin chirps.
"you suck at lying."
"probably" he squeaks
and then, because dustin is a traitror, he announces; "steve actually needs help with school too."
steve snaps his head toward dustin so fast he probably strains something. "no- i dont, dustin, i said i would handle it-"
"hes failing history." dustin stage- whispers.
"dude!"
you blink at steve. "your failing history?"
steves face goes red. "i wouldnt call it failing. id call it, aggressively underperforming."
you snort.
he melts.
thats new. and weird. and definitely something you clock immediately.
----
after that day, steve just.. appears.
not in a dramatic, stalking way, more like a guy who keeps accidentally tripping into your timeline and pretending not to mean to.
at first you think its coincidence.
you're walking dustin to school (you don't really like driving) - something that you only do twice a week, becauses hes "old enough", and steves car rolls by.
he brakes too hard when he sees you.
dustin smacks his forehead. "you dont live anywhere near here, steve!"
steve, leaning out of the window like an idiot golden retreiver, calls "i, uh, was in the area!"
"the area" you repeat flatly.
steve nodds, aggresively. "yup, very much in the area."
he was absolutely not in the area. but you dont call him out, you just raise a brow and let dustin drag you along.
----
he next time is two days later.
you’re at the grocery store, half-asleep, grabbing cereal and eyeliner and the fancy shampoo the cashier keeps judging you for. you’re not even wearing makeup. your hair is messily pulled into a claw clip. you look like someone who just crawled out of bed; effortlessly hot anyway.
you’re comparing two brands of coffee when someone crashes into a pyramid of canned goods behind you.
you turn.
steve harrington is standing there, stunned, holding onto a can of peaches like he’s in a war zone.
“oh,” he blurts. “hey.”
you blink. “hey.”
he stares a little too long. blinks slowly. like he’s buffering again.
“…i was just… shopping,” he lies.
“you’re in the baking aisle,” you point out.
he looks around, as if noticing for the first time. “yeah! i bake now.”
you laugh under your breath. “no you don’t.”
steve’s face scrunches up. “okay, fine, no, i don’t. but— i could! like, if i had to.”
“sure, harrington.”
he blushes at the way you say his name.
---
you start seeing him everywhere.
at the record store: “didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, holding a tape upside down.
at the arcade: “i was, uh… doing recon. for dustin. important recon.”
at your mailbox: “thought this was my street.” it absolutely was not.
dustin notices, of course. dustin notices everything.
“he’s obsessed,” he informs you one night, mouth full of pringles.
“he is not,” you say, flipping through a magazine.
“he IS. he’s like a big dumb dog that imprinted on you.”
you throw a pillow at him.
--
robin finds you before you find steve again.
you’re browsing tapes at family video, and robin suddenly appears beside you like some gremlin summoned by awkward male longing.
“he’s freaking out,” she says.
you blink. “hi to you too.”
“steve. he’s freaking out because you’re here.”
“i didn’t even”
“yeah, well, he knows.” she gestures toward the back. “he sensed it. like a bat using echolocation. except instead of sound, it’s girl he’s obsessed with.”
“…i’m not obsessed,” steve’s voice calls from behind the comedy section.
robin yells back, “YOU ARE.”
you stifle a laugh. you try to look annoyed. you fail.
--
the more he appears, the more you start… expecting him.
you tell yourself you don’t.
but your head turns automatically when you hear a familiar car engine.
your chest warms stupidly when he says your name.
your hands brush once when he passes you a pen during one of dustin’s “totally normal not upside-down related” meetings. and he looks at your hand like it holds the secrets of the universe.
and something in you flinches in that vulnerable, dangerous way where you know you could start caring about him if you’re not careful.
because steve harrington isn’t the guy hawkins rumors made him out to be.
he isn’t arrogant. he isn’t heartless. he isn’t clueless.
he’s surprisingly gentle. goofy. protective in a way that feels instinctual, like he can’t help it.
he carries dustin’s bags without being asked. he shields max from getting hit by a stray basketball. he always positions himself between the kids and shadows. he checks your locks before leaving your house at night, thinking you don’t notice.
he cares. loudly. stupidly. wholeheartedly.
and you feel it, the creeping pull around your ribs.
you ignore it.
for now.
---
every time he sees you, something softens in him.
you catch him staring sometimes but not in a creepy way. more like he’s trying to memorize you.
the shape of your lips when you talk. the way your hair frames your face. the smudge of eyeliner you wear like it’s armor. the way your voice goes gentle when dustin is frustrated. the way your laugh sounds different depending on who you’re laughing with.
steve absorbs all of it.
you begin to notice small things:
he stands straighter when you walk into a room.
he fixes his hair as subtly as he can. (not subtle.)
he says “hi” three different ways before settling on one.
he keeps sniffing his shirt, like checking he smells good.
he always pretends he’s there for dustin, but dustin’s not stupid.
robin is the worst instigator.
“you’re making him insane,” she tells you one afternoon, filing tapes.
“i’m not doing anything.”
“yeah, that’s the problem.”
--
it doesn’t stay quiet for long.
dustin gets twitchy again. steve gets protective again. there are whispers of something moving in the woods. something not-right.
one night, dustin is pacing so hard you get dizzy watching him.
“you should stay home tonight,” he mutters to steve.
steve scoffs. “i’m not letting you go alone.”
“i’m not going alone. lucas and max”
“still not letting you go alone.”
you lean against the doorway. “what’s going on?”
dustin freezes.
steve shoots him a look.
and there it is again — that muscle in his jaw tightening, the one that screams i’m scared but i’d rather die than admit it.
“nothing,” dustin says too quickly.
“nothing,” steve echoes, even worse at lying than dustin is.
you fold your arms. “right.”
steve’s eyes flick toward you —
and there’s something there. something protective. something heavy.
“we’ll handle it,” he says softly. “promise.”
you hate how much you trust that.
--
the car ride: steve drives dustin home and insists on driving you too. you sit in the passenger seat, legs up, hair blowing out the open window. steve keeps glancing at you when he thinks you’re not looking. he misses a stop sign because he’s too busy staring at your lips.
the movie night: you sit on the couch. steve sits next to you but not too close. your knees touch once. you both pretend not to notice.
the rainstorm: you’re both stuck under the same awning. thunder booms. he flinches closer by accident. your shoulders brush. neither of you moves away.
the bruise: steve shows up with a bruise on his jaw. he claims he “fell.” you don’t believe him. you touch his jaw to check it, and he forgets how to breathe.
the hoodie moment: you’re cold in his car. he shrugs off his jacket and hands it to you. you refuse. he drops it in your lap anyway. you wear it. he tries not to stare at you in it. fails.
--
it’s late.
too late.
dustin’s asleep on the couch, half on top of max. the lights are low, your house quiet except for the hum of the fridge.
you and steve are sitting on the floor, backs against the couch, knees half touching.
he keeps stealing glances at you. you try not to notice. fail.
“you’re really good with them,” you say finally, surprising even yourself.
steve blinks. “with who?”
“the kids.”
he shrugs, looking embarrassed. “they just… deserve someone who gives a shit.”
you study him.
the real him.
the soft edges. the bruised knuckles. the tired eyes. the way he pretends to be stupid but picks up on everything. the loyalty that radiates off him like heat.
“you’re good, harrington,” you say without meaning to.
really meaning it.
steve goes very still.
like that sentence punched every molecule of air out of him.
he opens his mouth and for a moment, you swear he’s about to say something real. something big. something stupid and honest and too much.
his lips part.
his fingers twitch at his side.
his eyes flick to your mouth.
and
a loud snore from dustin breaks the moment in half.
you both jump.
steve’s face turns crimson.
the moment passes like a ghost.
too soon. too fragile. too close.
you pretend nothing happened.
steve pretends nothing happened.
but both of you feel it.
that slow, creeping, dangerous heat.
that gravity.
that pull.
and neither of you is anywhere near ready to admit where it’s heading.
things settle into a rhythm after that night.
a stupid, tender rhythm. one where you pretend steve isn’t always hovering. and steve pretends he isn’t hopelessly, pathetically in love with you.
dustin calls it “whatever weird adult tension thing you two have going on.” you threaten to ground him. he laughs because you never do.
---
it happens on a quiet afternoon, the kind where hawkins feels deceptively normal.
you’re outside, leaning over the hood of your ’93 black camaro, wiping dust off the windshield because you meant to drive it today. really. you did.
you just… didn’t.
you’re in cutoff shorts and a white tank top, hair up, sunglasses on looking very much like the effortless older sister everyone thinks has her entire life together.
steve pulls up to drop dustin off, windows down, music loud enough to shake the driveway.
the second he sees you next to the car, he nearly brakes too hard again.
he gets out, tosses his keys, tries to look casual and fails spectacularly.
“whoa,” steve says, walking around your camaro like it’s a museum exhibit. “this is yours?”
“yeah.”
he whistles low. “it’s… beautiful.”
you shrug. “doesn’t feel like it lately.”
steve glances at you, confused. you look away. he reads people too well a secret he guards behind that clueless persona.
“how long’s it been since you actually took it out?” he asks gently.
you pretend you didn’t hear that.
he asks again. softer.
“y/n?”
your jaw tenses. “a while.”
steve studies your face. that little crease between your brows. the way your shoulders go tight.
then something clicks.
“is this—” he hesitates, voice dropping, “about your dad?”
the air freezes.
your throat goes tight instantly. your fingers curl around the rag in your hand.
because nobody says that name. not even dustin. not even you.
steve notices the shift and steps closer slowly, like approaching a wounded animal.
“dustin… told me once,” he says quietly. “about the accident. i didn’t know if i just didn’t want to assume.”
you swallow. stare at the ground. at your shoes. anywhere but his eyes.
“i know it’s stupid,” you mutter.
“it’s not.” steve cuts you off quickly. too quickly. like the thought of you calling yourself stupid physically hurts him. “it’s not stupid, y/n. jesus.”
your breath shakes.
you look up.
and steve is right there closer than he should be, but not close enough to overwhelm you. his expression open in a way you don’t think you’ve ever seen on anyone before. raw honesty. raw care.
“i can drive it,” you say quietly, “but every time i get on the highway, i feel like like something’s going to go wrong again. like i’ll lose control.”
steve nods once. firm. no hesitation.
“okay,” he says. “so don’t drive the highway.”
you blink.
“what?”
“don’t start there.” he gestures toward the neighborhood street. “start with this. just the block. five minutes. with me.”
your chest tightens. he says it so simply. so confidently. like he genuinely believes you can do it.
you shake your head, embarrassed. “steve—”
“hey.” he steps closer, lowers his voice. “let me help.”
you inhale shakily.
he waits.
steve harrington, who used to be a cocky, self-absorbed golden boy waits for you to feel safe.
finally, you hand him the keys.
steve smiles. but not his usual grin. something softer. almost relieved.
“come on,” he says, walking to the passenger side. “i’m the best babysitter in hawkins. i can handle this.”
you snort. “that doesn’t comfort me.”
“it should. i’ve kept your brother alive for like three years.”
“…that’s actually impressive.”
“thank you.”
--
you slide into the driver’s seat. your hands shake on the wheel.
steve notices immediately he doesn’t point it out.
he adjusts his seat so he’s angled toward you. not touching. not crowding. just there.
“whenever you’re ready,” he murmurs.
you take a long, slow breath. turn the key.
the engine roars to life.
your heart does the same.
“good,” steve says softly. “that’s perfect.”
you shift into drive.
the car rolls forward.
your chest tightens memories flooding in too fast.
your dad laughing in the driver’s seat. music loud. a scream. shattering glass.
your breath stutters.
immediately, steve places his hand gently very gently on your forearm.
you freeze.
“look at me,” he whispers.
you do.
brown eyes. warm. steady. grounding.
“you’re safe,” steve says. “i’m right here. you’re not alone.”
your breath evens out. slowly. painfully. but it does.
“okay,” you whisper.
he smiles. “yeah. you got it.”
you go one block.
then another.
steve talks the whole time softly.
about nothing. about everything.
about dustin’s latest stupid invention. about robin nearly getting fired for alphabetizing tapes wrong on purpose. about how your car is the coolest thing he’s ever seen. about how proud he is of you.
you shouldn’t like that last part as much as you do.
when you finally park back in your driveway, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
steve looks at you with that stupid soft expression again.
“told you,” he murmurs. “you’re okay.”
you don’t think anyone’s ever said it to you like that.
--
and of course of course the universe hates you.
because just as steve reaches over, brushing your cheek with his knuckles the lightest, gentlest touch imaginable
dustin opens the front door.
“HEY—” he freezes. stares. squints.
“…what the hell is going on?”
you jump back like you’ve been electrocuted.
steve snatches his hand away, turns red instantly.
“NOTHING,” you both say at the exact same time.
dustin’s face morphs into pure, slow-building, chaotic glee.
he points between you two.
“oh my god.” “no,” you snap. “OH MY GOD.” “dust—” “are you guys, ARE YOU—”
“NO.” “NO.” “NO.” you and steve shout in panicked unison.
dustin just grins wider.
“this is disgusting,” he says happily. “i’m telling robin.”
“dustin!” steve practically lunges for him.
dustin dodges, sprinting into the house. steve chases him. you bury your face in your hands.
your life is a nightmare.
a warm, confusing, strangely nice nightmare.
and steve… steve feels different now.
closer. sharper. like the ground beneath your feet is shifting and you’re only just noticing.
----
dustin avoids both you and steve for the next hour not because he’s upset, but because he’s plotting, and that’s worse.
every time you catch him looking at you, he’s wearing a gremlin-smirk. every time steve looks at him, dustin winks.
it’s torture.
but later that night, something shifts.
the house gets quieter. the air gets colder. you feel it before anyone says anything.
that lurking wrongness.
that subtle pressure in the atmosphere, like the world is holding its breath.
you’re washing dishes when you hear dustin whisper sharp, urgent from the living room:
“steve do you feel that?”
you stop. your heart drops.
because of course steve is still here. he always is lately.
you dry your hands and step into the doorway just in time to hear steve say, low and serious:
“yeah. something’s off.”
that tone. you’ve heard it before. right before everything goes to hell.
you swallow. “what’s going on?”
dustin whirls around, guilt splattered across his face like paint.
steve looks up too, and the second he sees you, his expression softens in that way you hate and crave and hate yourself for craving.
“nothing,” dustin tries.
“don’t lie to her,” steve says quietly.
the room goes still.
dustin glares “dude—”
“she deserves to know,” steve insists, eyes never leaving yours.
your stomach tightens.
“know what?” you ask.
dustin sighs dramatically, defeated. “there might be… like… a thing.”
you blink. “a thing.”
“a creature thing,” dustin clarifies. “a maybe upside-down thing.”
steve runs a hand through his hair, stressed, tired, terrified but pretending he’s not.
“we don’t know for sure yet,” he says. “but the kids heard something in the woods earlier. something big.”
big.
your blood runs cold.
“and you’re going,” you say. not a question.
steve nods once.
dustin avoids your eyes because he knows you hate this, the lying, the danger, the way he throws himself into the dark with reckless bravery.
“you’re not going without me,” you say automatically.
dustin instantly protests. “NO. absolutely NOT. you’re not— y/n, no.”
but steve’s reaction comes faster.
too fast.
he steps toward you, practically closing the space in two strides.
“you’re staying here,” he says, voice firm.
you glare. “excuse me?”
“you heard me.”
“you don’t get to tell me what to do.”
“i’m not.” steve swallows hard. “i’m asking.”
and the way he says it shaky, scared — makes your throat tighten.
“it could be nothing,” he goes on. “it could just be an animal. but if it’s not— if it’s anything like before”
his voice cracks.
cracks.
you’ve never heard him sound like that.
soft. vulnerable. terrified of losing something he hasn’t even admitted wanting.
he runs a hand over his face, tries again.
“y/n… please. i can’t focus if you’re out there.”
those words hit you like a punch to the ribs.
“steve—”
“i’m serious,” he says, and it’s not bravado, it’s not posturing it’s raw truth, spilling out too fast for him to catch. “if anything happened to you”
he stops.
the sentence hangs there.
unfinished. enormous. heavy.
you don’t breathe.
dustin looks between you two like he’s watching the most stressful romcom in existence.
steve steps closer again, lowering his voice like the walls might hear.
“i’ll keep him safe,” he promises, nodding toward dustin. “i always do. but you… if you got hurt because of us because of this i wouldn’t i couldn’t”
he stops again. jaw tight. eyes glossy.
he’s shaking.
you’ve never seen steve harrington shake.
your chest aches.
you step closer without thinking.
his eyes snap to yours wide, soft, searching.
you don’t touch him. you barely breathe near him. but even that makes something in his shoulders drop, like he’s been holding every emotion inside for years and you just cracked the seal.
“steve,” you say quietly, “i’m not made of glass.”
“i know that.” he laughs bitterly. “believe me, i know. you’re stronger than any of us. that’s the problem.”
you blink. “how is that a problem?”
“because strong people think they don’t need protecting,” he murmurs, and there’s something in his tone that makes your heartbeat stumble. “and you deserve someone who cares enough to try.”
your breath catches.
the room seems impossibly small.
your voice drops. “and you… care?”
steve freezes. dustin’s eyes widen like he’s physically holding in a scream.
steve opens his mouth closes it opens it again.
“…i care,” he whispers.
not a confession. not even close.
but it hits you anyway.
like a spark to gasoline.
he steps back suddenly, dragging a hand through his hair, flustered, shaking off whatever almost happened.
“okay we should go. before it gets dark,” he mutters, voice cracking. “robin and the rest are waiting.”
dustin grabs his backpack, still staring at you with a mixture of awe and horror.
you cross your arms, trying to steady yourself, heart pounding too loud for your own comfort.
“promise you’ll come back,” you say before you can stop yourself.
steve stops in the doorway.
turns.
and the look he gives you…
god.
you feel it in bone.
“i always come back,” he says softly. “especially to you.”
the world stops spinning for a second. your breath disappears. dustin covers his mouth and whispers, “oh my god.”
“dust. move,” steve mutters, shoving him out the door.
but before he leaves entirely, steve steps back in just half a foot past the threshold and looks at you one last time.
eyes warm. worries loud. heart practically visible.
“lock the doors,” he says quietly. “and hey—”
you raise a brow. “yeah?”
he swallows. smiles faintly. barely.
“you did good today. with the car.”
your breath stutters.
he nods once.
then he’s gone.
the door shuts.
it ends with you standing alone in the silence of your house, heart racing, hands shaking, knowing things are changing.
slowly. undeniably. dangerously.
and you have no idea if the next time you see steve harrington… you’ll be ready for what comes next.
part two
(time jump)
loving steve harrington happens slowly… and then it happens like gravity.
you don’t even realize when it begins. maybe it’s the way he starts showing up everywhere not in that creepy way he did when he first fell for you, but in that easy “i want to be where you are” way. maybe it’s the way he says your name like he’s tasting it. maybe it’s that soft laugh he only does around you, the one that leaks out before he can stop it.
whatever it is, you start feeling it.
he picks you up from school even when you drive now. he appears at your locker with your favourite drink claiming, “was in the area,” even though he absolutely wasn’t. he walks on the street side of the sidewalk, automatically, without mentioning it. he dances with you in the kitchen when there’s no music hands around your waist, chin on your shoulder, swaying you like he’s never been happier.
your heart doesn’t stand a chance.
and the little things… oh god, the little things get you the worst.
he leaves his soap in your shower “by accident” and the way he blushes when you walk past him smelling like cedar and mint almost makes you drop to your knees.
he buries his face in your neck when you sleep next to him on the couch and murmurs, “sweetheart…” without meaning to.
he gets jealous. he doesn’t say it, but the way his hand settles heavy and protective on your hip when another guy talks to you is… well. it does something to you.
one night, lying in your bed, you realize it: steve is your safe place. your soft place. your unexpected, ridiculous, wonderful love.
and the feeling terrifies you because you’ve never loved like this before.
but it’s too late. you’re gone for him.
and clearly, he’s gone for you too.
because on a random tuesday afternoon in february, everything changes.
--
you’re in your room, sitting cross-legged on the floor, sorting through mixtapes, the warm glow of your lamp lighting up your skin. steve sits on your bed, watching you like he always does when he thinks you’re not looking that soft, moonstruck expression like you hung the whole damn sky.
you toss a tape over your shoulder. steve catches it reflexively, smirking. “careful. you almost killed me.”
“you’re dramatic,” you say.
“you’re pretty,” he fires back without thinking.
you freeze.
his face goes pink immediately. “shit i meant uh—”
you raise an eyebrow. “you meant i’m pretty?”
“i meant you’re… very… distracting.” he rubs the back of his neck. “and pretty. yeah. okay. i meant that part.”
you crawl up onto the bed without breaking eye contact. steve watches you, breath caught, chest rising and falling faster. you sit on your knees in front of him. he swallows hard.
“steve,” you whisper. “do you want to kiss me?”
he does. god, he does. he’s wanted to for months.
but he’s steve harrington the boy who masks everything with jokes and charm until he’s in pieces.
so he whispers, voice cracked and low: “please.”
and that’s all it takes.
you lean in. slow. teasing. barely brushing your lips to his.
steve makes the tiniest sound a soft, needy “mm” as if the feeling steals the strength right out of him.
he smiles when he feels you smiling. and then the tension snaps.
he grabs your waist, pulls you onto his lap, mouth hot and desperate against yours. his kiss is hungry, like he’s been starving for this for you like he might die if he doesn’t get enough.
you gasp when his hands slide up your thighs. he groans when you tug his hair.
the months of longing hit at once, a tidal wave neither of you can fight.
he kisses like he’s trying to memorize you. like he’s scared you’ll disappear. like he finally, finally gets to have what he’s been dreaming of.
you break apart breathlessly, foreheads touching.
“jesus christ,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “i’m fucking in love with you.”
you don’t say it back yet. but god you feel it.
and then your lips crash together again, messy and heated and full of need.
--
the kissing gets hotter. needier. steve’s hands slide under your shirt, then pause waiting for permission.
you nod.
he makes another soft, desperate noise. and then he touches you like he’s been dreaming about it for months gentle at first, then firmer when he realizes you like it.
his mouth trails down your jaw, your neck, sucking a mark just to see you gasp. “sweetheart…” he murmurs, voice low and shaky. “you drive me insane.”
clothes come off slowly, hands trembling, breath uneven. you pull his shirt over his head; he helps you shimmy out of yours.
steve looks at you like he’s seeing something holy. his hands trace every inch of skin he’s been dying to touch. his mouth follows, hungry and reverent.
the rest of it is full, explicit intimacy not vague, not half-hearted. heated. breathless. desperate. moans muffled against skin. hands gripping for balance. breathless laughter between kisses. whispers of “you’re so beautiful” and “i’ve wanted you for so long” spilled against hot, flushed skin.
and afterwards, lying tangled together, steve kisses your forehead and murmurs:
“you’re it for me. you know that, right?”
you don’t say it back not yet. but you look at him like he’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.
steve kisses you like he waited his whole damn life for this like every hour he spent wanting you is finally cashing in.
your legs bracket his hips, your hands in his hair, tugging just enough to make him moan into your mouth. his breath stutters, warm and needy against your lips, and he pulls you closer like he can’t stand a single inch of space between you.
“jesus,” he whispers, voice already rough. “you— fuck, sweetheart, you have no idea what you do to me.”
his hands move under your shirt again, slower this time, savoring your skin like he’s memorizing it. his palms are warm, shaky, hungry. he slides his hands up your waist to your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts.
you gasp into the kiss and that drives him insane.
he pulls back just enough to look at you. his eyes are blown wide, pupils dark, lips kiss-bruised.
“tell me if you want me to stop,” he breathes.
“don’t stop.”
the sound he makes is downright sinful.
he lifts your shirt off your body in one quick, breathless motion. the way he looks at you slow, stunned, reverent makes your whole body go hot.
“holy shit,” he whispers, voice dropping. “you’re… fuck, you’re beautiful.”
and then he’s kissing down your neck, open-mouthed, desperate, teeth grazing your skin. he leaves a mark right below your jaw intentional, possessive, then another lower, on your collarbone, sucking hard enough to make your back arch.
your fingers claw at his shoulders, his upper arms, anything you can grab. it only makes him hungrier.
you pull at his shirt next, and he tears it over his head, tossing it somewhere on your bedroom floor without looking. his chest is warm, toned, and he kisses you like he wants you to feel every muscle pressed against you.
his mouth trails down your chest — slow at first, then hotter when he hears you breathe his name. “steve…”
that does it.
he cups your breasts, thumb brushing your nipple until you gasp, and he gives this deep, needy groan like the sound alone could kill him.
“i’ve wanted to touch you like this for so long,” he murmurs into your skin. “fuck, you feel like… like everything, sweetheart.”
you grind down subconsciously, your hips searching for friction, and he sucks in a sharp breath.
“shit, okay hang on—” he grabs your hips, steady but trembling. “if you keep doing that i’m gonna lose it way too fast.”
you smile against his shoulder. “maybe i want you to lose it.”
he lets out a shaky laugh against your throat. “god, you’re gonna ruin me.”
and then he flips you onto your back.
his hands slide from your hips to your thighs, pushing them gently apart as he kisses you again deeper now, tongue against yours, messy and wet and perfect.
your hands roam his back, nails dragging lines down his shoulder blades. each scratch makes him thrust forward instinctively, hips pressing into yours, a low moan torn out of him.
he kisses down your body again. your stomach. your hips. the inside of your thighs.
you whimper when he gets close and the sound makes him pause, breathing hard, eyes locked on yours.
“fuck,” he whispers, voice breaking. “say my name again.”
“steve…”
he closes his eyes like it physically hurts him.
“sweetheart, i swear i’m gonna make you feel so good.”
and he does.
he goes down on you slowly at first, teasing, drawing it out until your legs shake. his tongue is warm, deliberate, his hands are holding your thighs open gently but firmly, and his moans vibrate against your skin every time you whine for him.
he alternates between soft teasing and deep, confident strokes, like he’s trying to learn exactly what drives you insane.
he watches every reaction. every breathy gasp. every twitch of your hips.
“that’s it,” he murmurs against you, voice dripping with need. “god, you’re perfect when you fall apart.”
and when you finally cry out his name, thighs trembling, fingers pulling his hair he groans into you like he’s the one coming undone.
he kisses his way back up your body, lips wet and swollen, eyes wild.
“come here,” he whispers, voice wrecked. you pull him into a kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue.
he fumbles with his belt, desperate, breathless. “tell me you want this. tell me”
“i want you.” your voice rattles him.
“fuck,” he breathes. “okay. okay. i… god, i need you.”
he lines himself up with you, forehead pressed to yours. his voice shakes. “are you sure?”
you guide his hips forward.
“yes.”
the moment he pushes in slow, careful, but desperate he gasps your name like it’s a prayer.
“holy fucking shit” his breath stutters. “you feel… oh my god…”
you claw at his back, pulling him closer, and he starts moving slow at first, then deeper, faster, losing rhythm every time you moan.
he kisses you through every thrust sloppy, breathless, relentlessly affectionate.
“sweetheart— sweetheart—” his voice breaks into a moan. “you’re gonna kill me, jesus”
you wrap your legs around him, pulling him deeper. he groans into your neck, biting down gently as he thrusts harder.
you both fall apart messy, clinging to each other, shaking through the pleasure.
he collapses onto your chest, panting, kissing your skin like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
you don’t know how long you lay there, tangled in each other, catching your breath, hearts racing like you just survived something.
steve eventually lifts his head, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead, eyes soft and unbelievably in love.
“holy shit,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “i think… i think you just ruined me for real.”
you pull him down into another kiss. slow this time. warm. deep.
and steve smiles against your mouth that tiny, involuntary smile he gets when he’s happy beyond words and whispers:
“if i die tomorrow…” he cups your cheek gently. “just know i died loving you.”
you tell him to shut up.
but the universe listens.
and it remembers.
--
he day starts wrong.
not dramatically wrong — not storms or earthquakes or portals ripping open. just… wrong in the quiet ways.
the air feels too heavy. birds aren’t singing. dogs aren’t barking. even hawkins’ constant background hum; cars, chatter, wind is muted, like the whole town is holding its breath.
you wake with a pit in your stomach.
steve notices.
of course he notices he always does.
“hey,” he murmurs, brushing his fingers through your hair as you sit up in bed. “you look like you had a nightmare.”
you didn’t. that’s the problem.
“just a weird feeling,” you say.
he studies you, eyes soft but searching. more serious than he usually lets himself be.
“the bad kind?” he asks quietly.
you nod.
steve pulls you against his chest without another word. you feel his heartbeat against your cheek steady, warm, comforting and you close your eyes.
“it’s probably nothing,” he says. “but if it isn’t… i’m right here, okay?”
he kisses your forehead like he’s sealing a promise.
you don’t know why, but it scares you.
--
will has another episode.
joyce calls everyone panicked, saying his eyes rolled back and he started choking like something was clawing at his throat from the inside.
when you all gather at the byers’ place, will won’t look at anyone. he sits on the couch with his knees pulled to his chest, shivering even though it’s warm.
steve is the one who kneels in front of him.
“hey, buddy,” he says gently. “talk to us. what’s going on?”
will’s voice trembles:
“it wants… out.”
the room goes cold.
you glance at steve. his jaw flexes. he puts a steadying hand on your back.
“out where?” dustin asks.
will swallows, eyes darting to the window like he’s afraid it’ll hear him.
“the quarry,” he whispers. “it keeps saying the quarry.”
nobody wants to go. not really.
but you go anyway.
because will needs you.
because something is coming.
because none of you know how bad it’s going to get.
--
steve drives.
you sit in the passenger seat. dustin’s in the back, nervously bouncing his leg.
the sun is setting as you pull out of town, painting the sky orange and purple. it’s beautiful, but it feels wrong too like something pretending to be normal.
steve glances at you again, fingers brushing over the back of your hand.
“you’re quiet.”
“just thinking.”
“about the ‘weird feeling’ this morning?”
you nod.
he squeezes your hand gently.
“i’ll keep you safe,” he says.
he says it so easily. like it’s a fact. like it’s something he’s already decided.
you don’t realize then how literal he means it.
--
the closer you get, the stronger the feeling gets.
dustin starts to whisper, “uh… guys… does anyone else feel like we’re walking into a—”
“trap?” steve finishes. “yeah.”
“should we turn around?”
you and steve answer at the same time.
“no.”
dustin throws his hands up. “of course. perfect. great. love that for us.”
the three of you make your way down the rocky slope, flashlights cutting through the dim light. mist clings low to the ground. the trees are silent.
steve walks ahead of you, but not by much, just enough to clear the path. he keeps looking back at you, checking your footing, your breathing, your expression.
after the fifth time, you nudge him.
“i’m fine,” you say.
“just making sure.”
“yeah, well, you don’t have to hover.”
he cracks a smile.
“i’m your boyfriend. i absolutely have to hover.”
you roll your eyes, but you can’t help smiling back.
it might be the last time you smile today.
--
you’re about halfway down when will’s voice comes through the walkie.
it’s warped. distorted. like someone else is speaking through him.
“it’s… close.”
the three of you freeze.
steve slowly raises his bat, breath slowing, eyes scanning the treeline.
“where?” he asks.
silence.
then—
“behind you.”
--
you feel it before it happens.
a wrongness in the air. like the world itself flinches. like the upside down is breathing against your neck.
the three of you. you, dustin, and steve pick through the quarry with flashlights, boots crunching over broken stone and dried leaves.
will has been acting off for weeks. something inside him is waking up again. and whatever it’s calling… it’s here.
steve walks slightly ahead of you, bat in one hand, his free hand brushing back toward you every few steps like he’s making sure you’re still there.
“stay close, sweetheart,” he murmurs without turning around.
you roll your eyes. “i have a weapon too, you know.”
“yeah,” he says, glancing over his shoulder with that soft, teasing smile. “the problem is the weapon has legs and keeps wandering.”
you shove him lightly. he grins. dustin snorts behind you.
for a moment — just a moment. it feels normal.
and then the air goes still.
dustin whispers, “guys…?”
steve’s shoulders lock. he raises the bat.
and you hear it.
the wet, rattling snarl. the bone-deep clicking.
the demogorgon crawls out of the shadows like a nightmare peeling itself from the dark. taller than before. faster. its movements almost… deliberate.
its head tilts toward you all at once, petals twitching open.
you don’t think. you shove dustin behind you and raise your nail-studded bat.
steve steps forward instantly, arm out, shielding you with his entire body.
“get behind me,” he growls.
“steve”
“i said get behind me.”
the creature lunges.
everything explodes.
steve swings first. the bat cracks against its skull with a nauseating crunch. the demogorgon screams a horrifying, high-pitched shriek that rattles in your bones but it doesn’t fall.
it slashes.
a claw longer than a knife, sharper than anything natural slices across steve’s chest.
he stumbles but doesn’t drop.
doesn’t fall.
doesn’t even hesitate.
he hits it again. and again. and again.
blood sprays from its mouth. but it isn’t enough.
“steve!” you scream.
“GO!” he roars, voice cracking. “RUN!”
the creature lunges again teeth inches from his throat and steve jams the bat into its jaws, screaming with the effort it takes to hold it back.
you run toward him not away.
“STEVE!”
the demogorgon wrenches the bat free, flinging steve back into the ground with a sickening thud. he gasps, the wind knocked out of him, trying to crawl backward.
you stand in front of him. bat raised. legs shaking. terrified.
the creature turns to you.
and steve, bleeding, panting, terrified still tries to get up to shield you.
but then
it freezes. eyes going blank. head twitching.
not natural. controlled.
will’s voice echoes somewhere behind you, strained, haunted:
“i’m sorry, i can’t. stop”
and the demogorgon snaps back into motion.
you swing first, hitting its jaw hard enough to stagger it, but it’s too strong, too smart.
it grabs you by the waist and throws you.
you hit the ground so hard the world goes white for a second.
when you look up
the creature is already going for steve again.
and steve… steve is trying to stand.
holding his chest. blood pouring between his fingers. eyes unfocused.
he looks down. slow. almost confused.
his hand lifts from his chest.
it’s covered. soaked. in red.
“fuck,” he whispers.
he sways.
your stomach drops.
“STEVE!”
he looks up at you. that same soft, warm look he gives you when he wakes up next to you. like you’re the last good thing he’ll ever see.
“hey…” he breathes, voice fading. “you okay?”
“ME?” you choke. “STEVE, YOU’RE”
but he doesn’t hear you.
his knees buckle.
he falls.
you catch him before he hits the ground, arms wrapping around his shoulders as you pull him into your lap.
“no. no, no, no, steve! stay with me. please stay with me”
he tries to smile for you. it’s small. weak. but real.
“’m fine,” he slurs.
he isn’t.
you feel the heat fading from his skin. you feel his blood soaking into your jeans. you feel his breath shorten.
dustin is screaming for help. you don’t hear anything but the breaking sound of steve’s breathing.
“sweetheart,” he whispers, eyes drifting. “don’t cry…”
you’re not crying. you’re sobbing. you’re shaking so violently you can barely hold him.
“you’re gonna be okay, steve, please, please, stay awake”
his hand finds your cheek. thumb brushing your tears.
“i love you,” he murmurs, voice barely there. “i… i love you so much.”
your heart shatters.
“steve.”
he tries to inhale. it rattles in his chest.
“i was… gonna… ask you to move in…” his lips tremble. “i was… gonna… buy you flowers tomorrow…”
your cry breaks into a scream.
“don’t, don’t say goodbye— don’t, please don’t”
his eyes are half-lidded now. unfocused. fading.
he looks at you one last time.
soft. in love. sorry.
“sweetheart…” barely a breath. “i’m… tired…”
“steve? STEVE?”
his fingers slip from your cheek.
his hand falls.
his chest stills.
and in the middle of the quarry, under the dead, dark sky, steve harrington dies in your arms.
you scream until your voice breaks. until your lungs can’t draw breath. until the world dissolves around you.
dustin collapses beside you, sobbing hard enough to shake.
you cling to steve’s body like if you let go, he’ll disappear forever.
your hands are red.
your clothes are red.
your whole life is red.
and nothing. nothing will ever be the same again.
the end (sorry guys xx)
word count - 8k (give or take)
