witchhkitty

☆ Liv ☆ 18+ (minors dni pls) ☆ portuguese + english ☆ blonde ☆

books. baking. Steve The Hair Harrington. Weasley twins. pirates of the caribbean. marvel (esp tony & steve). hopeless romantic w/ a horror movie addiction. london at night. golden jewellery + pink gloss + lipliners i don’t need. tattoo collector. r&b on loop. kindle always charged. writes like she’s in love, reads like it’ll save her.

for requests go into my inbox!!

Masterlists

Stranger Things

Harry Potter World

Marvel

Dad’s watching - Steve Harrington

summary: After Lily’s heartbreak, Steve struggles to trust again, until a new boy proves, little by little, that he might be worthy of her heart. (this is a part 2 for one of my stories) warnings: Overprotective dad, past heartbreak mentions, soft family feelings wc: 2.5k

author's note: thank you sooo much for the love and the request I love writing them and yess I’m portuguese borned and raised ilyyyy

pt 1 | main masterlist | stranger things masterlist

The first punch happens so fast that later, Ethan will barely remember deciding to throw it.

What he remembers is the look on Lily’s face.

She’s standing by her locker, backpack slipping off one shoulder, eyes glossy but determined in that way that makes your chest ache when you love her. The boy is talking too loud. Laughing like what he did wasn’t cruel. Like it wasn’t real.

“She’s being dramatic,” he says to someone else, not even to her.

That’s when Ethan sees red.

He doesn’t yell. Doesn’t warn him. He just steps forward and swings.

The crack of knuckles against skin echoes down the hallway, sharp and final. The boy stumbles back, hand flying to his face, shock written all over him.

Ethan is shaking, breath heaving, eyes dark.

“You don’t get to talk about her,” he snaps. “Ever.”

Teachers come running. Someone shouts his name. Lily gasps, hands flying to her mouth.

Ethan doesn’t care.

Later, sitting in the principal’s office, knuckles bruised and split, he doesn’t apologize.

Not once.

And when Steve picks them up jaw tight, eyes scanning Lily for damage first, always first, Ethan expects to be yelled at.

Instead, Steve just puts a hand on his shoulder.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

Ethan nods.

Steve exhales. “Alright.”

That’s all.

Weeks pass.

Healing happens quietly in your house. Not forced. Not rushed.

Lily grows lighter again, slowly. Not glowing. Not floating. Just… steadier. She laughs more at dinner. Sings softly while doing dishes. Sits closer to you on the couch, like she’s reminding herself she’s still safe.

One evening, you’re all in the living room.

Steve’s stretched out on one end of the couch, remote in hand, half-watching some old movie he’s seen a hundred times. Lily’s curled up on the other end, feet tucked under her, scrolling on her phone but glancing up at the screen every so often. In the kitchen, Ethan and you got music playing low while the smell of cookies fills the house, cause what boy doesn’t love his mamma time.

Steve glances at Lily, casual. “You want another blanket?”

She shakes her head. “I’m good.”

A beat passes.

Then she clears her throat.

“So… um. I’ve been talking to someone.”

Steve doesn’t move.

Doesn’t stiffen. Doesn’t react.

Inside, his brain absolutely short-circuits.

Another boy. Another heart. Another chance for someone to hurt her.

But he keeps his voice even. “Yeah?”

She nods, eyes still on the TV. “It’s nothing serious. Just… talking. He seems nice.”

Steve swallows.

“That’s good,” he says carefully. “You wanna tell me about him?”

She looks at him then, surprised. “Really?”

“Yeah, kid,” he says. “I’d rather hear it from you.”

Something shifts in her expression relief, maybe. Trust.

“We’re just friends,” she says quickly. “Like, actually. I promise.”

Steve nods. “Okay. Just… keep me updated, yeah?”

She smiles, small but genuine. “I will.”

From the kitchen, Ethan calls out, “Cookies in five!”

“Ethan!! Shhhh they’re gonna eat all our hard work” you joke, which leaves Steve and Lily with a smile in their faces.

Steve exhales slowly, tension he didn’t realize he was holding easing just a fraction.

He sees the boy for the first time a few days later.

Steve’s by the window, arms crossed, pretending to check the weather while absolutely not doing that at all.

A car pulls up. Nothing flashy. Clean. Normal.

The boy gets out, opens the door for Lily.

Steve watches closely.

The kid doesn’t rush. Doesn’t lean in too close. Doesn’t touch her unless she moves first.

“Is that him?” Steve asks.

Lily glances over. “Yeah. But—Dad—it’s really not a big deal.”

Steve nods. “Alright.”

She heads inside, calling a quick goodbye over her shoulder. The boy waves. Steve gives a single nod in return.

Measured. Neutral.

When Lily disappears down the hall, Steve finally exhales.

Outside, you’re in the backyard with Ethan, half-heartedly “helping” him clean the pool while he insists you’re making it harder.

“Mom,” he laughs, nudging you gently. “I got it.”

“I’m helping,” you insist, even as you absolutely are not.

Steve steps outside, rubbing the back of his neck.

You look up at him instantly. “You saw him.”

He nods. “Yeah.”

“And?”

“He seemed… fine,” Steve admits. “Which somehow makes it worse.”

Ethan snorts. “You’re impossible.”

Steve ignores him, turning to you instead. “What am I supposed to do?”

You pause, setting the skimmer aside. “What do you mean?”

“Am I doing the right thing?” he asks quietly. “By not freaking out. By letting it happen.”

You step closer, lowering your voice. “Steve. If she knows she can come to us if she knows we’re not gonna scare her into hiding things that’s how we protect her.”

He looks at you, eyes searching.

“She’s gonna meet people,” you continue softly. “And if we’re by her side through it, that’s better than her feeling like she’s alone.”

He exhales, shaking his head. “You’re always right, baby. It’s annoying.”

You smile and kiss him, slow and familiar.

“Guys,” Ethan deadpans. “I’m literally right here.”

Steve laughs, pulling back. “Yeah, yeah.”

You squeeze Ethan’s arm. “You did good with the pool.”

He grins. “Told you.”

Steve looks toward the house, where Lily’s laughter drifts through an open window.

Careful. Calm. Still here.

And maybe, for the first time Steve realizes that letting go doesn’t mean stepping away.

It just means trusting the lessons they never had to teach.

Time doesn’t announce itself when it starts to heal things.

It just… shows up in pieces.

It’s Liam, the new boy, pulling up outside the house on a random Tuesday afternoon, engine still running while Lily grabs her bag. Steve watches from the window, arms crossed out of habit more than suspicion now.

The boy gets out of the car anyway.

Walks her to the door.

“Evening, Mr. Harrington,” Liam says easily, like he’s done it a hundred times. “Hi, Mrs. Harrington.”

You smile back. “Hi, Liam.”

Steve nods. “Hey.”

Not stiff. Not sharp. Just… there.

When Lily comes home later, hair smelling like outside air and cheap movie theater popcorn, she’s lighter. Not floating. Just content.

“He walked me to my locker again,” she tells you while you’re washing dishes. “Said it’s dumb to rush.”

You hum. “Sounds like he’s got common sense.”

She smiles to herself.

Another afternoon, it’s colder than expected. Lily comes inside wrapped in a hoodie that’s very clearly not hers sleeves too long, hem brushing her thighs.

Steve notices immediately.

“Where’d that come from?” he asks.

She shrugs. “Liam’s. He said I looked cold.”

Steve pauses.

Then: “Smart kid.”

You pretend not to see the way that answer surprises even him.

The little things stack up quietly.

Liam brings cookies once. Homemade. Slightly burnt on the edges. He apologizes too much about them. Steve eats three.

Liam shows up early one Saturday just to say hi before taking Lily to the movies. Shakes Steve’s hand. Makes eye contact. Doesn’t rush Lily when she’s running late.

Ethan likes him.

That might be the biggest shock of all.

“He’s chill,” Ethan says one night, mouth full of cereal. “We talked about music for like an hour.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“He listens,” Ethan adds. “That’s rare.”

Steve files that away.

Weeks pass like that. No big moments. No dramatic declarations. Just consistency.

Lily keeps you updated without being asked.

“We haven’t kissed,” she says one evening, almost shy. “He said there’s no rush.”

You glance at her, studying her face. “How do you feel about that?”

She shrugs, then smiles. “Safe.”

That word sits heavy in your chest in the best way.

Steve overhears bits and pieces. Pretends not to. Pretends he’s not listening when she tells you about Liam buying her sour candy because “he remembered she liked the blue ones best.”

But one night, while folding laundry together, Steve finally says it.

“He’s… alright,” he admits.

You smile into a t-shirt. “High praise.”

The fireplace is lit in the backyard when the air turns crisp enough to justify it.

You and Lily sit close, legs tucked under blankets, marshmallows melting just a little too fast. On the other side of the yard, Steve and Ethan are locked into a game, voices rising and falling with every near-miss.

Lily watches the fire for a long moment before she speaks.

“I didn’t want to fall for him,” she says quietly.

You don’t interrupt.

“I really didn’t,” she continues. “After what happened… I told myself I wouldn’t.”

You reach for her hand.

“But I think I am,” she admits. “And that scares me.”

You squeeze her fingers gently. “That makes sense.”

She exhales. “I’m not saying he’s ‘the one’ or anything. I just… think he might be a good one.”

You smile softly. “I’ve met the kid. I agree.”

She laughs quietly. “You hated my last boyfriend.”

“I hated how he treated you,” you correct. “Big difference.”

She nods, thoughtful. “Do you think Dad’s okay with it?”

You glance over at Steve, who’s currently yelling at the TV while Ethan laughs at him.

“I think your dad is trying very hard to be okay with it,” you say honestly. “Which is his version of trust.”

She smiles at that.

“And between you and me,” you add, lowering your voice, “He tried to get some information about your brothers love life out of me, so don’t think it’s just with you.”

Lily snorts. “No way.”

“Oh yes way,” you grin. “Your father is nothing if not consistent.”

She relaxes then, leaning into your shoulder.

“I just… wanted you to know,” she says quietly.

“I’m glad you told me,” you reply. “And I trust you. Whatever you decide.”

She nods, eyes shining a little in the firelight.

Across the yard, Steve glances over at you both. Catches Lily laughing. Sees her relaxed. Happy.

Something in his chest eases.

He doesn’t say it out loud.

But he’s learning.

Liam arrives ten minutes early.

Not late. Not exactly on time. Early enough that it feels intentional.

Steve notices immediately.

“He said six,” Steve mutters, glancing at the clock for the third time in as many minutes.

You look up from where you’re wiping down the counter. “It’s five fifty.”

“That’s early.”

“It’s polite.”

Steve hums, unconvinced.

The doorbell rings before he can spiral any further.

Steve stands so fast his chair scrapes loudly against the floor. Ethan, already suspiciously hovering near the hallway, freezes mid-step.

“I got it,” Steve says.

“I’ll come with you,” you add casually, already following.

Liam stands on the porch with his hands clasped in front of him, dressed nicer than usual. Button-down shirt. Clean shoes. Hair carefully styled but not stiff. He looks… nervous. Not guilty-nervous. Respectful-nervous.

“Mr. Harrington. Mrs. Harrington,” he says. “Hi.”

“Hi, Liam,” you smile warmly.

Steve nods. “You’re early.”

“Yes, sir,” Liam says quickly. “I—uh—if that’s okay. I actually… wanted to talk to you both for a second. If that’s alright.”

Steve’s stomach drops.

“Talk?” he repeats.

Liam swallows. “Yes, sir.”

Ethan, from the hallway, makes a strangled noise and immediately pretends he’s deeply invested in a family photo on the wall.

Steve steps aside. “Come in.”

Liam does, shoulders squared like he’s bracing for impact.

They move to the living room. Lily’s door is still closed upstairs music faintly playing. She has no idea.

Liam clears his throat.

“I just wanted to say,” he begins, voice steady despite the obvious nerves, “that I really care about Lily. And I’ve tried to show that in the ways I know how. I’ve never wanted to rush her or pressure her into anything. I just…” He glances between you and Steve. “I’d really like to ask her to be my girlfriend. Officially. And I wanted to ask you first.”

Steve’s brain short-circuits.

Ask her— girlfriend— official—

He opens his mouth, closes it, rubs a hand over his face.

“You want to—” Steve exhales. “You want to ask my daughter to be your girlfriend.”

“Yes, sir.”

Steve looks at you.

You give him a calm look that says: breathe.

Liam rushes on. “I know it’s not… like, a formal thing. But I respect you both, and I respect her. And I wanted you to know my intentions aren’t—” He shakes his head. “They’re not bad. I promise.”

Steve studies him.

Not just looking really looking.

This isn’t a kid trying to sneak something. This is a boy standing still under scrutiny, choosing honesty anyway.

Steve nods slowly.

“I appreciate you coming to us,” he says. “That took guts.”

Liam lets out a breath he’s clearly been holding.

“And,” Liam adds, almost sheepish, “Ethan already gave me his permission.”

Silence.

“…Ethan,” Steve repeats.

There’s a loud thump from the hallway.

Steve turns just in time to see Ethan half-hidden behind the corner, frozen mid-escape.

“You,” Steve says flatly.

Ethan winces. “In my defense—”

“Since when do you give permission about your sister’s life?”

Ethan shrugs. “Since I like him and he treats her right.”

Steve stares at his son for a long moment.

Then back at Liam.

Steve lifts his hands. “Alright.”

Liam straightens.

Steve points a finger. “Here’s how this works. You hurt her, even emotionally, I will know.”

Liam nods immediately. “Yes, sir.”

Steve continues. “I won’t yell. I won’t threaten. I will simply make your life very uncomfortable.”

You snort.

“And don’t listen to him,” you add sweetly, resting a hand on Steve’s arm. “But I will absolutely slap the shit out of you if you hurt my baby.”

Liam’s eyes widen but he smiles, relieved.

“I wouldn’t,” he says earnestly. “I promise.”

Steve nods once. “Okay.”

That’s it.

That’s the approval.

Just then, Lily comes down the stairs.

She’s wearing a soft dress, hair curled just right, smile easy and bright and she freezes when she sees everyone standing there.

“Why does this feel like an ambush?” she asks.

Liam turns to her, suddenly all nerves again. “Hi.”

She smiles. “Hi.”

Steve clears his throat. “You’re heading out?”

“Yes…?” Lily answers slowly.

Liam takes a breath. “I was hoping I could ask you something. Tonight.”

Her eyes flicker to you, questioning.

You smile. “Go.”

They leave not long after, Lily glowing in a way that feels different this time steadier.

When she comes home later, she doesn’t sneak in.

She walks straight into the kitchen where you and Steve are waiting.

“We’re dating,” she announces, smiling.

Steve stands, opens his arms. “Congratulations.”

She hugs him tight.

Then you.

“But,” Steve adds gently, pulling back to look at her, “remember what we talked about.”

She nods. “I know.”

“Trust yourself,” you add. “And us.”

She smiles. “I will.”

She turns to head upstairs.

“Lily,” Steve calls.

She stops. “Yeah?”

“I think it’s time we finally have… the conversation.”

Her face drops. “Conversation?”

“You know,” Steve says seriously. “About how babies come into the world.”

“No,” she says immediately. “Dad, please, no.”

You laugh as she bolts up the stairs, calling, “Absolutely not!”

The door slams.

Steve sighs.

“Give her time,” you say, slipping into his arms. “She’s not ready.”

He looks down at you slowly. “Are you ready?”

Before you can answer, he’s kissing you, playful and familiar, climbing into your space.

You laugh, hands on his shoulders. “Stevie, I’m pretty sure I already know how babies are made.”

He grins. “Just checking.”

You lean into him, laughing, safe.

taglist: @louisbelongstome28 @teenagepenguincollectorfan @willowallowsworld

https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSa9YFV5m/

summary: (request) Half-packed bags, damp hair, chaos everywhere. Joe stops you. No spectacle, just a choice he makes every day.

warnings: Domestic fluff, emotional proposal

wc: 800

main masterlist | stranger things masterlist

You are mid–spiral when it happens.

Not a cute one. A real one.

Your suitcase is open on the floor like a mouth waiting to swallow things you can’t decide on. Clothes are everywhere, clean, half-clean, “I can wear this again probably.” You’re barefoot, stepping over jeans and socks, hair still damp from the shower and clinging to the back of your neck. You’re wearing one of Joe’s old T-shirts, the soft one, the one you stole years ago and never gave back.

You’re pacing. Talking to yourself. Forgetting what you just picked up the second it leaves your hands.

Packing does this to you. Always has. Like your brain forgets how to function.

“I swear to God,” you mutter, digging through a pile, “why do I own white?”

You turn into the hallway and freeze.

Joe’s there.

Leaning against the wall, arms crossed loosely, watching you with that look, the one that’s not teasing, not amused, just… full. Fond. Like he’s quietly clocked this moment and decided it’s his favorite thing in the world.

You feel your face heat instantly.

“No,” you say, pointing at him. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” he asks, lips twitching.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like this.”

He pushes off the wall slowly. “You mean like my favorite person?”

You groan, spin on your heel, and bolt back into the bedroom.

“Nope. No. Absolutely not.”

You pace in a tight circle, hands in your hair. Should I do my nails? Why am I panicking? It’s just Joe. It’s our house.

“Babe,” he calls gently. “You know it’s just me, right?”

“I know!” you shout back. “That’s the problem!”

You take a breath, steady yourself, and walk back out.

Joe is standing in the living room now.

Still. Grounded.

He’s holding something small.

Your stomach drops.

“I know some people want big gestures,” he says carefully. “Rose petals. A whole thing.”

Your eyes are already burning.

“But our life is already so loud,” he continues. “So public. Everything important happens out there.”

He steps closer.

“I don’t want this moment to belong to anyone else.”

You stop breathing.

“I want dishes in the sink. I want laundry. I want cooking together and arguing over nothing. I want you in my T-shirt, panicking over a suitcase like the world’s ending.”

A laugh breaks out of you, shaky and wet.

“This,” he says, opening the box. “This is the life I choose.”

He swallows.

“And I want to choose it with you.”

Joe drops to one knee.

“Will you marry me?”

You don’t answer immediately—not because you don’t want to, but because your body betrays you completely. Tears spill before you can stop them. You’re shaking.

“Yes,” you choke out. “Yes. Oh my God, yes.”

He’s up instantly, arms around you, laughing and crying as you cling to him. He slides the ring onto your finger with hands that aren’t even steady, and when you look down at it, something in your chest cracks open.

You cry harder.

—

“And I lost it,” you say, laughing as the audience cheers.

Jimmy Fallon leans forward at his desk, eyes bright. “You lost it immediately.”

“Immediately,” you confirm. “No buildup. No grace. Just—done.”

The crowd laughs.

“I was still in a giant T-shirt,” you add. “Hair wet. No makeup. Fully feral.”

Jimmy grins. “Those are the best proposals.”

“They really are,” you say. “Because it felt real. It felt like us.”

You glance over your shoulder where Joe is sitting, smiling like he still can’t believe you’re talking about him on national television.

“And then,” Jimmy says, “you didn’t announce it right away, right?”

You groan. “No. We didn’t plan to.”

The audience leans in.

“He proposed in October,” you explain, “but only two months later, we got on a flight for this trip. Like—engaged, airports, chaos.”

Joe laughs behind you.

“We land, we shower, we go out to lunch with friends, just living our lives,” you continue. “And suddenly—paparazzi.”

The crowd reacts.

“They got pictures of the rings immediately,” you say. “So my grandma is calling my mom like, ‘Why is the internet saying you’re engaged?’”

Jimmy loses it.

“So that’s how the world found out?”

“Pretty much,” you laugh. “We were like, ‘Well… okay then.’”

“But,” you add softly, voice shifting, “I’m glad it happened the way it did.”

Jimmy nods. “Why’s that?”

“Because the proposal itself?” you say. “That part was just ours. No cameras. No noise. Just… home.”

Joe lifts his hand in a small wave as the audience applauds again.

“And honestly,” you finish, smiling, “I’d choose that a thousand times over.”

Jimmy beams. “That’s beautiful. Congratulations.”

You glance back at Joe once more.

Thank you so muchhh for the request!! Requests are always open!!💕

summary: Mike’s a control freak. You’re… not. So yeah, all that fighting? It’s only a matter of time before hate turns into something way messier—and way harder to ignore. warnings: enemies to lovers, explicit sexual content, degradation & hate sex, emotional angst, arguments, reckless behavior/near injury, all characters are 18+ wc: 5.6k

main masterlist | stranger things masterlist

You don’t even remember how it starts.

One second you’re leaning against the counter in Dustin’s basement, half-listening to Max talk, the next Mike’s voice cuts in, tight, precise, already irritated.

“Can you not do that?”

You look at him. Slowly. Deliberately.

“Do what?” you ask, even though you know exactly what he means.

Mike gestures vaguely toward the mess you’ve left behind, your jacket tossed over a chair, your boots kicked off wherever they landed, the open soda can sweating onto a stack of old D&D books. His jaw tightens like it always does when things aren’t where he thinks they should be.

“Just—” he exhales sharply. “Leave your stuff everywhere.”

You laugh, short and humorless. “Oh my god. I’ve been here ten minutes.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It’s always the point with you,” you snap, pushing off the counter. “Everything has to be exactly how you want it. Lined up. Clean. Controlled.”

Mike’s eyes flick to you then, dark, sharp, familiar. Too familiar. Like he’s been watching you do things “wrong” for years.

“Some of us like things not to be chaos all the time,” he says.

Max mutters, “Uh-oh,” under her breath.

You tilt your head. “Right. Because I’m chaos.”

“You said it, not me.”

That does it.

You step closer, invading his space without even thinking about it. “You’ve had a problem with me since day one, Mike. Don’t pretend this is about a jacket.”

He straightens, matching your posture, refusing to back down. “Maybe because you don’t take anything seriously.”

Your laugh this time is sharper. Meaner. “Says the guy who thinks the world will fall apart if someone breathes wrong.”

Lucas clears his throat. “Guys—”

“No,” Mike cuts in, eyes never leaving yours. “She just does whatever she wants and expects everyone else to deal with it.”

You feel it then, that familiar twist in your chest. The one that always shows up when he looks at you like that. Like you’re a problem to be solved instead of a person.

“At least I live,” you fire back. “You just spend your whole life bracing for impact.”

His nostrils flare. “That’s rich coming from someone who doesn’t think before acting.”

“And you think too much,” you shoot back. “God, you’re exhausting.”

For a second, the room goes quiet.

Dustin stares between you like he’s watching a tennis match. Will looks uncomfortable. Max’s eyebrows are practically in her hairline.

Mike swallows. His voice is lower when he speaks again. “If you hate me so much, why are you always here?”

The question lands heavier than it should.

You blink. Once.

“Because this is my friend group too,” you say, jaw tight. “Not everything revolves around you, Mike.”

Something flashes in his eyes then, something hot and unreadable. Hurt, maybe. Or frustration. Or something neither of you want to name.

“Whatever,” he mutters, grabbing his jacket. “I’m going for a walk.”

He brushes past you, shoulder bumping yours just barely, but it’s enough. Electricity snaps between you, sharp and unwanted and familiar.

The door slams behind him.

The room exhales all at once.

Max looks at you. “So… same time next week?”

You don’t answer.

Because all you can think about is the way Mike looked at you before he left.

And how much you hate that it still gets under your skin.

You weren’t always part of them.

You came to Hawkins later, slipped into the town like an afterthought, like something the place hadn’t planned for. A new house, a new routine, a life already shaped by things you never bothered explaining. By the time you arrived, they already had history stitched into their bones. Inside jokes. Shared trauma. A rhythm you weren’t meant to interrupt.

But you did anyway.

It was Max who pulled you in first, easy, fearless, unapologetic. She liked the way you didn’t ask permission to exist, the way you took up space without flinching. Lucas followed. Then Dustin, who talked too much and welcomed you like you’d always been there. Will was quieter, but kind. Observant.

Mike was the only one who didn’t move.

From the beginning, he watched you like a variable he couldn’t account for.

You were too loud in the wrong moments. Too careless. You laughed when things were tense, shrugged when things felt heavy, lived like the future wasn’t something to be terrified of. You didn’t organize yourself around fear. You didn’t brace for disaster.

And that bothered him.

You noticed it immediately, the way his eyes tracked the mess you left behind, the way his shoulders tightened when plans changed last minute, the way he looked at you like you were a loose thread threatening to unravel everything he worked so hard to keep together.

At first, it was small.

A look. A sigh. A correction that felt unnecessary.

You pushed back without even trying. You hated being managed. Hated being told to slow down, be careful, think it through. You’d already lived through enough to know that thinking didn’t always save you.

So you clashed.

Over nothing. Over everything.

The more time you spent with the group, the worse it got. You became unavoidable. Permanent. Your jacket on their chairs, your presence folded into their routines, your laughter echoing through rooms Mike thought he understood.

And somewhere along the way, the annoyance sharpened into something else.

Because for all the ways you were wrong to him, you were also impossible to ignore. Your recklessness terrified him because it mirrored the part of himself he kept locked down. And his need for control infuriated you because it looked too much like fear pretending to be logic.

You knew his tells. He knew yours.

You learned how to push each other’s buttons with surgical precision—how to escalate without ever touching the real reason behind it. It was easier to argue than to admit the pull. Easier to call it hate than to acknowledge how his presence made your chest tighten, how his disapproval felt personal in a way no one else’s ever did.

By the time anyone noticed, it was already too late.

The fighting wasn’t random. It was ritual. Predictable. Inevitable.

You and Mike didn’t just dislike each other.

You collided.

And every time, it left a mark.

But what no one ever saw, what you refused to admit even to yourself, was how the fighting changed as you grew up.

Somewhere between arguments that used to end in slammed doors and arguments that ended in long silences, something shifted. Your bodies changed. Your voices deepened. The space between you started to feel charged instead of empty.

You noticed it first in moments that didn’t make sense.

The way your stomach flipped when Mike stood too close.

The way your attention snagged on his hands, his jaw, the tension in his shoulders when he was trying not to lose control.

The way his eyes lingered a second too long when you walked into a room, like he was cataloging damage before it happened.

You told yourself it was just irritation. Just resentment. Just heat from arguing too much.

But irritation doesn’t settle low in your stomach.

Resentment doesn’t make your pulse trip.

Hate doesn’t make you hyperaware of someone’s breathing.

Every year, the fights got sharper. Less about rules and recklessness, more about you. About him watching you too closely. About you refusing to be managed. About neither of you backing down even when it would’ve been easier to walk away.

Especially then.

You’d catch him staring sometimes, when he thought you weren’t looking. Jaw tight. Eyes dark. Like he was bracing himself against something he didn’t want.

And you’d look back, defiant, heart pounding, daring him to say something.

He never did.

That was how it started, not with a decision, not with an agreement, not with understanding. Just pressure. Years of it. Built up and unspoken and vibrating between you until one night it snapped.

No apologies followed. No conversations. No rules.

You didn’t stop fighting.

You just started ending the fights differently.

Still angry. Still sharp. Still convinced you couldn’t stand each other. But now there was something else underneath, something raw and reckless and impossible to pretend away.

So it’s no news when after another one of your fights Mike escaped his house basement right to his room hoping you would come up to finish it exactly how he liked it.

Surprise, surprise you storm into Mike's room without knocking, slamming the door behind you. He looks up from his computer, irritation flashing across his face before morphing into a smirk.

"Well, well, well. Look who decided to grace me with her presence."

"Shut up," you snap, advancing on him. "I didn't come here for your attitude."

He leans back in his chair, assessing you with a look that feels like a physical touch. "Then why did you come?"

You want to punch that smug look off his face. Instead, you yank him up by his shirt and crash your lips against his in a bruising kiss. He hesitates for a split second before kissing you back just as roughly, hands fisting in your hair.

You break away with a gasp, already tugging at his clothes. "I need it. I need you. Now."

Mike groans, helping you shove his pants down. "You're such a goddamn brat. So mouthy and disrespectful."

"Only because you piss me off," you pant, pushing him onto the bed and straddling his hips. His hard cock presses against your clothed pussy and you grind down on it, desperate for friction.

"Fuck, you're wet already." His fingers dig into your thighs as he bucks up against you. "Such a dirty girl, getting turned on by fighting with me."

"Shut up and fuck me, please" you taunt, leaning down to bite at his throat.

Mike flips you over onto your back, pinning your wrists above your head. "Gonna ruin this tight little cunt. Show you who's boss."

He rips your pants off and drives into you in one brutal thrust. You cry out, back arching off the bed as he pounds into your slick heat. It hurts so good, the way he stretches and fills you.

"Fucking take it," he snarls, angling his hips to hit that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. "This is what you need, isn't it? To be split open on my cock like a bratty little slut you are."

"Yes!" you scream, clenching around him. "Harder, Mike!"

He hammers into you, grunting with exertion. The headboard slams against the wall with each powerful thrust. "Look at you, desperate for my dick even though you hate me. Such a filthy little slut."

You meet his punishing rhythm with your own frantic bucking, chasing your release. "Shut the fuck up" you gasp out. "I hate you."

"You hate me so much but you fucking love it when I wreck this pussy, don't you?" He pistons in and out, sweat beading on his forehead. "Love feeling me use you like the bratty little toy you are."

"God! I'm so close, Mike! Don't stop!"

He leans down to bite at your neck, marking you, claiming you. "Come on my cock. Now. I want to feel this greedy cunt milk me dry."

The filthy words push you over the edge and you come with a scream, vision whiting out as ecstasy crashes through you. Mike follows right after, slamming home and emptying himself deep inside your spasming pussy with a guttural moan.

He collapses on top of you, both of you panting and twitching with aftershocks. You lay there for a moment, reveling in the feeling of his weight pressing you into the mattress.

Then reality comes crashing back and you push at his chest. "Get off me."

Mike rolls away with a frustrated sigh, tucking himself back into his pants. "Still a brat even when I'm balls deep inside you."

You stand up on shaky legs, pulling your clothes back on. "Better than being a control freak who can't stand anyone not doing exactly what you say."

He scoffs. "Someone's gotta keep order around here. Can't have everyone running wild."

"Spoken like a true asshole," you mutter.

Mike smirks at you, and there's a glint in his eye that makes your stomach flip. "But you love my asshole.

That's why you keep coming back for more."

You throw a pillow at his head and storm out, slamming the door behind you. But even as anger simmers in your veins, you can't ignore the throb between your legs. Or the way your heart races at the thought of doing it all over again.

Because for all the hate, there's something about Mike that gets under your skin. Something that makes you want to keep provoking him, keep pushing him until he snaps and takes what he wants.

And maybe that makes you just as bad as he thinks you are.

In public, nothing has changed.

Mike still corrects you in front of everyone, quiet, clipped, like he’s doing you a favor.

You still roll your eyes, still push back, still make a show of not caring.

“Do you ever think before you speak?” he snaps once, arms crossed, jaw tight.

You smile sweetly. Meanly. “Do you ever relax?”

The party groans. Max mutters something about déjà vu. Dustin looks between you like he’s watching a tennis match he didn’t ask to attend.

Mike doesn’t look at you after that.

But later, when everyone’s distracted, when the room shifts and thins, your shoulder brushes his.

Accidental.

Except neither of you moves away.

The contact lasts half a second too long.

You feel it everywhere.

He clears his throat and steps back like he’s been burned.

Still enemies.

Right?

Mike hates when you’re late.

Hates when you change plans.

Hates when you don’t text back fast enough.

“You can’t just disappear,” he says one night, voice low, controlled, too controlled.

You laugh, but it’s sharp around the edges. “I don’t belong to you.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

That’s when the silence hits. Thick. Charged. Dangerous.

You’re standing too close. You always stand too close when you’re mad.

Mike notices everything, your breathing, your hands, the way your chin tilts like you’re daring him to say one more word.

He doesn’t.

Instead, his eyes flick to your mouth.

Just once.

It feels like losing a step on the stairs, like your body realizes something your brain refuses to process.

You turn away first.

But Mike grabs your wrist as you try to walk away. He yanks you back against his chest, a hand fisting in your hair.

"I didn't say we were done."

His breath is hot on your neck, his grip tight enough to sting.

You struggle for a second before stilling, heart pounding. "Let go of me."

He doesn't. Instead, he spins you around and crashes his mouth to yours in a brutal kiss. It's all teeth and tongue and anger, a clash of lips and breaths and violence.

You kiss him back just as hard, one hand fisting in his shirt while the other claws at his shoulder. He groans into your mouth, the sound low and hungry, and his hand tightens in your hair until it's almost painful.

When he finally breaks away, you're both panting. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with want. He takes a step back, releasing you abruptly.

"Get on your knees."

It's a command, not a request. His voice is rough, gravelly, dripping with lust.

For a second, you debate defying him. Just to see how far you can push.

But then he looks at you like that, like he wants to devour you whole, and you can't help but obey.

You sink to your knees in front of him, head tilted back to meet his gaze. Your hands go to his belt, fingers fumbling with the buckle. Mike watches you with heavy-lidded eyes, absently palming himself through his jeans.

When you get his pants open, he springs free, thick and hard and already leaking at the tip. Your mouth waters at the sight.

You wrap a hand around his base, giving him a slow pump. He groans, hips twitching forward into your grip. "Fuck, just like that."

You ignore him, ducking forward to run your tongue along his length. Tasting him, teasing him. Mike curses under his breath, fingers threading through your hair.

The first time you take him into your mouth, he bucks against your face. The second time, he holds you there, guiding your head up and down his shaft with a bruising rhythm.

You take him deeper each time, until your nose is pressed against his groin and he's hitting the back of your throat. It makes you gag a little, tears pricking at your eyes, but you don't stop.

You can't stop. Not when he's looking at you like that, like you're the only thing in the world that matters.

Not when his hand in your hair is the only thing grounding you.

So you take him deeper. Harder. Until he's fucking your face with abandon, hips slapping against your chin.

Until drool is dripping down your chin and your jaw is aching and your eyes are streaming.

And even then, you don't stop.

Not until he's shaking above you, cursing and twisting his fingers in your hair as he comes down your throat. Not until you've milked every last drop from him and he's slumping back against the wall, chest heaving.

Only then do you sit back on your heels, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

Mike stares down at you, eyes hazy and unfocused. He looks wrecked. And it's because of you.

The thought sends a thrill through you. A heady rush of power.

He looks at you like he wants to eat you alive. Like he wants to fuck you again right here on the floor.

But then he looks away, and you remember.

This isn't love.

This is just two people who hate each other, finding ways to hurt and wound each other even when they're buried inside one another's bodies.

And as Mike tucks himself away and straightens his clothes, you can't help but wonder—when does the hate stop feeling so good?

After that, things get worse.

Or better.

Depends who you ask.

Mike gets quieter around you, but more intense. Like he’s holding himself together with sheer will.

You get bolder. Louder. Reckless on purpose, because some part of you wants to see how far you can push before he breaks.

You don’t talk about what happens behind closed doors.

There are no rules.

No labels.

No acknowledgment.

Just looks that linger too long.

Just arguments that end with you both breathing harder than necessary.

Once, you catch him watching someone else talk to you—really watching. His jaw tight. His leg bouncing. His hand clenched like he’s holding onto something invisible.

Later, you tease him for being quiet.

“I don’t care who you talk to,” he says too quickly.

You raise a brow. “Didn’t ask.”

The lie hangs between you.

You both pretend not to see it.

The worst moments are the quiet ones.

Like when you’re sitting on the floor, back against the couch, and Mike hands you a drink without looking at you, already knowing what you like.

Like when he fixes something for you without being asked.

Like when you laugh at something stupid and his face softens before he remembers himself.

Those moments scare you more than the fighting ever did.

Because hate is easy.

This… isn’t.

After, you don’t stay, you never do.

After, he doesn’t ask you to.

You pass each other like nothing happened.

Still sharp. Still sarcastic. Still pretending.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you say one night, more to yourself than to him.

Mike nods. Too fast. “Yeah. I know.”

You believe it because you need to.

Because admitting otherwise would mean admitting you’re not in control anymore.

And Mike Wheeler hates nothing more than losing control.

But the truth lingers, in every almost-touch, every look held too long, every moment that feels too intimate to be nothing.

You’re unraveling.

Both of you.

And the lie, we’re fine like this, is starting to sound thinner every time you say it.

The idea starts the way most bad ideas do.

Dustin, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a map spread out like he actually knows how to read it.

“There’s this spot,” he says, tapping a finger dramatically. “River, small waterfalls, cliff jumps—”

“No,” Mike says immediately, not even looking up from tying his shoes.

“—perfect for camping,” Dustin finishes, ignoring him.

Max grins. “Cliff jumps? I’m in.”

Mike finally looks up. “Absolutely not.”

You glance over from where you’re stuffing clothes into a backpack, eyebrow raised. “You don’t even know how high it is yet.”

“I don’t need to,” he says. “The answer is still no.”

Lucas snorts. “You realize you’re not the boss of the trip, right?”

Mike glares at him. “Someone has to be the responsible one.”

Will, quietly rolling up a sleeping bag, mutters, “We’ve survived worse.”

That earns him a look from Mike. You bite back a smile.

The drive out feels like muscle memory.

Windows down. Music too loud. Dustin and Lucas arguing about who forgot the marshmallows. Max’s feet on the dashboard until Mike tells her, again, to put them down.

You sit in the back, shoulder brushing Will’s, watching trees blur past and feeling that familiar sense of belonging. You weren’t here at the beginning. You know that. But you’re here now, and somehow, that makes it sweeter.

When you pull up to the clearing near the river, everyone spills out at once.

“Shotgun tents,” Max declares.

“That’s not a thing,” Mike says, already unloading gear with practiced precision.

You hop down last, stretching, eyes immediately drawn to the sound of rushing water nearby. It’s louder than you expected. Closer.

Dustin notices your stare. “Wait until you see it.”

Setting up camp is chaos in the most familiar way.

Lucas insists he knows how to pitch a tent. He does not.

Dustin tries to help and somehow makes it worse.

Will quietly fixes it while no one’s looking.

Mike moves around the campsite like he’s conducting an orchestra, adjusting tent stakes, reorganizing coolers, muttering under his breath when things aren’t aligned just right.

“You know,” you say casually, crouching to help Max with the firewood, “if you relax your shoulders maybe a centimeter, the world won’t end.”

Mike shoots you a look. “If I don’t do it, no one will.”

“You’re welcome to not do it,” you reply lightly.

He scoffs. “And let things be a mess?”

Max smirks. “You’re proving her point, Wheeler.”

He opens his mouth to argue, then stops. Glares. Walks away.

You grin into your sleeve.

As the sun dips lower, the group settles in, snacks passed around, laughter echoing off the rocks, Dustin telling a story he’s already told three times like it’s brand new.

The river glints in the fading light.

You wander closer, peering over the edge of the path that leads down to the water. It’s beautiful. Wild. A little dangerous.

Behind you, Mike’s voice tightens.

“Don’t.”

You glance back. “Don’t what?”

“Get any ideas.”

You tilt your head, pretending innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He watches you like he’s bracing for impact. “I know you.”

You smile, not unkind, not teasing. Just honest. “That’s the problem.”

The sound of the river swells between you.

Not crashing, not violent, but constant. White water spilling over smooth rock, mist hanging in the air, the kind of place that makes everything feel bigger than it is. You love it instantly. The height. The drop. The way the water churns below like it’s daring you.

Mike hates it.

“You’re not seriously thinking about that,” he says, already tense, already scanning the edge like he can calculate every possible outcome if he looks hard enough.

You grin, toes curling over wet stone. “Relax. People do this all the time.”

“That’s not comforting.”

You glance back at him, hair damp, eyes bright. Reckless. Unapologetic.

Everything that drives him insane.

“It’s fine, Mike.”

“It’s not fine,” he snaps. “You don’t know how deep it is. You don’t know what’s under there. You could slip, you could hit something—”

You roll your eyes. “You worry too much.”

And then you jump.

The cold hits first. Sharp. Stealing your breath.

You plunge deeper than you expect, your feet clipping rock hard enough to send a jolt of pain up your legs. The current twists you for half a second, disorienting, knocking the air out of your lungs.

Above the surface—

Nothing.

No splash coming back up.

No laugh.

No you.

Mike’s heart stops.

Seconds stretch. One. Two. Three.

“Hey—” His voice cracks. “Hey!”

He doesn’t think. Doesn’t plan. Doesn’t care who’s watching.

He’s already running.

The jump is clumsy, desperate. Water swallows him whole as he dives, eyes stinging, limbs burning as he searches blindly. Panic is a physical thing now—tight in his chest, roaring in his ears.

And then he sees you.

You break the surface coughing, sputtering, pain written all over your face. Hands clawing at the water like you’re trying to remember how breathing works.

Mike reaches you in two strokes.

“I’ve got you,” he says, voice shaking, hands gripping your arms too tight. “I’ve got you—hey, hey, look at me. Breathe. Just breathe.”

You cough again, water spilling from your mouth as he drags you toward the rocks, hauling you up and out with strength you didn’t know he had. You’re trembling. He’s shaking harder.

The party is there now, voices overlapping, someone asking if you’re okay, someone else staring like they’ve just seen a ghost.

Mike doesn’t hear any of it.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he snaps, but his voice breaks halfway through. “Do you have any idea—any idea what could’ve happened?”

Your feet throb. Your chest burns. You look up at him, dazed. “I’m okay.”

“You weren’t,” he says immediately. “You weren’t coming up.”

His hands are still on you, your arms, your waist, like if he lets go you’ll disappear. His jaw clenches, eyes glassy with something that looks terrifyingly close to tears.

“Don’t do that,” he says, quieter now. “Please. Don’t ever do that again.”

Something shifts.

Because this isn’t control.

This isn’t irritation.

This is fear.

“I can’t—” He swallows hard. “I can’t watch you do this to yourself. I can’t keep pretending I don’t care when every stupid, reckless thing you do feels like it might be the one that takes you away.”

The words spill out before he can stop them.

“I can’t lose you.”

Silence crashes down around you.

Your heart stutters, not from adrenaline this time, but from the weight of hearing it out loud. The thing you both refused to name, finally dragged into the open.

Mike realizes what he’s said the second it leaves his mouth. He freezes.

And then he leans in and kisses you.

Not rough.

Not desperate.

Just honest.

His lips are warm, steady, like he’s grounding himself in the fact that you’re here. Alive. Real. Your hands curl into his shirt without thinking, and for a moment the world narrows down to the sound of water and the feeling of being held.

Somewhere behind you, someone gasps.

Dustin’s voice cuts through the quiet later, delighted and smug. “Pay up.”

Lucas groans. A twenty-dollar bill changes hands.

You barely notice.

The campsite is quieter now. Night creeping in. You’re curled in your sleeping bag inside the tent, legs aching, body exhausted in that bone-deep way only fear can leave behind.

The zipper moves.

Mike ducks inside, careful, hesitant, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to be here.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You nod. “Yeah. Just sore.”

He exhales, sitting beside you. His knee brushes yours. Neither of you moves away.

“I meant what I said,” he admits, staring at the tent wall. “About not being able to lose you.”

Your chest tightens. “I know.”

You turn toward each other slowly, like sudden movement might shatter something fragile.

“I don’t hate you,” you say finally. “I think… I was just scared to admit how much I cared.”

Mike lets out a quiet, shaky laugh. “Yeah. Me too.”

His hand finds yours. This time, it doesn’t let go.

You stare at each other across the narrow space of the tent, hands still entwined. The air feels heavy with all the things left unspoken, all the fears and longings tangled up inside you both.

Mike leans closer, thumb rubbing slow circles on your palm. "I don't want to fight anymore," he says softly.

"Not with you."

Your heart stutters. "What are you saying?"

He reaches out with his other hand to cup your cheek. "That I can't do this anymore. The back-and-forth, the anger, the pushing each other away. It's not what I want."

You lean into his touch, eyes fluttering shut. "Me neither."

Mike exhales, the sound shaky. "I love you," he whispers. "I have for a long time. I was just too stupid and stubborn to admit it."

Tears prick at your eyes and you open them to look at him. He's so close, his breath warm against your face. "I love you too," you confess. "Even when I hate you, I love you."

He laughs, soft and sweet, and then he's kissing you. It's a gentle kiss, barely more than a brush of lips, but it sends sparks racing through your veins.

Mike pulls back after a moment, searching your face. "Can I stay with you tonight? Just to hold you? I don't want to be alone."

You nod, tugging him down beside you in the sleeping bag. He comes willingly, wrapping his arms around you and tucking your head against his chest.

You both sigh as you settle together, limbs twining, bodies fitting perfectly despite the small space. Mike strokes your hair, his fingers a soothing pressure against your scalp.

"Thank you for not giving up on me," he murmurs. "Even when I made it hard."

"You're worth it," you say back. "We both are."

He makes a quiet noise of agreement, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. You can feel the thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear, slow and steady.

The rest of the world falls away. The fear, the uncertainty, the anger. None of it matters in this moment, with Mike's arms around you and his breath in your hair.

Here, in this tent, it's just the two of you.

Safe. Protected.

Loved.

Mike kisses you again, and this time it's deeper, full of all the pent-up emotion that's been building between you. You melt into him, hands roaming over his body, feeling the heat of his skin through his shirt.

He breaks away with a gasp, forehead pressed to yours. "If we keep going like this, I don't think I'll be able to stop."

You nip at his bottom lip. "Then don't."

He groans, hands tightening on your hips. "You're going to be the death of me."

"But what a way to go," you tease.

He laughs breathlessly, capturing your mouth in another searing kiss. His hands slip under your shirt, calloused palms gliding over your skin.

You shiver at the touch, arching into him. Mike takes the hint, tugging your shirt off and tossing it aside before attacking your neck with open-mouthed kisses.

You tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, desperate for more contact. Your free hand slides down his stomach to palm him through his pants.

Mike curses against your skin, hips rocking into your touch. "Fuck, baby, if you keep that up I'm going to come in my pants like a teenager."

"Promises, promises," you tease.

He growls, a low rumble in his chest. In one swift motion, he flips you onto your back and settles between your thighs.

You gasp at the sudden change in position, heart hammering against your ribs. Mike just smirks down at you, a wicked glint in his eye.

"You're so beautiful," he says softly, tracing your jaw with his fingers. "I can't believe I ever thought I could live without you."

Your breath catches, tears springing to your eyes. "I never want to know what that feels like."

"Then don't." He leans down to kiss you again, sweet and slow. "Stay with me. Stay forever."

"Yes," you breathe against his lips. "Always yes."

He grins, bright and brilliant, and kisses you again. This time it's deeper, hotter, full of all the love and passion and hunger that's been building between you.

You surrender to it completely, letting him take control, trusting him to give you pleasure as only he can.

Because this is Mike. Your Mike. The boy who makes you laugh and drives you crazy and fills up every empty space inside you until you feel whole.

And right now, in this tent under the stars, that's all that matters.

Joe keery's headcanons/mini scenarios

Just little scenarios of you and Joe being together, the soft moments, the teasing, the jealousy, the intimacy. Some are fluffy, some are hot, some are both all of them are just what loving him would feel like.

wc: 2.1k warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content

main masterlist | stranger things masterlist

Joe Keery and His Criminal Puppy-Dog Eyes

Joe knows exactly what he’s doing.

He’ll pretend he doesn’t, blinking slowly, tilting his head just a little, brown eyes warm and glassy like he’s asking for forgiveness instead of another favor. You’ll catch him watching you from across the room, chin tucked down, lashes casting shadows like he’s trying to look innocent.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you warn, already losing.

He says nothing. Just widens his eyes slightly. Soft. Open. Devastating.

You sigh immediately. “Fine.”

He grins sweet, like he can’t believe it worked again. Like you’ve just handed him something precious.

You’ve lost arguments, snacks, movie choices, and entire weekends to those eyes. Lost them happily.

Sometimes you’ll catch yourself staring, tracing the strange mix of brown and gold, the way his gaze feels gentle even when he’s being a menace. You tell him once that his eyes feel like home.

He ducks his head, embarrassed.

But the next time he wants something?

He looks up at you.

And you’re done for.

Joe Keery’s Biceps (and the Way He Knows You’re Watching)

It’s never intentional.

That’s the worst part.

Joe will stretch, arms lifting over his head, shirt riding up just enough, and you’ll freeze. Brain short-circuiting. Mouth dry. Eyes glued.

He notices instantly.

“Something wrong?” he asks innocently, flexing without meaning to.

You swallow. “No.”

He looks down at his arm. Looks back at you. Smiles slow.

“Oh,” he says. “That.”

From then on, it’s on purpose.

Rolling up his sleeves. Carrying groceries one-handed. Leaning against doorframes with his arm above your head. Flexing just enough to see your breath hitch.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs one night, voice low and amused.

“You’re showing off,” you fire back.

He laughs, warm and smug, leaning closer so his arm brushes your chest. “Can you blame me?”

Sometimes he lets you squeeze them, lets you bite gently while he laughs and pretends not to be affected. Other times he just watches you unravel, eyes dark, teasing you until you’re dizzy with it.

He loves knowing he does this to you.

Joe Keery Taking Pictures of You

Joe carries that little camera everywhere.

At first, you don’t realize how often you’re the subject.

You’ll be mid-sentence, laughing, brushing hair out of your face when you hear the soft click. He’ll lower the camera, smiling like he’s caught something sacred.

“You look beautiful,” he says, casual like it’s obvious.

It’s never posed. Never forced. Just you, curled up on the couch, half-asleep. Standing barefoot in the kitchen. Looking at him like you don’t know he’s watching.

He keeps them all.

One night, months later, you find a photo tucked into his wallet. Folded carefully. Edges worn soft.

It’s you. Smiling at him.

“You carry this around?” you ask, heart swelling.

He shrugs, cheeks pink. “Feels right.”

When he takes pictures, it’s not about capturing you.

It’s about keeping you close, even when you’re not there.

Cockwarming Joe (smut)

After a long day, you and Joe finally collapse into bed together, exhausted but content. The soft sheets envelop you as you curl into each other’s warmth, limbs entwined, heads on the same pillow. He nuzzles his face into your neck, his breath warm against your skin. “Mmm, I love you,” he mumbles sleepily, his arm tightening around your waist. “Best part of my day is coming to bed with you.”

You smile, basking in the intimacy of the moment. “I love you too. Can’t think of anything better than this - all wrapped up in you, in our little world.”

He hums in agreement, his hand idly tracing patterns on your hip. The simple touch sends a shiver down your spine, a thrill of desire mixing with the drowsy contentment. You arch into him just slightly, craving more of that delicious friction.

He seems to sense your need, his lips trailing soft kisses along your jaw and down your neck. “Need me, baby?” he whispers, his voice low and rough with arousal.

“Yes,” you breathe out, your fingers tangling in his hair to encourage him lower. “Need you so bad. Want to feel you everywhere.”

He groans at that, pressing himself against you more firmly. You can feel him hardening, his cock nestling against your thigh through his boxers. The heat of him radiates through the thin fabric, stoking the fire building in your core.

Without breaking contact, he reaches down to shove his boxers off, freeing his erection. It bobs against your skin, a bead of pre-cum already glistening at the tip. He positions himself at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against your folds teasingly.

“Wanna keep you wet all night,” he murmurs, rubbing himself against you slowly. “Wake up with my cum inside you, dripping down your thighs. Fuck, that’s hot.”

You moan at the thought, your hips rocking up to meet his touch. “Please,” you pant out. “Want to be so full of you. Sleep with your cock buried in me.”

He groans at that, pushing forward just enough to catch your clit with the head of his cock. “Fuck yes,” he growls. “Gonna keep you stuffed with me all night long. Gonna make you so fucking wet.”

And then he’s shifting, rolling his hips until the tip of his cock is kissing your entrance. He pushes forward gradually, breaching you inch by inch, stretching you deliciously around his thickness. You both groan at the sensation, the exquisite fullness of him inside you.

Finally, he bottoms out, his hips pressed flush against yours. He rolls onto his back then, bringing you with him so you’re straddling his waist, his cock buried deep inside your pussy. He grins up at you, his hands settling on your hips.

“Fuck,” he breathes out. “You feel incredible. So fucking tight and wet. Can’t wait to fuck you properly in the morning.”

You whimper at that, already clenching around him. “Don’t move,” you beg breathlessly. “Just stay inside me all night. Please.”

He nods, his grip on your hips tightening just slightly. “Don’t plan on going anywhere,” he promises. “Gonna keep my cock nestled right here, letting you drip all over it.”

And so you fall asleep like that, wrapped around each other, Joe’s cock snug inside your pussy, keeping you wet and ready for whatever comes next.

Sleepy Joe After a Show

He gets home when the sun is still up, sunglasses crooked on his face, duffel bag slipping off one shoulder. You’re waiting for him, already half-awake on the couch, and the second he sees you, his shoulders drop like he’s finally allowed to rest.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice rough, eyes heavy.

He almost trips over his own shoes trying to kick them off, mumbling curses under his breath. You laugh softly, following him down the hallway as he changes, putting his pajama shirt on backwards without realizing.

“Joe,” you giggle, fixing it for him. “You’re exhausted.”

He blinks at you slowly, puppy-dog eyes somehow even softer when he’s this tired. “M’fine,” he insists, already leaning into you.

You guide him to bed, tugging the covers back, helping him lie down like he’s the most precious thing in the world. He reaches for you immediately, arms loose but needy, pulling you close.

“Nap with me,” he whispers.

You do. And he’s asleep in minutes, breathing warm against your neck, hand still holding yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

Jealous Joe

It happens at some fancy event, lights flashing, people everywhere. Joe’s talking to someone behind you when another guy steps a little too close, voice too familiar, smile lingering too long.

You squeeze Joe’s hand instinctively.

He feels it instantly.

When he turns and sees your expression, polite but uncomfortable, something shifts. He steps in smoothly, arm sliding around your waist like it belongs there.

“Hey,” Joe says easily, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.”

The guy falters, suddenly aware of Joe’s presence, the confidence, the closeness, the way you relax into him.

Joe doesn’t glare. Doesn’t posture.

He just stays.

His thumb traces slow circles at your hip, grounding, reassuring. The message is clear without a single word: taken, loved, protected.

Later, when it’s just you two, he murmurs, “You okay?”

You nod, heart warm.

He squeezes your hand. “Good. Didn’t like the way he looked at you.”

Doing Joe’s Nighttime Routine

You sit on the bathroom counter, legs parted slightly, Joe standing between them like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hands rest on your thighs, warm and steady, thumbs brushing absentminded patterns.

“Hold still,” you tease, dabbing product onto his face.

He tries. Fails.

Keeps leaning in to kiss you, your jaw, your lips, your neck, every chance he gets. You laugh, pushing his face away gently.

“Joe, I’m trying to help you.”

“Mhm,” he hums, kissing you again anyway. “Appreciate it.”

You smooth product into his skin, push his hair back, fingers careful and slow. He watches you like you’re doing something sacred.

“You take such good care of me,” he says softly.

You shrug. “Someone has to.”

His hands tighten just a little at your waist. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Lucky it’s you.”

And suddenly the bathroom feels very quiet. Very warm. Very much like home.

“Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy” (smut)

You’re already waiting for him in the dressing room, anticipation building with each passing moment. When the band finishes their set and Joe bursts through the door, looking so good with the cowboy hat on his head that has been driving you absolutely crazy all night, you can’t help but grin mischievously.

“Well hello there, cowboy,” you purr, eyes raking over his sweaty, toned body. “Looks like you could use a good ride after all that rockin’ on stage.”

Joe smirks, reaching up to tip his hat at you. “Well darlin’, I sure wouldn’t mind gettin’ buck wild with a sexy filly like yourself. Why don’t you saddle me up and show me what you’ve got?”

Giggling at his playful innuendos, you hop off the couch and saunter over to him, placing your hands on his strong chest. “Sure thing, stud. But first… save a horse, ride a cowboy!” You declare with a wink, snatching his hat off his head putting it on your own.

Laughing, Joe allows you to push him back towards the couch. He plops down on the plush cushions, unzipping his jeans to pull out his hardening cock. You quickly shed your tight leather pants and straddle his hips, grinding your soaked panties against his rigid shaft.

Joe rumbles, squeezing your ass as he grinds against you. “Come on baby, climb on and take it like the good girl you are.”

Grinning, you reach behind your back to unhook your lacy bra, letting it fall away. You guide Joe’s thick cock to your entrance, rubbing the tip teasingly along your slit before sinking down on him with a low moan. He fills you up completely, his impressive length stretching you wide.

“Oh fuck yes,” Joe groans, hands gripping your hips as you begin to ride him hard and fast. “That’s it baby, bounce on my cock. Show me what you can do.”

Moaning wantonly, you grip his shoulders for leverage and start bucking wildly on him. Your big tits bounce and jiggle with every downward thrust, making his eyes gleam with lust.

Growling, Joe sits up to capture one of your bouncing nipples in his hot mouth. He sucks and licks the sensitive bud, his teeth grazing the flesh as you continue riding him hard.

Lost in pleasure, you bounce up and down, feeling your inner walls clench around his throbbing cock. He drives into you over and over, fingers digging into your ass as he pulls you down on his thick rod.

“I’m gettin’ close baby,” Joe pants against your skin, hands groping your jiggling tits. “Gonna paint this tight pussy with my cum.”

“Mmm yes, give it to me,” you moan, feeling your own release approaching. “I want to feel you Joe.”

With a loud cry of ecstasy, you both reach your peak at the same time. Joe slams into you one final time, erupting deep inside your spasming cunt. His hot cum floods your channel as your own orgasm crashes over you, milking out every last bit of his essence.

summary: on-and-off relationship between you and Steve Harrington spirals through arguments, desire and distance, two people deeply in love but terrified to say it out loud, caught in a cycle where passion replaces communication until they’re finally forced to choose whether love is worth the risk. warnings: Explicit sexual content, toxic on-off relationship dynamics, miscommunication & emotional avoidance wc: 8k (sorryyy guys, totally got carried away with this one)

main masterlist | stranger things masterlist

The thing about Steve Harrington is that he never raises his voice first.

He shuts down.

And that somehow hurts worse.

You’re standing in his kitchen, arms crossed tight against your chest, the overhead light too bright, the silence louder than any argument you’ve ever had. The clock on the microwave blinks 12:04 a.m. like it’s judging you both for still being awake, still circling the same conversation you’ve had a hundred times before.

“You didn’t text me back,” you say finally.

Steve doesn’t look at you. He’s leaning against the counter, fingers braced on the edge like he needs something solid to keep him upright.

“I was busy.”

“You were busy for twelve hours?”

A pause. Too long.

“That’s not fair.”

You laugh, sharp and brittle. “It’s not fair that I waited all day for a single word from you, Steve.”

He exhales through his nose, running a hand through his hair like he’s already exhausted by this. “Why does it always have to turn into this?”

Because it already has, you think.

Because it always does.

“You could’ve just said you needed space,” you say quieter now. “I would’ve understood.”

He finally looks at you then. His eyes flicker — guilt, frustration, something unspoken. “I didn’t know how to say it.”

That sentence feels like a punch to the ribs.

You blink hard, mascara already threatening to spill. “You never do.”

The fight doesn’t explode. It never does with him. It creeps in, slow and suffocating, filling every corner of the room until there’s no air left.

Steve straightens, jaw tight. “You make everything so heavy.”

There it is.

Your chest tightens. “Because I care.”

He scoffs. “That’s not what I meant.”

“But it is,” you snap. “You hate that I feel things out loud. You hate that I don’t pretend this is casual when it’s not.”

His shoulders tense. “We said we weren’t putting labels on this.”

“And I said I didn’t need labels,” you fire back. “I needed consistency.”

Silence.

He doesn’t argue that one.

You turn away from him, pressing your palms into the counter, breathing through the sting behind your eyes. “You can’t keep showing up when it suits you and disappearing when it gets real.”

Steve’s voice is lower now. “I don’t disappear.”

“You do,” you whisper. “You vanish the second it feels like you might lose control.”

That hits.

You feel it in the way he stills completely.

Because it’s true.

Steve Harrington is loyal to a fault — but only when he knows where he stands. The second emotions start to slip out of his grasp, he panics. He pulls back. He builds walls and pretends they were always there.

“You don’t know that,” he says, but there’s no bite to it.

You turn back to face him, tears finally slipping free. “I do. I know you better than you think.”

He looks at you like that’s the problem.

The worst part is that between the fights, he’s so good.

There are nights where everything feels easy — Steve picking you up late just to drive with no destination, windows down, music loud. Him laughing so hard at something stupid you say that he has to pull over. The way he fixes things around your place without being asked, like it’s instinct.

The way he touches you — like he’s grounding himself.

Like if he lets go, something terrible will happen.

He never says I love you.

But he says:

“Text me when you get home.”

“Stay. Just a little longer.”

“Don’t leave yet.”

And you never say it either.

Because you’re both terrified of what would happen if you did.

The argument doesn’t resolve.

It never does.

Steve steps back, creating space like he’s bracing for impact. “I think you should go.”

Your heart stutters. “You don’t mean that.”

He looks away. “I need to cool off.”

You nod, biting your lip, grabbing your bag. You walk to the door with shaking hands, fingers wrapping around the handle.

This is the part where one of you is supposed to be brave.

You open the door.

Cold air rushes in.

“I hope you know that, if I leave now, I won’t come back Steve.” you say softly, without turning around.

Steve swears under his breath.

You feel him behind you before he touches you heat, presence, tension snapping tight between you. His hand closes around your waist not wanting to let go, desperate.

“I didn’t say that, you know I don’t want you out of my life baby”” he murmurs.

Your breath catches.

You don’t look at him. You can’t. Because if you do, you’ll stay. And staying always makes things worse… and better… and impossible.

“Steve, please.” you whisper.

His grip tightens slightly. “I don’t know how to do this without fucking it up.”

Your throat burns. “Neither do I.”

The door closes behind you when he pushes you against it.

This is purely sexual.

No promises. No softness. No confessions.

This is what happens when neither of you knows how to communicate without tearing each other apart.

The tension. The hurt. The longing.

It all boils over into the only outlet you’ve ever been good at.

Steve’s hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back as he crashes his mouth against yours in a brutal kiss. There’s nothing gentle about it, just teeth and tongue and frustration poured straight into your lips. You moan, fingers clawing at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin, desperate for something solid.

“Fuck,” he growls against your mouth, nipping at your bottom lip hard enough to sting. “I hate fighting with you.”

His voice is rough, edged with something dangerous.

“Missed this pussy,” he adds, breath hot against your skin. “Missed making you scream.”

You gasp when his hand slides under your skirt, fingers finding your bare cunt without hesitation. There’s no asking. There never is. You grind shamelessly into his touch, chasing friction like it’s oxygen.

“Missed your dick too,” you pant, rubbing against his hand, needy and reckless. “Missed you filling me up.”

Steve lets out a dark chuckle as he shoves two fingers inside you without warning, the stretch sharp enough to make you cry out.

“Gonna fill this pussy up so good,” he mutters, pumping his fingers mercilessly, “you’ll be feeling me for days.”

You whine at the pace, already empty and aching, already too far gone.

“Please,” you beg, voice breaking. “Steve, fuck me. Fuck me hard.”

His thumb finds your clit, strumming it brutally as his fingers move faster. “Fuck yeah,” he growls. “Begging for it now. Begging for my cock to ruin this cunt.”

“Y—yes,” you sob, grinding down on his hand. “Fuck me, Steve. Make me yours.”

A snarl rips from his throat as he pulls his fingers free only to spin you around, bending you over the nearest surface. The sound of his zipper is deafening in the small space, your heart hammering as you hear the crinkle of a condom.

The blunt head of his cock presses against your entrance, dragging slowly through your slick folds, coating himself in you.

“Beg for it,” he commands, fingers digging into your hips. “Beg for this big cock.”

“Please, Steve,” you moan, arching your back, offering yourself. “I need your cock. Need you to fuck me.”

He slaps your ass sharply, the sting blooming across your skin. “Fuck yes,” he growls. “Such a good little slut.”

With one brutal thrust, he buries himself to the hilt.

You scream at the sudden fullness, walls clamping down around him as he starts moving immediately, hips snapping against your ass in a punishing rhythm. The sound of skin on skin fills the room, frantic and obscene.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he grunts, breath ragged. “This pussy was made for my cock.”

“Yes—yes, I’m yours,” you wail, pushing back to meet his thrusts, chasing every inch. “Your pussy. All yours.”

Steve fucks you harder, one hand coming around to rub your clit relentlessly, pushing you straight toward the edge.

“That’s right, baby,” he snarls. “Take my cock. Fucking take it.”

The pleasure overwhelms you all at once, white-hot and blinding. Your orgasm crashes through you without warning, your pussy clenching violently around him as you scream his name.

“Fuck—fuck,” he roars, hips stuttering as he loses control. “Gonna cum—fuck!”

He collapses over your back with a broken groan, burying himself deep as he spills inside you, pulse after pulse of hot cum flooding you. You feel every throb, every shudder, your body trembling beneath his.

For a long moment, neither of you moves.

Just panting. Still joined. Still tangled in the mess of it all.

Then he pulls out slowly, leaving you feeling empty as warmth spills down your thighs. Steve helps you upright, his touch suddenly quieter, heavier.

And the weight of it hits you.

The realization that you’ve fallen back into the same cycle once again.

No words. No clarity. Just the aftermath.

Steve’s car pulls into the driveway later than usual.

The sun is already dipping low, sky bruised orange and purple, the street quiet in that familiar Hawkins way that always makes him exhale when he gets home. He kills the engine and just sits there for a second, forehead resting against the steering wheel.

Work was hell. Customers yelling. Tommy mouthing off. His head pounding with things he refuses to think about.

You had texted earlier.

I might stop by later, okay?

He’d replied with a distracted yeah, not really processing it.

So when he unlocks the front door and steps inside—

He freezes.

There are shoes by the door.

Not his.

His chest tightens immediately.

Then he hears your voice.

Laughing.

Comfortable.

Too comfortable.

He follows the sound into the living room and stops short.

You’re sitting on the couch, curled up like you belong there, one of his blankets pulled over your legs. Dustin is perched on the armchair, animated as ever, rambling about something — a campaign, a game, something Steve isn’t fully hearing because all he can see is you.

In his house.

Relaxed.

At ease.

Dustin notices him first. “Oh! Steve, hey—”

You turn, smile lighting up your face. “Hey. You’re finally home. ”

Something in Steve snaps.

Not loudly. Not all at once.

It’s quiet. Sharp. Ugly.

“What’s this?” he asks.

Your smile falters just slightly. “I told you I was coming over.”

“I thought later,” he says flatly. His eyes flick to Dustin. “Not… this.”

Dustin shifts, sensing the shift instantly. “Uh, I was just leaving actually—”

“No, it’s fine,” you say, standing. “I let him in. He was already outside.”

Steve laughs, short and humorless. “You let him in.”

The room goes tense.

Dustin clears his throat, already halfway through the door sensing the storm. “I can go—” 

“No,” Steve cuts in. His jaw is tight now. “I wanna know why you’re acting like this is your place.”

Your heart stutters.

“Steve, what are you talking about?”

He drops his keys onto the counter harder than necessary. “You don’t get to just—” He gestures around. “You don’t get to just be here. Going through my stuff. Sitting on my couch. Talking like you live here.”

Dustin’s eyes dart between you. “I should really—”

“Yeah,” Steve says without looking at him. “You should.”

Dustin grabs his jacket, mumbling something about calling later, and slips out fast, the door clicking shut behind him.

Silence crashes down.

You turn back to Steve, confused and hurt. “What the hell was that?”

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing. “You crossed a line.”

Your brows knit together. “I have a spare key.”

“That doesn’t mean this is your house,” he snaps.

Your chest tightens. “You gave me that key.”

“Yeah, and maybe that was a mistake.”

The words hit you like a slap.

You go still. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t get to invite people into my space,” he says, voice rising now. “You don’t get to act like this is some shared thing when it’s not.”

“I wasn’t acting like—”

“You were sitting there like you belonged,” he yells, finally turning to face you fully. “Like this was normal. Like this is home.”

Something inside you cracks.

“Is that what this is about?” you whisper. “You’re scared because it felt normal?”

“Don’t twist this,” he fires back. “You don’t get that right.”

You laugh bitterly. “I don’t get any rights, do I? I don’t get clarity. I don’t get consistency. I don’t get to know where I stand—”

“That’s not fair.”

“Oh my god,” you snap. “You scream at me for being here, Steve, but you lose your mind when I pull away. You pull me in when it suits you and shove me out when it scares you.”

“That’s not what this is—”

“You don’t want me gone,” you say, voice shaking now. “You just don’t want me too close.”

His mouth opens.

Nothing comes out.

You swallow hard, tears burning. “You don’t get to treat me like I’m invading your life when you’re the one who keeps pulling me back into it.”

“I didn’t ask you to act like this was permanent,” he says quietly.

That’s the one.

You nod slowly, like something finally clicks into place.

“Okay,” you say softly.

He frowns. “Okay?”

You move toward the door, grabbing your jacket. “You’re right.”

“What are you doing?”

“Ending it.”

His breath catches. “Don’t be dramatic.”

You turn back to him, eyes glassy but steady. “I’m not. I’m tired.”

He takes a step toward you. “We can talk about this—”

“No,” you cut in gently. “We don’t talk. We fight, or we touch, or we pretend nothing’s wrong.”

Silence stretches between you.

You slide the spare key onto the counter.

It sounds too loud when it lands.

“You don’t have to worry about me invading your space anymore,” you say. “I won’t come back.”

His face pales. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” you whisper. “Because having you like this is hurting me.”

For the first time, he looks afraid.

You open the door.

“Goodbye, Steve.”

And this time.

He doesn’t stop you.

Three months.

That’s how long it’s been since you last saw him.

Not counted in weeks, not marked by dates, but measured in absence, in the way your body still reacted to the sound of a familiar car engine, in the way your hand still reached for your phone before you remembered you weren’t supposed to anymore.

Three months since that night.

Since Steve Harrington screamed at you in his own living room, voice cracking with something that sounded too much like fear to be pure anger. Since you stood there, stunned and shaking, realizing for the first time that whatever this was between you had stopped being passionate and started being poisonous.

You’d walked out without saying goodbye.

This time, you meant it.

You blocked his number the next morning. Muted his name everywhere else. Took shifts you didn’t need. Said yes to dates you didn’t want. Told yourself over and over that this was what moving on felt like dull, exhausting, wrong. You are seeing this guy named Tyler but u can’t stop comparing him to Steve and you hate yourself for it.

You learned how to exist without him.

Sort of.

Steve didn’t do much better.

He threw himself into work, into late nights and early mornings, into pretending the ache in his chest was just stress. Dustin noticed first, the way Steve stopped joking, stopped lounging, stopped letting anyone touch his stuff. He barely slept. Barely ate.

But he knew he had to move on, so we went on dates with the multiple girls, said girls that hated you for always being around.

So when he ended up on this hook up thing with a random girl it was normal.

When Dustin asked, carefully, once, “You ever gonna talk to her again?” Steve snapped something back he didn’t mean and immediately hated himself for.

No one said your name after that.

Which is why, on a random Friday night, neither of you expected to see each other in Dustin Henderson’s living room.

You arrive first.

You’re already there when Steve pulls up.

Dustin had texted you earlier, something about a campaign night, pizza, “emergency nerd business.” You hadn’t overthought it. You hadn’t asked who else was coming. You’d learned the hard way that avoiding Steve meant avoiding half the town, and you were tired of letting your life orbit around him.

You kick off your shoes by the door like you’ve done a hundred times before. You’re mid-conversation with Dustin, Max and Mike  laughing, sitting cross-legged on the floor, sleeves pushed up as you gesture dramatically about something stupid.

You look comfortable.

Steve freezes in the doorway.

For a full second, he thinks he’s imagined you.

Then you look up.

And everything crashes.

Your laughter dies instantly, caught in your throat. Your stomach drops so hard it’s like missing a step on the stairs. You haven’t seen him in months, but your body recognizes him immediately the broad shoulders, the worn out jacket, the way his presence fills the room even when he’s not saying anything.

His eyes lock onto yours.

Something sharp flickers across his face. Surprise. Hurt. Want.

Anger.

“Oh,” Dustin says, glancing between the two of you. “Uh. Hey, Steve.”

Steve doesn’t answer right away.

He’s still staring at you like he’s trying to decide whether you’re real or a memory that came back to ruin him.

“You didn’t say she’d be here,” he finally mutters, everyone looking up at him.

Dustin frowns. “I didn’t think— I mean—”

You stand up.

Slowly. Carefully.

“Dustin invited me,” you say, voice steady in a way you don’t feel. “I can go if that’s a problem.”

Steve’s jaw tightens.

“No,” he says too quickly. Then, colder, “It’s his house.”

The air thickens.

Dustin senses it immediately. He clears his throat, suddenly very interested in the empty pizza box. “I— uh— I forgot something in my room. Guys can you help me find it please? We’ll be back.”

They’re gone before either of you can stop him.

The door clicks shut.

Silence.

You and Steve stand there, three feet apart, breathing the same air like it’s dangerous.

“You look… good,” he says, like it slips out before he can stop it.

You swallow. “You too.”

Another pause.

He shifts his weight. Shoves his hands in his pockets. You notice the tension in his shoulders, the way he looks like he’s bracing for impact.

“So,” he says, forcing a half-smile that doesn’t quite land. “Guess we’re both still haunting Dustin’s house.”

You huff a quiet laugh before you can help yourself.

And just like that, the tension twists.

Because it’s still there — the familiarity. The ease. The way conversation with Steve has always felt like slipping into something already warm.

You talk.

About nothing important. About work. About Dustin. About how weird it is seeing each other again like this. You keep your distance. He keeps his hands to himself.

But every look lingers a fraction too long.

Every laugh hits a little too deep.

At some point, you’re sitting on the couch, knees drawn up, and Steve is across from you in the armchair, watching you like he’s memorizing the shape of your face all over again.

“You seeing anyone?” he asks, too casually.

You hesitate.

“Yeah,” you say. “I mean… kind of.”

He nods. Once. Slow. Controlled.

“Me too,” he admits.

The room feels smaller.

The kids reappear eventually, oblivious, chattering about dice and rules and snacks. The three of you exist in an awkward triangle, but every time Steve’s knee brushes yours, every time your hand passes him a drink, the tension spikes again.

It’s unbearable.

When the kids leave again to grab a bite, Steve stands abruptly.

“I need air,” he mutters.

You follow him without thinking.

Outside, the night is cool. Quiet. The porch light casts long shadows across the yard. Steve leans against the railing, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“This was a bad idea,” he says.

You cross your arms. “You came.”

“I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“And now you do.”

He turns to look at you then, really look at you, eyes dark and intense. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

Your heart stutters.

“Steve—”

“No,” he interrupts softly. “I’m serious. I spent three months trying to forget you. Three months telling myself you were bad for me. That this — us — was toxic.”

His voice drops.

“And then you’re just… there. Sitting on the floor like you belong. Talking to Dustin like you’re still part of my life.”

“I didn’t do it to hurt you.”

“I know,” he says. “That’s the worst part.”

The space between you closes without either of you stepping forward.

You can feel him. Heat. Gravity.

“This is a mistake,” you whisper mouth mere inches from his.

He exhales a shaky laugh. “We’re awful together.”

Your fingers curl into his arms.

“But god,” he adds quietly, “it feels right.”

The words hang between you.

Dangerous.

Steve’s hands up and down your sides.

You should stop it.

You should walk away.

Instead, you say, “We can’t do this.”

“I know.”

Neither of you moves.

His hand lifts hesitates then drops again.

Inside, Dustin clears his throat loudly, clearly giving you time.

Steve squeezes his eyes shut.

“Go inside,” he says. “Before I do something I can’t take back.”

You nod.

But when you turn to leave, his hand catches your wrist.

Steve crashes into you, kissing you with so much passion that it reminded you why no one ever felt as good. 

The kiss shouldn’t have happened.

That’s the first thing you think as soon as it does, because the moment Steve’s mouth meets yours on Dustin’s porch, the world tilts back into something dangerous and familiar. It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. It’s weeks of absence and months of damage and years of almosts crashing together in one breathless second.

You pull back first.

You have to.

“Steve—” your voice shakes. “We can’t.”

He doesn’t let you go.

His hands stay on your waist, firm but not trapping you, like he’s holding himself in place just as much as he’s holding you. His eyes are dark, frantic, searching your face like he’s terrified you’ll disappear again if he blinks too long.

“Come home with me,” he says, fast and raw. “Please. Just—come home.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” you whisper. “You don’t get to say it like that.”

“I know,” he says immediately. “I know I don’t. But I need you to hear me out. I need five minutes. Ten. A night. Anything.”

You shake your head even as your body betrays you, stepping closer instead of away.

“You always say that,” you murmur. “And then I’m the one left wondering if I imagined it.”

Steve swallows hard.

“I won’t let you leave again,” he says quietly. “Not like that.”

You hesitate. Long enough for the night air to wrap around you, for the porch light to buzz overhead, for your heart to pound so loud it feels like it might give you away.

Then he opens the passenger door of his BMW for you like it’s instinct.

Like it’s always been this way.

The car ride is unbearable.

Not because it’s awkward but because it isn’t.

The silence hums with heat, with things unsaid, with the way Steve’s hand tightens on the steering wheel every time you shift in your seat. The city lights streak past the windows, and every red light feels like a dare.

You can feel him looking at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention.

Your stomach twists. Your head feels light. Your skin buzzes.

By the time you pull into his driveway, you’re both breathing like you’ve already crossed a line.

The front door barely closes before you’re back in each other’s space.

Hands. Mouths. Familiarity that feels dangerous now.

You stumble together through the house like gravity doesn’t apply, like muscle memory is dragging you forward. The walls you’ve leaned against before blur past. The air feels thick.

You're on the couch now, arms tangled together, mouths fused in a desperation that feels like coming home after too long away.

Steve's hands roam your body like he's trying to memorize every curve, every dip, every place that makes you gasp. His mouth is hot against your skin, teeth scraping your jaw, your throat, your collarbone. He's unbuttoning your shirt one-handed, fingers shaking, and you can feel him hesitating with every new inch of skin he uncovers, like he's not sure if you'll let him touch you or push him away.

The thought alone makes you ache.

"Steve," you gasp out, fingers fisting in his hair. "Bedroom. Now."

He grins against your neck, all sharp edges and heat.

"Thought you'd never ask."

You barely have time to catch your breath before he's lifting you effortlessly off the couch, cradling you to his chest as he kicks open his bedroom door. He tosses you onto the bed like a challenge and you can't help but laugh, sprawled out across the familiar sheets, staring up at him like he's a ghost you're not sure is real.

He's on you in an instant, mouth crushing against yours, hands sliding down your body to yank off your jeans and toss them aside without ceremony. He settles between your thighs, pressing his hips down so you can feel every hard inch of him through his jeans. You gasp, back arching up into him, fingers scrabbling at the hem of his shirt.

He doesn't hesitate, pulling the fabric over his head and tossing it away blindly. You take a second to appreciate the sight of him above you, all lean muscle and flushed skin and wild eyes. He looks wrecked. 

Desperate. Like he'll die if he doesn't get inside you soon.

You buck your hips up to emphasize the point and he groans, head falling to your shoulder.

"Fuck, you feel good," he murmurs against your neck. "Can't believe I made it this long without touching you."

Your hands roam his chest, fingers tracing the lines of his abs, his collarbones, his shoulders. Everywhere you touch feels like electricity under your skin. You're already so wet, you can feel it soaking through your panties, and he's not even inside you yet.

He must be able to feel it too because he's already working at your panties pilling them to the side, fingers sliding underneath the fabric to stroke through your slick folds. You moan, head falling back on a gasp, and he takes the opportunity to slide a finger inside you, pumping slow and deep.

"You're so fucking wet," he groans against your neck. "Fuck, I've missed this. Missed feeling you come apart on my fingers."

He slides a second finger inside and starts pumping faster, curling them in a way that makes your toes curl. Your hips buck up into his hand instinctively, seeking more friction, more pressure. He obliges easily, adding a third finger and picking up the pace until you're writhing underneath him, chasing your release.

"You gonna come for me like this?" he asks, voice rough with want. "Gonna soak my fingers before I even get my cock inside you?"

You can only moan in response, hands fisting in the sheets as he works you closer and closer to the edge. He knows exactly what you like, what angles to stroke and where to press to make your whole body sing. It's like he never forgot, like he's been practicing this moment in his head for the past three months just like you have.

Your orgasm hits suddenly, cresting over you in waves of heat and pleasure. You cry out, vision going white, thighs clamping down around his hand as you ride out the aftershocks. He keeps going, fingers pumping through every last bit of sensation until you're gasping and shaking beneath him, completely spent.

He pulls his fingers out slowly, bringing them to his mouth to lick them clean with a wicked grin.

"You taste even better than I remember," he murmurs.

Before you can respond, he's sliding down your body, settling between your thighs with a hungry look in his eyes. He hooks his fingers into your panties and yanks them off in one swift motion, tossing them over his shoulder carelessly. You barely have time to register the loss of fabric before his mouth is on you, hot and eager and desperate.

You cry out at the first swipe of his tongue, hands flying to his hair to hold him in place. He sets a brutal pace from the start, licking and sucking and nipping at your sensitive flesh until you're squirming beneath him, thighs clenching around his head. He doesn't let up for a second, tongue delving deep inside you before flicking out to circle your clit. The sensation is overwhelming, almost too much to handle.

But he knows just when to back off, when to slow down and let you catch your breath before building you back up again. He's masterful with his mouth, reading every twitch of your body, every hitch of your breath. You can tell he's enjoying this just as much as you are, getting off on the way you writhe and moan beneath him.

You can feel another orgasm building fast, coiling tight in your stomach. You're already so close from the first one that it only takes a few more well-placed licks before you're coming undone again, screaming his name as you shatter apart. He doesn't let up, tongue still swirling as you ride out the waves of pleasure, drawing out your release until it almost hurts.

When you finally come down, you're shaking and sweaty and completely boneless. Steve is still between your thighs, looking up at you with a satisfied smirk.

"You still taste just as good," he murmurs. "I could do this all night."

You manage a weak laugh, reaching down to tug him up by the hair until he's hovering above you again. You can feel him hard against your thigh, pressing insistently into your hip.

"I think it's my turn," you murmur back.

His eyes darken at that, pupils blown wide with want. He leans down to capture your mouth in a searing kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

"You sure you're up for that?" he asks when he pulls back. "I don't want to overwhelm you."

You snort at that, rolling your hips up to grind against him.

"I think I can handle it," you say dryly. "Though maybe you should sit this one out if you're worried about me."

He laughs at that, the sound warm and rich and so familiar it makes your chest ache.

"Alright smartass," he says. "You want my cock that badly? You can have it."

He rolls off of you then, standing up to shuck off his jeans in one smooth motion. You take a moment to admire the view, long legs, trim waist, the thick curve of his ass leading down to strong thighs. He looks just as good as he did three months ago, if not better.

When he turns back to face you, fully naked and flushed with desire, you can't help but lick your lips appreciatively. He grins at that, hand stroking over his length slowly as he watches you watch him.

"Eyes up here, sweetheart," he teases. "Unless you want me to cover you in cum before I even get a chance to fuck you."

You shudder at that, thighs clenching at the thought of him painting your skin with his release. You sit up then, reaching for him without hesitation.

"I want to taste you," you murmur. "Want to feel you in my mouth."

He groans at that, hips bucking forward involuntarily. You wrap a hand around his base, thumb swiping over the tip to gather the bead of pre-cum already gathering there. He's already leaking from the anticipation alone.

You take him into your mouth slowly, savoring the feeling of him heavy on your tongue. He tastes like salt and musk and something uniquely him that makes your head swim. You can feel him tensing above you as you work him deeper, inch by inch, until he hits the back of your throat. You relax your muscles instinctively, swallowing around him until he's as far as he can go.

He lets out a low moan at that, fingers tangling in your hair as he starts to rock into your mouth. You hum around him in encouragement, the vibrations making him jerk against your tongue. You can tell he's trying to hold back, trying not to thrust too deep or fuck into your throat too hard. He always has been gentle with you like this, respectful of your boundaries even when he's desperate for more.

But right now, you want more. You want to feel him lose control above you, want to taste him as he falls apart in your mouth.

So you double your efforts, taking him deeper and faster than before. Your hands move to his ass, nails digging into the firm muscle as you pull him closer, encouraging him to use your mouth just like he would a pussy. He doesn't need to be told twice, hips snapping forward as he starts to fuck into your throat in earnest.

You moan around him at that, sending delicious vibrations up his shaft. He cries out above you, voice breaking on a groan as he picks up the pace even further. It's fast and brutal and everything you need right now, him using your mouth, chasing his pleasure without holding back.

He lasts longer than you expect him to before he's falling apart above you with a hoarse shout. His cock twitches against your tongue as he comes hard, spurting thick ropes of cum down your throat. You swallow it all greedily, relishing the taste of him on my tongue.

By the time he pulls out of your mouth with a shudder, you're both gasping for breath, him from his release and you from the sheer power of it all. He collapses onto the bed beside you then, rolling to face you with a dazed smile.

"Fuck," he gasps out. "That was...fuck. I can't believe I held out that long."

You grin at that, reaching out to wipe a stray drop of cum from the corner of your mouth with my thumb. 

You pop it into my mouth with a satisfied hum.

"Not bad for round one," you tease. "Though I have a feeling you can do better."

He snorts at that, rolling over to pull you into his arms without warning.

"Oh I can definitely do better," he murmurs into your hair. "Just give me a minute to recover and I'll show you just how much better I can be."

You laugh at that, nuzzling into his chest without thinking. It feels so natural to be back here with him, wrapped up in his heat and scent and familiar weight.

"You know," you murmur against his skin. "I missed this too. I miss the feeling of you inside me."

He tenses at that, hands tightening on your waist. You can feel him hardening against your thigh again already, ready for another round.

"I'm going to make up for lost time then," he says quietly. "Going to show you just how much I missed having this perfect pussy wrapped around my cock."

He rolls over then without warning, pinning you beneath him on the bed. You gasp at the sudden shift in power dynamic, hands flying up to grip his shoulders as he settles between your thighs. He's already nudging at your entrance without preamble, hard and ready and eager to be inside you again.

"Beg for it," he murmurs against your neck. "Beg for my cock like a good girl."

You shiver at that, thighs falling open even further in invitation.

"Please," you whimper. "Please Steve I need your cock inside me so badly. I need to feel you stretching me open and filling me up.”

He groans at that, hips bucking forward to slide just the tip inside you teasingly. You moan at the sensation, back arching off the bed as he teases you slowly.

"More," you pant out. "Please more I need it so badly."

He grins at that, eyes dark with want.

"Since you asked so nicely," he purrs.

And then he's pushing inside fully in one smooth stroke, burying himself to the hilt in one powerful thrust. 

You cry out at the sudden fullness of it, hands scrambling for purchase on his shoulders as he starts to move above you.

"Fuck yes," he groans. "So fucking tight for me already. Like you were made for my cock."

He sets a brutal pace from the start, hips snapping forward with each thrust as he drives into you over and over again. It's rough and primal and everything you've been craving since the moment he walked through Dustin's door again.

You meet each thrust eagerly, hips rolling up to take him even deeper inside. You can feel every inch of him sliding in and out of your pussy, dragging deliciously against your walls with each stroke. It's so much more intense than it was before, like your body remembers exactly how he feels inside you and is desperate for more.

You can tell he's not going to last long this time, not with how wound up and desperate he is already. His thrusts start to falter after only a few minutes, hips losing their rhythm as he struggles to hold back his release.

"I'm close," he pants out against your neck. "Fuck I'm so close already I can't - fuck."

He reaches down then without warning, hand delving between your bodies to rub tight circles over your clit in time with his thrusts. The added stimulation sends you careening over the edge immediately, vision going white as you come apart beneath him with a hoarse scream.

The sensation must push him over too because he follows right after you with a guttural moan of his own name tumbling from my lips over and over again until all I can hear is my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

He collapses on top of you then with a shuddering groan, still buried deep inside your pussy as he tries to catch his breath.

Later, you lie tangled together in the quiet aftermath, the room smelling like him, the sheets warm, the world reduced to breathing and heartbeats.

This is the part that scares you most.

Because now there’s nowhere to hide.

Steve turns toward you, propped on one elbow, watching you like he’s memorizing something he’s afraid he’ll lose again.

“I hate that I hurt you,” he says softly. “I hate that I made you feel like you were asking for too much.”

You stare at the ceiling.

“You made me feel like loving you was a mistake,” you say. Not accusing. Just honest.

He nods, jaw tight. “I know.”

Silence stretches.

Then he exhales, long and shaky.

“I’ve loved you for a long time,” he admits. “I just didn’t know how to say it without fucking everything up.”

Your chest aches.

“That didn’t stop you from fucking it up,” you whisper.

A sad smile touches his mouth. “No. It didn’t.”

You turn toward him then, really looking at him. The man who drives you insane. The man who feels like home and war all at once.

“I’m tired, Steve,” you say. “I’m tired of loving you in secret. I’m tired of leaving before you decide you’re done.”

“I’m not done,” he says immediately. Too fast. Too desperate.

You close your eyes.

That’s exactly what scares you.

Later, much later, you slip out of bed quietly.

The house is dark. Peaceful. Dangerous.

You pull on your clothes with trembling hands, heart breaking a little with every sound you try not to make. You pause at the bedroom door, looking back at him asleep, hair messy, face relaxed in a way you don’t get to see often.

You press your lips together.

You leave before he can change his mind.

Before you can.

Before love turns back into something sharp, cause what if you fall back into his trap.

Steve wakes up in the morning.

He lies on his back staring at the ceiling, the imprint of your body still warm beside him even though you’re gone. The sheets smell like you, faint perfume, something soft and familiar and it makes his chest ache in a way he hasn’t felt in months.

The bed is too quiet.

He reaches out without thinking.

Empty.

“Fuck,” he mutters, sitting up.

For a moment, panic flares. Then anger. Then guilt. Then something worse understanding.

Of course you left.

Of course you didn’t stay long enough to wake up beside him. Of course you didn’t trust the softness of the night to survive the morning.

Because he taught you not to.

Steve presses his palms into his eyes, breathing hard.

He knows exactly what this is. He’s lived it from both sides now the push, the pull, the fear of loving too loudly and losing control. He thinks about the way you looked in his arms hours ago, the way your voice cracked when you admitted how much he hurt you.

He didn’t reassure you enough.

He didn’t say the words clearly enough.

And now you’re gone again.

The front door slams somewhere downstairs.

Steve freezes.

“Steve?” Dustin’s voice echoes through the house. “Dude, why is your car blocking the driveway like that?”

Steve exhales sharply, dragging himself out of bed and pulling on a hoodie as he heads downstairs.

Dustin’s already in the kitchen, dumping his backpack on the counter, mid-rant about something that happened at school when he finally looks up.

And stops.

“Why do you look like you got hit by a truck emotionally?” Dustin asks.

Steve opens his mouth. Closes it. Runs a hand through his hair.

“She left,” he says finally.

Dustin blinks. “Who left?”

Steve looks at him. “You know who.”

“Oh.” Dustin’s tone shifts immediately — quieter, more serious. “That bad, huh?”

Steve sinks into a chair. “I messed up. Again.”

Dustin leans against the counter, arms crossed. “Did you yell?”

Steve winces. “Not this time.”

“Did you not say what you actually meant?”

Steve exhales. “…Yeah.”

Dustin nods like that explains everything. “Okay. Yeah. That tracks.”

Steve glares at him weakly. “You gonna help or just diagnose me?”

“I am helping,” Dustin says. “I’m telling you the problem.”

Steve rubs his face. “I don’t know how to make her believe me. Every time things get real, she thinks I’m gonna disappear.”

Dustin tilts his head. “Because you do.”

The words sting because they’re true.

“She doesn’t need another emotional speech, Steve,” Dustin continues. “She needs proof. Something solid. Something that says, ‘I’m not going anywhere this time.’”

Steve looks up. “Like what?”

Dustin shrugs. “Make it official. Say it clearly. No mixed signals. No ‘let’s see where this goes.’ You either choose her or you don’t.”

Steve swallows hard.

Because the answer has never been unclear to him.

He’s just been afraid to say it out loud.

You’re sitting on Max’s bed, knees pulled to your chest, staring at nothing.

You didn’t even realize you were shaking until Max handed you a mug and your hands rattled against the ceramic.

“You left,” Max says gently.

You nod. “I always do.”

She sits beside you, studying your face. “Did he hurt you?”

You shake your head immediately. “No. Not like before.”

“Then why are you here?”

You stare down at the coffee. “Because it felt too good. Because I was happy and that scares me more than being angry.”

Max sighs. “You’re scared he’ll change his mind.”

“Yes.”

She doesn’t sugarcoat it. “That’s fair.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “He looked so sure last night. And I’ve seen that before. I’ve believed that before.”

Max nudges your knee. “Did he actually say it?”

You hesitate. “…Not the way I needed.”

She nods slowly. “Then you did the right thing.”

Your chest tightens. “It doesn’t feel right.”

“It doesn’t have to,” Max says. “You’re allowed to protect yourself.”

You look at her. “What if he really means it this time?”

Max meets your gaze seriously. “Then he’ll show you. He’ll come find you. And he’ll say it without you having to drag it out of him.”

You swallow. “And if he doesn’t?”

“Then you don’t go back,” she says softly. “No matter how much it hurts.”

Steve doesn’t wait.

He grabs his keys, heart pounding as he drives across town like the road itself is daring him to chicken out. He doesn’t rehearse what he’s going to say he knows if he does, he’ll overthink it. He just knows one thing:

He can’t lose you again.

He knocks once.

Then again.

You open the door, surprise flashing across your face before your guard snaps back into place.

“Steve.”

“Hey,” he says, breathless. “Can we talk?”

You hesitate. “I already said everything I had to say.”

“I didn’t,” he replies quietly.

That’s what stops you.

You step aside.

The silence between you is heavy, charged with everything that’s been left unsaid. Steve doesn’t pace this time. Doesn’t deflect. He stands still, grounding himself.

“I know I’ve hurt you,” he says. “I know I’ve made you feel like you were always waiting for me to choose you.”

Your jaw tightens.

“I’m choosing you,” he says firmly. “Right now. Out loud. No conditions. No running.”

You cross your arms. “And what happens when it gets hard again?”

“I stay,” Steve says immediately. “I talk. I fight for you instead of fighting you.”

Your voice wavers. “You said things like that before.”

“I know,” he says, eyes shining. “But I never made it real. I never gave you something solid to hold onto.”

He takes a breath.

“I want you to be my girlfriend. I want to be yours. I want people to know. I want you to know I’m not going anywhere.”

Your heart stutters painfully.

“And if I get scared?” you whisper.

“Then we get scared together,” he says. “But I don’t leave. And I don’t let you disappear either.”

Tears sting your eyes.

You step forward slowly. “This is the last time, Steve.”

He nods. “I know.”

You search his face for doubt.

There isn’t any.

You let yourself fall into him, and when his arms wrap around you, it feels different, steadier, safer, like something finally clicked into place.

Steve presses his forehead to yours. “I’m not going to hurt you again. I love you so much baby.” 

You exhale, finally letting yourself believe him. “I love you too” 

summary: A high-profile journalist comes face-to-face with the one man she never really escaped, Joe Keery, after his hit song turns their unfinished love into a public confession, forcing them to finally confront everything they were too afraid to say… and feel. (inspired on the song "Exchange" by Bryson Tiller) warnings: Explicit sexual content (18+), emotional angst & unresolved feelings, themes of emotional avoidance & reconciliation wc: 3.8k

main masterlist | stranger things masterlist

It never started with intention.

That’s the thing you tell yourself later, when you’re trying to understand how something that was never meant to matter ended up carving such a permanent space inside you.

You met Joe in passing, you were a journalist/host for some shows here and there, covered mainly Hollywood stuff so it was easy when a mutual friend’s dinner happened to have you two invited, a shared laugh over bad wine, the kind of night where nothing is supposed to happen and somehow everything does. He was easy to talk to. Disarmingly normal for someone whose face lived on billboards and screens. Curious. Warm. A little guarded in a way that made you want to lean closer, not pull away.

The first time you slept together, it felt… uncomplicated.

No promises. No expectations. Just heat and laughter and limbs tangled in hotel sheets that smelled like someone else’s soap. He kissed you like he already knew you, like this wasn’t new like it was something he’d been waiting for.

That should’ve been your first warning.

At first, it stayed light.

Late-night texts. “You up?” calls that turned into hours-long conversations. Him sending you voice notes instead of typing because he said he liked knowing you’d hear his voice. You’d run into each other at events and pretend it wasn’t a coincidence that you always ended up alone together by the end of the night.

He’d touch you casually, a hand on your lower back, fingers brushing your wrist like he wasn’t aware of how every small thing he did rewired you.

And when you were together, he was there.

Attentive. Soft. Present.

That’s what made it confusing.

Because when you weren’t together?

He pulled away.

Not dramatically. Not cruelly.

Just… inconsistently.

You’d text him something simple, a photo, a joke, a “this made me think of you” and the response wouldn’t come. Minutes would stretch into hours. Hours into days. You’d tell yourself he was busy. On set. In the studio. Living a life bigger than yours.

Then, just as you started to accept the silence, your phone would light up.

miss you.

thinking about you.

can i see you tonight?

And you’d fold. Every time.

Because when he was back, it felt real again.

You never talked about feelings. Not directly.

And maybe that was the problem.

You felt them anyway blooming quietly, stubbornly. You caught yourself checking your phone too often. Wondering if he’d noticed when you stopped reaching out first. Wondering if you were the only one replaying moments in your head like they meant something more.

There was one night, late, too quiet where you almost said it.

You were lying beside him, his arm heavy around your waist, thumb tracing absentminded circles against your skin. He was relaxed in that post-sleep honesty, eyes half-lidded.

“This feels… easy,” you murmured.

He hummed in agreement. “Yeah.”

You waited.

For him to add something. Anything.

He didn’t.

The distance didn’t happen all at once.

It crept in.

Fewer calls. Shorter replies. Plans that never quite materialized. You’d tell yourself you were being dramatic that this was what you’d signed up for.

But one night, staring at your phone at 2 a.m., rereading a message you sent hours ago that still hadn’t been opened, something inside you finally snapped.

You realized you were holding space for someone who only stepped into it when it was convenient.

So you stopped reaching.

And he… let you.

No fight. No closure. Just silence stretching long enough to turn permanent.

Weeks later, you ran into him at an event.

He smiled like nothing had happened.

You smiled back professional, distant, composed.

That was when you knew.

Whatever you’d been to him…

you’d felt too much.

And whatever he’d felt?

He’d been too afraid to name it.

You hear it for the first time by accident.

That’s the thing about it, it doesn’t arrive with warning. There’s no announcement, no “this is about you” sign flashing in neon. It just… slips into your life like it already belongs there.

You’re in a car. Not even yours. An Uber, windows cracked, city noise bleeding in as the driver flips through stations. You’re half-focused on your phone, answering emails, approving talking points for an upcoming interview.

And then the opening chords hit.

Your attention lifts slowly. Not sharply. Slowly. Like your body recognizes something before your brain catches up.

The sound is unmistakable.

Joe.

Not the polished interview voice. Not the red-carpet charm. The other one. The one you heard late at night, barefoot in his kitchen, guitar resting against his thigh. The one that always felt too intimate to be meant for anyone else.

Your stomach drops.

The lyrics roll in, lazy and devastating, wrapped in that familiar Djo haze dreamy, hypnotic, dangerous.

Then you hear it.

Everywhere she goes, they play my song.

That’s why I said the things that I say.

Because I know you can’t ignore me.

Your breath leaves your body like you’ve been punched.

Your fingers curl into the leather seat.

No.

No, no, no.

Your heart starts racing, heat flooding your chest, your ears ringing so loudly you almost miss the next line. Almost miss the way his voice sounds—smug but wounded, teasing but raw. Like he knows.

Like he knows you’re hearing this right now.

The driver hums along, completely oblivious.

You stare straight ahead, pulse hammering, mind spiraling.

That motherfucker.

You tell yourself it’s not about you.

You have to.

Joe writes emotionally. He always has. Everyone knows that. He writes about longing, about almosts, about girls who leave and girls who stay and girls who don’t say what they feel.

But your hands are shaking.

Because you know the cadence of his hurt.

You know the way he sings when he’s talking to someone, not about them.

You know that line.

He used to say it to you, half-joking, half-serious.

“You’re everywhere,” he once told you, leaning against the counter, watching you pace while talking too fast about work. “It’s impossible to forget you.”

You press your lips together, jaw tight.

The song ends.

You sit there in silence long after, chest tight, heart bruised.

You don’t tell anyone about it.

Not your publicist.

Not your assistant.

Not your friends.

You pretend it didn’t happen.

But it doesn’t let you.

Because the next time you hear it, it’s playing in a coffee shop while you’re waiting for your order. The barista hums along, smiling, and you swear the walls tilt slightly.

Then it’s playing in a hotel lobby.

Then in a dressing room before a talk show appearance.

Then in the background of a TikTok someone shows you, laughing.

“Have you heard this song? It’s everywhere.”

Everywhere.

You see tweets.

You see edits.

You see headlines:

DJ O’s New Single Dominates Charts

Fans Call ‘You’ll Hear Me Everywhere’ His Most Personal Track Yet

Who Is the Mystery Muse?

Your phone buzzes constantly.

You don’t open the comments.

You don’t search his name.

You don’t listen to the song on purpose.

But it finds you anyway.

Like he promised.

There’s a moment late one night, alone in your apartment when it finally cracks you.

You’re barefoot in the kitchen, glass of wine untouched on the counter, scrolling aimlessly when the song auto-plays on a video you didn’t even realize had sound on.

You don’t turn it off this time.

You stand there, staring at the dark window, city lights blinking back at you like a dare.

And suddenly you’re not angry anymore.

You’re hurt.

Because now you understand.

This isn’t revenge.

It’s a confession disguised as arrogance.

He didn’t pull away because he didn’t feel enough.

He pulled away because he felt too much.

And instead of saying it

instead of fighting for you

he wrote a song and made sure the whole world sang it back to you.

Your throat tightens.

Your phone buzzes again.

Golden Globes invite. Final details.

You close your eyes.

You already know he’ll be there.

You feel like screaming.

The Golden Globes are always loud in a way that pretends to be elegant.

It’s the flash of cameras, the low hum of a thousand conversations layered over orchestral music, the way champagne glasses clink while everyone smiles just a second too long. You’ve done this so many times it should feel routine by now. The gown, the heels, the practiced calm. The confidence that comes from knowing exactly where to stand and how to move.

And yet.

The second you step inside the ballroom, you feel it.

That pull.

Like a thread snapping tight in your chest.

You don’t see him at first. You pretend that’s intentional. You let your eyes skim past familiar faces, actors you’ve interviewed, directors who hug you a little too warmly, colleagues who congratulate you on your latest project. You laugh at the right moments. You pose. You wave.

Then.

There.

Across the room.

Joe.

He’s seated a few tables away, sharp against the gold-lit room, hair slightly longer than the last time you’d seen him in person. He’s leaning back in his chair, one arm draped casually over it, talking to someone beside him but the moment your eyes meet, the rest of the room disappears.

He still looks at you like that.

Like he’s been expecting you.

Your stomach flips. Annoyed. Weak. Furious with yourself for reacting at all.

You look away first.

The night moves forward in fragments. Presenting awards. Small talk. Laughing at jokes that don’t land. At one point, you’re cornered by another actor handsome, charming, very aware of the cameras nearby. He leans in closer than necessary, murmuring something in your ear that makes you smile politely.

You don’t notice Joe watching.

Not until you glance up.

He’s standing now.

Across the room, his attention fixed on you not smiling, not frowning, just looking. His jaw tightens when the actor laughs again, when that hand lingers at your lower back a beat too long.

Good, you think, irrationally.

Let him feel something.

The host announces the next presenter.

“Please welcome Joe Keery.”

Applause swells around the room.

Your chest tightens.

You already know.

You know the second he stands, straightens his jacket, adjusts his cuffs like he’s grounding himself. He doesn’t look at you as he walks toward the stage.

Not yet.

The lights dim slightly. The screen behind him flickers to life.

And then.

The opening notes hit.

Your breath leaves your body in one sharp exhale.

No.

The song fills the room, his song. The one you’ve been pretending doesn’t exist. The one that follows you into grocery stores and hotel lobbies and late-night car rides. The one that plays whether you want it to or not.

You feel heat rush to your face as murmurs ripple through the audience.

And then.

Joe looks for you.

Not subtly. Not accidentally.

He scans the room until his eyes find yours.

And he holds your gaze.

The lyric hits—everywhere she goes, they play my song—and it feels like he’s saying it to you, not singing it, not performing it, but confessing it in front of everyone.

Your pulse roars in your ears.

This motherfucker.

The audacity.

The cameras cut away just as his lips curve into the smallest, knowing smile like he’s satisfied now. Like he’s done exactly what he wanted.

You don’t hear the rest of his presentation.

All you can think is: I’m done.

The second he steps offstage, you’re already moving.

You dodge producers and assistants, slip past curtained hallways, heels clicking sharp and fast against the marble floors. Someone calls your name but you ignore it. You spot him turning a corner, laughing at something someone says.

“Joe.”

He turns.

The smile drops instantly.

There’s recognition there. Relief. Something else something darker.

“Hey—” he starts.

“No,” you say, grabbing his wrist and pulling him toward an empty side room before he can finish. The door shuts behind you with a sharp click.

Silence crashes down.

You don’t give him time to breathe.

“Are you insane?” you demand, pacing the room like a caged thing. “Do you have any idea how humiliating that was?”

“Wait—”

“No. Don’t talk.” You spin toward him. “You write a song about me, make sure it’s everywhere, make sure I can’t escape it, and then you play it while you’re onstage like it’s some private joke between us?”

“It wasn’t like—”

“You looked at me,” you cut in. “You looked at me while it played. Like you wanted me to know.”

Joe drags a hand through his hair, frustration flashing across his face. “Because I did.”

You laugh, sharp and breathless. “God, you’re unbelievable.”

He steps closer. “You disappeared.”

“You pushed me away,” you fire back instantly. “You gave me nothing and expected me to stay. And now you have the audacity to write that song like u didn’t treat me like shit?”

“That’s not—”

“You never answered your phone. You’d vanish for days. Weeks.” Your voice cracks despite yourself. “I wasn’t going to beg you to care.”

Joe opens his mouth. Closes it. His jaw tightens.

“You didn’t give me a chance,” he says quietly.

“Oh my god,” you scoff. “You had every chance.”

You keep talking because stopping would mean feeling. Because if you pause, you might notice how close he is now. How his hands are clenched at his sides like he’s barely holding back.

“And now you think you can just—what? Write me a song and I’ll come running?”

“I wrote it because I didn’t know how else to reach you,” he says, voice low.

You shake your head, words spilling out faster. “That doesn’t give you the right to hijack my life with it—”

“Stop.”

You don’t.

“I hear it everywhere, Joe. Every single place I go. Just like you said. And you know what? It hurts. It hurts because—”

He kisses you.

Not gently. Not slow.

It’s desperate and sudden and full of everything you’ve both been refusing to say.

Your brain short-circuits.

You kiss him back without thinking fingers gripping his jacket, heart slamming against your ribs.

Then you pull away, breathless. “No—no, I’m not done talking.”

He laughs softly, forehead resting against yours. “You never are.”

“I mean it,” you insist, already starting again. “You don’t get to just—”

“Baby,” he murmurs, trying to interrupt you again.

You keep going.

He cups your face fully this time, thumbs brushing your jaw, eyes dark and intense.

“Either you stop talking,” he says softly, dangerously calm, “or I’m going to give that pretty mouth of yours something else to do.”

Your breath stutters.

Joe doesn't wait for you to respond. His hands slide down to your waist, gripping hard, pulling you flush against him. He kisses you again, deeper this time, tongue delving past your parted lips to tangle with yours. You can taste the whiskey on his breath, feel the scrape of stubble against your chin.

"Fuck, I've missed this," he groans against your mouth, hips rolling forward to grind his hardening cock against your stomach. "Missed you."

You moan into the kiss, hands fisting in his hair, holding him close. He walks you backward until your back hits the wall, pinning you there with his body. One hand releases your hip to palm your breast through your dress, thumbing your nipple into a stiff peak.

"You drive me fucking crazy," he growls, nipping at your bottom lip. "So fucking stubborn. Always pushing me away."

"I didn't—"

He cuts you off with another kiss, bruising in its intensity. "No more talking. Not unless it's begging for my cock."

Your core clenches at the dirty words, arousal flooding your veins. Joe's hand drifts lower, slipping under your skirt to find your bare pussy. He groans when he feels how wet you already are.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, fingers delving between your slick folds. "Always so ready for me. Such a good girl."

You arch into his touch, hips canting forward seeking more friction. He circles your clit with the pad of his thumb, drawing low moans from your throat.

"Please," you whimper, too far gone to care how desperate you sound. "I need you inside me. Need your big cock stretching me open."

Joe chuckles darkly, teeth grazing your jaw. "Fuck yes, you do. Gonna give this greedy little cunt exactly what it needs."

He pulls his hand away, leaving you empty and aching. You mewl in protest, only to gasp when he suddenly spins you around and bends you over the nearest table. Your hands scramble for purchase on the smooth surface as he flips your skirt up over your ass.

"Look at this perfect pussy," he praises, giving one cheek a sharp smack. "Slick and ready, just for me. You want me to spank this naughty ass until it's red before I fuck it?"

Your thighs clench at the idea, even as shame heats your face. "Yes," you breathe. "Please."

Joe groans at the honorific, delivering a flurry of stinging swats to your jiggling cheeks. "Fuck, baby girl, you're so perfect like this. Taking your punishment so well."

He continues spanking you in rhythm with his filthy words, alternating cheeks until they're hot and throbbing. Tears prick your eyes from the mixture of pain and pleasure, your pussy dripping down your thighs.

"Please," you beg, wiggling your hips. "I've learned my lesson. I'll be good now. I promise."

Joe rubs your stinging flesh soothingly, sliding two fingers deep into your fluttering hole. "That's right, you will," he agrees, pumping slowly. "You'll be my perfect little angel. Take care of this pussy like it deserves."

"Yes Joe," you moan, pushing back onto his fingers. "I'll be so good for you."

He scissors his fingers, stretching you wide, preparing you for his cock. "You better be. Because I'm going to fuck this cunt so hard, you won't be able to sit right for days. Everyone will know who this pussy belongs to."

You whine at the dirty promise, clenching around his digits. "Yes, please. Make me yours."

Joe withdraws his fingers abruptly, leaving you empty once more. You hear the sound of his zipper lowering. Then the thick head of his cock is prodding at your entrance, parting your slick folds.

"Last chance to run away," he warns, teasing your hole with shallow thrusts. "Once I'm inside this tight little pussy, you're mine. No more disappearing on me."

"Never," you vow, looking back at him over your shoulder with tear-stained eyes.

Something softens in his expression, even as his jaw tightens with restraint. "Fuck yes, you are," he growls, snapping his hips to bury himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.

You scream at the sudden fullness, hands scrabbling for purchase on the table. He sets a punishing pace, pounding into you so hard the table legs scrape against the floor.

"So fucking tight," he grunts, one hand gripping your hip while the other reaches around to strum your clit. "Gonna ruin this pussy for anyone else. You'll never want another cock but mine."

"Yes," you sob, meeting him thrust for thrust. "Only you, Joe. Only ever you."

Joe leans over you, chest pressing to your back, changing the angle of his strokes to hit that magic spot inside you. "You feel that?" he demands, hips rolling in deep circles. "Feel how good I'm filling this cunt?

This is what you get for being a brat. For making me chase you."

Your eyes roll back, mouth open in a silent scream as he pounds into you relentlessly. Pleasure coils tight in your belly, threatening to spill over at any moment.

"Please," you whimper, clenching around him desperately. "I'm gonna cum."

"Do it," he commands, fingers flying over your clit. "Cum for me, baby girl. Show me what a good little slut you are for my cock."

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, vision whiting out as your pussy spasms almost violently around Joe's pistoning length. He fucks you through it mercilessly, drawing out your pleasure until you're a boneless, babbling mess beneath him.

"Good girl," he praises breathlessly, still pumping into your fluttering hole. "Fuck yes, milk my cock just like that. Gonna fill this pussy up so full of my cum."

A few more erratic thrusts and he's coming too, head falling back with a guttural moan as he empties himself deep inside you. You can feel his cock throbbing, pulsing with each spurt of hot seed painting your walls.

"God damn," he groans, hips still rocking shallowly as he rides out his high. "I've missed this so much."

You hum contentedly, pushing back onto his softening cock. "Me too. So much."

He presses soft kisses to your neck, your shoulders, your temple as you both come down from the intense encounter. One hand stays possessively on your hip while the other cards gently through your hair.

"I love you," he murmurs, voice raw with emotion. "I love you so fucking much. I’m so sorry, I didn’t know what to do with how much I felt for you. So I thought if I pretended I didn’t love you it would be better.”

Tears spring to your eyes at the unexpected confession, heart swelling with adoration for this complex, infuriating man. "I love you too," you whisper back. "I never stopped."

Joe pulls out carefully, turning you in his arms to face him. He cups your face tenderly, thumbs brushing away your tears.

"I'm sorry," he says earnestly, brown eyes searching yours. "I'm sorry for pushing you away. For not fighting harder for us. I was scared and stupid and I let my pride ruin the best thing that ever happened to me."

You smile tremulously, hands coming up to frame his face. "You're forgiven. As long as you promise not to pull away again. We talk things out from now on, okay? No more disappearing acts."

He nods vehemently, forehead resting against yours. "Agreed. I'll work on my communication. And I swear on my life, I will never doubt how much you mean to me again."

You seal the promise with a soft kiss, pouring all your love and forgiveness into it. When you finally part, Joe grins wickedly.

"Now," he says, giving your ass a playful smack. "As much as I'd love to spend all night worshipping this perfect body, we should probably get back out there before people start talking."

You laugh, straightening your dress and running your fingers through your sex-messed hair. "Probably a good idea. Can't have people thinking we snuck off for a quickie in a empty room at the golden globes."

He winks, tucking himself back into his pants. "Oh trust me baby, if I had my way, we'd be doing a hell of a lot more than a quickie."

You shiver at the heat in his voice, adjusting your clothes one last time before slipping your hand into his. "Promises for later?" you ask hopefully.

Joe brings your knuckles to his lips, kissing them reverently. "A lifetime of them," he vows.

Arm in arm, you slip back out into the ballroom like nothing happened, when in reality, everything has changed.

summary: Steve and you navigate your daughter Lily’s first heartbreak, showing her what real love looks like through steady parenting, protection, and the quiet strength of your own marriage. warnings: Teen heartbreak, cheating (off-screen), parental protectiveness, soft angst, strong family themes. wc: 2.6k

pt2 | main masterlist | stranger things masterlist

The thing about raising teenagers is that you never really notice when it happens.

One day, Lily Harrington is still your little girl—barefoot in the kitchen, hair tangled, asking Steve to reach things on the top shelf because “Daddy’s taller.”

The next, she’s standing in front of the hallway mirror, smoothing down her dress for the third time, cheeks flushed, eyes shining in a way that makes Steve pause mid-step.

And stare.

Steve freezes, one hand gripping the banister, the other holding his keys. His jaw tightens just a fraction, the way it always does when something catches him off guard.

“Where’s she going?” he asks casually.

Too casually.

You don’t even look up from where you’re folding laundry on the couch. “Out.”

“With who?”

You smile to yourself. “Her boyfriend.”

Steve blinks. Once. Twice.

“Her what?”

Lily groans from the hallway. “Dad, we talked about this.”

Steve turns slowly, eyes narrowing just a touch as she steps into the living room. She looks beautiful, pretty sundress, hair pulled back just enough to show her face. Still his little girl. Always his little girl.

“How old is he?” Steve asks.

Lily sighs. “Seventeen.”

“Does he have a car?”

“Yes.”

“What kind?”

“Dad.”

You finally look up, biting back a laugh as Steve crosses his arms. “I just want to know what kind of vehicle my sixteen-year-old daughter is getting into.”

Ethan, your seventeen-year-old boy sprawled on the armchair with his phone, doesn’t even look up. “You’re doing the thing.”

Steve shoots him a look. “What thing?”

“The overprotective thing. You did this with me too.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“You’re a boy.”

Ethan smirks. “Exactly.”

You stand, crossing the room to Steve, slipping your hand into his waist without thinking. The simple contact grounds him but not enough to stop the storm brewing behind his eyes.

“She’ll be fine,” you murmur softly. “You raised her right. We raised her right.”

Steve exhales through his nose. “That’s what scares me. She is too sweet”

Lily rolls her eyes affectionately and steps forward, pressing a quick kiss to Steve’s cheek. “I’ll be home by ten.”

He stiffens—but nods. “Ten.”

She leaves, the door closing behind her with a quiet finality that makes the house feel… different.

Steve stands there longer than necessary, heading for a shower trying to not think about how did his daughter grew up so fast.

Before he is out of view Ethan finally looks up. “You okay?”

Steve mutters, “I don’t trust teenage boys.”

You laugh quietly. “You were one.”

“That’s exactly why I don’t trust them.

Later that week, the giddiness begins.

Lily hums while doing homework. Smiles at her phone. Twirls a strand of hair while sitting at the counter. Steve notices all of it and it drives him insane.

“She’s glowing,” you say one evening, leaning into Steve on the couch.

“She’s distracted,” he counters.

“She’s happy.”

He glances down at you. You’re curled against his side, his arm around your waist out of pure instinct, thumb tracing slow, familiar circles against your skin.

“Happy doesn’t mean safe,” he says quietly.

You tilt your head, studying him. “You’re allowed to be scared. Just don’t let it harden you.” Leaving a rub on his thigh while giving him a sweet kiss on the lips trying to reassure him.

Before he deepen the kiss, Lily walks in, stops short, and groans loudly.

“Oh my God. Do you two ever stop touching each other?”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“You’re always holding hands. Or kissing. Or leaning on each other.”

Ethan snorts. “She’s got a point, more than one day apart and you two would die”

Steve doesn’t hesitate.

He pulls you closer and presses a slow, deliberate kiss to your temple.

“Because,” he says calmly, eyes never leaving Lily’s, “I love your mum.”

The room goes quiet.

Lily looks away first.

Ethan smirks like he’s just won something. Cause in the inside he looks up to the love he grew up in.

You smile softly, heart full.

And Steve… Steve watches his daughter carefully already bracing himself for the lesson he knows life is about to teach her.

Steve knows something’s wrong before he even knows why.

It’s the way Lily floats through the house that afternoon, too bright, too smiley, humming under her breath as she passes through the kitchen. She’s dressed with extra care, hair curled just a little more than usual, perfume lingering faintly in the air long after she’s gone upstairs again.

Steve pauses mid-sip of his coffee.

“…Why is she glowing?” he mutters.

You don’t even look up from where you’re chopping vegetables. “She’s sixteen, Steve.”

“That doesn’t explain the glow,” he says suspiciously. “That’s not a normal glow. That’s a boy glow.”

You smile to yourself, soft and fond. “She told us she has a boyfriend.”

“Yes,” Steve says, already standing straighter. “And I have questions.”

Ethan snorts from the counter, phone in hand. “You’ve had questions since she said the word boy.”

Steve points at him. “You’re seventeen. You don’t count.”

“I absolutely count,” Ethan argues. “I am a boy.”

Steve’s jaw tightens. “Exactly.”

You reach out, resting a hand on Steve’s arm, grounding him before he spirals. “You promised you’d try.”

“I am trying,” he insists. “I just don’t like that some kid I’ve never met is suddenly making my daughter giggle like that.”

Right on cue, Lily comes back down the stairs, grabbing her jacket. “He’s coming to pick me up.”

Steve freezes.

“He’s what.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s affection there. “Dad, relax. He’s just coming to say hi.”

“Good,” Steve says immediately. “I’d love to say hi.”

You shoot him a look. “Steve.”

“I’ll be calm,” he promises. “Respectful. Friendly.”

Ethan laughs under his breath. “You’re terrifying when you’re ‘friendly.’”

The doorbell rings.

Lily’s face lights up. Steve’s expression hardens.

Steve opens the door.

The boy, sweet-faced, nervous, hair combed a little too carefully, stands there clutching his car keys like a lifeline. He swallows when he sees Steve Harrington filling the doorway, broad-shouldered and unreadable.

“Uh—hi, sir,” the boy says. “I’m—”

Steve doesn’t move. Just looks at him. Measures him.

You clear your throat. “Steve.”

He blinks, then steps aside. “Right. Come in.”

The boy steps in, glancing around like he’s entered enemy territory. Ethan watches from the hallway, arms crossed, amused and already on his dad’s side.

“So,” Steve says calmly. Too calmly. “You’re the boyfriend.”

“Yes, sir.”

Steve nods once. “How long?”

“Uh—two months.”

“Grades?”

“Good.”

“Intentions?”

The boy falters. Lily groans. “Dad—”

“I’m asking,” Steve says evenly.

The kid answers, earnest and stumbling, and Steve listens without interrupting. Finally, he nods again.

“Alright,” he says. “You treat her with respect. You break her heart, I’ll know.”

The boy nods so fast it’s almost comical. “Yes, sir.”

“We’re leaving.” Lily grabs her jacket, already ruching out the door before her dad dares to say something else.

You squeeze Steve’s hand as she passes. “You did okay.”

“I did great,” he mutters.

After the door closes, Ethan grins. “You scared him, good job dad.”

Steve exhales. “Good. Thank you kid.”

“I told you,” Ethan says, joining him at the counter. “I know how guys think.”

Steve claps a hand on his son’s shoulder. “That’s my boy.”

You roll your eyes affectionately, already sensing the tension coiling, cause obviously the two males in the house would team up.

And somewhere deep down, Steve already knows how this ends.

It’s quiet when Lily comes home.

Too quiet.

You hear the front door open and close softly, no slam, no call of “I’m home”, no thud of shoes kicked off in the hallway like usual. Just careful footsteps. Hesitant. Like she’s trying not to be noticed.

Your heart tightens immediately.

You look up from the kitchen sink just in time to see her pass the doorway. Her backpack slips from her shoulder and hits the floor with a dull thump. She doesn’t stop to pick it up.

“Lily?” you call gently.

She freezes.

For half a second, you think she might turn around. You hear her inhale sharp, broken and then she bolts.

Her bedroom door slams shut at the end of the hall.

The sound echoes.

You dry your hands too fast, towel slipping from your fingers as you follow, your pulse already racing. You knock once. Soft.

“Sweetheart?”

No answer.

You try again. “Lily, it’s me.”

Nothing.

You put your ear to the door and hear it, the unmistakable sound of someone trying to cry quietly. Muffled breaths. A shaky sob that she’s forcing down.

Your chest aches.

“Baby,” you say, voice cracking despite your best effort. “Please open the door.”

“I’m fine,” she calls back, but it’s thin. Fragile. A lie.

You sit down on the floor outside her door, back against the wall like you’ve done since she was little.

“I don’t need you to be fine,” you tell her softly. “I just need you to not be alone.”

There’s a long pause.

Then: “I don’t wanna talk.”

You swallow. “Okay. We don’t have to talk. I can just sit here.”

You do. Minutes pass. You hear her sniffle again. Your heart breaks in slow motion.

The front door opens again not long after.

You hear voices — Ethan’s familiar laugh, Steve’s deeper one beside it — still easy, still light from wherever they were before reality caught up with them.

Then Steve sees you sitting on the floor.

His smile disappears instantly.

“What happened?” he asks quietly.

You look up at him, eyes glassy. “She came home crying. Locked herself in.”

Steve’s jaw tightens. “Did she say why?”

Before you can answer, Ethan steps forward, his expression already darkening.

“…It’s him,” he says.

You turn to him sharply. “Ethan?”

He hesitates, then exhales. “I saw him today. At school. With another girl.”

Steve goes completely still.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

Ethan nods. “Holding hands. Laughing. Like it was nothing.”

The room goes cold.

Steve doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t swear. Doesn’t pace.

He just nods once, slow and controlled — the kind of calm that only comes when someone is holding back something bigger.

“I’ll talk to her,” he says.

You stand immediately. “Steve—”

“I know,” he says gently, turning to you. “I’ll be careful.”

He walks down the hall, each step measured. When he reaches Lily’s door, he knocks once — firm, but not loud.

“Lils,” he says, voice low. “It’s Dad.”

Silence.

Then, quietly: “Go away.”

Steve crouches, lowering himself to her level. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Another pause.

“I know what happened,” he adds, carefully. “And I promise — you’re not in trouble. Not now. Not ever.”

The lock clicks.

The door opens just a crack.

Lily stands there with red-rimmed eyes, mascara smudged, arms wrapped around herself like she’s trying to keep from falling apart. When she sees him, something breaks completely.

She sobs.

Steve doesn’t hesitate. He steps inside and pulls her into his chest, holding her like he did when she was little — firm, protective, grounding. She clutches his shirt, crying openly now, body shaking.

“It hurts,” she gasps. “It hurts so bad.”

“I know,” Steve murmurs, kissing the top of her head. “I know, baby.”

They sit on the edge of her bed, Lily curled into his side. He doesn’t rush her. Lets her cry until the tears slow, until her breathing evens out.

When she finally speaks, her voice is small.

“I thought… I thought he cared.”

Steve nods. “That makes sense.”

“What did I do wrong,” she says.

He cups her face gently, forcing her to look at him. “Hey. Listen to me. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Her lip trembles. “Then why wasn’t I enough?”

Steve’s expression softens in a way that nearly undoes her.

“Oh, Lily,” he says quietly. “Someone else’s inability to be loyal has nothing to do with your worth.”

She sniffles. “But it still feels like it does.”

“I know,” he admits. “That’s the hardest part.”

She wipes her cheeks. “I don’t wanna go back to him.”

Steve nods immediately. “Good.”

She looks surprised. “You don’t… think I should forgive him?”

“No,” Steve says firmly. “I think you deserve better.”

She studies him. “How do you know what better looks like?”

He smiles softly. “Because I know what love looks like.”

She tilts her head.

“I know because I love your mum,” he says. “And I choose her. Every day. Even when it’s hard. Even when it’s boring. Even when nobody’s watching.”

Her eyes fill again — not with pain this time, but something warmer.

“You’d never do that to her,” Lily whispers.

“Never,” Steve says without hesitation. “And that’s the standard. Anything less isn’t love.”

She leans into him again, calmer now.

At dinner that night, Lily sits closer than usual. She reaches for your hand without thinking.

“Thanks,” she says quietly.

“For what?” you ask.

“For showing me what love is supposed to look like.”

Steve meets your eyes over the table and smiles soft, proud, steady.

The house is finally quiet.

Ethan’s door clicked shut an hour ago, music low enough now that it’s more hum than sound. Lily’s light went out not long after—earlier than usual, exhaustion finally winning over heartache. You passed her room once more before heading upstairs, just to make sure. Just to know.

Steve noticed.

He always does.

Your bedroom feels different at night now—not heavy, not tense. Just… full. The lamp on your nightstand casts a warm glow across the walls as Steve shrugs off his shirt and sits ate the edge of the bed, movements slower than usual, thoughtful. You stand in the mirror at brushing out your hair, watching him in the mirror.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

He nods, then exhales. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

You smile, knowing exactly what about.

You join him between his knees you, his arms sliding around the back of your thighs automatically, pulling you closer to him like it’s muscle memory. His thumb traces idle patterns against your hip, grounding, familiar.

“I keep replaying it,” he admits quietly. “What she said. About us.”

Your chest tightens—in the good way. “She meant it.”

“I know.” He swallows. “It just… I don’t ever want them to think this”—he gestures vaguely between you“is fake. Or rare. Or something they don’t deserve.”

You turn to face him fully, knees brushing his. “Steve. Look at me.”

He does.

“You didn’t just tell her how to expect love,” you say. “You showed her. For sixteen years. Every single day.”

His eyes soften, something vulnerable flickering there that only you ever get to see.

“I didn’t even realize,” he murmurs, “that just loving you was… teaching them.”

You lean down, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips slow, unhurried, full of meaning. He responds instantly, hand sliding up your hips, pulling you closer as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

When you pull back, your foreheads stay touching.

“I’m so proud of you,” you whisper.

He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I’m proud of us.”

Another kiss—this one softer, sweeter. He rests his forehead against yours again, breathing you in.

“She’s gonna be okay,” he says after a moment. “She’s strong.”

“She is,” you agree. “She gets that from you.”

He hums. “And from you. You’re the one who stayed outside her door. The one who didn’t give up.”

You smile. “We make a good team.”

His arm tightens around you. “Yeah. We really do.”

You shift into his lap, limbs tangled comfortably, the way they always are. His fingers lace with yours, squeezing once, deliberate.

Down the hall, the house sleeps—safe, loved, steady.

And in the quiet, wrapped in each other, you both know:

This is the kind of love that lasts.

The kind that teaches.

The kind that stays.

summary: Picking your little brother up from baseball practice is routine. Until the quiet, lingering tension between you and his coach builds week after week, finally snapping. (cause ive been obsessed with the thought of coach Steve) warnings: Explicit sexual content, consensual rough sex, dirty talk wc: 4.1k

main masterlist | stranger things masterlist

It’s never supposed to be anything special.

Just another Tuesday afternoon, the sun still high enough to sting your eyes when you step onto the cracked pavement by the baseball field. Your brother’s practice runs late—always does—and you already know you’ll be sitting on the bleachers for a bit, scrolling through nothing, pretending not to look.

You tell yourself you’re used to this.

The whistles.

The thud of baseballs hitting gloves.

The smell of dirt and sweat and cheap sunscreen.

And him.

Steve Harrington is at the far end of the field, stacking orange cones with that loose-limbed ease that comes from years of muscle memory. He’s older than you—not by much, but enough that it shows in the way he moves. Confident. Grounded. Like he knows where he belongs now.

Late twenties suit him.

The white t-shirt he’s wearing clings to his shoulders, darkened slightly at the collar from sweat. His sunglasses are pushed up into his hair, curls messy from running drills. He laughs at something one of the kids says—real, warm laughter that makes a few heads turn.

Including yours.

You catch yourself staring and immediately look down, lips pressing together.

Get it together.

You’ve been doing this for weeks now. Showing up, sitting down, pretending you’re not hyper-aware of him every second you’re here. Pretending you don’t feel something coil low in your stomach every time his gaze flicks toward the bleachers—toward you.

You don’t know when it started. Just that one day, the air between you felt… different.

He notices you before you notice him walking over.

“You’re early today.”

His voice comes from your left, close enough that it startles you. You look up to find him standing at the bottom of the bleachers, one hand resting on the railing, posture casual like he hasn’t just invaded your personal space.

God. He’s close.

“Car’s in the shop,” you say, too quickly. “Had to walk.”

He hums, eyes flicking briefly to your shoes, then back to your face. “That’s a decent walk.”

“I needed the steps.”

“That so?” His mouth curves, not quite a smile—more like he’s testing something. “Could’ve given you a ride.”

You swallow. “I know.”

There’s a beat. A look that lingers a fraction too long.

Steve straightens, nodding toward the field. “He’s still in the locker room. Probably arguing about who gets shotgun on the bus to nowhere.”

You snort before you can stop yourself. “Sounds right.”

He chuckles, low and warm. The sound settles into you, heavy.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

Then he gestures to the empty space beside you. “Mind if I sit?”

You shake your head, heart doing something stupid as he climbs up and settles next to you. His knee brushes yours—accidental, probably—but neither of you moves away.

“So,” he says, leaning back, forearms resting on his thighs. “He’s been doing good. Fast runner. Decent arm. Gets distracted easy.”

“That’s his whole personality.”

Steve laughs again, louder this time. “Yeah, I noticed.”

Silence follows, but it’s not awkward. It’s charged. The kind that buzzes under your skin, makes you acutely aware of how close he is, how his arm is just there, how easy it would be to lean in.

You don’t.

“You said you wanted to talk?” you ask, forcing your voice to stay steady. “About him?”

Steve’s head tilts, eyes studying you. For a split second, something unreadable passes over his face.

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “I did.”

Your stomach tightens.

He opens his mouth to continue—but then the locker room door bangs open, your brother bursting out with grass-stained knees and a grin too big for his face.

“Hey!” he calls, already jogging over. “Can I go to Tyler’s? His mom said it’s okay. Please, please, please—”

You sigh, already knowing you’ve lost. “Text Mom.”

“Yes!” He pumps a fist, then pauses, glancing between you and Steve. “Coach, you cool with that?”

Steve grins. “Only if you remember to bring your glove back tomorrow.”

“I will!” And just like that, he’s gone again—running toward a group of kids waiting by the fence.

You watch him disappear, then turn back to Steve. “Guess that meeting’s off.”

Steve’s smile doesn’t fade. If anything, it sharpens.

“Actually,” he says, standing and offering you a hand without thinking, “I was hoping you’d still have time.”

You blink, looking at his hand. Then up at his face.

“For…?”

He shrugs, easy. “I was thinking dinner. Diner’s still open, right?”

Dinner.

Not talking.

Not about your brother.

Your heart stutters.

“Steve—”

“Totally professional,” he adds quickly, lips twitching. “Coach stuff. Promise.”

You hesitate. Every instinct tells you this is a line you probably shouldn’t cross.

But you take his hand anyway.

“Okay,” you say. “Dinner.”

The way his fingers tighten just slightly around yours feels anything but professional.

And as you walk off the field together, the sun dipping low behind you, you can’t shake the feeling that something has already shifted—quietly, irrevocably.

And you have no idea yet how far it’s going to go.

The diner smells like grease and burnt coffee, the kind that clings to your clothes long after you leave. Steve slides into the booth across from you like he owns the place — familiar, easy, all long limbs and confidence that somehow never tips into arrogance.

You notice the way he doesn’t grab a menu right away.

Just looks at you.

Not in a rude way. Not openly. It’s subtle — his gaze flicks to your face, down to your hands folded on the table, then back up again like he’s cataloguing something important. Like he’s trying to remember you.

“So,” he says finally, leaning back, one arm stretched along the booth. “Your brother’s got a hell of an arm. Kid’s gonna be trouble in a few years.”

You smile, proud despite yourself. “He gets it from me.”

Steve huffs a laugh. “Yeah? You play?”

“Used to.” You shrug. “Before life happened.”

His eyebrow lifts, interest piqued. “Life, huh.”

The waitress comes by — middle-aged, sharp-eyed, immediately clocking the tension. She looks between you once, then twice.

“Coffee?” she asks.

“Yes,” Steve says instantly.

You nod. “Please.”

She lingers a second longer than necessary, pen tapping against her notepad. “You two look cozy.”

Steve doesn’t miss a beat. “We try.”

The words land somewhere low in your stomach.

You shoot him a look. “Do we?”

He shrugs, lips twitching. “Could be worse.”

The waitress walks away with a knowing smile, and suddenly the booth feels smaller. Warmer. Steve shifts forward, elbows on the table now, posture relaxed but attentive.

“So,” he says, quieter. “You always pick him up?”

“Every practice.” You pause. “Why? Complaints?”

“No,” he says quickly. “No, he’s great. Just—” He stops himself, rubbing his thumb along the rim of the table. “Just noticed.”

Noticed you, you think.

But he doesn’t say it.

Instead, he tilts his head, studying you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. “You don’t ever miss.”

“I made a promise to my mom,” you say. “Someone’s gotta show up.”

Something in his expression shifts — softens. It’s gone in a blink, replaced by his usual easy grin, but you catch it.

“Guess that makes you the reliable one,” he says.

“Guess so.”

“Dangerous quality,” he adds lightly. “People get attached.”

You swallow, heart giving a stupid little kick. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Steve’s eyes flick to your mouth. Just for a second.

“It depends,” he says slowly, “on who’s getting attached.”

The coffee arrives, saving you from responding. You wrap your hands around the mug, grateful for something to ground you. Steve does the same — except his pinky brushes yours.

It’s brief. Accidental.

Neither of you pull away right away.

He clears his throat. “So, uh. About your brother.”

Here it is, you think. The real reason.

“He’s doing great,” Steve continues. “But he gets distracted easy. Talks a lot. Smart kid, though.”

You smile. “That runs in the family.”

He smirks. “Yeah? I’d believe that.”

Another pause. Another look. His knee bumps yours under the table — this time, he doesn’t move it away.

The tension hums, quiet but persistent.

When you stand to leave, he beats you to the door. Holds it open, hand firm against the glass, watching you step past him.

“Thanks for coming,” he says. “Didn’t mean to keep you.”

“You didn’t,” you reply. “It was… nice.”

His smile turns softer. Realer.

“Yeah,” he says. “It was.”

Outside, the night air is cool. His BMW gleams under the streetlight.

“I can drive you,” he offers, casual. “Since your car’s out.”

You hesitate — just a breath.

Then nod.

“Okay.”

The way his smile spreads this time?

Like he already knew you’d say yes.

The car feels smaller than it has any right to be.

Steve’s BMW hums softly beneath you as he pulls out of the diner parking lot, one hand easy on the wheel, the other resting a little too casually on his thigh. The streetlights streak gold across the windshield, flashing over his profile in intervals—strong jaw, focused eyes, the faintest curve of a smile he keeps trying to hide.

You’re painfully aware of everything.

The way the leather seat is warm from him.

The way your knee is angled just slightly toward his.

The way your stomach hasn’t stopped twisting since he held the door open for you back at the diner, palm brushing the small of your back like it belonged there.

“So,” he says, breaking the silence, voice low, careful. “Your brother’s gonna forgive you for ditching him for a night?”

You laugh, but it comes out breathier than you mean it to. “He won’t even remember I was there once he’s got pizza and video games.”

“Lucky kid,” Steve mutters, eyes flicking to you for half a second too long before returning to the road.

Something about the way he says it sends a warm pulse straight to your belly.

The road back to your place isn’t long. You’ve walked it a hundred times. But tonight, with him driving, every turn feels charged. The music on the radio is low, something slow and almost lazy, and Steve doesn’t turn it up. Doesn’t turn it off either.

“You always walk this?” he asks. “Even this late?”

“Usually,” you shrug. “Didn’t think it was a big deal.”

His jaw tightens—just slightly. “Still. Kinda wish I’d known sooner. I’d have offered.”

You glance at him. “You offering now?”

He exhales a quiet laugh. “Guess I am.”

The car stops at a red light. The silence stretches again, thicker this time. You can feel it pulling at you, coiling low, warm and dizzying.

“You know,” he says, voice dropping, “you’re… different when you’re not with your brother.”

Your fingers curl in your lap. “Different how?”

Steve turns his head fully now, the red light painting his face in something dangerously intimate. His gaze drifts—not lingering, but not innocent either. Your mouth. Your collarbone. Back to your eyes.

“Hard to explain,” he says. “Just… softer. But sharper too.”

Your breath catches. “Is that good or bad?”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “Very good.”

The light turns green. He drives again, but slower now. More deliberate.

Your house comes into view too quickly. You feel it like a loss in your chest.

Steve pulls up to the curb but doesn’t immediately put the car in park. The engine idles. The air between you hums.

“Thanks for the ride,” you say, even though you don’t want to leave. Not yet.

“Anytime,” he replies, then hesitates. “Seriously. Anytime.”

You reach for the door, then pause when his hand lifts—hovering, not touching—like he’s stopping himself.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You turn back.

For a moment, neither of you moves. You’re close enough to see the way his chest rises a little faster now, the way his eyes have gone darker, heavier.

“I’m glad you stayed tonight,” he says. “At the diner. With me.”

Your stomach flips. “Me too.”

Something unspoken passes between you—thick, electric, undeniable. His gaze drops to your lips. Yours follows the movement.

The moment stretches. Suspended. One breath away from crossing a line neither of you can pretend isn’t there anymore.

The seconds tick by, heavy with unspoken tension. Steve's hand rests on the center console, fingers splayed, close enough to brush against your thigh. You swallow hard, pulse hammering in your ears as you stare at him, chest tight with anticipation.

He clears his throat, looking away briefly before meeting your gaze again. "I should probably let you get inside," he says, voice rough. "Before I do something stupid."

Your heart clenches at the implication. You want to say something—anything—but your mouth is suddenly dry. All you can do is nod, fingers tightening around the door handle.

Steve reaches out, hand covering yours, stopping you from opening the door. His palm is warm, calloused from years of catching baseballs. You shiver at the contact, eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment.

"Stay," he murmurs, thumb brushing over your knuckles. "Please."

The word hangs between you a plea, a promise, an invitation. Your resolve crumbles. You turn toward him fully, breath hitching as his free hand comes up to cup your cheek.

"Steve," you whisper, heart in your throat. "We shouldn't—"

"Shh." He leans in, lips ghosting over yours. "I know. I just...I want to. So fucking much."

The confession undoes you. You surge forward, capturing his mouth with yours in a desperate kiss. He groans low in his throat, hand sliding into your hair to angle your head as he deepens it.

The kiss is filthy, all tongue and teeth and pure need. Steve licks into your mouth like he's been starving for it, tongue delving deep, claiming you. You moan into him, hands fisting in his shirt as you pull him closer.

He breaks the kiss first, panting harshly against your lips. “Come here baby”

You nod frantically, scrambling over the center console and into his lap, without breaking contact. Steve follows, hands roaming your body as he settles on top of you.

"I've wanted this," he confesses between kisses, fingers sliding under your shirt. "Wanted you. Fuck, baby, you have no idea."

You arch into his touch, crying out as his thumb brushes over your nipple. "Me too," you gasp. "I thought about this—about you—all the time."

He groans, grinding his hips against yours. You can feel how hard he is already, thick and insistent against your thigh.

"I'm gonna make you feel so good," he promises, voice rough with desire. "Gonna worship this body. Make you cum so hard."

"Yes," you whimper, legs wrapping around his waist. "Please, Steve. I need it. Need you."

He strips off your shirt in one swift motion, tossing it carelessly into the front seat. His mouth follows, lips and teeth and tongue mapping the new skin he's exposed. He takes his time with your breasts, laving each nipple with attention until you're writhing beneath him.

By the time he gets to your pants, you're a mess—desperate and aching and soaking through your underwear. He pauses with the zipper half-down, gazing up at you with dark, hungry eyes.

"Look at you," he murmurs. "So perfect. So ready for me."

You buck your hips, seeking friction. "Don't tease," you beg. "I'm so empty, Steve. Please fill me up."

He chuckles lowly, hooking his fingers in your waistband and tugging your pants and underwear down in one fluid motion. You kick them off impatiently, leaving you bare beneath him.

"Impatient little thing," he tsks, trailing his fingers up the inside of your thigh. "Don't worry, baby. Gonna give you what you need."

He proves it by thrusting two fingers deep into your dripping cunt without warning. You cry out, back bowing off the seat as he pumps them in and out, curling to hit that perfect spot inside you.

"That's it," he praises, thumb circling your clit. "Fuck my fingers. Show me how much you want it."

You obey eagerly, hips rolling down to meet his hand. The wet sounds of your arousal fill the car, obscene and filthy. Steve watches you with heavy-lidded eyes, drinking in every gasp and moan.

"Gonna make you cum so hard," he growls. "Gonna fill this tight little pussy with my cum."

The dirty words push you closer to the edge. You're already so wound up, teetering on the brink. A few more thrusts of his fingers and you're coming undone with a scream, cunt clamping down around him as pleasure crashes through you.

"Fuck yes," Steve groans, working you through it. "That's my good girl. Cum for me. Soak my fingers."

You shake and twitch as the aftershocks roll through you, overcome with sensation. Steve gentles his touch, fingers stroking lazily through your sensitive folds as you float down.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "So responsive. Love watching you come apart on my hand."

You hum contentedly, basking in the afterglow. But even as the fog of your orgasm starts to lift, you feel a familiar ache building low in your belly again.

"I need your cock," you say, voice wrecked and raw. "Please, Steve. Need you inside me."

He smiles against your skin, fingers still playing with your slick folds. "Demanding little thing," he teases. "Luckily for you, I'm just as desperate."

You watch hungrily as he pushes his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his thick length, rolling the condom on in record time.

"Your so big… fuck its not going to fit Steve" you breathe while you stroke him. He's hot and hard and heavy in your hand, pulsing with need.

Steve hisses through his teeth, hips jerking into your touch. "Fuck, I’ll make it fit baby, got you all nice and wet."

He lines himself up with your entrance, rubbing the head of his cock through your soaked folds. You whimper at the contact, legs falling open wider in invitation.

"Please," you beg, digging my nails into his shoulders. "Stop teasing. I need it."

And then he's pushing inside, thick cock stretching you open inch by delicious inch until he's buried to the hilt. You both groan at the sensation, bodies shaking with the force of it.

"God, you feel incredible," he pants, holding still to let you adjust. "So tight. Like you were made for my cock."

You roll your hips experimentally, gasping as he hits that perfect spot inside me. "Move," you demand. "Fuck me, Steve. Hard."

He needs no further encouragement. Pulling out slowly, he slams back in with a powerful thrust that has the car rocking on its suspension. You cry out at the sudden fullness, hands flying to his biceps for purchase as he sets a brutal pace.

"Fuck yes," he grunts, driving into you again and again. "Take my cock. This is what you needed, isn't it? To be filled up?"

His words fuel the heat building between your thighs. You meet him thrust for thrust, chasing that delicious friction.

"So good," you moan, tilting my hips to take him deeper. "Love your cock. Love being your good girl."

"Fucking right you do," he growls approvingly, angling to hit your g-spot on every drag. "Gonna make this pussy mine. Get inside you every chance I get."

The filthy words push you closer to the edge. Your muscles start to tighten, pleasure coiling low in your belly.

"I'm gonna cum," you warn breathlessly, nails digging into his skin hard enough to leave marks. "Cum with me, Steve. Please."

He snarls something that might be a curse or a prayer, hips snapping forward with renewed vigor. You feel him swell inside you, cock pulsing as his orgasm approaches.

With a final snap of his hips, he buries himself deep and comes with a hoarse shout, cock throbbing as he pumps you full of his release. The feeling of his hot cum flooding your depths triggers your own orgasm, pussy clamping down around him as you cry out his name.

You ride out the waves together, bodies trembling and slick with sweat. Steve collapses on top of you, face buried in your neck as you both catch your breath.

He lifts his head to look at you, eyes soft and sated. "For the record? I'll give you a ride anytime."

You smirk. "Just a ride?"

He grins, pressing a quick kiss to the tip of your nose. "For now," he amends with a wink.

You shake your head fondly, trailing my fingers through his hair. "Cocky bastard."

"Hey, I aim to please."

The car starts to feel claustrophobic as the afterglow fades.

"We should probably get you inside," he says pull out of you with an hiss.

You nod even as part of you wants to protest, wants to beg him to stay inside of you longer.

"Walk of shame?" he asks with a crooked smile as you step out of the car.

"Technically it's my driveway," you point out wryly.

"But still."

You shrug. "Maybe next time we can go to your place."

He perks up at that, eyes sparkling with mischief and something warmer. "I like the way you think."

He walks you to your door despite your protests that it's not necessary, leaving a lingering kiss on your lips before turning back to his car.

summary: Your long-time friendship with Steve explodes into a fake-dating scenario to dodge Nancy rumors, igniting months of suppressed lust that finally bursts. warnings: Explicit sexual content, praise and dirty talk wc: 4k

main masterlist | stranger things masterlist

The night ends the way it always does.

Too loud. Too crowded. Too many opinions about Steve Harrington’s love life spoken like you’re not sitting right there.

You walk out of the house with the others, the screen door slamming shut behind you, cicadas buzzing like they’re gossiping too. Dustin is still mid-rant about something—probably rules, or D&D, or how Steve is “emotionally stunted but trying”—when Nancy’s name comes up again.

It always does.

“Come on,” Lucas says, nudging Steve’s shoulder. “You don’t just get over your first big love like that.”

You don’t look at Steve.

You already know better.

Max hums thoughtfully. “Yeah. I mean… it’s Nancy.”

There it is.

That tone.

Like it’s inevitable. Like she’s a chapter that never really closes.

Steve laughs, but it’s the wrong kind. The kind that’s too quick, too practiced.

“Can we not psychoanalyze me like I’m not standing right here?”

Robin shoots you a glance. You pretend not to see it.

You stay quiet. You always do when this topic comes up. Not because it hurts—though it does—but because you’ve learned your place in these conversations.

Best friend.

Safe option.

Background character.

Everyone eventually disperses, bikes rolling away, goodbyes shouted into the night. Steve unlocks his car, tossing his keys in the air before catching them.

“You staying over?” he asks casually, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You nod. “Yeah. If that’s okay.”

He looks at you then. Really looks at you.

It’s brief. Gone almost immediately.

“Of course it is.”

The drive is quiet in a comfortable way—until it isn’t.

The radio hums low, headlights cutting through the dark. You rest your elbow against the door, chin in your palm, watching the road slide by. Steve grips the wheel, jaw tight.

You know that look.

“You okay?” you ask.

He exhales sharply through his nose. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

Lie.

You don’t call him on it.

Steve’s house feels like relief when you get there. Shoes kicked off by the door. Lights flipped on one by one. Familiar space, familiar smells, familiar him. You sink onto the couch like you belong there—because you do.

Steve tosses his jacket aside, runs a hand through his hair, pacing once before stopping short.

“Can I ask you something?” he says.

Your stomach flips.

“Sure.”

He hesitates. Long enough that you think he might back out.

“Does it… bother you?” he asks. “All that stuff they say?”

You blink. “About Nancy?”

“About me,” he corrects quickly. “Still being hung up. Or whatever.”

You shrug, too casual. “People love a narrative.”

He watches you like he’s waiting for more.

“You don’t think it’s true?” he presses.

You meet his eyes. Hold them.

Not long enough to be dangerous.

“I think people see what they expect to see.”

Something shifts in him then. Subtle. Like a puzzle piece clicking into place.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s kind of the problem.”

You frown. “What do you mean?”

Steve exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m just… tired of being someone’s past.”

That hits harder than it should.

You sit up. “Steve—”

He cuts himself off with a laugh. “God, listen to me. Ignore it. I’m being dramatic.”

You don’t. You never do.

“Well,” you say slowly, thinking out loud, “if people saw you with someone else, they’d probably shut up.”

He stills.

“Someone… else?”

You shrug again. “Yeah. I mean, if you were clearly dating someone, it’d kill the whole ‘Steve still loves Nancy’ thing.”

Steve stares at you.

You stare back.

The air thickens.

“Hypothetically,” he says carefully, “who would that someone be?”

Your heart beats once.

Twice.

You swallow. “I don’t know. Someone believable.”

His mouth quirks. “Ouch.”

You laugh. “You know what I mean.”

He does.

Too well.

His gaze drifts over you.

“Well,” he says slowly, “we already hang out all the time. Everyone knows you. They already think we’re practically attached at the hip.”

Your pulse spikes.

“That’s ridiculous,” you say. “We’re just friends.”

“Exactly,” he replies too quickly. “Safe. Easy. Fake.”

Fake.

The word settles between you like a challenge.

You laugh it off. “Steve Harrington, fake-dating me to escape his own reputation? That’s low.”

He grins—but there’s something tense behind it. Something restrained.

“Hey,” he says lightly. “I trust you.”

And somehow, that’s worse.

Because you trust him too.

And because even as the idea lingers, you both cling to the same lie:

It wouldn’t mean anything.

It couldn’t.

Not when neither of you thinks the other feels the same.

Not when it’s all just pretend.

So obviously you arrive together to the next movie night.

That alone feels like a statement.

Steve pulls into the driveway with one hand on the wheel and the other draped lazily over the back of your seat, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He hops out first, jogs around the car, opens your door with an exaggerated flourish.

“After you,” he says, smirking. “Gotta sell it.”

You roll your eyes but take his hand anyway.

It’s warm. Calloused. Familiar.

And maybe you hold it a second longer than necessary.

Inside, the Wheelers house is already loud, Dustin yelling about popcorn ratios, Lucas arguing with Max about movie choices, Robin perched halfway on the counter narrating everything like it’s a live documentary.

Nancy’s eyes flick down to your intertwined hands.

Then back up.

Then she smiles. Slowly.

Steve squeezes your hand. Just once.

Remember. Fake.

You spend the first half hour pretending not to notice how often Steve’s thumb brushes your knuckles. How he keeps you close, like he’s afraid someone might question it if he doesn’t. Like the space between you matters.

When you duck into the kitchen to help Karen with snacks, Steve follows without asking.

Of course he does.

You’re reaching into the fridge when you feel him behind you — close enough that his chest brushes your back, close enough that you can feel the heat of him through your clothes.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

You turn your head slightly. “Hey.”

His arms slide around your waist.

Casual. Easy. Like he’s done it a hundred times.

Your breath catches anyway.

He presses a kiss to your cheek — quick, light — then another just below your ear. It’s soft enough to pass as affectionate. Innocent.

Except your heart is pounding so loud you’re sure he can hear it.

“Steve,” you whisper, flustered. “We’re in the kitchen.”

“So?” he says quietly, lips brushing your jaw. “Boyfriend perks.”

You swallow.

Behind you, you don’t notice the living room going quiet.

You don’t notice Dustin’s head popping up from behind the couch like a meerkat.

You do notice when Steve smiles against your skin and murmurs:

“We got him. Just right.”

You blink. “What?”

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you — eyes bright, amused, satisfied.

“You were so in the moment you didn’t even see him,” he says.

You follow his gaze.

Dustin is frozen mid-whisper, eyes wide, mouth open.

“Oh my GOD,” he stage-whispers loudly, already turning back to the others. “DID YOU SEE THAT—”

Steve groans. “Mission accomplished.”

You stare at him.

“You did that on purpose?”

He shrugs, hands still resting comfortably at your waist. “Had to make it believable.”

Your cheeks are burning.

He lets go.

Movie night is chaos, bodies sprawled across couches, blankets stolen and reclaimed, arguments over who gets the armrest. Steve pulls you down beside him without thinking, arm slung around your shoulders like it’s muscle memory.

At one point, Max glances over and raises an eyebrow.

At another, Robin mouths finally across the room.

Steve leans in and whispers, “You’re doing great, by the way.”

You glance at him. “At pretending?”

He smiles. That soft one. The one that makes your chest ache.

“Yeah,” he says. “Pretending.”

Halfway through the movie, his fingers find yours again.

You don’t pull away.

You tell yourself it’s still fake.

That neither of you mean it.

That the way he squeezes your hand during the scary parts is just for show.

That the way he looks at you when he thinks no one’s watching doesn’t mean anything.

And when Dustin keeps sneaking looks at the two of you like he’s collecting evidence?

Steve just grins.

The next big pretend act was at a house party, you didn’t want to come.

That was the first lie you told yourself.

The second was that this was still fake.

The party is already loud when you arrive, music too bass-heavy for a living room that small, cups everywhere, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder. The kids are supposed to be in the back room with movies and junk food, supervised technically, which is why you, Steve, and Robin are here in the first place.

Steve’s hand finds yours the second you step inside.

It’s automatic now.

Fingers warm, confident, fitting like muscle memory, but the second you notice it, your stomach flips and you almost pull away.

Almost.

Someone whistles. Someone laughs. Someone says, “Okay, Harrington, we see you.”

Steve just grins, squeezes your hand once, like a reminder.

Play the part.

You stay glued to his side for the first half hour. He introduces you with his arm slung around your shoulders, thumb absently rubbing against your upper arm like he’s done it a thousand times. You’re hyper-aware of every touch, every shift of his body, every time his head dips close so he can hear you over the music.

It feels too natural.

That’s the problem.

You get pulled into a circle in the kitchen where a game has already started — spin the bottle, half drunk, half joking, everyone pretending it’s ironic.

Steve lingers nearby, leaning against the counter, watching.

The bottle spins.

Slows.

Stops.

Not on him.

Someone laughs. “Your turn.”

You blink, heat rushing up your neck. “Uh— sorry, I can’t.”

A beat.

Someone tilts their head. “Why not?”

You hesitate for exactly one second too long.

“I have a boyfriend.”

The room erupts.

“Since when?”

“Who?”

“Bullshit.”

You don’t even get to answer.

Steve moves.

He’s there suddenly — close, decisive — one hand sliding to your waist like it belongs there, the other tilting your chin up before you can process it.

And then he kisses you.

Not soft.

Not shy.

Not careful.

It’s firm, claiming, lips warm and sure, just long enough that the room goes silent and your brain short-circuits completely. His thumb presses into your hip, grounding you as the world tilts.

When he pulls back, his forehead brushes yours.

“There,” he says calmly. “Now it’s not confusing.”

Someone whistles again. Someone groans dramatically. The game dissolves into chaos.

You stand there stunned, heart racing, lips tingling like they’ve been branded.

Steve doesn’t look at anyone else.

He looks at you.

“Bathroom,” you mutter, suddenly overwhelmed.

He nods immediately. “I’ll check on the kids.”

You flee before your knees give out.

By the time you come back Steve is talking to a girl you have

Pretty. Confident. Way too close.

She laughs at something Steve says, touches his arm, leans in like she’s testing a boundary.

Your chest tightens before you can stop it.

So you step in.

You slide an arm around Steve’s waist from the side, press your palm flat against his chest, feel his heartbeat jump under your hand. Your head rests against his shoulder, casual but unmistakable.

His breath hitches.

The girl gets the message and drifts away.

You don’t move right away.

Steve turns his head slowly, eyes dark, searching your face.

You arch a brow, feigning ease. “Hey. Gotta keep the act believable, right? Can’t have my fake boyfriend flirting.”

His jaw tightens.

“You jealous?” he murmurs.

You scoff. “Please. Just committed to the role.”

He watches you for a long second, something unreadable passing over his face.

Then, without warning, he kisses you again.

Shorter this time.

Hotter.

Intentional.

When he pulls back, his lips brush your ear.

“Gotta make them really believe it,” he says quietly.

You swallow.

Steve asks you to his date to this weird and fancy dinner party, the place is nicer than you expected.

Warm lights strung across a wide porch, soft music drifting through open doors, the low murmur of conversation layered with laughter and clinking glasses. It’s the kind of dinner where people dress a little better than usual and pretend they’re not watching each other.

You arrive with Steve.

That part still feels surreal.

His hand rests at the small of your back as you walk in, natural, practiced, careful not to overdo it. Just enough to sell it. Just enough that people notice. Just enough that your skin hums where he touches you.

“You good?” he murmurs under his breath.

You nod, even though your heart is already beating too fast. “Yeah. Just… a lot of people.”

He smiles softly. “Stick with me.”

As if you weren’t already.

Inside, the group splinters. Dustin immediately latches onto the dessert table like a man on a mission. Lucas and Max argue about seating. Robin shoots you a look that’s half are-you-okay and half I know something you don’t.

And Nancy is here.

You don’t see her at first — not until someone laughs behind you and you turn, glass in hand, and there she is. Polite smile. Perfect posture. Familiar in a way that makes your stomach twist.

Steve notices the exact second you do.

You feel it in the way his hand presses a little more firmly against your back. Grounding. Protective. Unintentional.

He doesn’t look at her right away.

You hate that part of yourself that notices.

Dinner settles into something almost pleasant. You sit near Dustin, answering his rapid-fire questions while Steve circulates, playing charming host, laughing too easily, smiling too much.

Robin slides into the seat beside you when she gets the chance.

“So,” she says lightly, sipping her drink. “How’s fake dating going?”

You choke on your wine.

She grins. “Kidding. Mostly.”

You glance toward Steve instinctively. He’s across the room, talking to someone you don’t recognize — relaxed, confident, devastating.

“It’s…” you hesitate. “Complicated.”

Robin hums. “Because you’re pretending? Or because you’re not?”

You don’t answer.

She follows your gaze, then softens. “You like him. I know that.”

Your throat tightens. “I think I always have.”

“And he likes you,” she says gently.

You shake your head. “He’s still… you know. Everyone thinks—”

“Everyone’s wrong,” Robin interrupts. “Including you.”

Before you can respond, a small wave of dizziness hits. Too much noise. Too many feelings.

“I need some air,” you mumble.

Outside, the night is cooler. Quieter. You step away from the porch lights, wrapping your arms around yourself, breathing.

That’s when you see them.

Steve and Nancy stand near the far side of the yard, slightly apart from everyone else. They’re not touching — but they’re close. Talking quietly. Intimately.

Your chest tightens painfully.

This was stupid. You knew this would happen. Fake was fake. You were the placeholder. The distraction.

You turn to leave. Rushing. Until you hear his steps.

“Hey.”

Steve’s voice stops you mid-step.

He jogs over, concern etched into his face. “Where are you going?”

You force a smile. “Bathroom. Or… I don’t know. Somewhere not here.”

He studies you. Really looks. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you say too quickly. “You should probably go back. Nancy’s waiting.”

His brows knit. “What?”

“You looked busy,” you say, heart cracking. “You guys were talking.”

Steve exhales sharply. “Is that what this is about?”

You shrug. “Isn’t it always?”

He steps closer, lowering his voice. “You think I came here for her?”

You laugh, but it wobbles. “I think everyone here does.”

He shakes his head, almost incredulous. “I came here with you.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” you say, even as your eyes sting. “This whole thing is fake.”

“Not to me.”

The words land heavy.

He steps into your space now, blocking out the world. “She asked me if this was real,” he admits. “If I’d finally found something that mattered.”

Your breath catches.

“And I said yes,” he continues, voice rough. “Because it is. Because you are.”

Your chest aches. “Steve…”

“I didn’t plan to fall for you,” he says softly. “Didn’t think I had the right. I thought you deserved better. Someone simpler.”

He laughs quietly, self-deprecating. “But pretending with you? It stopped feeling fake a long time ago.”

You step closer without thinking. “I thought you were still hung up on her.”

He shakes his head. “I was scared to want you.”

The silence between you hums.

You lift your hand, fingers brushing his jacket. “I wanted you before any of this. I just didn’t think you’d ever look at me like that.”

His voice drops. “I’ve always looked at you like that.”

The kiss is gentle at first, tentative, almost reverent. Like you’re both afraid it might disappear if you rush it.

Then he deepens it, one hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he’s memorizing you.

When you pull back, breathless, he rests his forehead against yours.

“Please,” he murmurs. “Come home with me.”

You nod.

This time, it’s not fake.

You stumble through the door of Steve's house in a tangle of limbs, mouths fused together desperately. The kiss that started in the car grows frenzied as soon as the door slams shut behind you. He kicks it closed with one foot, hands roaming your body greedily as you tear at his shirt, popping buttons in your haste.

“Bedroom,” he growls against your lips, voice strained with need.

You nod frantically, tugging him down the hall without breaking the kiss.

You don’t make it to the bed — he backs you up against the wall, hands sliding under your dress, calloused palms dragging up your thighs as you arch into him.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groans, head dipping to nuzzle into your neck. “Been wanting this. Wanting you. No one else.”

You mewl at the feeling of his teeth scraping your throat, raking down your chest to your breasts. He drops to his knees, peeling your shirt off over your head, mouth trailing open-mouthed kisses down your stomach as he makes his way lower.

“Steve,” you gasp, fingers tangling in his hair as he tugs down your pants. “Oh god.”

He grins up at you, eyes dark with want.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good, baby,” he murmurs. “Gonna taste this pretty pussy.”

You shiver at the words, already dripping with arousal. He licks a long stripe up your slit, tongue delving between your folds to lap at your dripping entrance. You cry out, head falling back against the wall as he feasts on you like a man starved.

“Mmm, fuck yes, you taste so sweet,” he groans, tongue delving deep.

He spreads your thighs wider, tongue thrusting into you as you ride his face. His nose bumps your clit with every downward stroke, driving you closer and closer to the edge.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” you beg, hips rolling shamelessly against his mouth. “Fuck, your mouth feels so good!”

He doubles his efforts, tongue fucking you hard and deep, sealing his lips around your clit to suck. The combined sensations send you hurtling over the edge, screaming your release as he works you through it, tongue lapping at your gushing cunt.

“Fuck yes, that’s it,” he praises, pumping two fingers into your fluttering hole. “Cum for me, that’s my good girl. Let it all out.”

You sag against the wall, boneless and spent, as he rises to his feet, wiping your arousal from his face with the back of his hand.

You stumble to the bed on shaky legs, collapsing onto the mattress as he strips off his clothes in record time. You catch brief glimpses — broad shoulders, a smattering of freckles across his chest, a thick cock bobbing heavy and dripping — before he covers you with his body, kissing you deeply.

“Gonna fuck you so good now, been waiting for the real deal for long baby.” he rumbles against your lips. “Gonna fill you up with my cum. Make this pussy mine.”

You moan at the filthy words, wrapping your legs around his hips as he notches the blunt head of his cock at your entrance.

“Please,” you whimper. “Want your cock. Want you to fuck me.”

He thrusts in with one powerful snap of his hips, burying himself to the hilt in your tight heat. You cry out at the sudden fullness, walls clenching around him.

“Fuck, so tight,” he groans, drawing back slowly before slamming back in. “I love you.”

“I love you too Steve”

He looks at you with so much love and lust in his eyes and sets a hard, fast rhythm, fucking into you with deep, powerful strokes making sure you feel everything. The wet sounds of skin slapping against skin fill the room, punctuated by your wanton moans and his low, encouraging grunts.

“Love this pussy,” he pants, fingers digging into your hips. “Love how it grips my cock. Made for me.”

You meet his thrusts eagerly, nails raking down his back as the pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your belly.

He snaps his hips faster, slamming into you with near-bruising force. The bed creaks dangerously beneath you, the headboard slamming against the wall with every thrust.

“Gonna cum in this pussy,” he groans. “Gonna fill you up. Fuck!”

His words send you hurtling over the edge, clenching down on his cock as you scream his name. He follows a second later, thrusting deep, grinding against you as he shoots thick ropes of cum inside you.

“Fuck yes, take it,” he growls.

You collapse together in a sweaty, sated tangle, him still buried deep inside you. For long moments, neither of you moves, both panting and trembling with aftershocks.

“God, that was good,” he sighs finally, pressing soft kisses along your jaw. “You’re so good. So perfect baby.”

You hum in agreement, clenching around his softening cock.

“I love you so much Steve” you admit softly. “Cannot believe how much time we lost.”

He smiles, thumb brushing your cheek.

“Gonna make it all up to you now princess no more fake, just you and me. Never letting you go now.”

He pulls out slowly, flipping you so you’re draped over his chest. You press kisses across his throat, nuzzling into his neck as he strokes your back.

“Can’t wait,” you reply honestly, snuggling closer.

He hugs you tight, holding you close as you drift off together, sated, content.

The future feels bright, wide open.

And you can’t wait to explore all of it with Steve by your side.

summary: Steve shuts down rumors about Nancy the only way he knows how, by pinning you to the bed and reminding you you’re the only one he wants warnings: contains explicit smut, jealousy kink, breeding-ish talk, praise/degradation mix wc: 2.2k

main masterlist | stranger things masterlist

Everyone talks like you aren’t even in the room.

Which is funny, because you’re sitting right there on Steve’s living room carpet, back against the couch, Robin braiding part of your hair because she’s bored and uses you like a mannequin.

The conversation turns like it always eventually does toward the past.

Toward Nancy.

“I mean,” someone laughs, “we all know Harrington’s endgame.”

You keep your face still.

Robin’s hands pause in your hair.

Dustin shrugs like it’s obvious. “Yeah. I mean. Nancy Wheeler. Of course.”

“Or somebody like her,” Lucas adds. “Smart. Organized. Put-together. Steve needs someone who keeps him in line.”

They keep going.

Like you aren’t there.

Like you couldn’t possibly be an option.

Like Steve isn’t sitting six feet away on the other couch, pretending to watch whatever’s on TV while his jaw gets tighter and tighter.

You smile.

Because you’re not the falling-apart type in public.

It stings ,yeah, but you know what you look like:

not Nancy

not delicate

not textbook

And nobody knows you’re secretly Steve’s girlfriend. Nobody knows about late-night drives, or his toothbrush beside yours, or the way he sleeps wrapped around you like a shield.

That’s by choice.

Yours and his.

Still hurts.

“I’m gonna get some water,” you say lightly.

Robin squeezes your shoulder once she knows but she doesn’t expose you.

You walk into the kitchen.

You don’t slam anything.

You just… go quiet.

You open the fridge. Get the pitcher. Slice a lemon because your hands need something to do other than shake. The knife thunks gently against the cutting board. You drop slices into the glass like nothing is wrong.

You hear him before you see him.

“Hey.”

Steve leans in the doorway, hands in his pockets, trying for casual and failing. His eyes trace you like a habit.

You don’t look back.

Silent treatment.

You pour the water. It splashes too high. A cold stripe runs down the front of your shirt.

You glance down.

“Oh no,” you say flatly.

And then very deliberately you peel your shirt off. Drop it on the counter. Just lace bra and irritation and lemon scent.

You don’t look at him.

His control snaps like a rubber band.

He’s on you in three strides.

His arms circle your waist from behind, big hands splaying over your stomach like he’s staking territory. His mouth finds the curve of your neck like it’s magnetized.

“Hey,” he murmurs against your skin, voice low and already rough. “Careful with those little shows, sweetheart.”

You tip your head just slightly, giving him more throat without even meaning to.

“I’m making lemonade,” you say coolly.

He laughs under his breath, kiss-soft against your pulse, then open-mouthed, wetter, hungrier. “Uh-huh. And I’m the Pope.”

His teeth graze your neck.

You inhale sharply.

His hands slide lower, over your hips, pulling you back against him. You can already feel him half-hard, getting harder, his breath stuttering because you’re standing there in your bra like you don’t know what you do to him.

You finally turn in his arms.

You kiss him like a challenge.

Slow, deep, smug like you know he’s yours and you’re punishing him anyway.

Your hand slides down his chest, then lower, palm pressing over his cock through his jeans. You massage him lazily, feeling him swell under your hand, hearing the quiet, broken sound he makes into your mouth.

“Jesus,” he breathes, forehead falling to yours. “Baby…”

You smile.

Then you step back.

Take your hand away.

Pick up your abandoned water glass like nothing happened.

“I should change my shirt,” you say lightly, and walk out.

You leave him there.

Hard.

Stunned.

Absolutely wrecked.

He stays very, very still for a second.

Then he storms back into the living room.

“Okay,” he says too brightly, clapping once. “Everybody out.”

They all blink.

“What?” Dustin says. “But the movie—”

“Something came up,” Steve says, not looking at anybody but the stairs. “Night. Go. Now.”

Robin looks at him.

Then at your vanished form.

She smirks.

Everyone leaves confused.

He locks the door behind them.

Then he goes upstairs.

He finds you sitting on his bed, in a clean shirt now, pretending to scroll through a magazine like you didn’t just almost get him off in his own kitchen and abandon him there.

He shuts the door.

“Want to tell me what that was?” he asks, voice low, controlled only by thread.

You shrug. “What what was?”

He laughs once. No humor. “Don’t do that.”

You flip a page.

He steps closer.

“One step,” he warns softly, “from fucking that attitude right out of you, honey.”

You meet his eyes. Sweet smile, sharp underneath.

“How about you go fuck Nancy instead?”

Silence.

The word lands like glass shattering.

He stares at you.

There it is the crack, the realization, the way it all lines up at once in his head.

“This is about them,” he says slowly. “About what they said downstairs.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is,” he says immediately.

He sits beside you on the bed, hands in his hair like he’s trying to get the right words out before he explodes. He turns to you fully.

“They don’t get to decide my future,” he says, voice rough and raw now. “I do.”

You laugh once. Defensive. “Sure. And everyone already knows who that future is with.”

His jaw clenches.

He grabs your chin gently, making you look at him.

“Yeah,” he says. “With you.”

It knocks the air out of your lungs.

He keeps going, faster now, scared if he stops he’ll never say it.

“I’m not hung up on Nancy. I haven’t been hung up on Nancy in years. People keep putting me in that box because it’s easy, because it’s a story that makes sense, but it’s not true. I come home to you. I think about you. I wake up wanting you. You are not the second choice in my life.”

Your throat tightens.

“Then why not just tell them?” you whisper. “Why keep us secret?”

“Because I liked having you just to myself for a while,” he admits, voice dropping. “Because the second the world knows, they poke it and question it and try to label it. And I wasn’t ready to share you with noise yet. But if being quiet made you think you were… less—”

His breath shakes.

“I’m sorry.”

His hand slides to your waist.

Possessive warm fingers splayed, thumb digging into your hip like he needs the anchor.

You feel it in your stomach.

He drags you closer by that grip alone, chest brushing yours, breath hot against your mouth. His eyes are dark, blown wide, jaw tight like he’s holding himself back with sheer will.

“Look at me,” he says, rough.

You do.

Something in him breaks.

He kisses you hard mouths colliding, lips sliding, teeth catching on your bottom lip until you gasp into him. He swallows that sound like he’s been starving for it.

You end up on your back without entirely knowing how.

The mattress dips. His weight covers you, solid and hot and shaking with restraint. He kisses you deeper, tongue teasing against yours until your fingers are fisted in his hair, pulling him closer because it still isn’t enough.

You make a sound in your throat needy, helpless.

He groans into your mouth.

“Yeah,” he breathes, forehead resting against yours for half a second. “That’s it. Let me hear you.”

His hands are everywhere now sliding under your shirt, up your ribs, palms hot as they cup your breasts through your bra, thumbs brushing over your nipples just to hear the way your breath stutters.

“Steve—” your voice cracks, and he smiles, wrecked and adoring.

“God, you say my name like that and I’m done for.”

You tug his shirt.

“Take it off.”

He rips it over his head in one motion.

You run your hands over his chest, nails grazing skin. His muscles jump under your touch. He bites back a curse and dips down to kiss your throat, open-mouthed, sucking lightly until you whimper.

“That’s mine,” he murmurs against your skin. “All of this is mine.”

You answer without thinking. “Then take it.”

He inhales sharply.

Clothes disappear in messy handfuls and impatient curses. He kisses down your stomach, slow at first then lower, lower until he’s between your thighs, hands spreading you open like a gift he’s been waiting to unwrap.

He looks up at you.

“Please.” you say, breathless.

He smirks, satisfied. “Good girl.”

He licks you.

Your back arches clean off the bed.

A helpless, broken noise spills out of you half-moan, half-plea and he groans like the sound alone could make him come.

“Jesus, you taste good,” he mutters against you, then does it again — tongue circling your clit, then flattening, then flicking until your thighs tremble under his hands.

You fist his hair and pull.

“Steve— please—”

He hums against you.

“Yeah? You gonna come for me already?” His voice is smug and reverent at once. “Go on, baby. Let me feel it.”

You fall.

It hits hard, fast, pulsing through you as you cry out, thighs shaking around his head. He holds you through it, tongue never stopping, riding the aftershocks until you’re gasping and pushing weakly at his shoulder from oversensitivity.

He kisses back up your body, slow, lingering, leaving your skin marked and warm. When he reaches your mouth again, you kiss him deep and taste yourself on his tongue — obscene and intimate and perfect.

Thighs tightening around his hips. “Steve, baby. I need your cock please, I want you.”

That’s all it takes.

He pushes in slow thick stretch, impossibly deep and your mouth falls open around a gasp. He groans like he’s been punched, like the feeling of you around him is almost painful.

“Oh my god,” he breathes. “You’re so tight. You feel— fuck— you feel unreal.”

He stays still for a second, shaking with the effort not to move.

“Move,” you whisper, desperate. “Please, Steve. Move.”

He does.

Long, deep thrusts that drag against every sensitive place inside you each stroke deliberate, like he wants you to feel every inch of him. The bed starts to creak softly. Your breaths sync, ragged and hot.

Then you roll your hips up to meet him.

He swears and loses it.

His pace deepens, faster, rougher, his hand gripping your thigh and throwing it over his hip to get deeper the new angle making you cry out loud.

“That’s it,” he pants, watching your face like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “Take it. Taking me so good, sweetheart.”

You cling to him, nails digging into his back. Every thrust pushes helpless sounds out of you. His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your moans, then your jaw, then your shoulder as his rhythm stutters.

He flips you carefully.

You end up on your hands and knees, breath catching as he presses back inside you from behind, deeper than before. His hand slides up your spine, between your shoulder blades.

You nod quickly. “God, don’t stop.”

He groans, thrusts snapping harder now, his hips slapping against you, obscene sounds filling the room along with your moans and his low curses.

“Listen to you,” he grits out. “So loud for me. So fucking perfect.”

You’re falling apart.

Heat coils low in your stomach, tight and hot and inevitable. Your arms shake. He feels it.

“You gonna come?” His voice goes wrecked, needy. “Do it. Come on my cock. Show me who you belong to.”

You shatter with a cry full-body, uncontrollable, clenching around him so hard he swears and buries himself deep, spilling into you with a broken groan of your name.

Silence crawls in only when breathing returns.

He collapses gently beside you, pulls you in immediately, chest to your back, arms strong and shaking as they wrap around you like he has no intention of ever letting go.

He kisses your shoulder.

Then your neck.

Then your temple.

“Hey,” he murmurs softly now, voice still rough but tender edges returning. “Look at me.”

You do.

His eyes are warm again. Certain.

“I choose you,” he says simply. “Not Nancy. Not anyone else. You.”

You feel it sink all the way in this time.

He tucks you under his chin, one hand tracing lazy circles on your thigh, the other stroking your hair.

Aftercare, soft and slow.

“Water?” he asks eventually. “Snack? I pushed you pretty hard.”

You laugh into his chest. “Just you.”

“Good,” he whispers, kissing your hair. “Because that’s all I want too.”

You fall asleep there his words replaying in your head.

Only you.

Always you.

summary: after hiding a serious Upside Down bite, Steve finally breaks down when you confront him warnings: Injury description, angst, explicit making out wc: 900 (a little short and sweet one)

main masterlist | stranger things masterlist

The drive back feels wrong.

Everyone is talking, Robin rambling too fast, Dustin half-yelling about bat bites, Lucas swearing he’s fine, but underneath it is a hum of quiet panic. The kind that settles in your teeth.

And then there’s Steve.

He’s driving.

Of course he is.

Jaw clenched.

Knuckles white.

Not saying a word.

You notice the first thing when he gets into the car: the way he has to lower himself carefully. Like sitting hurts. Like breathing hurts.

The second thing is the blood.

Soaking through the hem of his shirt. Dark. Seeping slow.

He catches you looking and forces a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Hey,” he says. “Eyes front. I’m very distracting, I know.”

You don’t laugh.

He does, softly, like if he pretends long enough his body will believe him.

By the time the car slows down and the Squawk comes to view the adrenaline shakes start to hit, he still hasn’t said anything. He leans against the table in the main room, color drained, pretending not to be dizzy.

You step in front of him.

“Take off your shirt.”

He blinks. “Wow. Buy a guy dinner first.”

“Steve.”

He flashes a grin, a little sharper now. “If you wanted to see me naked, you could’ve just said so earlier. Though, baby, maybe we save that talk for when we actually get home, huh? Little privacy, sweetheart?”

You don’t even twitch.

“Shirt. Off.”

His smile cracks.

For a moment, he looks like he might joke again.

Then he exhales and gives up fighting you.

His hands shake when he lifts the fabric, pulling it over his head. The motion makes him wince despite how hard he tries to hide it.

The scratches, no, the bites slash across his side and lower ribs. Angry and red and ugly. Dried blood stripes his skin. Your stomach flips.

“Oh my God,” you whisper. “Steve.”

He looks everywhere but your face.

“Please don’t freak out,” he says quietly, voice suddenly small.

You step closer. He tenses like he expects you to back away. Instead, you touch him. Soft. Careful. Present.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

He swallows. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like I was weak down there,” he says, almost too soft to hear. “Didn't want to worry you and see your pretty eyes sad .”

Your chest breaks clean in half.

You get the first aid kit. Your hands try to be steady even as your eyes sting. He hisses when you clean it, but stays still, jaw tight.

You’re furious. And terrified. And so in love you can barely breathe.

“You don’t get to hide things that could kill you,” you whisper. “You don’t get to decide that for me. You don’t get to scare me like that.”

His eyes finally meet yours.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I just… couldn’t see you like this it hurts me to worry you.”

The antiseptic smell fades into something warmer as you finish patching him up. Closer. His hand lifts and hesitates in the air like he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch you.

Your mouth finds his.

It’s relief and fear of how you would not be able to even think about a life without him. He makes a sound against your lips half-groan, half-confession and pulls you closer by your waist, careful not to press your body into his wound.

His other hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone like he’s memorizing you.

“Careful,” you murmur, when you hear a slight groan of pain coming from him.

He laughs breathlessly. “It pains me more to not touch you.”

The kiss deepens.

It turns messy, slow, your mouths open, his tongue sliding against yours like he’s trying to taste the fact that he’s still alive. You whimper into him without meaning to, and he swallows the sound like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

He breaks away just enough to speak, forehead to yours, breath warm and shaky.

“I thought I was gonna die down there,” he admits. “And the only thing I could think about was you. How I still want marry you, to have 6 little nuggets that look just like you”

Your fingers slide into his hair with a soft chuckle.

“Steve, I’m honoured to be included in your happy meal plan baby ” you whisper, but it comes out like prayer.

He kisses you again like he’s starving smiling against our lips.

His hand is under your shirt now not grabbing, just warm over your ribs like he’s grounding himself, feeling you breathe. His lips trail down to your jaw, then your throat, open-mouthed and slow.

You gasp softly, hands tightening in his hair.

He smiles against your skin.

“Still not scared of me?” he murmurs.

You tilt his face back up and kiss him hard.

“Never you.”

He kisses you until you’re both boneless with exhaustion and adrenaline drain. Until the fear finally bleeds out of your muscles and is replaced with something steadier something like promise.

While hugging the man who taught you how to love unconditionally you feel his heartbeat uneven under your ear.

You whisper, “You’re not allowed to hide it from me again.”

He nods, eyes already heavy. “Yeah. Okay. As long as you don’t leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He smiles into your hair.

summary: detention with Billy turns into a storm, and he finally does something about the way you look at him warnings: Explicit sexual content, rough sex, oral sex (f receiving), praise kink, light degradation kink, dirty talk, unprotected penetrative sex. wc: 3.9k

main masterlist | stranger things masterlist

Detention wasn’t supposed to feel like a standoff.

It was supposed to be boring. Quiet. Maybe humiliating.

It was not supposed to feel like your pulse lived in your throat.

“Grab a broom,” the janitor had said, already half out the door. “Sweep the first floor. Lock up after. You two are the only ones showing up anyway.”

You had opened your mouth to argue.

Then you’d heard his voice behind you.

“Relax, princess. I won’t bite.”

Billy Hargrove.

Of course it was Billy.

You didn’t even bother answering. You just grabbed the broom and walked down the hall, because the alternative was standing there long enough for him to smirk at the expression on your face.

The school after hours felt wrong.

Too quiet.

Too hollow.

Lockers echoing every sound back at you like they were listening.

You swept.

Dust curled.

Thunder grumbled far away.

He didn’t sweep.

He leaned against a row of lockers, arms crossed, eyes lazily following the movement of your body like he was watching something on TV he’d already seen but still enjoyed.

“You missed a spot,” he said.

You didn’t look up. “You missed a job.”

He chuckled. Low. Warm. Mean. “There she is.”

You kept sweeping. You refused to give him the satisfaction of asking what that meant.

Lightning flashed somewhere outside. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. The sound of the broom against the floor filled the space between you like the only acceptable form of tension.

“You always get this mad around me?” he asked after a moment.

“I don’t get mad,” you said through your teeth. “I get annoyed.”

“Uh-huh.” He pushed off the lockers and walked toward you, boots echoing. “So annoyed you practically shake.”

You did not shake.

Your hands just… tightened around the broom handle.

He stopped too close.

Billy always stood like that. Like the world belonged to him and gravity should be grateful he participated. The smell of cigarette smoke lingered on his denim jacket, mixed with something warmer and salt-kissed, the leftover shadow of summer lifeguard days he never talked about anymore.

His voice dropped without him meaning to.

“Relax. I’m just talking.”

“That’s the problem,” you snapped before you could stop yourself.

His smile spread slow and knowing.

“You really wanna know the problem?” he said softly.

“No,” you lied.

He leaned down just a little, enough that your noses weren’t that far apart and you hated your own body for how it reacted. Your stomach flipped. Heat crawled up your neck. Your heart betrayed you loudly in your chest.

“Problem is,” he murmured, “you only talk like this to me.”

Your breath stalled.

You broke eye contact and stepped past him, broom bristles rasping the floor harder than necessary.

He turned with you.

“Why do you always start fights with me, Hargrove?”

“Because you always finish ’em,” he said, unbothered. “And you look real pretty when you’re mad.”

Your jaw tightened. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” he asked, feigning innocence. “Tell the truth?”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

He hummed thoughtfully, then moved to sit on a desk instead of working spreading his legs, hands braced behind him, gaze lazy and heavy on you.

“I know you hate when people underestimate you,” he said casually.

You faltered.

He noticed.

“I know you act like you don’t care what people think,” he continued, “but you listen. Every word. Every whisper.”

He shrugged one shoulder.

“I know you’re too good for this town.”

That one landed lower than your ribs.

Something in your chest ached.

You didn’t answer. You swept past him again, heart hammering way too loud for anyone sane.

“You don’t know anything,” you repeated weakly.

He didn’t laugh this time.

He looked at you.

Really looked.

Quiet.

Focused.

Unarmored in a way that felt like trespassing to witness.

“I know you don’t hate me,” he said softly.

The broom paused.

Silence stretched.

Rain began tapping at the windows, soft at first, then harder a slow-building drumroll to something you didn’t have a word for.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you whispered.

He tilted his head.

“Princess,” he said, and the nickname was suddenly less mocking and more dangerous, “you wanna know why I mess with you so much?”

Your throat went dry.

“No,” you said automatically.

Lightning flashed against the glass.

He leaned forward, forearms on his knees now, voice dropping even lower — like this wasn’t meant for anyone but you and the rain.

“Because you look at me like you want me to.”

Your breath left you completely.

You couldn’t even deny it fast enough to save face. Every reflex in your body stalled, betrayed by heat pooling low in your stomach, by the way your fingers tightened uselessly around the broom handle, by the way your eyes flickered for one treacherous second to his mouth.

He saw and stood up in your direction.

The space between you shrank without either of you saying yes to it. He didn’t touch you. He didn’t have to. His presence was touch. His gaze was touch. His voice wrapped around your spine and tugged.

“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” he murmured.

Thunder rolled closer.

You swallowed. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?”

He stepped closer.

Your back found a desk.

You didn’t remember moving but there it was against your thighs, solid and cold, while he stood in front of you, warm and unfair, taking up so much space you forgot how air was supposed to work.

He braced one hand beside you on the desk.

The other hovered not touching just… there. One inch from your hip. One inch from changing everything.

“Last chance,” he said softly.

“For what?” your voice came out smaller than you wanted.

“For me to keep pretending you don’t look at me like that.”

You opened your mouth.

You didn’t get a word out.

Because the next thing to enter the room was not your denial it was the smallest, betraying sound from your throat. A soft, shaky exhale you couldn’t hold back when he leaned just a fraction closer.

His eyes darkened like storm clouds answering lightning.

“There it is…” he whispered, like he’d been hunting that exact sound for weeks.

Your pulse was everywhere now.

Your head, your chest, your wrists.

“Tell me to back off,” he said, voice suddenly serious beneath the velvet danger. “Say no, and I’m across the room.”

You didn’t.

That was its own kind of answer.

His lips didn’t touch yours yet.

He hovered.

Close enough that you felt the warmth of his breath.

Close enough your noses brushed.

Close enough your legs tensed without meaning to.

The rain poured harder.

He smiled the faintest, smallest, reverent smile you had ever seen on him.

“Yeah,” he murmured, almost to himself. “That’s what I thought.”

Close enough that your lips brushed when you breathed, not quite a kiss, just torturehot, deliberate torture. His eyes flicked down to your mouth and back up again, slow and lazy like he had all the time in the world to ruin you.

You tilted your chin up instead.

That was all he needed.

The kiss wasn’t gentle.

It was hungry, rough, full of every argument and glare and swallowed want you’d both been pretending not to feel. His hand slid into your hair, gripping, angling your head so he could take more. You made a sound against his mouth, helpless and surprised by your own reaction.

He groaned.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips, “knew you’d sound like that.”

His tongue slid against yours, confident, teasing. He kissed like he wanted to bruise memory into your bones, like he wanted to make sure you couldn’t kiss anyone else without thinking of him first. Your hands clutched his jacket, desperate for something to hold onto.

The desk dug into the back of your thighs.

He broke the kiss, lips swollen, breath uneven, forehead still resting against yours.

He kissed your throat like a sin, open-mouthed, slow at first, then deeper when you gasped. His teeth grazed skin; his tongue soothed after. Your back arched without your permission. He laughed—low, pleased.

“Yeah,” he murmured against your skin, “that’s it. Knew you’d melt for me.”

His hands slid down your waist, gripping your hips firmly, thumbs pressing into where you were warmest. He guided you up onto the desk like he’d thought about it before. Maybe he had. You didn’t care. Your mind had dissolved into heat.

His fingers dragged down your ribs.

“You always act like you hate me,” he said, voice going darker, “but look at you now.”

You glared weakly. “Shut up.”

He smirked. “Make me.”

You kissed him again.

This time, you pulled him closer first, hand fisted in his shirt, and whatever restraint he had left burned away. He made a noise deep in his chest and his hands were suddenly everywhere—thighs, waist, under your shirt, big palms warm against your bare skin.

“Christ,” he whispered, staring at you like he couldn’t believe you were real. “You’re so soft.”

He bent, mouth at your chest now, kissing just above fabric, slow and deliberate. He tugged clothes aside with impatience and reverence mixed together, like he wanted you naked yesterday but also wanted to savor the process of getting there.

“Billy—” your voice broke when his mouth closed around sensitive skin.

He hummed in satisfaction, tongue teasing, teeth scraping just enough to make your breath stutter.

“Say my name again,” he murmured against you. “Sounds good from you.”

His hand slid between your thighs, thumb brushing exactly where you needed him most through fabric. The friction made your hips jerk. His grin turned feral.

“There she is,” he whispered. “Knew you’d be needy underneath all that attitude.”

He pressed again, slower this time, watching your face—really watching—his pupils blown wide, like your pleasure was his favorite thing he’d ever seen.

“Tell me what you want,” he said softly, surprisingly serious beneath the filth. “Don’t make me guess.”

You swallowed. “You.”

His jaw flexed.

“Yeah?” His voice came out rough. “Then open up for me.”

He slid your underwear aside and touched you for real this time skin against skin, long confident strokes that had you trembling embarrassingly fast. He learned you too quickly, adjusting pressure, pace, angle until your legs were shaking around his hand.

“Pretty,” he said, praise dripping through the word, “look at you… already so wet for me.”

You covered your face with your hand, mortified.

He laughed softly and tugged your wrist away.

“Uh-uh,” he said, eyes burning into you. “Don’t hide from me. Want to see what I’m doing to you.”

Then he sank to his knees.

Billy Hargrove on his knees for you should not have been real.

He hooked your legs over his shoulders and kissed the inside of your thigh first slow, hot, open-mouthed. Your breath stuttered.

His mouth finally replaced his fingers and you nearly sobbed at the first long, lazy stroke of his tongue. He ate you like he had patience but absolutely no mercy—slow circling, then focused pressure, then teasing right when you needed more.

“Please,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

He groaned against you.

“Yeah… beg for it,” he murmured. “Sound so sweet doing it.”

His hands held your hips down when you tried to buck up, pinning you gently, mouth working you with devastating purpose. Every sound you made seemed to fuel him. Every shiver made his pace just a little more precise.

You broke first.

The orgasm hit fast and deep, ripping through you, your hands gripping the edge of the desk, his name spilling out of you shamelessly. He kept going until you pushed weakly at his hair, overstimulated.

He kissed your inner thigh again, softer this time.

“Good girl,” he whispered. “Did so good for me.”

You were still catching your breath when you tugged him up and slid your hand into his jeans. He sucked in a sharp breath, hips jerking into your palm.

“Careful,” he rasped, laughing under his breath. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You stroked him anyway.

He buried his face in your neck for a second like he needed to bite something to stay alive. His voice vibrated against your skin.

“If you keep doing that, I’m not gonna last long enough to be inside you,” he confessed honestly.

Your stomach flipped.

“Then hurry,” you whispered.

He swore softly.

He didn’t tease when it mattered.

He just pushed his jeans down enough, lined himself up, and paused—forehead pressed to yours, chest heaving.

You wrapped your legs around him.

He slid in.

The stretch made your breath break. He was big and slow about it, guiding your hips, letting you adjust, jaw clenched so tight you thought he might shatter.

“Shit,” he groaned. “You feel—fuck—so tight—”

“That’s it,” he growled, “take it, knew you could. Always running your mouth—look at you now.”

You moaned, half ruined, half alive.

His hand slid to your throat, grounding you there while his mouth was everywhere, kissing, biting, praising between curses.

“Pretty thing,” he panted. “All mine right now. No one else gets to see you like this.”

The words shouldn’t have hit as hard as they did.

You clenched around him.

His rhythm faltered—then he laughed breathlessly.

“Yeah,” he groaned, “you like that, don’t you? Fuck—”

He pulled you up off the desk suddenly so your chest pressed to his, then spun you, bending you over it instead, thrusting back into you from behind. You gasped at the new angle, the way he hit deeper, the way his hand covered your mouth when you got too loud.

“Shh,” he whispered, lips at your ear, voice hot and low. “Empty school, but walls still talk. Be good for me, yeah?”

You nodded, eyes blurring.

Your second orgasm rose fast too intense, too much, everything tightening and sparking at once. He felt it; his hand slid between your legs again, circling exactly right while he thrust harder, rougher, almost losing his mind.

“That’s it—come for me,” he groaned. “Do it—wanna feel you—”

You shattered again, crying out into his palm, body shaking so hard you’d have collapsed if he wasn’t holding you up. He followed with a broken sound, spilling into you, hips stuttering as he buried himself deep and held you there like he didn’t want to let go.

For a long moment, the only sound was rain and your breathing.

He loosened first.

Careful.

Gentle.

He turned you back around and lifted you onto the desk again like you weighed nothing. His fingers brushed hair from your face. No smirk now. Just quiet.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded while you both clean up.

He kissed your knuckles, like he didn’t know how else to be soft, leaving you breathless and shaking while he goes in the window direction with a cigarette already in his mouth trying to make up in his head why what had just happened felt so wrecking.

Looking outside the window, thunder rolled away. The school halls were still empty. The air between you was not.

summary: you try to get over your crush on steve by fooling around with mike… it works right up until steve catches you and proves he wants you just as badly. (I saw this edit of them both to the song jealous type by doja cat and couldn't help myself) warnings: Explicit sexual content, praise kink, dirty talk, oral sex (female receiving), unprotected penetrative sex wc: 6.8k

disclaimer: this is an aged up version of everyone, all characters are aged up to 18+ if that’s not your thing, scroll 💕

main masterlist | stranger things masterlist

It doesn’t feel like a crush at first.

It feels like gravity casual, constant, too ordinary to notice until one day you trip over it.

It starts in Steve’s car.

You’re in the passenger seat, feet up on the dash until he swats at your knee with a distracted, “Hey. Seatbelt first, rebel.”

You roll your eyes but obey. He always makes you obey without sounding like he’s making you. He double-checks the click with a little nod like it personally makes his lungs relax.

The radio hums. The windows are half-down. Night air slips in, cool on your cheeks.

He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, easy and loose, and talks about nothing work, Robin, an old lady who tipped him with coupons instead of money.

You’re laughing, not because the story is that funny, but because it’s him telling it.

Then he glances at you. Just a normal look. Just Steve looking.

And your stomach drops straight through you.

You look away immediately. He doesn’t notice.

Why would he?

He sees you the same way he always has — familiar, safe, younger, part of the furniture of his life. Henderson-adjacent. Orbit, not center.

“You’re quiet,” he says after a moment.

“I’m fine,” you reply too fast, then softer, “Just tired.”

He nods, accepting it. He doesn’t push. He never pushes.

He has no idea that the real reason you’re quiet is because you’ve suddenly become aware of every inch of your own skin.

It only goes south from there.

In the kitchen you guys have set up at the Squawk, much to your luck the crush only increased when you decided to help him and rRobin at the radio over summer break.

He’s leaning next to you, shoulder brushing yours as he steals food off your plate with casual audacity.

You swat at him. “Get your own.”

“I like yours,” he says, grinning.

“Mine is literally the same.”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, still chewing, “but yours tastes better.”

It’s a stupid joke.

Your body doesn’t think it’s stupid.

His thigh rests against yours under the counter without him thinking about it. Without you stopping it. His voice drops when he’s close — not intentionally seductive, just naturally softer when he doesn’t have to perform.

He smells like laundry and cheap cologne and something warmer underneath that you’ve started associating with home.

You hate that it makes your chest ache.

He looks at your plate again. “You’re not eating much.”

“I am.”

He tilts his head a little. “You usually steal my fries by now.”

The fact he noticed hits harder than it should. You shrug. “Not that hungry.”

He doesn’t tease you this time. His brows knit slightly. He nudges your plate back toward you, gentle, casual, unaware of how tender it feels.

“Eat anyway,” he says. “You get lightheaded and then I gotta carry you or something.”

You snort. “You’ve literally never had to carry me.”

He grins. “I’m preparing for my future.”

You laugh. He laughs.

He doesn’t realize he just said something that’s going to live in your head for the rest of the night.

The worst is when he’s thoughtless about touching you.

A hand at your waist to move you aside.

Two fingers under your chin when he wants you to look up.

A palm flattening between your shoulder blades when he guides you through a crowd.

None of it is loaded for him. None of it is careful.

He touches you like it’s second nature.

You spend the next hours replaying it like a crime scene.

You start noticing things you wish you didn’t: the way he always walks on the traffic side of the road, the way he checks on Dustin but lingers on you a second longer, the way he relaxes when you laugh

He has no idea he’s doing it.

You have no idea what to do with it.

People flirt with him in front of you sometimes.

Girls at movies.

Women at work.

Older, bolder, obvious.

He laughs them off with that disarming charm, completely oblivious to the way it hollows you out from the inside. It’s ridiculous you aren’t together, he doesn’t owe you anything, you know that.

But your mind loops one thought anyway:

He’s in another world.

You’re just visiting it.

One evening, you watch a girl lean in too close to him at a party, see his hand at the small of her back just enough that it pains you to look at and it hits you stupidly hard that he’s practiced at this.

Practice implies opportunities.

Opportunities imply lives you’re not part of.

Later that night, when the crowd thins and your head is buzzing, you find yourself in the hallway, leaning against the wall, just breathing.

He shows up beside you like gravity again.

“You good?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

He studies you, faint crease between his brows. “You don’t look good.”

You huff. “Thanks.”

He bumps your shoulder with his. “You know what I mean.”

You do. Too well.

“I’m fine,” you repeat more softly.

He nods slowly, then looks away down the hall. He has no idea that you want him to see through you. He has no idea you want him to say your name like it means something more.

He has no idea you’ve been building a life around wanting something you’re convinced you can’t have.

To him, you’re… you.

He doesn’t realize that to you, he’s the before and after.

You lie awake that night thinking about stupid things:

the curve of his wrist on the steering wheel

the sound of his laugh muffled in his sleeve

the warmth of his hand between your shoulders

You don’t think: I’m in love with Steve.

You think:

This is going to ruin me.

And the worst part is… you don’t think he has the slightest clue.

Not about what you feel.

Not about what he does to you without trying.

Not about the way your whole body reacts just because he says your name in a room full of people.

You turn on your side.

You try to sleep.

You fail.

Because the problem isn’t just that you want him.

The problem is that you genuinely believe he doesn’t and will never want you back.

You didn’t notice it at first.

Mike had always been there, always nearby, always smiling at you with that slightly nervous, slightly infatuated expression you’d learned to ignore. He was the safe orbit predictable, steady. You never thought of him like that. Not really. Not until now.

It starts in the Wheeler basement. You’re sorting through some random old comics, boxes of things Dustin had long abandoned, trying to make sense of the mess, and Mike is beside you, sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the couch. He doesn’t say much at first. Just watches you.

“Found anything interesting?” he asks softly.

You glance up. He’s smiling, genuinely, like you’re the only person he wants to see in the whole universe.

“I mean, some of this is trash, honestly,” you say, and your voice carries a bit more warmth than you intended.

Mike chuckles. “Trash can be fun too. Depends who’s looking at it.”

You look at him. Really look. And for the first time, you realize how much he’s grown. The baby-faced boy you knew is gone. Taller, broader shoulders, stronger jawline, but still with the same soft brown eyes. Those eyes are trained on you now.

Your heart flips.

You clear your throat. “Yeah… I guess so.”

“You look nice,” he says casually, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

You freeze. You’re sure your face is bright red. “Uh… thanks.”

He shrugs, trying to act nonchalant, but the way he’s looking at you makes your chest ache. He slides closer without realizing it, knees brushing yours. “Really,” he adds, quiet. “You’re… nice.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “You mean like ‘my sister’s annoying little sister nice’ or… actual nice?”

He smirks. “Actual nice.”

Your stomach flutters. The first time you notice it, the way his gaze lingers on your lips, the gentle curve of your jaw, the way he listens to everything you say, it’s like a new kind of gravity. It pulls and you don’t fight it.

Later, the room is quiet. Dustin is sprawled out on the couch upstairs, Robin and Lucas are playing video games, and you and Mike are the only ones left in the basement.

You’re both seated on the floor, knees nearly touching, sorting through old movies. You brush a strand of hair from your face, and Mike’s hand hovers, unsure if it should help or if he’ll be overstepping.

“Here,” he murmurs, softly, fingers brushing your temple.

You shiver. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull back. Just watches you, attentive, steady. The space between you hums with anticipation.

Finally, he leans in. Slow. Tentative. His lips brush yours, soft, questioning. Your body melts into it. You taste him, warmth, the faint scent of him, and the ache you’ve been carrying all these months for someone else suddenly softens, replaced by something safer, sweeter, intoxicating.

You wrap your arms around him. He holds you gently, as though he’s afraid to hurt you, but his hands explore slowly, intentionally — the sides of your ribs, the small of your back, thumbs pressing into your hips.

“God, you feel… amazing,” he whispers, voice trembling a little, low and awed.

You gasp softly, pressing into him. “Mike…”

He smiles against your lips. “I’ve wanted this for so long. Wanted you…”

You let him. Let the sensation sweep through you gentle, consuming, warm. He tilts you slightly, so his weight is balanced on you, kisses deepening, soft moans shared, breath catching.

Every touch is praise. Every movement is affirmation. “So good, so perfect for me,” he murmurs. “You make me feel… everything.”

You shiver and moan softly into him, hips pressing against his, hands threading into his hair, pulling lightly. He responds, careful, attentive, making sure every sound you make is welcomed.

“Do you… want me?” he asks between kisses, tentative, almost shy.

“Yes,” you gasp, voice broken but confident. “I want you. I want this.”

He grins, triumphant, and your lips meet again. Fingers clutching at shoulders, hips moving with his, the basement warm and quiet except for your joined breaths. The pleasure is slow, sweet, overwhelming. Every caress leaves you weak, every whisper makes your chest ache.

Eventually, you both collapse back against the couch, tangled and laughing softly, chest heaving, hearts racing. Your fingers rest on his arm, tracing gentle lines over muscles he didn’t know you’d noticed.

Mike presses his forehead to yours. “You’re incredible,” he whispers. “I could stay like this forever.”

You smile, heart full, the tension and longing with Steve momentarily forgotten. The ache for Steve is still there ,a background hum, but for now, Mike is soft, warm, and all-encompassing.

Weeks blurred together in that tilted way. Mike Wheeler’s mouth became something you knew in the dark soft, eager, trembling like he couldn’t believe you were kissing him back. He kissed like someone discovering pleasure for the first time. Like sweetness. Like wanting to be careful with you even when your hands were already in his hair pulling.

He held your face when he kissed you. He whispered your name like it was fragile.

And you told yourself it wasn’t serious.

Just distraction. Just warmth. Just something to stop your chest from aching every time Steve Harrington laughed too near you.

You thought you were subtle.

You weren’t.

Steve wasn’t either.

At first, he didn’t notice. Or pretended not to. Same easy grin, same soft teasing voice, same lazy, careless way his eyes followed you around rooms without ever really landing anywhere else.

But then he did notice.

The first crack showed in something tiny.

You and Mike were sitting too close on the couch. Your knee brushed his. His fingers toyed with yours tentatively, like testing courage.

Steve walked in.

And stopped.

Something in his jaw tightened for a second just a second before he smiled too wide and tossed himself into a chair like nothing mattered.

“So,” he said casually, voice a little too bright, “movie night. Cute.”

You pretended not to hear the edge.

Mike flushed, but didn’t move his hand.

You didn’t either.

That became a pattern.

You caught Steve looking away sharply when he saw you whispering with Mike in kitchens, in the Byers’ living room, outside the arcade at dusk. You heard that strain in his laugh whenever Mike touched your back without thinking. He started dodging rooms you were both in. Started driving the long way around Hawkins just to have excuses to drop everyone else off first, leaving you for last—and then not knowing what to say to you when it was only you.

The flirting didn’t start until he snapped.

He didn’t mean to flirt harder.

He just couldn’t help himself.

He leaned closer when you talked. He complimented you too sincerely. He held eye contact a little too long. His voice went lower around you like gravity itself changed.

One night, in the kitchen, he brushed past you and his hand steadied your waist as you reached for a glass.

Too long.

Too warm.

Your breath hitched.

He heard it.

His hand didn’t move.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice low enough that it didn’t belong to any version of him you knew.

“Yes,” you said, even though your heart was aching and loud and everything at once.

He let go first.

Everyone was at the Wheeler house noise and laughter everywhere, doors half-open, lights dimmed. You and Mike slipped away without thinking. Or maybe thinking too much. You didn’t even make it into a room you just ended up in the hallway between bedrooms, pressed against the wall, kissing like the world had temporarily loosened its rules.

Mike kissed you with both hands in your hair.

“Missed you,” he muttered against your mouth, sweet and breathless and sincere in that way that made something inside you warm.

“Mike” you whispered back, but your body leaned up to keep kissing him anyway.

He smiled into the kiss.

That’s when footsteps stopped.

You didn’t hear the approach. You felt it.

You broke the kiss just in time to see Steve standing there.

Not angry.

Not sad.

Just wrecked.