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parkersdoll · 4 months

Text

it's a feeling that's fine - s.h.

Summary: You accidentally climb the wrong fence on the hottest day of May. It turns out to be the best thing that's ever happened to you.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Word count: 10.6k

Warnings/tags: no use of y/n, no physical descriptions, etc. reader is in a toxic friendship; she's slightly bullied in that indirect mean girl way, but the toxic friendship ends. reader cuts her finger by accident. drinking and drug mentions. fluff, humor, strangers to friends to lovers, summer vibes, so many princess bride references. steve is super duper sweet!!! post s4 volume 2.

A/N: so if you wondered where i've been for the last two months.... it was in a cave writing this fic. i'm really proud of this one; the reader is a little different than how i usually write, but i hope you'll like her all the same :) if you enjoy this fic, please please let me know through comments/reblogs!

divider by firefly-graphics

Today is hot.

Weatherman Dale had said this morning that today is a record high for May. It’s so hot, in fact, that Debbie Wellerman had called you this morning asking if you wanted to come swim in her pool.

You’d asked if you could dig for worms in her yard. She’d sighed and hung up. You hope that means yes. Joan has been in need of some company. Worms would be good for her.

You go around Debbie’s house and stop at the back gate. The Wellermans are kind of mean and they don’t like it when you take too many cucumber sandwiches. To avoid them, you’ve taken to going through the back gate whenever Debbie invites you over. It works pretty well.

Except today, the gate is locked. Which is weird, because Debbie usually leaves it open. It’s how her boyfriend, Brett, sneaks in during the day, and how Brett’s brother, Chet, sneaks in at night.

You’d asked once why the brothers come over separately. Debbie had gotten mad and kicked you out without giving you any ice cream. You don’t ask about Brett and Chet anymore.

The problem is that you’re wearing flip flops, which are not ideal for climbing fences. Or anything, really. You once climbed a jungle gym in flip flops and skinned both knees.

You slip off your flip flops and fling them over the fence. They land a second later, clapping against the ground. The fence is covered in climbing ivy and tiny red flowers you’ve never seen before. You wonder how Debbie made them grow so fast.

The street is empty, which is nice. Sometimes people in Loch Nora like to yell at people who don’t also live in Loch Nora.

The fence wood is hot but not so hot that you can’t touch it. You stick your feet in the little grooves and start to climb. It’s not too high of a fence, but it’s high enough to warn people who don’t belong here.

That’s never stopped you, though.

Getting over is trickier. You expect Debbie to see you by now, but there’s no sound. She must be inside, or maybe she’s out and forgot she’s invited you. She does that sometimes.

Wood dust clings to your fingers and the soles of your feet. When you’re a foot from the ground, you hop down. Then you turn.

There’s no sign of Debbie. There is, however, a boy.

He’s reclined on an inflatable blue ring floaty in the middle of the pool. He wears sunglasses and red board shorts with little white anchors on them.

He has very pretty hair, both on his head and chest. He also has pretty lips. And arms. All of him is pretty, really. You wish you could see his face properly. He probably has a nice face too. Symmetrical and kind.

The area around the pool is paved just like at Debbie’s—only it’s a lot larger than you remember. There's a patch of dirt next to the gate. You go and crouch at the edge. You don't see any worms. Probably because it's so hot. You'd stay underground too if you were a worm.

You stand and turn to look at the boy again. He looks like he might be asleep.

“Did Debbie invite you?” you ask.

The boy shoots up from the floaty. The shift in weight makes him lose his balance and he topples into the water a moment later. The floaty flips with him.

He resurfaces almost immediately, spitting water and rubbing chlorine from his eyes. You squint.

Yes, you were right. He does have a very nice face.

The water comes up to his waist. He pushes his hair back in handfuls, blinking. Then he fishes his sunglasses out with his foot and sets them on his head.

“Can you swim?” you ask.

He stares at you, blinking.

“What?” he says after a beat.

“Can you swim?” you repeat.

“Uh, yeah? Yes, of course I can swim.”

"It would be bad luck if you couldn’t.”

His brows furrow.

“Because I can't swim,” you clarify.

“I wouldn’t be in the pool if I couldn’t swim,” he says.

“That’s good thinking.”

You sit at the edge of the pool and dip your calves in. He wades closer until he’s about three feet away.

“How did you get here?” he asks.

“I walked.”

“I mean, how did you get in my backyard?”

“Oh. I climbed the fence.”

You peer closer. He looks familiar, but you can’t quite place him.

“Are you Brett and Chet’s triplet?” you ask. “You’re a lot prettier than them. Did their mother feed you extra vitamins?"

His eyes go wide. “Uh… Brett and Chet Kingsley?”

“Uh-huh. Debbie invites both of them over, but never at the same time.”

“Who's—they don’t have a triplet.”

“That’s good. Three’s bad luck.”

“My house number has a three in it,” he says.

“Don’t step on any sidewalk cracks,” you warn.

He tilts his head, tongue poking out like he’s sizing you up. You let him, focusing on his face instead. He has dark, warm eyes the color of black tea. His shoulders are toned with lots of freckles on them. He looks like a boy who’d like Debbie, not you.

“Is Debbie going to be back soon?” you ask. You don’t want to get attached to a boy who’ll just end up wanting Debbie instead. You've made that mistake before.

“Um… if you’re talking about Debbie Wellerman, she lives on the next block over. I’m Steve Harrington.”

“Oh. You’re the guy who fought the monsters.”

He eyes you warily. “Wh—how do you know about the monsters?”

"Who doesn't?"

Steve opens his mouth, then closes it.

“You can’t tell anyone," he finally says.

You shrug and kick at the water gently.

“I have no one to tell. Debbie doesn’t believe in monsters.”

“She doesn’t believe in giving you a key either, huh?”

“She doesn’t usually lock her gate,” you say.

“Well, this isn’t her gate.”

“Yeah. I like your shorts.”

Steve’s cheeks flush pink.

“Are you getting sunstroke?” you ask.

That turns his cheeks pinker.

“No, no." He coughs. "I’m fine.”

“It’s a record high temperature for May,” you say. “That’s what Weatherman Dale said. The highest it's ever been since 1923."

“Yeah, I heard." He nods. "I didn’t wanna run the AC the whole day so, here I am. My friend Robin was supposed to come over, but I guess she bailed.”

“Robin is a nice name. Is she a bird?”

Steve smiles. “No, she’s a girl.”

“Oh. I thought maybe she was a bird you’d made friends with while fighting monsters.”

“Well.” Steve shrugs. “I did sort of make friends with her while fighting monsters.”

“Robins are good omens. They bring luck."

“Huh.”

You swallow. You’re probably talking too much. That’s what Debbie would say. That’s why boys sneak into her yard and not yours.

"So." Steve puts a hand over his forehead to block the sun. "Debbie Wellerman, huh? You don't seem like the type to be her friend."

"Friends can come from the most unusual places," you say. "Like under a tree or at the bottom of the ocean."

"Have you made many friends at the bottom of the ocean?" Steve asks with a smile.

You hesitate. Is he making fun of you? Sometimes, you can't tell. The people in Loch Nora are good at making fun of you without you knowing.

Steve’s hair has already begun to dry, a little crunchy from the chlorine. He doesn’t look like he’s making fun of you.

"Not many. But that's where I found Joan," you say.

"Joan was at the bottom of the ocean?"

"Kind of. I found her in a pond. Then I found her sister, but I lost her at sea and I couldn't swim out to rescue her. It was a sad day. Joan didn't handle it well."

Steve's brows rise. "Wow. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. Joan has been on the incline. I think she's finally ready to get back out there. I wanted to find her company, but I didn't want to disturb your dirt."

“My dirt?”

“Mmhm. I'm trying to make a social club for her."

"Out of dirt?"

"Out of worms."

"Huh."

Steve rests his chin on his arm that's perched on the ledge.

"Your hair is wavy," you observe.

"What? Oh, yeah. I didn't put anything in it."

"Like what? Secrets?"

"No, like, gel. Product."

You nod in realization. "Your hair was so big in school.”

Steve winces. "Yeah. Sorry, I wasn't the best guy back then."

"You were in your chrysalis. You needed time to grow. But then you turned into a butterfly. Or a moth, if you prefer."

"Moths are spooky," says Steve. "They look like they have eyes on their wings."

"Yes. But they're actually friendly. Unless you eat them. Some are poisonous." You lean in, deadly serious. "Don't eat moths."

"Will do."

"No, don't. And warn your Robin too. She might think one looks delicious and meet her doom."

A smile creeps onto Steve's face.

"You're kind of strange," he says. "In the best way possible."

"Thank you."

"Do you want some lemonade?"

"Is it poisoned?"

"What?" Steve startles. "No, of course not."

"No, I suppose not," you say thoughtfully. "You hadn't expected me to climb over your gate, so you wouldn't have had time to poison the lemonade."

Steve stacks one arm atop his other, looking up at you. The ends of his hair have begun to curl. You like it so much.

"What if I pour from the pitcher right in front of you? Will that make you feel better?" he asks.

"You can still put something in my glass," you say. "Or you might have built a tolerance to the poison for this exact moment. Like in The Princess Bride."

"I'm only twenty-one. I would've had to start very young to build a tolerance. Besides, what would be my motivation to poison you?"

You shake your head. "There's no need for motivation. Violent delights. But you've fought monsters, and Lucas Sinclair says you're a good guy. So, yes, I will have some lemonade."

Steve pushes himself out of the pool with ease, dripping water all over the concrete. You stare at the rivulets that hurry down his legs and chest. He has a lot of hair everywhere. You like that too.

He offers his hand and you take it, letting him pull you to your feet. Your shoulder bumps his. Steve's skin is warm. He smells like chlorine and something sweeter. Pineapple, maybe.

"You would do very well as a knight," you say. "If I were a princess, I'd want you to commit yourself to me."

Steve makes a weird noise in his throat.

"Uh, th-thanks," he says.

"You're welcome."

"So you, uh, know Lucas?"

"Yes. He lives on my block. His mom gives me rides sometimes."

You step in through the sliding glass door, which puts you directly in the kitchen. The house is at least twenty degrees cooler. You shiver at the sudden temperature change.

"You don't have a car?" Steve asks.

"No."

"You walked from your house to Loch Nora?"

"I took the bus part of the way. Then I walked."

Steve takes two glasses down from the shelf. Then he opens the refrigerator. You sit at the large kitchen island while he pours.

"Debbie Wellerman has a car," Steve says.

"Uh-huh. A Porsche."

A money car, she'd called it when she got it for her sixteenth birthday. Boys love girls with money cars. Maybe that's why boys don't love you.

Steve hands you a glass. You take a long sip. Your mouth puckers and you scrunch your eyes shut as the acid coats your tongue.

"Shit. Not enough sugar?"

You swallow and open your eyes.

"It's wonderful, Steve," you say earnestly.

"You don't have to lie. I saw your mouth screw up."

"I'm not lying. It's the right amount of sour."

Steve takes his own sip. His lips pucker, and he shakes his head.

"Nope. Definitely needs more sugar."

You cradle your glass in your hands. "Don't take mine. She's perfect."

Steve breathes a laugh, returning the pitcher to the fridge. He sits beside you on the island. He's already developing a slight tan. You wonder if more freckles appear the longer he's in the sun.

"Why doesn't Debbie pick you up?" he asks.

"Why would she pick me up?"

"Because that's what nice friends do. And it's unfair to expect you to come all the way here when the buses don't go through Loch Nora."

"Debbie always expects me to come over," you say. "So I do. She doesn't like my house."

Steve frowns deeply.

"I don't mind the walk," you offer, trying to make him smile again.

It doesn't work. Steve takes another sip. His lips purse, red like cherry candy and shiny with lemonade.

"She should meet you halfway more often," he says, dumping his lemonade into the sink.

You trace shapes into the condensation of your glass.

"I wanted to go rollerblading," you say. "But…"

"But what?" he prompts.

"She didn't. Neither did Brett. They wanted to make out in the pool.”

Steve grimaces. “Sounds like a drag.”

“They make weird noises. Like goats at the zoo.”

Steve snorts. You smile and kick your legs, pleased.

“My friends go rollerblading,” he says. “The kids love to skate at the park. You could come with us one day.”

“You have kids?”

“No, I—” Steve shakes his head, chuckling. “Definitely not. No, they’re only a few years younger than me, but me and the other people our age call them kids. They’re part of our little monster-fighting group. Anyway, uh, y'know. Open invite. If you're ever tired of goat noises."

You stare at him for a minute. He seems nervous, and you can't make out why. Nobody's ever nervous around you.

"Okay," you say. "I'd like to meet your kids."

"Cool. Well, um, I can give you my number. We usually meet up on weekends, but once school ends, any day is game."

Your heart rate picks up. You know this part. Only from a distance, of course. But you know what it means when a boy gives a girl his number.

“You want me to call you?” you ask.

“Yeah. I mean, if you want to. I feel like it’s a little forward for me to ask the girl who climbed my fence for her number. So, um, you can call me. Is that cool?”

Steve looks at you and waits. You chew your lip and nod.

“That’s okay.”

He smiles. “Great! I think I have a pen around here somewhere…”

Steve walks around the table to a stationary caddy on the counter and takes out a blue Sharpie. You stick out your arm, palm up.

"Uh…" He looks at you. "I can find a notepad."

"This helps me memorize things better," you say and wiggle your fingers.

"I don't wanna give you ink poisoning."

"You didn't poison me before. You're not very good at it."

"Isn't that a good thing?"

You shrug. "Depends on your aspirations."

Steve hesitates for another second. Then he takes the top of your forearm and begins to write on the soft underside. He writes slowly, which tickles, but you remain still.

He's so close. You're reminded all over again of his hands and warmth and pineapple scent.

Steve caps the marker. You inspect the writing.

"Good penmanship," you say.

"Think so? Robin says it's chicken scratch. But she can't talk—hers is ten times worse."

"It's neat," you say. "But not serial-killer neat. If I were a graphologist, I would give you the all clear."

"Graphologist?"

"A handwriting expert. I would write in my report, 'not a murderer.'"

"Well, that's a relief," Steve says. "I try to keep the murdering to a minimum."

You hum and finish your lemonade in one gulp.

“Thank you for not poisoning me."

“Yeah, you’re welcome,” Steve replies through a smile.

His smile makes you nervous. A good nervous, though, like you're about to sled down a big hill.

You push yourself off the stool. Steve gets up with you and opens the sliding glass door for you.

“A very stalwart knight,” you say, and walk over to where your flip flops are.

You throw them back over the gate. They land with a clack on the sidewalk.

You find your footholds on the gate and turn to look at Steve.

“It was nice to meet you, Steve Harrington. Don’t fight any monsters by yourself.”

“Whoa, hang on!” He jogs over and lightly touches your arm. It sears your skin like you've been kissed by the sun himself. “I’ll unlock the gate. You don’t need to… climb again.”

Steve pulls the latch next to you. The gate creaks open. You hop off and walk through.

Steve leans against the gate, elbow bent. His bicep bulges. You've never been this close to a shirtless boy. Your stomach flips.

“Are you sure you know where Debbie lives?” he asks.

Your eyes dart from his chest to his face.

“Yes.”

“Really? ‘Cause you didn’t exactly find it the first time.”

“Second time’s the charm,” you say.

“I thought it was the third time.”

“No. Three’s bad luck, remember?”

Steve runs his tongue under his molars, once again staring at you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. You slip into your sandals while he figures you out.

“Well, um. You can come back if you get lost. Or you need help. Or you wanna look for rocks."

You tilt your head. “You’d look for rocks with me?”

“I don’t know how helpful I’d be—all rocks look the same to me. My friends would probably be better at it than me. But, yeah, I would.”

“Okay. Thank you for your hospitality.”

He grins. “Sure thing.”

You take his hand and shake it. It’s warm and slightly calloused. You wonder if he holds girls’ hands often.

"I hope Robin finds your house," you say. "Goodbye, Steve Harrington."

Then you go.

You do find Debbie’s house on the second try. You hide your Sharpie'd arm behind your back when you enter. Debbie doesn’t ask why you’re late. Brett doesn’t acknowledge you, and you wonder how you mistook Steve for his brother.

“There’s lemonade,” Debbie says as she heads in, Brett at her heels.

You don’t drink any. You know it won’t be the right amount of sour.

Movies are better in the summer. This is a fact you've learned to accept.

There's no dread of the cold after you finish a movie in the summer. The tape ends and you can go outside and still love the real world.

Sorry, we're on a break! the sign on the store window reads in loopy script. You sit on the hot curb in front of Family Video, your yellow shorts bunched around your thighs. Sweat sticks to the back of your neck, and you drag a hand across, then wipe your fingers on your shirt.

From here, you can just see the cement-filled cracks in the asphalt, where the earthquake split the main road two years ago. Because of the cracks, the bus stops three blocks from the plaza, so you'd walked three blocks in the heat.

You hadn't been lying to Steve, though. You really don't mind the walk.

Beads of sweat drip down your forehead. One slips into your eye and burns. You make a fist and press it into your eyelid.

Okay. Maybe you mind a little.

"Hey, neighbor!"

You look up, squinting through the sun. Lucas Sinclair waves at you. You wave back. A girl with two red braids is next to him.

"Hi, Lucas," you say, standing as they approach you on the curb.

"This is my girlfriend, Max," he introduces proudly.

"My congratulations. Getting a girlfriend is no easy feat."

Max studies you for a moment. "I think I should get the credit, considering I said yes."

"Undoubtedly," you say.

"Are you his neighbor?" she asks.

"Yes. Lucas is an outstanding neighbor. You should be very proud of him."

"I believe it," says Max.

"What are you doing?" Lucas asks.

"Lots of things," you say. "Breathing, digesting. But presently, I'm waiting for the video store to reopen. I want to rent The Princess Bride.”

Max snorts. "Good luck with that. Those two take five hour lunch breaks now, ever since Keith moved away. It's barely a business anymore."

"There must be a lot of courses in their lunch," you muse.

"Yeah… uh, we're going to get ice cream. Wanna join?" asks Lucas.

"Okay." You turn to Max. "Will my presence impede your special plans?"

Max squints. "Special plans? Like what?"

"I don't know. Perhaps you've written Lucas a series of sonnets to profess your love."

"A series of what?"

"Poems."

"Love poems are corny," she says.

You wonder if Steve would agree.

"Sometimes corny things are good. When they come from the right person," you say.

Max acquiesces with a hum.

"No love poems today," she says. "You should join us."

So you follow a couple steps behind them to the Baskin-Robbins down the block.

The AC whooshes as you step inside, drying your sweat to your forehead.

“Wow,” Max says with a scoff. “It’s like Starcourt all over again.”

You follow her gaze and spot Steve.

Oh. Steve.

He's in a green Family Video vest. A girl sits across from him, wearing a matching vest. She has cropped hair and a bandaid on one knee.

“Hey, losers!” Max calls. “This isn’t a lunch break.”

The girl flips her off. “The sign says we’re taking a break. It doesn’t specify how long of a break.”

Lucas orders a scoop of strawberry ice cream for himself and a scoop of cookies and cream for Max.

“Yeah, plus, we’ve had a grand total of one customer today,” Steve adds.

“Well, you would’ve had two if you hadn’t been here on your seventeen hour break,” Max shoots back.

He scoffs. “Oh, really? Who?”

“Can I get one scoop of rocky road ice cream with oreo crumble and gummy worms in a cup?” you ask the cashier.

She goes to scoop the ice cream. Max proudly points at you.

“Her,” she says with a smirk. “She wanted to rent The Princess Bride, and now she’s not gonna be a paying customer ‘cause you two are lazy.”

“I would still be a paying customer,” you say.

Max shakes her head at you.

“I’m trying to make a point,” she whispers.

“Oh. You’re doing great."

“Your total is three twenty-four,” the cashier says, sticking a spoon into your cup.

The sound of a chair being dragged across the floor draws your attention. Steve is up, trying to free his leg from under the table. He finally wiggles free and jogs to the counter, wallet in hand.

"Hi,” he says. "I can pay."

“But I have money,” you say, brows knitting.

“No, I know. I—now you can save your money. Do you–do you mind if I pay for you?”

“Will I have to pay you back?” you ask.

“Oh my God,” the cashier mutters under her breath.

You shrink at her tone. You've missed something, evidently. You have no clue what.

Steve glances at her, mouth pinching.

“No,” he says gently, turning back to you. “You don’t have to pay me back. It’s a gesture. As a friend.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Steve gives her the money. You take your ice cream.

“Smooth,” you hear Max say to Steve. He bumps her arm with his elbow.

Steve pulls a chair from another table for you. You all sit down.

"This is, uh…" Steve trails off, turning to you. "I'm sorry, I never got your name."

"You kept calling her Buttercup," the girl says.

Steve whips his head around to hiss at her.

"Robin."

"She's my neighbor," Lucas says.

"We know," Max tells him.

"I don't." Robin raises her hand briefly, shooing Steve away. "I'm Robin Buckley."

"Hi, Robin. Watch out for moths," you say.

She tilts her head and smiles. You look at Steve, who's already looking at you.

"Princess Buttercup?" you ask.

"Well." He rubs the back of his neck. "Y-Yeah, kinda. You mentioned The Princess Bride and, uh, I don’t know your name, so…”

You mull that over.

"If I'm Buttercup, you must be Westley."

Steve's eyes widen. "Uh…"

Robin snickers. Max smirks.

"Interesting shade of red you're turning, Westley," Robin says.

"Shut—"

He kicks her chair leg. She yelps and shoves him in retaliation. Max rolls her eyes.

"Have some class, will you?" she says.

"I'm classy!" Steve insists.

"Not anymore," Lucas says gravely. "Now you're a glorified babysitter."

"Childcare is dutiful work," you say.

Steve grins at you. Your stomach flutters.

“Is that a mud pie?” he asks.

You nod.

“Gummy worms?”

You tilt your head. “How did you know?”

Steve chuckles. “Lucky guess.”

Across the table, the others argue about the classiest ice cream flavors.

“It’s obviously mango sorbet.”

“Sorbet isn’t ice cream!”

“Are they your kids?” you ask.

Steve leans in so you can talk in his ear. His arm is on the back of your chair. If you shift the slightest inch, you’d feel him.

“Minus Robin. Though, sometimes…” He rolls his eyes playfully. “But, um, yeah. Two of them.”

“How many kids do you have?” you ask.

“Let’s see…” Steve counts on his fingers. “Six?”

“Wow. You must be some babysitter.”

“I’m alright.”

You lean in. Steve blinks.

“What’re you doing?” he asks.

“You have an eyelash.”

You swipe the hair off his cheek and hold your finger in front of his mouth.

“You have to make a wish.”

Steve’s eyes slide to you. He gently holds your hand in place. Your heart beats faster.

“‘Kay.” He blows the eyelash away, but doesn't release your hand. “Let’s see if it comes true.”

The numbers stare at you. Taunt you, really.

You practically have them memorized. You’d written them thirty times on a piece of notebook paper. Then you’d shoved that under your bed.

Now you have it taped to your dresser mirror.

You wish you could talk to Joan about it, but she’s bathing in the sink after an unfortunate encounter with a paint can.

The Sharpie is gone from your arm, has been gone for several days now. But if you concentrate, you can see its silhouette on your skin.

You get up and peel the paper off the mirror. Then you go down the hall to your phone.

Carefully, you dial, making sure not to press any wrong buttons.

The phone rings. You rock on your toes.

“Hello?” Steve says.

You freeze.

“Hellooo…?”

“Hi,” you finally say. “It’s Buttercup.”

“Oh!” He sounds so happy. “Hey! Hey, how are you?”

“Good.” You chew on a cuticle. “It’s Saturday.”

“Oh, right! Did you wanna go rollerblading?”

Relief floods you. He remembers.

“Yes. If you’re planning it.”

“I haven’t talked to the kids, but I’m sure they’d be down.” You can hear the smile in his voice. “I can pick you up in twenty?"

“I can walk.”

“C’mon, in the sun? You live on the same street as Lucas anyway, don’t worry about it.”

“Well.” You twirl the telephone cord around your finger so tightly, it threatens to cut off your circulation. “Okay… if it’s no trouble.”

“It’s no trouble,” Steve promises. “I’ll see you in a bit, okay?”

You hang up and run to your room to dig for your skates. They’re stuffed under your bed next to a mini gumball machine. You shove two green gumballs in your mouth and race to the bathroom to check on Joan, nearly slipping on the wood.

“I’m going out, Joan. I think he might… he might like me.” You crunch on the gumball shells and shudder. “What a terrifying thought.”

You pull out the drain stopper and set Joan on a washcloth to dry. Then you go down the hall to put on your sneakers.

Steve arrives five minutes early. You only know that because you spend the whole time watching the road from your curtained window. You shake your hands out, overwhelmed with nerves.

It’s just a boy. He’s only a boy.

The two of you meet halfway. Steve jogs backwards, unusually skillful, and opens the passenger door for you.

“Hey. Does Joan want to come?” Steve asks.

You shake your head. “She’s having a spa day. It’s just me.”

“Well, I’m happy to have you,” he says, sweet and earnest.

You duck inside the car and shake your hands a little, trying to fend off the returning nerves. Just a boy.

“So, that’s El,” Steve says as he gets into the driver’s seat, pointing to a girl with short curls. “And you know Max and Lucas.”

Max nods at you with a smile. Lucas waves.

“Hi, El,” you say. “Cool hair.”

“Thank you,” she says, voice soft. “I like your skates.”

“I found them at a yard sale. You can find anything in a yard.”

"Okay," Steve says. "Everybody buckled?"

“Yes, Mom,” Max mumbles.

Steve catches your gaze and rolls his eyes. You smile.

Briefly, you worry you’ll have to fill the silence and talk about yourself, like people expect you to. But Steve and the kids hold conversation easily. They talk about anything and everything.

They're more energetic than you're used to; Debbie always prefers it to be quiet.

But you don't mind it. You don’t feel lonely like you do when you’re with Debbie.

“Alright, please stay within this area,” Steve says when he parks and everyone gets out. “Within—”

“Shouting distance!” Max yells. “Yeah, we know!”

The park isn't crowded. Most of the paths are clear, so skating will be no problem.

Max gets out two skateboards from the trunk.

“Max is going to teach me how to do an ollie,” El informs you. “Would you like to join us?”

“Maybe later,” you say. “I want to master my yard skates.”

She nods and follows the others to the small skate park on the other side of the trees.

You bring your skates to a bench and sit, lacing them up your feet. Steve is a few feet away, swinging his arms slightly.

“Aren’t you going to join them?” you ask.

“Oh, uh, no. I brought my own skates… I thought maybe we could skate together, if that’s okay?”

“Yes, I would like that,” you say.

Steve beams. “Alright, cool. I’ll go get mine.”

You stand, about to take a step forward—and immediately slip.

Steve reacts instantly, lunging to catch you. One hand grabs your elbow, the other on your stomach. You squeal and cling to his shirt.

“Are you okay?” he asks, helping you stand upright.

“I’m okay,” you say, breath caught in your throat.

You take a step but your foot wobbles. Steve grabs you again. You don’t try to take another step.

“I thought skating would be intuitive,” you say, rolling one skate to test.

“What?”

You look up. Steve’s face is inches from yours. His hair is golden in the sunshine. His eyes lock on your own; his focus sends a jolt of electricity down your spine.

“You know, like how babies are able to swim for the first six months of their lives?”

“Uh…” Steve tilts his head. “No?”

“Oh. Because they were in the womb, they have that ability. ‘Cause they float around in there for nine months, you know? But then they lose it. That’s why we have to learn how to swim.”

“Wow. That’s a cool fact.”

Nobody ever thinks your facts are cool. But Steve does.

“Well, I thought skating would be similar,” you say. “I’ve watched other people skate, so I thought I’d just… do it. I guess I lost that at six months too.”

Steve’s smiling. It’s a gentle smile, though. Not a teasing smile.

“I see,” he says. “I’m sorry for your disappointment.”

“It’s alright. Life is far more than disappointment. No use getting hung up on it.”

“Do you want me to teach you how to skate?” he asks. “I promise I’m good at it. Coach Collins said I could’ve seriously pursued it.”

“So skating for you is like avoiding death for Westley,” you say.

“Actually, I’m pretty good at avoiding death too,” Steve says. “And making grilled cheeses.”

“Triple threat.”

He ducks his head with a laugh, and you feel the warmth of it flow through your own body.

“Sure. Can’t make lemonade for shit, though.”

“I think your lemonade is perfect, Steve Harrington.”

His cheeks are scarlet again. It’s quickly becoming your favorite color.

“I would like it if you taught me,” you say.

“Okay. I’ll get my skates after you get the hang of it. Put your hand on my arm, right here.”

Steve pats his forearm. Carefully, you do as he says.

“I’m nervous,” you confess.

“I got you,” Steve says, cheek brushing your head. “I won’t let you fall, Buttercup.”

Saint Aloysius’ parking lot has the best rocks.

You've never told anybody as much because you imagine the lot would get busy, and you like it empty.

Today, you're searching for a brother for Joan. Ever since that tragic day at Macinaw Island, Joan's been very lonely. It‘s hard being a sisterless sister.

Joan is smooth and round, so you look for an equally smooth and round brother. Commonality is important.

Your knees hurt from squatting, so you sit. The rocks poke your butt.

You hear a car rolling up the hill, engine a soft purr. You stop and turn.

The car is maroon and shiny, with only a couple slight scratches you can't notice unless you look really hard. You don't recognize the license plate, although you have yet to start your record of Hawkins plates.

It putters to a stop in front of Giovanni's Bakery across the street. The car doors open.

"I'm losing my edge, Robs! I made a damn fool of myself. I can't even—"

"Okay, first of all, I feel like we're glossing over the fact that you don't even know this girl. And what she did was technically trespassing."

"Do you know her name?" another voice pipes up.

"No, Dustin, I don't know her name. I don't even know if she lives in Hawkins!"

Their voices disappear as they go inside the bakery. You find Joan a brother, Jack, and Jack finds a wife named Gwen. Gwen isn't smooth and round; she's sharp-edged and will be harder to clean, but she's a muted salmon color and you think she's pretty. You hope Jack will find her pretty too.

As you dig through the pile of rocks, your finger catches on the edge of a broken bottle. It slices your finger. Blood swells immediately.

You put your new rocks in your plastic red pail with your other hand. Then you stand, joints popping as you do so. You stick your ribs out and bend your spine in a stretch.

You cross the street to the bakery, pail in hand. The bell jingles as you enter. You hum the ding-dong under your breath.

"Can I help you?" the man behind the counter asks.

"Hello. Can I have five baci di dama and five of the raspberry sandwich cookies?"

He goes to the display case with a paper bag. You rest your elbows on the counter, pail handles over your arm.

"Anything else?"

"Yes. Do you have a bandaid? I'm bleeding."

The man purses his lips. "No bandaid, sorry."

"That's okay. Just the cookies, then."

"Buttercup?"

You turn. Steve stands before you, wearing his Family Video vest. Robin is beside him, her hair piled into a windblown bun on her head. Another boy, shorter than both, younger, is with them. He waves at you, curls bouncing.

You wave back. Robin squeals.

"Oh my God, what happened to your finger?" she asks, horrified.

"There was a broken bottle in the parking lot."

"Jesus," Steve says. He takes your hand and inspects it. He's so close and warm. All you can do is stare at the freckles on his neck.

“Why were you in the parking lot?” he asks.

“I was looking for rocks. This is the best rock spot in all of Hawkins. Well, after Lover’s Lake. But the pH has been abnormally high there. Probably because of the monsters. So I came here.”

"Hi, I'm Dustin," the boy introduces. “Is your finger okay?”

"Hi, Dustin. I think I’ll survive,” you say. “Dustin means brave warrior in Norse.”

Dustin beams. “Yup. I was named after my grandfather. He served in World War Two.”

"Names are important,” you say. “Joan agonized for days deciding what I should call her. Eventually, I decided for her. A name says a lot about a person. Steve has a warrior and good luck at his side."

"Yep, Steve-o here is pretty blessed to have us. And," he gestures to you, "You are?"

"Hungry," you say, taking your bag of cookies with your free hand.

The bag crinkles as you open it. You hold it out to Steve.

"Do you want one? I promise they’re blood-free.”

"Uh…” He glances at your hand. “Are you sure your finger is okay?”

“She’s a trooper. Survived ink poisoning and everything.” You wave the bag again. “Cookie?”

Steve takes a baci di dama out and pops it into his mouth. He hums as he chews, nodding.

"'S good," he says after he swallows.

"Baci di dama means lady's kisses in Italian," you say.

His cheeks turn pink again.

"You should drink more water," you add. "You turn pink easily."

Robin snorts. Steve holds a hand to his cheek.

"Uh, thanks."

“You’re welcome. Robin, would you like a cookie?"

"No, thanks,” she says. “I'm picking up a tiramisu for my mom's birthday."

"I want a cookie!" Dustin says.

"Dude," Steve hisses.

You hold the bag open to Dustin. He takes a raspberry sandwich cookie.

"So," Dustin says, mouth full. "Are you Steve’s girlfriend or something?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” you say.

“Du-ude!” Steve says too loudly, voice climbing in pitch.

“What? You talk about her all the freakin’ time. I needed to know.”

You look at Steve. He rubs the back of his neck and half-smiles.

“Anyway,” continues Dustin. “How do you know Steve?”

"I climbed over his gate by accident on the hottest day of May,” you say.

"By accident?"

"Yes. All the gates in Loch Nora look the same. Except Steve's gate has climbing ivy and little red flowers. It's much nicer than the other houses. It looks like a person lives there. I mistook it for Debbie's gate."

Robin tilts her head at you. You don't care what Steve says; she's a one hundred percent bonafide bird.

Dustin points to your pail, crumbs all over his chin. "Why do you have rocks?"

"They're for Joan," you say.

"Joan? Is she your friend?"

"She's more like my confidante. She doesn't talk much, so I think it'd be presumptuous of me to call her a friend when I have no idea where we stand."

"Navigating friendships can be hard," Steve offers.

"Yes," you say. "They can be."

"Being straightforward can help a lot," he continues. "It, uh, at least helped me. That way the other person knows what you mean. No room for miscommunication."

You nod. "That's good advice. I'll have to try that with Joan. Sometimes she can be kind of hard-headed."

You roll up your bag of cookies and reposition your pail on your arm so the metal doesn't dig into your skin.

"It was nice to meet you, Dustin," you say. "Goodbye, Steve and Robin."

"Wait!"

Steve holds the door for you and follows you out. He still smells sweet, like pineapple, and also a little woody. He touches the small of your back, sending a bolt of electricity down your spine.

"I have a first aid kit in my car. Let me wrap your cut."

"Oh." You'd forgotten about it. "Okay."

You follow Steve to his car. He pops the trunk and rummages. You spot a bat with nails.

"Very inventive," you say, pointing at the bat.

Steve laughs shyly. "Yeah, uh, the monsters."

"I definitely wouldn't want to fight you if I were a multi-dimensional monster."

He smiles and takes out a small spray bottle of disinfectant.

"This is gonna sting, okay? But we need to make sure nothing gets infected."

"An infection would be unfortunate," you say. "I'm quite attached to this finger."

He sprays and cleans your finger. You wince and Steve squeezes your wrist in apology. Then he pulls out bandaids.

"Any preference? I have rainbow, Star Wars, 'cause they're all a bunch of nerds, cats… oh, I have flowers! ‘Cause you’re, uh, Buttercup, you know?"

"Flowers," you say, because Steve's so excited about it.

He nods and opens the bandaid. You hold out your finger and Steve carefully wraps it. He rubs your knuckle.

"Thank you," you say.

"You're welcome. Be careful, okay?"

"I will."

He closes the trunk, swinging his keys on his finger.

"Sorry if that was awkward, by the way," he says. "Dustin, I mean. He can be… blunt."

"It wasn't awkward."

“It wasn’t?”

“No,” you say. “I’m happy you tell people about me. I tell Joan about you all the time.”

"Oh." He nods. "That—that’s good. So… we’re both… uh—”

"Do you want another lady's kiss?"

"What? Oh—" Steve clears his throat. "N-no, that's okay. Thanks."

You take out a raspberry cookie and bite into it.

"Your hair has product," you observe.

"Yeah. No secrets, though."

"Everybody's hair has secrets."

"Even yours?" he asks.

"Especially mine."

Steve rubs the back of his neck. You open your bag and take out another cookie. He looks like he's trying to find the right words to say. You don't mind waiting.

"Hey, do you like barbecue?" he asks.

"I like it as well as anybody else."

"Well, um, I'm having a barbecue this Saturday. Lucas won a big championship game and so we're celebrating his win."

"That's nice," you say. "Congratulations to Lucas."

"Yeah! So, um, did you maybe want to come too? It'll be at my house. You could bring a friend if you wanted. Like Joan."

"Joan is a vegetarian," you say. "But I'm sure she'd enjoy the company."

Steve smiles. He has such a pretty smile.

"We're ordering pizza too, so Joan can have some of that."

"You're a very thoughtful host.”

Then you have a terrible thought. But you have to ask it because if you don't, you might be breaking some kind of invisible expectation. You do that a lot.

"Does Debbie have to come?" you ask.

Steve blinks. "Uh, no? It's not a requirement."

"Some people ask me to parties because they want Debbie to come."

Steve frowns. "That's rude. I wouldn't do that."

"Okay. What time does the barbecue begin?"

"You can stop by anytime. But we'll probably start eating around six."

You nod. "Joan and I will be there at five thirty."

Steve's answering grin is blinding. He must be really excited to meet Joan. You get it; Joan's the life of any party she attends.

"Great, that's great. I'll see you then."

"Bye, Steve," you say.

"Bye," he answers like he's out of breath.

Even the way he breathes is pretty.

Every month, Miles Stanwick throws a party.

Miles is a celebrity in Hawkins, his father being a state senator, and Miles is, according to a drunk Debbie, “the Gatsby to her Daisy.”

You're pretty sure Debbie hasn't read the book. Or maybe she's a living tragedy. Either is possible.

It had been just you two in her room, without the Other Debbie she pretends to be to impress the people of Loch Nora, when she'd told you what it meant to be in love.

"You just know," she'd said, her breath reeking of tequila.

You'd turned your head. Tequila made your nose itch.

"But you love Brett," you'd said.

"Brett is who I'll marry," she'd corrected. She’d sounded so sad. "Miles is all I've got."

Then she'd thrown up all over her carpet. You'd helped her into bed and made a mental note to find her a friend like Joan to keep her company, for when you weren't around.

You don't like parties. They're loud and smelly and usually filled with people you don't like or don't know. And at a party, people you don't like and people you don't know are one and the same.

You would leave, but Debbie is your ride tonight. So you're stuck here until midnight, maybe even later.

Someone plugs in a karaoke machine and that gets most of the party's attention. The music is horribly loud and is the kind that’s just a lot of synthesizer.

A guy jumps onto the Stanwicks' coffee table and knocks over the potpourri dish. Dried petals and orange peels scatter across the carpet.

Debbie appears in front of you, a red Solo cup in her hand.

"What did I bring you here for?" she asks, mouth curled. "To slump on the couch?"

"No one here wants to talk," you say.

Debbie rolls her eyes. "Parties aren't for talking. They're for drinking and making out. Someone's rolling a blunt in the den. Go suck on that, will you?"

The people in Loch Nora are so good at making you feel two inches tall. You wish you'd brought Joan. She'd know what to do.

You've tried alcohol before. Champagne at a wedding. A sip of rum from the Wellermans' liquor cabinet, back when Debbie wasn't so caught up in being just like everyone else.

Maybe it's your fault, too. Maybe you're too good at standing out.

You go to the kitchen. It's already trashed. You step over a spill on the floor. Then you turn around and lay down some paper towels so no one will slip.

There are various bottles of strong liquor strewn across the counters. You decide to try the punch and fill your cup to the top. You sniff it and your nose wrinkles at the whiff of alcohol.

You so badly want to have fun. You want to know what makes all of this worth it. You want your friendship with Debbie to be worth it.

You down the punch in one go. It makes you cough and you scramble for water at the sink. You wonder if the punch is poisoned.

You wobble out of the kitchen a couple minutes later, head already woozy. A girl stands with a drink, one arm folded.

"Where's Debbie?" you ask. The girl winces and steps away from you.

"She went with Miles and some other people to the lake."

Your eyes widen. "No, they can't. There's monsters."

She looks at you like you might be an insect splattered on her dashboard.

"You're Debbie's weird friend, aren't you?"

Weird doesn't make you feel good, like Steve calling you strange did. Weird makes you feel like when a boy in sixth grade stepped on your heels while going up the stairs because he thought it was funny.

"Debbie would've told me," you say.

The girl shrugs. "Guess she ditched you. She can't score with Miles if you're killing the vibe."

Weird tastes like poison in your mouth.

"Debbie was my ride," you say, but she’s already gone.

Your head aches. You try to think on what to do next. It's nearly midnight. No one is awake, and you have no idea how to call a cab.

You find the Stanwicks' phone in the hall and dial the only number you know, besides your own, and the local pizzeria.

"Hello?"

You lean against the wall, phone in both hands.

"Uh, hello? Who is this?"

"H-hi, Westley." Your voice cracks.

"Hey," Steve says, unbearably gentle. "My favorite rock girl. Jesus, it's… midnight."

"I'm sorry," you say.

"No, no, it's alright. I'm just—is everything okay? Are you okay?"

"Debbie ditched me."

Silence. For a moment, you panic that the line's dropped.

"Steve?"

"Where are you?"

"I'm, um, at Miles Stanwick's. The address is… well, I don't remember, but I'll go outside and look for the house number—"

"I know it," Steve says. "Stay right there. I'm coming to get you. Don't drink any more."

Your lip wobbles. "'Kay."

"It's okay," he soothes. "Drink some water. Don't take anything from anybody."

"I just wanted to be fun," you blurt.

"You are fun, Buttercup. Way more fun than anybody at that house, I guarantee it. I'll be there in ten minutes, okay?"

"Okay. Thank you, Steve," you say, no longer feeling so small.

You hang up and go to the kitchen to get more water from the sink. Then you return to the hallway and sit, back against the wall, knees tucked into your chest.

You doze, lids heavy from the alcohol. The next thing you know are two hands on your arms.

You jolt awake. One hand cradles the back of your head so you don't thump it against the wall.

"Hey, hey." Steve kneels in front of you. He brushes your cheek with a cool knuckle. "It's me, it's Steve. Are you okay?"

His hands are cool against your overheated skin. He smells like lemon shampoo.

"My knight," you say.

"I thought Westley was a pirate."

“He was only pretending."

You let Steve ease you up. His car keys dig into your hip.

"Ow," you say dazedly.

"What? What hurts?"

"Keys."

"Oh." Steve shifts you to his opposite side, hand on your back. "Sorry, honey."

"Honey never spoils," you say. "Did you know that? You could dig up honey from a tomb that's thousands of years old and as long as it was stored in an airtight container, it's good to eat."

"I love that you know that."

"Do you really?"

"I really do," Steve says. "C’mon, let's get you home."

Outside, the moon is a dot of cream in the purple sky. The neighborhood is quiet. Most of the houses are also dark.

"I'm sorry for calling you so late," you say.

"Don't be. I'm glad you called me. These parties can get out of hand."

"Debbie left. She went to Lover's Lake with Miles—"

The panic returns, flooding your body. You squirm and Steve tries to keep you steady.

"Whoa, what's—"

"The monsters! There's monsters down there, Steve. I don't like Miles, but I don't want him to be eaten!"

"No, no, no more monsters," Steve assures you. "They can't come through there anymore."

You still. "Promise?"

"I promise."

He helps you into the passenger seat of his car. Steve leans in and pulls the seat belt over you.

"Comfy?" he asks.

"I like you so much, Steve Harrington."

It's too dark to tell, but you suspect he's got another case of sunstroke.

"I, um, like you too, Buttercup. You're really cool."

"Me?" You wave your hand. "No."

"Really," he insists. "You are. The coolest."

If you were Debbie, if you weren't weird in the wrong way, if you didn't go to parties to talk, and if you fit a million other criteria you never will, Steve would kiss you right now. Or maybe you'd kiss him.

But you don't know how to go about that. You don't think it's your right to do such a thing.

So Steve shuts the door and walks around to the driver's seat. You stare at your flower bandaid.

"Four three's," Steve says as he turns the ignition.

You turn your head. "Hmm?"

"The house number. Four three's. That's gotta be, like, astronomically bad luck, right?"

"Without a doubt."

Except you're here with Steve Harrington, and he calls you honey and thinks you're cool. And that doesn't seem like bad luck at all.

"I'm going to a barbecue," you call out.

There's no reply. You close the door behind you.

Joan sits in your pocket. You've tied a purple ribbon around her head, right above her googly eyes. You don't know what the dress code is for a barbecue, but you hope she's not underdressed.

You haven’t spoken to Steve since Miles’ party. You’re not sure what you should say, and you can’t bear the thought of calling him to hear silence.

Even if he doesn’t like you the way you like him, you hope he’ll still be friends with you. Steve and his kids have grown on you. You don’t know if you can go back to who you were before the hottest day of May.

“Material Girl” plays from inside Steve's backyard. You mouth the words as you fling your flip flops over the gate.

"What the fuck?" someone says from the other side.

You climb the gate and shimmy down. It's a good thing you're wearing shorts under your dress.

A boy, lanky and tall but probably Lucas's age, holds one of your flip flops. He stares at you and shakes the shoe.

"Is this yours?"

"Both of them are," you say. "Does Steve like Madonna?"

He grimaces. "Unfortunately."

"Cool."

You spot Steve sitting on one of the deck chairs with Robin and a boy your age with big, curly hair and a Led Zeppelin shirt with cropped sleeves.

"Venus" plays next and you wobble in time with the music as you walk over to Steve.

"Her weapons were her crystal eyes," you whisper. The pavement is warm under your toes.

"Making every man mad."

Steve turns just as you reach him. He stands so fast he shakes the chair.

"Hey!" he says. He sounds out of breath again. "Hey, you came."

"You invited me," you say.

"Yeah, yes." Steve nods. "I did. I'm glad you're here."

"You play good music."

"Ha!" Steve whips his head to look at the curly haired boy. "Suck it, Munson."

"She's obviously biased."

"Munson," you say. "Eddie Munson?"

Eddie freezes under your gaze. Robin and Steve glance at you.

"Yeah, uh, that's me." Eddie smiles weakly. "Look, you might've heard some stuff abou—"

"You helped fight the monsters," you interrupt. "You're very brave."

Eddie's eyes widen. "I—"

"Most people just like to ignore monsters. It takes a really good person to fight them." You turn to Steve. "Do you have orange Fanta?"

"Yeah, sure. I'll get you a can. Feel free to sit… where are your shoes?"

You point behind you. "Your bodyguard had to screen them after I climbed your gate. You have very tight security."

"After you climbed my… wait, Mike? God, I’m sorry about him. I'll get your shoes back."

"It's okay. Flip flops are dangerous weapons. It's only a matter of time before the airport bans them."

Steve tilts his head, eyes warm. "Right. I'll be back. That's Eddie and Robin… you know them."

"I know their names, and that's about all you can know about anybody."

Eddie giggles. You look at him. He doesn't seem to be laughing at you, so you sit where Steve was sitting, across from Eddie's chair. You point at his shirt.

"I like Kashmir."

"Thank God! Somebody with decent tastes."

"I'll listen to anything," you say. "It's important to be a good listener."

Eddie grins. "Words of the wise."

"Where's Joan?" Robin asks.

"Right here." You take Joan out of your pocket and set her down on the edge of the pool chair.

"Sick," Eddie says.

You nod. "The ribbon was my pick."

"I like it," Robin says.

"Thank you."

Steve returns with an orange Fanta for you and a root beer for Robin.

Robin points to Joan. "Steve, this is the famous Joan we've heard so much about."

"That's a rock," says Steve.

"Yep."

"Oh." He nods in understanding. "Joan is your pet rock?"

"Confidante," you correct. "’Pet’ is demeaning."

"Got it. And was Joan's sister also your confidante?"

"No. Joan's sister didn't like me much. She thought I was a bad influence on Joan. But we shouldn't talk about it now. Joan gets very sad when I bring it up."

You open your can. The carbonation hisses. It's itchy and sweet on your tongue.

"I like your hair," you say. "It's fluffy. Like it was on the hottest day of May."

Steve pushes a couple strands behind his ear.

"Thanks. The gel is too much on hot days like these. Weighs me down."

"At least you won't float away." You look at Eddie. "Is your hair full of secrets too?"

Eddie ruffles his hair. "Not as many as Steve's, but I've got a couple in here. 'S what gives my curls volume."

"Hm. Just as I suspected," you say.

"Ste-eve!" Dustin whines from across the yard. "You promised burgers!"

Steve rolls his eyes. "You'd think he's never been fed in his life."

Eddie pats his shoulder. "You've got this, Harrington."

"Oh, no. You wanna eat, you've gotta earn your keep. Come on."

Eddie groans, flinging himself off the chair. "Save me, Buckley!"

"Already did that," she says, pulling her sunglasses onto her eyes. "Never again."

"You should tie up your hair so it doesn't catch fire," you suggest.

"Well, at least somebody cares about me," Eddie declares, pulling his hair into a ponytail.

Steve turns to you and smiles softly.

"Are you hungry? You can have the first pick of the burgers."

"Won't Dustin be annoyed?"

Steve shrugs. "Kid could use some manners. Besides, pretty girls always get the first pick. It's the law."

You follow Steve and Eddie to the grill, pretty girl echoing in your brain the whole time.

Eddie's hair doesn't catch on fire and Steve makes you a perfect burger. The sun sparkles on the pool surface. The kids come out to eat and, predictably, Dustin complains about not getting the first burger.

"Not fair. Just 'cause she's your girlfriend," he mumbles as he goes off to search for the mustard.

You check to see if Steve had heard the comment. He doesn't seem to have; you can't decide if you're relieved or not.

The chairs are all taken by the time you finish fixing up your burger. Steve stands immediately as you approach.

“Here, take my seat,” he says.

“We can share,” you offer.

Steve lets you take the back of the chair, settling at the foot. “You Make My Dreams Come True” plays on the speakers.

“Whoever made this mixtape is a genius,” you announce.

“You like it?” says Steve. “I actually made this one. Robin and Eddie think my taste sucks, but—”

“It’s spectacular.”

He hums, ducking his head shyly. “Well, speaking of spectacular: I made more lemonade, if you want to test it before I unleash it upon the masses.”

“I’ll happily drink your lemonade,” you say. “It’ll build my iocane tolerance.”

Steve grins. “I rented The Princess Bride, by the way. I know you meant to get it a few weeks ago. We can watch it tonight, if you want.”

“You remembered I wanted to watch it,” you say.

He nods. “Well, uh, yeah. Do you still want to? If you don’t, I can—”

“I do,” you say. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, of course.” Steve stands, hand outstretched so you’ll give him your empty plate. “I’m going inside. Anybody want anything?”

“Doritos!” Robin shouts.

“Napkins, please,” El says.

“Cherry Coke!” Mike calls.

“Beer!” Eddie whoops.

“Doritos, napkins, got it. The cooler is right there, Wheeler, and are you kidding, Eddie? No drinking by the pool. Have we not learned our lesson from the last four years?”

“Bold of you to assume I’ve learned anything, Steven.”

“Can you bring us popsicles?” Max asks. “Lemon and grape.”

“Ooh, popsicles sound good,” says Robin. “Bring me one too. Fruit punch.”

Steve sighs, lifting his arms.

“Two hands, guys. Only got two.”

“I can help,” you offer.

“Now that’s a great idea,” Robin says. “The two of you in the kitchen, alone. Really brilliant, don’t you think, Steve?”

Steve glares at her. Then he turns to you, expression softening.

“That’d be great, thank you.”

You follow him into the kitchen. It looks exactly like the last time you were here, except for the food. Steve opens the freezer and digs through the box of popsicles. Then he takes the pitcher of lemonade out of the fridge and sets it on the counter.

“Can you get the Doritos?” he asks. “They’re up there.”

You open a shelf over the stove. The chips are at the very top. You try jumping; all that does is bang your ribs into the counter.

"Whoa, whoa.”

Steve’s hand rests on your back. Your stomach swoops.

"Easy, Buttercup. I’ll get it, sorry ‘bout that."

You frown. "The Doritos have eluded me."

"They’re a tricky bunch," he says, reaching and successfully grabbing the chips.

"I knew you’d best me and succeed."

"Best you?"

"Yes," you say. "Like in a duel."

Steve tilts his head, a tiny crinkle forming in the center of his brows.

"Are we going to duel? Like Inigo and Westley?"

"Not if I can help it," you say. "I'm terrible with a sword."

"I would never try to sword fight you."

"I appreciate that."

His hand slips from your back. You watch it fall to his side.

“Feel free to help yourself to whatever you want,” Steve says as he takes a glass out of the cupboard. “You can also take food home.”

You exhale through your nose and wiggle your fingers a little, trying to stave off the nerves. You wish Joan was in your pocket right now, but you left her on the deck chair.

“Buttercup?”

You look up. Steve has a glass of lemonade in one hand. The top button of his polo shirt is undone. Was it always undone? You can’t remember.

Anyway, he’s beautiful. And you’re so damn strange.

“Yes, Westley?”

Steve smiles. You don’t think anyone has ever smiled at you as much as Steve does.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

He puts the glass in front of you. You glance at it, then back at him.

“Everything’s fine.”

“Are you sure? I won’t force you to drink my crappy lemonade if you don’t want to, y’know.”

“You called me strange,” you blurt. “When we first met.”

Steve’s eyes widen.

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” he says softly. “But I won’t call you that anymore if you don’t like it.”

“No, I–I know you didn’t mean it in a bad way. But…”

He nods, encouraging you to continue.

“I’m not like Debbie,” you say.

“I know.”

“I’ll probably never be like Debbie.”

“I much prefer you as yourself,” he says.

“Oh.”

You sip your lemonade. Your lips pucker but you smile all the same.

“Damn,” Steve says with a chuckle. “I really can’t nail that lemonade, huh?”

“It’s wonderful,” you whisper.

He takes a step forward. You set the glass on the counter.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks.

“I would very much like that.”

Steve’s lips are slightly chapped. You taste like lemonade and he tastes like Coke and God, you like it so much.

You loop your arms around his neck like you’ve wanted to do for weeks. He returns in kind, both hands slipping to your waist.

It’s not just a boy kissing you. It’s Steve.

The sliding glass door whooshes open and you jerk your head back in surprise. Max and Dustin trod in.

Dustin shrieks.

“Seriously? This is what was taking you so long?”

“If you were gonna do that, we would’ve gotten the popsicles ourselves,” Max says with a huff, grabbing the popsicles and chips from the counter.

“Told ya they were making out!” comes Eddie’s voice from outside. “I warned you, kiddies!”

They clear out, with one last stink eye from Dustin. Steve shakes his head, nose pressed to your cheek.

“Again, very sorry about them.”

“They wanted to check in on their favorite babysitter,” you say.

Steve lifts his head and rolls his eyes. “I need a padlock or something.”

You hum and lean over to unwrap a popsicle.

“Oh,” you say. “Three left.”

“Three popsicles?”

“Mmhm.”

“Well, that explains it. Astronomical bad luck, right?”

“Actually,” you say, leaning in for another kiss. “I think my theory was wrong.”

1K notes · View notes

parkersdoll · 2 years

Text

And I Snuck In Through The Garden Gate

Steve Harrington x fem!reader [18.7k] prompt: "Can I kiss you?" Childhood friends to lovers, growing up together, that damn garden gate, a slow burn like summer.

1979. Fever dream high in the quiet of the night.

When you were twelve years old, you moved to Hawkins, Indiana: population twelve thousand.

It had cedar lined streets, an old town hall, an outdoor pool behind a chain link fence, one supermarket and a boy next door called Steve Harrington.

You saw him from your bedroom window, his across from yours, the house your parents bought only a stone's throw away from his. He waved at you through the glass, smile wide, hair messy and wild. He had a scrape on his cheek from falling off his bike, a poster above his bed for a band you’d never heard of.

The next morning, he knocked on your front door and asked you if you wanted to go to the arcade with him. You rode on the back of his bike, hands clutching his shoulders, eyes bright and wide and Steve shared a slushie with you, tongues raspberry blue, cheeks sticky and sun kissed.

He taught you how to play pac man, hands already so much bigger than yours when he slid them over your own, joystick between your fingers, laughter bubbling in your chest when you won.

Steve came back the next morning, and the next, the days bleeding into one long summer in a new town that was all wheat fields and quarries, dust roads and white picket fences.

Then a year later, a week after your thirteenth birthday, you came home from your grandparents in the new dress your parents bought you, a pretty, sunflower yellow thing that fell to your knees and fluttered when you spun.

You ran straight to the Harrington’s house, one hand knocking impatiently on the door, the other holding the box of sugar cookies you had insisted on saving and taking home to Steve.

You weren’t sure when it had happened, not really. But at some point over the course of twelve months, Steve Harrington had become your best friend. It happened the way summer did, a slow roll into warmth and blue skies, the familiarity of seeing him every day, the same way the sun slipped through the cracks in your bedroom window shutters.

He was bike rides, fresh banana muffins from the bakery on Main Street, water balloon fights when you were supposed to be in bed, running in the back yard as your parents shared wine and barbecue dinners. He got taller, his hair got wilder and you both got closer.

Steve opened the door, smile wide, eyes bright, just for you. He took a cookie and your hand, leading you to his bedroom as his parents yelled out their greetings from the kitchen and you tumbled into his room, chest bursting with how happy you were ‘cause the entire car ride home, you had been so excited to see Steve.

Steve had too many pillows on his too big bed, a guitar in the corner, a basketball shirt in a frame above his desk. There were books lining shelves, a stereo on his dresser and towers of cassette tapes. His room always smelled like fresh air and boy, something minty, the summer sneaking in from his always open window, the chlorine from the pool below.

He’d turned to you then, eyes wide and cheeks blushing, taking in your bare shins with their new bruises, one from falling in your skates, the other from tripping outside the library. Steve was yet to turn fourteen but he decided then that yellow was his favourite colour, buttercup bright, that deep rich shade that was painted on your dress.

“You look like a princess,” he said earnestly, voice soft with embarrassment ‘cause Kyle from school said it wasn’t cool to be best friends with a girl.

Steve had told him to shut up, brows knitted together, cheeks blushing and he’d spent that rest of recess so confused, ‘cause the boy thought you were the coolest person he knew.

You flushed at his words, nose scrunched and you picked at the hem of your dress, dipping into a clumsy curtsy, the way all the Disney princess did on the tapes your mom let you watch.

“Thanks,” you beamed, all teeth and sore cheeks ‘cause Steve always made you smile real hard.

You felt nervous then, wondering where you and your yellow sundress fit into Steve’s room, but the moment broke, that unfamiliar jitter in your stomach disappeared Steve tugged you down onto his navy blue carpet, NES console beeping as it came to life and he handed you the extra controller, smile bright.

The day turned to night too quickly, the way it always did when you were with Steve, and soon enough the Harrington’s phone was ringing and Steve’s mom was yelling up the stairs, telling you it was time to go home for dinner.

Steve walked you out like he always did, shoulders touching as you both hurried down the stairs, eyes tired from the TV screen, fingers sticky from sugar cookies. The sun was just starting to set, the world outside was hazy and peach coloured, lavender clouds low in the sky and everything smelled like cut grass and your mom’s lemon trees.

Steve walked you to where his lawn met yours, the streets tired and empty ‘cause the summer heat was still lingering, making the air heavy and sweet. You watched as the boy chewed his lip, uncharacteristically nervous, backs of hands brushing as you walked across the grass, damp blades brushing your bare ankles and you wondered why your best friend's cheeks were so pink.

“Paul Matthews kissed Gemma Kennedy under the bleachers,” he suddenly blurted out, and you frowned, lips twisting.

“He did?” You asked, unsure of why this news was being shared. You didn’t like Paul Matthews, he was annoying and never gave anyone else a shot of the swings at recess. “What’d he say?”

Steve shrugged, all boyish and innocent. “He said it was kinda gross.”

“Gross,” you repeated, features scrunched. “Why’d Gemma wanna kiss him anyways? Paul smells like gym socks.”

Steve snorted, a shoulder bumping into yours. You could smell your dad’s pasta from the open kitchen window, the pop of a bottle being opened, soft music from one of your mom’s favourite bands.

“Do I smell like gym socks?” The boy asked, suddenly self conscious and you poked at his ribs, head shaking.

“No,” you told him earnestly, voice all quiet and sweet ‘cause it was like you were both the only two in Hawkins at that moment. “You smell nice. Like cookies and bubblegum.”

He grinned, too pleased with your assessment and before you hopped over the flowerbed that split your home with Steve’s, he caught your hand, palm a little clammy.

He murmured your name, voice shy and it made your tummy tumble in a way that you still didn’t understand, not properly, not yet.

You turned, eyes wide ‘cause you were both reaching an age where boys and girls didn’t really hold hands playing in the street anymore, and if they did, it meant something else. It made kids whisper in the playground, pass notes in the classroom and suddenly watching the older students kiss each other at their lockers didn’t seem as icky.

“Have you kissed anyone?” Steve asked you, voice laced with curiosity.

You flushed, heart raging, pulse picking up ‘cause you hadn’t and suddenly it felt like the most embarrassing thing in the world. But Steve still had his hand over yours and he squeezed your fingers a little tighter, and something about it felt so reassuring, like he’d keep every secret you gifted him.

“No.” A pause, a worry, a flutter of nerves. “Have you?”

Were you supposed to? Was a boy meant to like you now? Has Steve kissed a girl? Have you missed something monumental?

“No.”

Oh. A beat of silence that seemed to stretch an age.

“Can I kiss you?”

Oh.

“You wanna kiss me?” You asked, lashes blinking slow, mouth parted. You could taste the sugar cookies you’d shared with Steve still melting on your tongue. “Me?”

Steve stumbled over his words, cheeks flushed rose and he licked at his lips, unsure of what to say ‘cause Jesus Christ he was thirteen years old and had no idea what he was doing. But he remembered something that Paul had said to him, legs kicking as they sat on the swings together, sun beating down on their backs.

“Wish I had kissed Kimmy Cheng instead,” the boy had said, somewhat thoughtful, brows scrunched. “I really like Kimmy, maybe that would’ve made it better.”

It had made Steve think then, chewing at his cheek ‘cause the only girl he really liked was you, his best friend. You didn’t make him nervous, and when the movies you watched with him got too scary, you held his hand, face behind a pillow and he didn’t hate that. Not at all.

“I mean, I guess?” Steve mumbled and god, he didn’t understand why his stomach was flipping over, that same feeling he got when he decided he was gonna climb that old oak tree over by Fifth, the one that was too high, that had thick branches that swallowed the world below your feet. “Would be easier if our first kiss was with each other. Might be less embarrassin’, y’know?”

That made sense, you thought, ‘cause you really didn’t want another boy telling everyone your kisses were gross and Steve wouldn’t make fun of you if you were bad at it, would he?

“Okay.” You said decisively, and you took a deep breath, wondering why your heart was beating so fast, the same way it did when Steve went too fast on his bike, your fingers digging crescent moons into his shoulders, eyes tearing up at the whipping find, hair covering your face and his. “Now?”

“Now?” He repeated eyes wide and then he swore, quiet, ‘cause he wasn’t supposed to and his hand readjusted his grip on yours, palms clammy and fingers linking.

You hadn’t held hands like that before. It felt different, a little funny, closer.

But before you could comment on it, the boy was leading you between the two houses, the air warm and trapped between bricks and he opened his garden gate, feet clumsy as you both half ran down the skinny strip of yard at the side of his home.

It was overgrown there, the little hidden patch of long grass and wildflowers that grew underneath Steve’s bedroom window and it smelled like honeysuckle and lavender. You could hear the trickle of the pool, your mom’s music and the setting sun cut through the slats in the fences in stripes, lighting you both up with gold and bronze.

It smelled like summer, you decided, the perfect July day and when Steve spun to face you, you let out a noise of surprise. You were happy to notice that he seemed nervous too, teeth pulling at his bottom lip, hand tugging through his already wild hair.

But you were both hidden there, in the edges of the garden, stolen away from the rest of the town and out of sight of your parents. It felt like the biggest secret of all, one to lock away in the depths of your journal and this felt so much more than giving away the last cookie, more than backseat bike rides and a handmade friendship bracelet, more than sleepovers on Steve’s living room floor, heads touching when you fell asleep.

“What do we do?” you asked, nothing more than a soft whisper.

Steve shrugged, heart rattling against his ribcage and he licked his bottom lip and stumbled a little closer. The toes of his trainers touched your sandals and he was already a little taller than you but he blinked, gaze settling on you from underneath thick, dark lashes and you gulped.

“I don’t really know,” Steve murmured, hands flexing by his sides ‘cause he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to hold yours, or place them on your sides, your shoulders.

He shoved them in his pockets instead, hiding the way they shook a little with nerves and he gasped when you moved closer still, knees bumping clumsy against his own and he could count the freckles on your nose, and he wondered if they matched the ones on his skin, a present from long summer days outside.

“Will I just-?” Steve’s voice cracked and he flushed but you didn’t mention it, you didn’t laugh, you never did. “Should I?”

You weren’t sure what possessed you, maybe all the sugar you’d consumed, maybe it was the heat of sun on your shoulders, maybe it was the way your tummy was rolling with nerves and worry but you grasped at Steve’s shoulders, pushing yourself up onto your toes and pressed your lips to the boy’s without any sort of announcement.

Another gasp, warm skin, nails digging into arms, two pairs of eyes wide, noses bumping.

It lasted a few seconds, maybe less. But your lips were tingling when you pulled away, cheeks a new kind of hot and Steve looked a little shellshocked. You both rocked on your heels into the grass, too tall lavender brushing against your shins and then the boy smiled, a burst of sunshine in the shadows, and he looked delighted.

You were sure your ears were burning, the tips feeling hot and when you looked at Steves, you found his were pink too. You beamed, a nervous giggle, a laugh that got caught in your chest and when you heard your mom’s voice call from the back door - so close to where you were both still standing - you jumped, two kids trying not to be caught doing something they shouldn't.

The garden gate squeaked when you ran back through it, the hinges calling after you and you smelled like a bouquet of flowers as you ran across both lawns, feet tripping over your front porch as you ran inside.

Something pretty bloomed in between the spaces of your bones that day, when Steve Harrington decided that you were both going to be each other's first kiss. It stayed there, for so much longer than you thought it would. You’d always remember it as brown sugar and vanilla, lavender and honeysuckle, feeling brave, honey coloured eyes and complete and utter innocence.

1981. Devils roll their dice, angels roll their eyes, what doesn’t kill me makes me want you more.

You didn’t even want to go to the party, you didn’t even like Karen Vincent and you were damn sure she didn’t like you. You knew you were only invited because of Steve, a slip of pink paper passed to you after Karen and her friend Shauna slid between you and the boy at his locker, hands on his chest, on his arm.

You’d wrinkled your nose at it all, fingertips gripping the invite like a ticking time bomb but the girls had learnt the hard way that Steve wouldn’t show if you weren’t welcomed too.

It’s how you found yourself crammed into the Vincent’s basement with too many other fifteen year olds, the music making the walls vibrate, the punch bowl spiked with something that shouldn’t have been mixed with fruit juice and god, it was too warm.

It was just past ten o’clock and your parents wanted you home for eleven, which meant that, by default, that was Steve’s curfew too. You’d both been allowed to walk home on the condition that you stuck together and kept to the main roads, the summer months making the nights light enough that you could see both the sun and the moon in the sky, the clouds a hazy orange as they sunk into the horizon.

You’d spoke to a few kids you shared some classes with, avoided the snack table and its fizzing punch bowl, the concoction no longer the same colour it was when Karen’s mom poured it. And then there was a pop of a bottle cork, splashes of spilled liquid on the already sticky floors, some cheers and a circle was made.

Fuck.

“Seven minutes in heaven!” Yelled a boy you didn’t really know, some kid from the same basketball team as Steve, “let’s go losers!”

There was a symphony of wolf whistles and giggles as kids piled into the middle of the room, coffee tables and armchairs pushed out of the way in favour of a seat on the floor, knee to knee and shoulder to shoulder with their classmates, eyes wide and searching for their next possible date to the arcade.

“Harrington!” the same boy called out, “get in here!”

Steve appeared beside you, hand brushing gently on your elbow and you frowned without meaning to, wondering why it’d taken him so long to return from the bathroom. But then you saw Karen by his other side, lips glossy and smacking blue bubblegum, eyes sharp on you as she grinned.

“Are you playing Steve?” she asked, lashes blinking, voice coy.

You grimaced, already taking a step back from the ever growing circle. Someone was placing the now empty bottle in the middle and you eyed the closet door across the room like an old nemesis. Your stomach was twirling, and it wasn’t from all the pizza rolls but the smell of chocolate pretzels and red vines wasn’t helping.

But Steve’s hand curled around your arm, still gentle, but he could read you like a book. He tsked, his smile playful but eyes gentle, as if he could feel the nerves radiate off of you. Maybe he could, maybe he could hear the way your heart rattled inside your chest, louder than the music, deeper than the bass.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he admonished, crowding into you a little so he could find your ear with his mouth. He was so much taller than you now, the top of your head barely reaching his chin and you scowled, knowing what was coming. “Where you goin’ princess?”

“Home,” you told him stubbornly and you suddenly hated the way your denim skirt was sticking to your thighs, too constricting, too warm.

You heard him sigh, making a noise that only a best friend could, the sound of someone being done with your shit but loving you nonetheless. You moved backwards, hips bumping into the table that was piled high with empty red cups and the boy followed, a puppy at your feet, the same way it had been for three years now.

“Aw c’mon,” Steve groaned, “if you go home, I gotta leave too and you promised me you’d stay until curfew.”

You huffed, arms crossed protectively over your chest, ‘cause you hated the way people were starting to stare. They always did with you and Steve, especially when he touched you like, so casually, so gently.

“I can leave on my own, Steve, I’m a big girl.”

No you weren’t. You were fifteen and still scared of the dark after Steve made you watch Day Of The Dead when both of your parents were out late at the new Italian restaurant just outside of town.

But then, a poke to your arm, your cheek, the end of your nose. You swatted at him, hiding your smile between a press of your lips.

“You know my mom would kill me if I let you walk home alone,” he grumbled but it was soft, still gentle. “Fuck, your mom would kill me after.”

“You can’t be killed twice, stupid,” you said but it lacked heat, an excuse to say something other than agreeing to a game you didn’t wanna play.

He still knew you too well, scoffing at your evasion, hand curling warm around your wrist and pulling you back to the party, back to him, bodies bumping in a too close proximity that became more tense with every year that you got older.

It was becoming harder to ignore that your best friend was pretty. You were sure he’d wrinkle his nose at your choice of adjective but Steve grew up and missed the awkward stage, shoulders broad at the same time he grew a foot, wild hair becoming only a little tamer, more product in it and eyes still warm and brown, a new dimple in his cheek you loved to press your finger into.

You’d heard the other girls in your year call him hot, a total babe, whispered through giggles in the locker room. But your best friend still looked at you all soft, the same way he did before he gave you his first kiss and he took yours, pressed against the honeysuckle in his backyard. He teased gently, took your hand when the streets got too dark and you were both late for curfew, pressed a foot over yours under the dinner table when your mom started talking about test results and extra curriculars.

Steve was still your best friend. But he was really, really pretty.

“There he is! Harrington!” Another boy - Jake someone, from your English class - had forced his way through the crowd to clap a hand on each of your shoulders, pushing you both into the circle. “And you brought your princess, how ‘bout that, huh?”

You flushed, with both annoyance and embarrassment, ‘cause one day when you were all still twelve, Steve spotted you across the park, hands twisting around a basketball as he took in another new dress you wore and called you a princess again. It just so happened that his friends had heard it too.

His nickname for you never left, but neither did your classmate's memory of the incident.

And then Steve’s hand was ripped from your arm, bodies separating you both and he was manhandled to the one side of the circle, you to the other, shoulders squished between a boy and a girl you vaguely recognised from gym class, maybe biology too. It was warmer on the floor, heat and teenage hormones gathering sticky between too close bodies, the smell of cheap aftershave and someone’s mom’s perfume mixing with Kool-Aid and sprite.

“Okay so! You guys know the rules!” Karen was standing from her spot in the circle, suspiciously opposite to Steve, eyes wide and hands animated as she gestured to the closet door on the other side of the room. “Spin the bottle and whoever it lands on is all yours for a whole seven minutes.”

The group giggled, excitement rippling through the circle, bodies shuffling, overflowing cups spilling.

You panicked, scanning the line of faces until you found Steve’s, his eyes already on yours, knowing and soft. He was mouthing something to you, silent underneath the music and chatter.

“It’s okay.”

But then Jake was shoving a hand to Steve’s shoulder, urging him into the middle of the circle with a raucous cheer that only teenage boys could make, the rest of the basketball team joining in and Steve bowed his head, lips twisting into an almost smile that he couldn’t really hide.

You watched as every girl perked up like a meerkat, backs straight, hair twisted around fingers, elbows digging into competitors that tried to make their space in the circle more known.

Your stomach rolled again and it only got worse when Steve spun the bottle and the glass flashed green in the centre, bodies bowing forward to see where it would land.

It sounded like you were underwater, excited voices and yells sounding far away, dulled with the thump of the music. The bottle had spun and spun and spun, landing on you with such precise finality that Karen audibly groaned.

You looked up, Steve’s eyes wide on yours, lips parted and cheeks pink. Before either of you could speak, before you could shake your head or grab your jacket from the sofa and run up the basement stairs, your hand was grabbed by Jake, lips stretched wide and voice booming.

“King Steve and the princess!” He cheered and his excitement was echoed by your classmates, hollers and whoops following you as the boy grabbed Steve with his other hand and the three of you were tripping over stretched legs and forgotten bottles, heading for that fucking closet door.

“Wait!” You said, voice sharp and god, you could hear the panic there.

You couldn’t kiss Steve. You didn’t want to kiss Steve. You shouldn’t kiss Steve.

But Jake ignored you and the music was turned up a little louder again as the rest of the party lounged on their spaces on the floor, heads turned and tilted to watch you both with interest, and your arms only found Steve’s chest when the door was yanked open and a few sets of strange hands shoved you both in.

The door closed, a gust of air, a click, the muffled sounds of the party locked away behind wood. It was dark, musty and your foot hit a shoe rack, your back against a bundle of winter coats that had been retired for the summer.

“M’sorry,” Steve whispered and you knew he was referring to making you stay. You could’ve been half way home by now, trainers scuffing the edges of the sidewalk, fresh air kissing your cheeks. “Didn’t think it would land on you.”

You grunted an unladylike response as your eyes adjusted to the low light, a sliver of warm white coming in from the cracks on the door hinges, letting you see the way the boy was looking at you guiltily.

“Whatever,” you grumbled ‘cause you really didn’t want to kiss your best friend but you hated the way Steve sounded disappointed at the idea.

You weren’t sure how long you could keep lying to yourself, but you were certain you had another few years in you.

“We don’t have to do anything,” he said, voice still soft, as if anyone outside of the closet could possibly hear the music and yelling. “S’not like we have to kiss.”

You snorted, chest sore in a way that felt like rejection and you hated how it stung. You looked at Steve, his eyes still on you as he shoved a hand into his jeans pocket, another raking through his hair in a way you knew all too well. He was nervous, agitated.

“Sorry I’m not Karen Vincent,” you snarked and god, you hated the way you sounded jealous, you hated the way the words burned your tongue but Steve didn’t pick up on it. There was nothing to pick up. “Promise this wasn’t some sort of elaborate cockblocking plan.”

It was Steve’s turn to laugh, a huff of air that hit your cheek ‘cause he was so close and he was all cheap beer, gummy worms and hair gel.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” the boy mumbled but there was a teasing to his voice, a not so serious lilt.

You pressed your fist into his arm anyway, a hardly there punch that packed no heat and he poked his finger into your side in retaliation. You swatted at him, glaring ‘cause he knew you were ticklish and all the movement sent an empty shoe box hurtling down from a shelf above you both.

“I do not cockblock you,” you pouted, almost offended.

“Not on purpose.” Steve snorted, “Took me all of freshman year to get everyone to believe you weren’t my girlfriend.”

You scrunched your nose at the memory of it, boy’s catcalling you from afar, whispers when you and Steve walked to school together every morning, the unappreciative glares from the girls who wanted him instead.

“Whatever,” you mumbled again. “How long left?”

“It’s only been like, a minute, jeez, that bad being stuck with me princess?” Steve’s voice was teasing and his hand snuck out to grab at your waist again, touch familiar, but his fingers were tickling, poking gently at the spaces between your ribs and you wriggled against him, knees bumping off of skis and old bikes.

“Yes,” you lied and the boy knew, ‘cause you could see the way the light through the crack lit up the curve of his grin.

“Besides, we’ve kissed before,” Steve suddenly said, cautious and soft. His hand was still on you, cupping your elbow to hold you near and it slid down to grasp your wrist. He shrugged, eyes on the floor. “Remember?”

You warmed at the memory, wondering why on earth Steve had to bring it up now when you had both never mentioned it since.

“Of course I do,” you huffed, hating the way you sounded bothered. “It wasn’t that long ago. And it hardly even counted.”

Steve scowled, his hurt puppy expression painted across his features. Big, brown eyes set you in place with a stare. “It did so count,” he grumbled, “you were my first kiss.”

“And you were mine,” you fired back, as if this was suddenly an argument that you had to win. Steve always let you win.

“Have you kissed anyone else?” His voice was full of curiosity, void of any embarrassment, not like the way you felt when he asked you such questions.

It made you flush, eyes wide and lips parting, as if you weren’t supposed to say, as if you weren’t supposed to let him know. Steve had told you about his kiss with Lucy Greeves, behind the bike shed, a few months back.

He’d told you it was wet and she tasted like the chocolate milk she’d had at lunch. You remembered how he’d thrown himself into your pile of teddies and pillows at the foot of your bed, expression thoughtful as he told you he didn’t really like chocolate milk all that much.

Then there was Samantha Duncan the year before, a game of truth or dare at the skatepark when the sun started to set and your curfews got a little later. You didn’t watch when Steve leaned into the middle of the circle, friends giggling as he pressed his lips quick to the other girls.

“Just Miles Campbell,” you muttered, gaze lowered and set on the floor because you could feel the mischief bristle off of the boy as you spoke.

“Miles Campbell?!” He crowed, voice boisterous and no longer quiet. “He’s a giant, what did you do, climb a step ladder- ow!”

You pushed at Steve’s shoulder, face aflame. “Shut up! If you have to know, Harrington, we were sitting down.” You sounded haughty, but you didn’t care, ‘cause the boy was still laughing.

Steve settled down, a dopey smile just on his lips and despite his teasing, his eyes were fond. Your sides bumped as he shifted, too close and not enough space in the small closet and you were so, so aware that your gaze was level with the bottom half of his face.

His lips looked really soft.

“Was he a good kisser?”

“Why d’you wanna know?”

He shrugged.

“Thinking about asking him out?” You smirked. “Don’t think you're his type, Stevie.”

“Shut up.”

There was a knock on the door, a sudden sharp sound that had you both jumping apart and you weren’t even sure when you had wandered that close.

“Five minutes left, lovebirds!” Jake, voice muffled by the door and the music, called out, sounding way too pleased.

Steve stared at the door, bottom lip tucked between his teeth and you knew he was thinking about something. He only hesitated a little before he knocked a foot into yours, catching your gaze and he spoke as if he wanted to get the words out fast, before he could stop himself.

“Was he, though?” Steve asked again, voice quieter this time, almost unsure. He looked nervous, “Miles?”

You stared at him, maybe for a beat too long ‘cause the tips of his ears were turning red and he coughed, a little awkward. You made the same strangled noise, shoulders shrugging.

“I mean, sure,” you whispered, “I guess? He was… it was fine.”

You weren’t overly sure if the darkness was playing tricks on you or not, but you could’ve sworn you saw the boy smile.

“He tried to stick his tongue in my mouth,” you continued, face warm from embarrassment, ‘cause you suddenly felt like you were sharing too much, even with Steve. “It felt weird, like a dead fish. I didn’t really know what to do.”

“You’ve never made out with someone?” Steve asked and god, you were almost positive he was the only person who could’ve asked you that question without sounding like he was making fun of you. His voice was soft, all fond affection for you that he’d collected over the years and he moved closer, toes touching yours like he knew exactly how to handle you. “Kissed someone like that before?”

“That was the first time,” you squirmed under his gaze, feeling much younger than you were. Were you supposed to have that much experience in making out with someone at fifteen? Did Steve? “I don’t really know if I did it right.”

“Oh,” he breathed and he didn’t sound like he was judging you at all. There was another slow silence, warm and not at all uncomfortable because it was still Steve, and it wrapped around you both like a question. “I could show you. If you wanted.”

The music bled underneath the gap in the door, vibrated against your skin and the drums made your heart drop and stop, thundering to the beat quickly after. You were sure it was the music. You were positive it was the music.

But then Steve mistook your silence for hesitation, a silent ‘no’ and he was already opening his mouth to cover his tracks, to take back the statement, to tell you he was stupid, that he was only kidding.

“I didn’t mean-, we don’t have to… shit, I-”

Four minutes left.

“Okay.”

You could hear the rush of your blood in your ears, skin warm, cheeks hot, tongue sneaking out to peek between your lips and you wondered if he’d still be able to taste the lipgloss you put on before you left the house.

“What?”

“Show me.”

He took a step towards you and you watched as the boy tried to keep cool but his ever expressive face gave him away, brown eyes all wide, jaw a little slack and his hand found your waist, a sliver of skin between your shirt and skirt, a place he’d not really touched before.

“Is this alright?” His voice cracked, and he blushed but you didn’t laugh. You never laughed, but you did nod. “Just do what I do, ‘kay? Can I kiss you?”

Was it really that simple, you wondered? But you didn’t get a lot of time to think it over, because as soon as you nodded, Steve was crowding into you more, pressing you into the coats and you still had to press up on your toes to let his mouth meet yours.

It was so different from last time and it was almost the same.

Steve Harrington still tasted like sugar and vanilla, hidden under cheap beer and you gasped when his lips touched yours, the same way you did when you were thirteen. But your hands grasped at his neck, steadying yourself, and he clutched at your waist to help, as if you had both gotten a little older and suddenly knew where to touch.

His mouth was soft over yours, a little hesitant at first, but then coaxing. Your lips slid over his once, twice, three times and then you felt the soft lick of his tongue at the seam of your lips and you remembered the way he’d told you to copy him.

So you did.

Your tongue touched his and your breath hitched with how nice it felt and the kiss moved soft and slow. You grabbed Steve a little harder, body swaying into his in the dark ‘cause your stomach was swooping and your heart was hammering and it felt like you were on the front seat of a rollercoaster, hanging off the edge.

Maybe Steve felt the same way, despite having more experience, because he gripped you the same way, fingernails leaving little half moon marks on your hips.

It felt strange, it felt good, it felt warm and it made everything tingle, breath stuck in your throat and a sigh leaving your chest and you felt like you should’ve been embarrassed. But you weren’t, because it was Steve.

But then voices outside were counting down from ten and they got louder and louder, hands hammering on the door and you both ripped apart before the door swung open, harsh strip lights and the smell of artificial strawberry and natty light swimming back into the closet with you.

The walk home wasn’t as awkward as it should’ve been considering you and your best friend had had your tongues in each other's mouths. Maybe it’s ‘cause you were still too young, maybe it was because you didn’t realise it yet, but there wasn’t much about yours and Steve’s friendship that would ever be awkward.

So you followed the yellow lines on the edge of the road home, footsteps a little behind Steve’s and every now and then, the boy would look back over his shoulder to make sure you were still there. It smelled like nighttime and summer and everything you associated with the boy, damp grass and leftover smoke from someone's barbecue, chlorine from the pools and you could hear sprinklers in backyards, hissing in the still warm air.

You were a little late, just over curfew and the television was making your living room glow, the flicker of light coming out from the window. So Steve took your hand and led you through the back garden gate, pool lights leading you both to your patio doors, the rest of the house dark and you could smell lavender and honeysuckle from Steve’s yard.

He helped you find the key to the door, the spare hidden in a plant pot filled with pebbles and moss, one lone rose sprouting from the dirt. Both of your hands fumbled together as your fingers touched, all sudden pink cheeks and lowered gazes and Steve whispered a ‘good night, princess,’ before sneaking back down the lane, hopping over the lower part of the fence and into his own yard.

By the time you had tiptoed upstairs, past your dad who was dozing in the living room arm chair, Steve was in his room, bedroom window across from yours and the lights were still on as he lounged on his bed, shirt off and a baseball clutched in his fist.

He was throwing it from his hand, watching it fall up and down in the air before catching it again, one arm thrown underneath his head and you couldn’t help but gaze at the muscles there, all new and never really seen before.

You swallowed, suddenly too warm, the heat from the day trapped in your bedroom and sticking to your skin but you didn’t want to open the window, you didn’t want to alert the boy to your staring. You and Steve had spent nights, weeks, months and years hanging out from the sills, talking over the trailing ivy and flowers and growing below.

But this felt like something you shouldn't have been doing, especially since you could still taste him on your lips, feel where his hands had burned against your sides, so you pulled your curtains and trapped all these brand new thoughts inside your room with you.

You took them to bed, slipped between the sheets with them and everything smelled like brown sugar and honey, gummy bears and Steve Harrington.

1984. Killing me slow, out the window, I’ll always be waiting for you to be waiting below.

“Princess, c’mon, every time.”

Steve’s voice was exasperated, laced with something softer and it made swinging your leg over your bedroom window sill a little easier.

You peered down at him, long grass brushing his shins ‘cause no one but you two used that little path that took you out of the back garden gate. He was gazing back up, setting sun brushing his face with gold and caramel, peachy pink clouds in the sky and Steve held his arms out, beckoning.

“You’ll catch me?” You murmured, still unsure, despite this being a well practised escape.

“Don’t I always?” the boy scoffed, almost offended, but the small edge below your window didn’t offer a lot of footing and you swore the drainpipe was becoming more loose than it used to be.

“Harrington, I swear,” the threat was empty and it fell idle on your lips when you pushed yourself over the edge, hands gripping at the window frame and feet finding their footing.

“Don’t second name me,” Steve grumbled and you sensed him moving closer, buttercups and daisy crushed under his sneakers as he kept his arms outstretched towards you. “You good?”

You mumbled some noise of confirmation, knees bent and ready to drop. You hated this part, and weirdly, it got harder as you got older, limbs stretched, body heavier, no longer small and quick to scramble up tree branches and out of windows.

“Steve?” You couldn’t really see behind you, the soft summer breeze picking at your hair and blocking your view of the ground below but you lowered yourself as much as you could, fingers too warm and slipping against the window frame.

“Yeah, I’ve got you.”

So you let go, the short drop softened by the boy’s hand catching at your waist and pulling you against him, your back to his front and he held you there, ankles swishing in the damp grass.

Steve was all hard muscle and cologne, arms stronger than they had ever been, tanned from the summer and wrapped tight around you, hands pressed into the skin underneath your breasts. He let you go when you found your feet, white chucks soaked by the evening dew and you blew out a breath and set the boy with a stare.

“We have front doors, you know,” you watched him grin at you, wide and bright and so familiar. “Why do we have to do this?”

“S’more fun,” the boy answered and he landed a firm smack to your ass when you bent over, fingers tugging at your laces. “Nice shorts princess.”

“Fuck you,” you squeaked, cheeks warm and you reached out to do the same, plan connecting with the denim of his jeans and Steve laughed before groaning a little dirty and exaggerated. “You’re such a dick.”

He spun you both, feet leading you backwards towards the garden gate, clumsy between the flowers and he grinned, wolfishly.

“You know I love it when you talk dirty.”

“Steve,” you tried to sound huffy, as if you weren’t impressed by his jokes but you sounded flustered instead and you hated how the boy knew it.

But he never said anything, never commented on the flush across your chest or the way your tongue snuck out to wet at your lips, he never poked fun. He just always watched with knowing eyes and a soft smile you could never discern, and kept on teasing you.

“Y’know it’s better if my dad doesn’t see me leave,” he finally answered, fingers bullying the lock, almost rusted shut from years of only being used by both of you. “I get asked too many questions and I give answers he doesn’t like and suddenly I’m back in my room filling out fuckin’ college applications for the eighteenth day in a row.“

A pang of sympathy hit your chest and before you could tell your friend that you understood, you sympathised, he was placing a warm hand on the space between your shorts and your shirt, guiding you out the gate.

“Doesn’t mean I have to do the same,” you grumbled good naturedly, “I could meet you out front like a normal person.”

“Fuck off, we both know you love jumping into my arms as much as I love catching you.”

You couldn’t remember when you started flirting with your best friend, or when he started flirting with you. You couldn’t pick a place or time when it began, or who did it first. But you were both eighteen and more appreciative of all the strong lines and muscles, the soft curves and different ways you looked at each other.

It would be a comment, a sly remark, a hand touching too close to areas yet to be discovered, a wink, a hug that went on for a beat too long.

Nothing had happened, not really, not since the closet at Karen Vincent’s party, but everyone at school called you Steve Harrington’s girl and the boys you hooked up with in the backs of cars always pulled away mid kiss to ask if you were definitely single.

It was all fun and teasing, familiar touches with a familiar boy, sprawled together in the same bed you’d shared with him since you were twelve years old. Except now there wasn’t as much space between you both, limbs longer, bodies taller, leftover alcohol soaking into your heads in the mornings that you woke up wrapped around each other.

You would pretend you didn’t feel how hard he was, morning wood pressed into the small of your back, the curve of your ass and Steve wouldn’t comment when your shirt had rucked itself up your ribs in the middle of the night, too much showing to be decent.

It was enough to keep you both on your toes, the close friendship teetering over the question of what if? Could we? Should we? Will we?

Steve didn’t hide the way he looked at you, affection always strong in his brown eyes, hands soft and face fond when he picked a wildflower off the garden wall, tucking it behind your ear but there was always a linger over your bare legs, the way the hem of your shorts cut high on your thighs, the way they pinched in at your waist and made your shirt ride up your ribs.

The roller rink was busy as expected, ten o’clock on a Saturday night and filled with teenagers looking for something and someone to do. The kids of the day had long left and the lights were dimmer, the whole hall darker with flashes of red and aquamarine, bubble gum pink and candied lilac that flashed across the floor and faces.

The disco ball twisted in the middle and it sent rainbows and reflections across the walls, painted Steve’s face in technicolour and you gave his cheek a little pat as you took off, wheels spinning you backwards, music thumping in your chest.

He smiled at you, knowing, brows raised as he took a seat on the tables that lined the roller rink, crowded by the friends you’d found from school, flasks pulled from pockets, clear liquid dumped into red and blue slurpees.

“Where you goin’ princess?”

You did a little spin, already warm from the sticky air, summer leaking in and slipping between the people skating and dancing, bodies too close. Your foot found the rink, hands leaning on the barrier wall as you sent Steve a wink, your cherry glossed lips widening in a smile that was borderline salacious.

“To find someone to play with.”

The boys surrounding Steve whooped and hollered, cat calls ringing out underneath the music and you could hear the comments directed to Steve, playful intones about how his girl was nothin’ but trouble, and wasn’t he gonna get a pretty thing like you locked down?

But Steve just shook his head at you, playful and exasperated, while he leant back on the bench, waving away his friends remarks with quiet whatever’s and it’s not like that.

He had nothing to say when you dropped yourself into his lap half an hour later, body warm from skating, face flushed and eyes a little too wide and bright.

He ignored the whistles from his friends, the knowing glances, the nudges to ribs. ‘Cause you were wrapping your hands around his neck, fingers playing with his hair and your lips were at his ear.

“There’s some creep followin’ me around,” you whispered, body tense and Steve’s hands, where they’d dropped to on instinct when you sat on him, tightened on the space above your knee.

“Who?” Steve asked immediately, voice low and it rumbled through you, you could feel it in his chest and his eyes were scanning the crowds, brows pinched together.

You didn’t look, didn’t turn away from where you’d pressed your nose to his temple, breathing in his cologne, his shampoo, something minty and like the forest. You caught Candance Peterson’s eye from over Steve’s head and you ignored the way she smirked at you.

“By the lockers,” you murmured and your breath hitched just a little when Steve wrapped one arm around you, holding you closer to the other hand sliding it’s way between your bare legs, fingers curled around your thigh possessively. “Red shirt, bad hair.”

Steve snickered ‘cause he found him, a guy with an overgrown mullet and beady eyes, hanging by the lockers and benches. He was staring at you, watching the way you draped yourself over your best friend and Steve raised a hand, wiggling his fingers to show that he’d seen him.

“He didn’t try anythin’, did he?”

You shook your head, tip of your nose brushing against Steve’s cheek ‘cause you refused to move any further away and you knew the boy didn’t mind. His hand was back on your leg, thumb stoking circles on the inside of your thigh and it took everything you had not to squirm in his lap.

“Nah, just asked too many questions, told me he was wondering why a ‘pretty little girl’ like me wasn’t with her boyfriend,” you scrunched your face as you spoke, lips twisted. “Told him that my boyfriend was right over here.”

It wasn’t the first time you or Steve had used each other to slip away from some unwanted attention. Steve was just tall enough, just broad enough to warrant a second glance, too drunk boys weighing up their options when you snuck under your best friend's arm, wondering if they could take him.

They usually gave up, watching with a sneer as your pressed your body into Steve’s, his hands taking advantage of your little role play game and he’d let his palm take a slow wander over the curve of your ass, a tight squeeze, a light tap and you’d dig your fingers into the spaces between his ribs for it, his laugh huffing guilty onto your neck.

You found that you could be just as intimidating, Steve seeking you out at parties when girls from out of town got a little too much, a little too eager and kept trying to touch the hair that he spent too much fucking time styling. The boy would sneak up behind you, arms around your waist as he pulled you back against him and used you as the cutest human shield he’d ever seen.

The sight of you in Steve’s arms usually stopped his admirers in their tracks, his lips pressed to the top of your head, smile hidden in your hair as you set them with a look that Steve said could make grown men cry. .

“Oh you did, did you?” Steve drawled, “did you tell him I was the prettiest one out of the bunch?”

You snorted, a sound that always made Steve grin and you loved the way his arms tightened around you. Your position on his knees gave you an inch or two of height on him, a little taller, just for a change. You pulled back enough so you could gaze down at him, lashes lowered and face overly thoughtful.

“I don’t know, Stevie,” you pondered, all faux heavy sighs, teasing and fluttering lashes. “Danny’s starting to look real cute since joining the team-”

“You shut your damn mouth,” Steve interrupted, voice huffy but he was still smiling despite himself. He took a second to watch the way a refraction of light from the disco ball travelled over your cheek, lighting up the new summer freckles there before it dipped into your Cupid’s bow. He cleared his throat, suddenly shy. “We both know you think I’m the hottest guy he- oh, shit. Your friend is coming over.”

“What?” You barked out and your voice sounded strangled. You turned to see that Steve was right, the guy in the red shirt was making his way through the gathering crowds, weaving through the busy tables towards you both, his gaze set on you and another question posed on his lips. “Oh, Jesus Christ.”

Steve was already shifting underneath you, arms hooking under the backs of your knees and you knew he was ready to deposit you on the chair next to him, eyes searching for a fight.

“Can I kiss you?” You asked instead.

“Shit, what?” The boy’s response was garbled, words tumbling over each other as he stopped his movements and looked at you wide eyed. “Princess-”

You sighed, impatient, a hand clutching at Steve’s chin, tilting his face up to you so you could catch his gaze, the question asked again with just your eyes. A silent exchange, a secret language only you two knew. You watched his tongue swipe over his bottom lip, eyes heavy, dropping to your mouth and you waited, a second, maybe two and then fuck, he nodded, barely perceptible.

You crushed your lips to his, swallowed the moan that Steve immediately gifted you, fingers pushing into his jaw and sighing at the way his hand on your back dropped to the waistband of your shorts, fingertips desperately seeking the warmth of your bare skin.

It was different to the kisses you had shared before, ‘cause fuck, now you both knew what you were doing and you had almost as much experience under your belt as Steve had. You knew boys liked it when you got a little bossy, hands on their jaw and thumb on their bottom lip, telling them to part their lips for you. You knew they liked it when you sighed all sweet and pretty, hips squirming in their hands, fingers pulling at their hair. They told you that you tasted like cherries, something sweet and tart and like dirty secrets.

Steve seemed to like it too, ‘cause his tongue was sweeping past your lips, kissing you dirtier than he should’ve for such a public setting and you could hear your friends rippling in excitement around you.

You pushed your thumb to the corner of Steve’s mouth and he obeyed like you thought he would, parting his lips between yours and groaning into you. It was all teeth and tongue, hot hands on bare skin, hair between fingers, threading and pulling and you wondered how you could still taste vanilla, hidden in his lips underneath blue raspberry slush.

You liked the way he held you to him, a little too tight, a little more possessive than he’d ever been with you before. Because growing up with Steve Harrington was all protective hands, glares sent to boys who deemed not good enough, rides home from work and gentle hands taking that one drink too many from you at parties that went on too late.

This was different, this was personal, this was a touch that screamed mine mine mine and it kinda hated the way you knew you’d think about it later, back flat in your bed, sheets kicked to your ankles and your hand pushed down the front of your shorts.

Maybe Steve would do the same you thought, maybe he already had, you wondered. And images of Steve with his hand flat to the shower tiles flashed through your head, body wet, hair soaked, lips parted and his other palm fisting himself to the thought of you.

It was suddenly too much and you needed air more than you needed Steve. Your lips left his and the sounds of the rink came rushing back, like you’d pushed your head out from underwater. There was suddenly music, the score of wheels on wood, the siren of a pinball machine, ice clattering into cups from behind the bar.

Someone amongst the group let out one, long whistle and people tittered and god, it should’ve made you blush.

It should’ve.

It didn’t.

You simply stood from Steve’s lap, his hands still on your waist and guiding you to your feet until you could push your hair back from your warm cheeks, feeling only slightly scandalised when your friends all started but you kept your eyes on the boy.

You licked the taste of him from your lips, raspberry and sugar and something that you were now beginning to learn was just Steve. His cheeks were tinted pink, lips glossy from yours and his brown eyes were considerably darker, his finger trailing away from yours in a way that made you think he didn’t wanna let go.

But you cleared your throat the same time he did, only a little wobbly on the eight wheels that held you up and he grinned when you coughed out a laugh.

“That worked,” you told him, watching as the guy with the bad hair swung the door open, leaving without looking back.

“Huh,” Steve murmured, “how ‘bout that.”

—————

He didn’t say anything when the lights started turning back on, when the disco ball stopped spinning and people handed back their skates. Steve just found you on the benches, pressed shoulder to shoulder with your friends and he caught your eye from the door, another secret conversation that started with a quirk of a brow and ended with a tilt of a chin.

You said your goodbyes and followed the boy out the building, watching as Steve placed his hand behind his back, encouraging you to catch up and grab it. You held hands across the empty parking lot, fingers twisting and playing together until you hit the main road and it was normal, it was familiar, it was Steve.

He decided he was staying with you that night, mumbling an excuse about not facing his dad in the morning, how your bed was comfier and your mom made the best waffles but you didn’t need any convincing.

So you snuck into your house, unnecessarily quiet ‘cause your dad was still up watching TV and your mom was in the kitchen with a glass of wine and a book and they barely looked at the boy who was following you up to your bedroom, nothing more than a “night, kids,” called out into the hallway.

You lay side by side with the boy, half dressed and with too much bare skin on show, Steve’s shirt on the floor, your shorts almost indecent around your thighs.

It was the first time you thought that something else might happen, legs brushing against legs and hips bumping together as you tried to get comfortable, the burn of the others lips still on your own.

But nothing did and you were starting to wonder if anything ever would.

1985. And it’s new, the shape of your body.

It didn’t matter that it had been a Wednesday, it was the first day in weeks that you and Steve had managed to get the day off together and you were both planning on making the most of it.

It’s why the boy woke you up early, a rucksack already in his hand as he walked through your patio door, left open for that very reason, the rest of the house empty as your parents went to work.

You’d been surprised at how softly he’d woken you up, fingers prodding gently at the cheek that wasn’t smushed against your pillow, eyes hidden with sleep mussed hair and one leg bare and kicked out from beneath the sheets. He grinned when you grumbled and he took your sleep warmed spot when you finally dragged yourself out of bed and into a shower.

Steve barely looked away when you reappeared in just a towel, almost too short to be decent and when you turned to your dresser to pull out a swimsuit and clothes, his eyes dipped to the backs of your legs, thighs on show, tanned from the August sun, a small freckle there he’d never seen before.

“You said you were gonna set an alarm, princess,” Steve teased, head pushed back into your favourite pillow and if he realised it smelled like your shampoo and peach scented body wash, he didn’t say. “Clock’s ticking.”

“Jesus, give me peace, Harrington,” you grumbled, voice still thick with sleep and the summer air was slipping through your open window and it made you move slower than you wanted to. “Turn around.”

Steve did as he was told, face crushed into your sheets and a grin on his lips ‘cause he heard the soft thump of your towel hitting the floor, the shuffle of clothes sliding across your skin. He knew you were winding him up, taking that little game you both blamed to a new level, another limit, because there was no fucking way a girl that looked the way you did, didn’t know what she was doing.

Steve heard the snap of a bikini strap, the rasp of denim shorts over long legs and when you told him he could look once more, he turned around in time to see a flash of cherry red, a swimsuit that hid little, covered by the way you pulled a white shirt over your head.

You pushed a pair of Ray Bans onto your nose, a little too big and stolen from Steve a few summers before. You grinned, knowing, and held out a hand.

“C’mon pretty boy, let’s go.”

Steve took the car, drove it to the outskirts of town with the windows cracked, the summer air blowing in sticky and sweet. You had your feet on the dash, a new bracelet around your ankle, woven with blue and orange thread, a matching one around Steve’s wrist that he tried to protest at but his words were weak and his smile was bright.

He let you pick the song, cassettes spilling out of the glove compartment as you tried to find the perfect mix for a day like this. There wasn’t a cloud above Hawkins and when you drove past the Burick’s farm, the sunflowers were in full bloom, making the world that flashed past your window bright yellow and the strawberry paddocks made everything smell sweet.

The roads were quiet and the air still, and you couldn’t see another soul as Steve parked up on the roadside, a dirt corner off of the road leading out of town. You both walked into the wheat fields, long grass towering to your waists as you headed for the tree line. The crops brushed your bare legs, scratched softly against your skin and you could feel Steve behind you the whole time, eyes on you, anticipation growing, warming you like the sun.

When he ran, you did too, feet a little clumsy and neither of you could see where you were stepping but the peels of laughter made it worth it, the rush of the summer air on your face made it better. You chased after the boy, bag slamming on his back, eyes glancing back at you, looking like the twelve year old with the wild hair you once knew.

Steve didn’t stop running until he hit the patch of trees, legs slowing as the branches became thicker and you slammed into his back with a soft ‘oof,’ cheeks sore from grinning and neither of you thought much of it when the boy took your hand and led you through the thickets.

The trees cleared just before the cliff dropped off, the quarry vast and a pretty green-blue underneath you. The spot was secluded, familiar to you both and a well guarded secret that was kept over the years. You came every summer, secret visits that were just for you and Steve.

You’d been waiting for a day like this for what felt like months. The height of summer, blue skies, the distant buzz of cicadas and your best friend, all to yourself.

Something told you that Steve felt the same, ‘cause when you chanced a sideways look at him, he was already gazing back, soft smile on his face.c eyes all fond and it made the day seem even warmer.

It didn’t take long for you both to be stripped to your swimsuits, Steve’s eyes blatantly staring as you slipped the denim shorts down your hips and pulled them down your legs. He didn’t say anything when you stretched yourself out on the blanket beside him, pebbles and grass underneath, the sun beating down from above.

You liked the way he didn’t shy from you, not like the other boys, like he knew he was yours and you were his, like there wasn’t anyone else to worry about. So neither of you flinched when you pressed yourself to his side, warm bare skin on more warm bare skin, shoulder to shoulder and your feet just reaching where his shins were.

You tapped a toe to them, snuck a peek at the boy beside you, grinning when you saw him smile despite his closed eyes. His lashes fluttered from behind his sunglasses, waiting for the inevitable.

“Hey, Stevie?”

Something in his tummy clenched at the old nickname, usually said with mirth and drag of sarcasm, but your lips were at the shell of his ear and you sounded so soft.

“Princess.” His voice didn’t hitch at the end like a question, it stayed low, a little hoarse, like a warning.

‘Cause you were propped onto a elbow now, body leaning into him, your hardly concealed chest pressed into his bicep and he could feel the tickle of your hair on his arm, against his cheek and you were still so close that he could feel the way you smirked against his ear.

You pushed the button on your nose to his temple, a head butt that was more affectionate than anything else and you moved suddenly, leaning over him to grab the rucksack.

When Steve opened his eyes he saw red, that almost orange colour that reminded him of summers and pool days, the freckle below your collarbone that not many people got to see.

He couldn’t not look at your chest, pushed out towards his face as you stretched an arm, grasping for the strap of the bag, making a little grunting noise as you reached for it.

Red and tiny straps, sun warmed skin that was a little darker than last month, the summer making you glow. A stretch of stomach, taught as you leaned, close enough to his own that he could feel the warmth radiate from you. Long legs pushed up onto your knees, holding you over him like a treat, like a taunt.

But then you were pushing yourself backwards to sit, gleeful with the bag in your hands and you were already unzipping it , hand delving into its contents as you muttered to him.

“Perv.”

It was soft and fond, no heat, no accusation but it still made the boy flush ‘cause that meant you caught him looking but Christ, you were both nineteen and full of hormones - what else was new?

“Don’t flatter yourself too much, princess,” he coughed out, trying to sound cooler than he felt. His eyes stayed hooded behind his glasses, wishing the tint of them made him harder for you to read but you knew him better than yourself. Steve knew that too. “You’ll go up a cup size one day.”

His words hurt no more than your comment had, all light, no sharpness but you smacked at his shoulder all the same, making him grin wide at you. Steve wondered if you knew he thought of you as nothing short of perfect, he wondered if he’d ever get a chance to tell you.

But you’d found what you’d been looking for, a little plastic bag filled with a few buds and some papers, a new grinder ‘cause Steve had lost the last one at a party. You wiggled it at him, Eddie’s special weed making the air grow a little more heady, a little more sweet.

“Wanna get high with me, Harrington?“

And god, wasn’t that a question?

Steve knew you, knew you inside out and back to front, better than anyone else did. He knew how you got after a few hits, a little needy, all touchy and full of affection. The boy had been to enough parties with you to know. You’d find him, a few hours in, coming out of seemingly nowhere, face flushed and eyes glassy.

It didn’t matter who he was talking to, who he was with, what he was doing, you’d me on him in seconds, a ball of heat that smelled like his favourite perfume and the inside of Eddie Munson’s trailer, arms around his neck and face pressed to his chest.

You’d drop yourself into his lap, press messy kisses to his cheeks and giggle all soft when he tried to question you on your whereabouts, if you felt okay, if you’d drank enough water.

By now, it wasn’t really a surprise to know the entire town still thought you were dating. But he stopped refuting it as much, almost preferring the way that boys kept their distance from you when he was around. He didn’t mind the way you curled into him, lips glossy and sticky and whispering into his ear.

He liked the way you hummed happy and whispered a ‘yes’ when you’d had enough - and Steve could always tell - and he told you it was time to go home. It didn’t matter who’s house he took you to, his or yours, both were home.

So god, wasn’t that a question?

“I’m driving princess,” Steve murmured instead of everything he wanted to say.

‘Will you hold onto me, if I do? Will you crawl into my lap and look at me in that way that you do? Will you put your hands in my hair and tell me I smell good? Will you touch me like I’m yours? Will you touch me like you’re mine?’

But he didn’t.

“Not until later, Steve, we’ve got all day,” you told him, all smiles and bright eyes.

And you were right ‘cause the morning was still early, the afternoon barely beginning and there were snacks in the bag, water for when it got too hot, a walkman and some mixtapes for when the day got too quiet.

Steve just smiled and you shook the baggie at him still, a pour on your lips that he could never really learn how to say no to.

“Roll for me anyway?” You asked because you hated it and you weren't very good, and maybe there was something about the way Steve’s nimble fingers made quick work of it, maybe it was the way you liked to watch the tip of his tongue slide slick along the edges of the papers.

Maybe.

So Steve because he couldn’t say fucking no to you and that’s how you found yourself back on the blanket, legs stretched out under the heat of the sun, smoke in the air and everything a little more hazy than it was before.

It could’ve been the weed that made you do it, maybe you could’ve even blamed it on the sun, messing with your head and your heart but Steve would never have believed your excuses, ‘cause when you suddenly sat up and swung a leg over his lap, he didn’t look surprised at all.

His hands fell to your thighs instinctively, more than ready to press his palms onto your bare thighs, the high cut of that damn bikini showing more skin than was necessary and Steve swallowed hard from where he lay under you, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

“Princess.”

There it was again, that tone, the low way he said your name, rough like a warning, soft like he was asking for something.

It almost sounded like please, you realised.

You placed the joint between your lips instead of answering, the end of it burning amber and you inhaled softly, hating the way the smoke burned your lungs but loving the way it made you feel. But that could’ve been Steve’s hands on your hips, holding you steady as you tilted your head back, neck exposed, blowing smoke to the sky that was still cloudless.

When you gazed back down at your best friend, his jaw was slack, eyes glassy behind his Ray Bans and you smiled, way too shyly for the stunt you’d just pulled. You took the glasses off his face, wanting to see him, all of him and you held the joint between you, brows raised.

“Want a hit?”

The boy nodded.

He expected you to hold the roll up to his lips, let him take a drag from between your fingers as you sat happily on his lap.

Steve didn’t expect you to take another draw from it, smoke held between your lips, eyes hooded as you leaned down and into him. Your hands found purchase on the blanket on either side of his head but you were still chest to chest. You didn’t talk, couldn’t talk, didn’t need to talk. You just nudged your nose on Steve’s and he tilted his chin towards you, hands tight on your sides like he was holding on for dear life - and oh my god, he felt like he was - before he parted his lips for you and you let go.

Smoke blew gently from your lips to his, top lips just grazing, the movement accidental but neither of you apologised, neither complained. And when Steve held the hit there, in his chest, seconds ticked by like a countdown to something dangerous, to something explosive and on his wrecked sounding exhale, he pushed both of you up, a little frantic as your hips settled into the dip of his more.

“Can I kiss you?”

You asked it softly, like you were telling a secret, like you didn’t wanna admit it, like you were scared Steve was gonna say no, but the boy didn’t answer you at all, not with words anyway.

His mouth was on yours before you could finish talking and you both groaned at the contact. Blindly, you stubbed out the roach on the ground beside you, ashes rubbing into gravel and sand before your hands found purchase on Steve’s face.

It was a kiss you hadn’t shared before, a kiss that was messier than the others, a kiss that lacked the control the others had.

It was a kiss that usually led to something more, hands wandering in someone’s back seat, mouths on necks, voices whispering dirty things in the last row of the cinema.

It was something you hadn’t felt with your best friend before.

It was hot and dirty and fast, his hands on your neck, your jaw, fingers splayed into your hair and his thumb tugging greedy at the corner of your bottom lip, desperate for you to open for him, so he could lick into you.

It didn’t help that you were both lacking so much clothing, too much bare skin pressed against each other, chest to chest and your legs wrapped around his waist.

It was too easy to roll your hips, to whine into Steve’s mouth at the way he let out the dirtiest, prettiest noise for you. It made you want to do it again, it made you wanna thread your fingers into his hair and tug.

“Steve.”

He thinks that’s what broke him, the way you said his name like that, soft and whimpered, like you fucking wanted him, like you needed him. The boy was sure he’d never been that hard in his life, your ass pressed into his lap, his hands wandering over the slope of your lower back, sliding over your bikini pants, fingers toying with the tiny sides of them.

Steve thought about all the things he wished he was brave enough to say to you. ‘Are you mine? Do you know I’m yours? Do you know I always have been?’

But he couldn’t, couldn’t find the courage, couldn’t find the willpower

to drag his lips from yours, not unless it was to press his mouth to your neck instead, to suck and bite a little bruise there that said what he couldn’t with words.

Mine.

You don’t know how it ended, you barely remembered how it had started but as the night leaked in and made the quarry glitter, Steve was smoothing a hand over your hair, messy from his tugging, as you pulled your shorts back on.

He’d packed up the bag, shrugged his T-shirt back over his chest, lips as kiss bitten as yours, skin warm from the sun and you. It felt like there was so much to be said, it felt like nothing at all. A natural occurrence, an almost yearly event, something cosmic, something magic, like a meteor strike, like a new planet being discovered.

You got to kiss your best friend and Steve got to kiss his and it simply felt like you were both one step closer to where you were both going to end up. You were so sure it was with him, but maybe that was just the whispers of your moms, voices hardly quiet as they gushed by the Harrington’s pool summers ago, talking about how their kids were something special together, how sometimes soulmates did exist.

So it didn’t feel awkward when Steve swiped a stand of hair from your cheek, took your hand in his and pressed one more kiss to the top of it before letting go, stepping back for another summer, until one of you - or both of you - were finally ready to say what needed to be said.

It wasn’t going to happen that day, but it felt closer than ever.

And when he drove you both home, Steve didn’t tut at you for putting your feet on the dash, in fact, he smiled all soft the whole drive back into Hawkins, past the same wheat fields, the water tower, the sunflowers and fruit fields that made the night smell sweet.

It was dark when you both snuck in through the back garden gate, Steve’s patio light still on and there was smoke coming from the little fire pit by the pool, gentle chatter and laughter from where both of your parents sat with glasses of wine. Leftover dinner dishes and empty plates sat on the wooden table and neither couple were surprised to see you both.

You didn’t know that your parents watched the way Steve stood tall behind you, always in reach, an open hand just hovering by your side as if he was always ready to catch you. You didn’t know that his mom would smile at you, watching the way you watched her son, cheeks sore with a grin she’d never tire of seeing.

Even Steve’s dad would shake his head, fond, making everyone titter and the pair of you blush as he asked accusingly, “and what have you two been up to all day?”

You wondered if they could see the way you flushed in the dark, if they saw the swell to Steve’s bottom lip from the way you’d been greedy with it, if they noticed the pretty lilac bruise that should’ve hopefully been hidden by your shirt.

But it was okay. ‘Cause you felt Steve warm and solid at your back, his chest pressed against you and the leftover taste of him and smoke on your lips. The air smelled like honeysuckle and chlorine, fresh lavender and basil from a dinner you’d missed and the back garden gate was still swinging on its hinges.

1986. And I scream, “For whatever it’s worth, I love you, ain’t that the worst thing you’ve ever heard?”

Steve fucking hated Chris Maxwell. He’d disliked the guy in high school, always running his mouth and exaggerating his lacrosse wins, the girls he got with, the drugs he managed to score. He had the same car as Steve, the same BMW in a shitty puke green colour and he drove it like an idiot.

He hated him even more when you started dating him.

You’d dated guys before, shit, Steve had had his fair share of girls over the years too. Nothing ever serious, nothing that meant all that much ‘cause the girls he brought to parties and basement hang outs took one look at you and tried to make him choose.

Steve always chose you.

You’d dated less, Steve had always noticed, shying away from unfamiliar attention, choosing to kiss and run after the party was over, no numbers exchanged, no dates to be had. You’d always scrunched your nose at him and evaded the question when Steve asked, murmuring something about how it wasn’t worth the hassle.

It’s why Steve had been so surprised when you were dropped off one day by Maxwell, in his snot green car with his stupid smarmy smirk. Once became twice, twice became three times and before you both knew it, you were lounging at the bottom of Steve’s bed one day as he sat at his desk and you were shrugging.

“Uh, yeah, I guess? Maybe he is my boyfriend?”

Steve remembered coughing out a laugh, because, how could you not know?

But you were being picked up and dropped off by the boy on numerous occasions and Steve quickly grew tired of watching him try and eat your face in his front seat. But only two months had passed before things seemingly grew tired and sour, your face twisting in a veil of annoyance when you heard his car horn blast from the street.

He never got out of the car to knock on your door, Steve had noted, never walking you up the path at night to see you safely inside. Steve was sure the last straw came on the day he was already in your living room, hands clutching the casserole dish that his mom had sent him to borrow. You’d rolled up, the stupid vomit coloured car catching the curb as it squealed to a stop, music blasting from the inside and your dad mirrored Steve’s expression as the two men stood at the window.

Noses scrunched, lips downturned, eyes narrowed.

“I don’t like that little punk,” your dad had grumbled.

“Same,” Steve had answered and the two of them were oblivious to the way your mother grinned behind their backs.

But Steve had watched you storm out, car door slamming as Chris leaned over to the open window, yelling something about coming back and let’s talk about this honey!

You’d ignored him and Steve had walked home feeling a little lighter than he had in weeks.

He still didn’t expect Chris to come sneaking into his back yard one evening, when the town was quietening down, when the fireflies came out and the sun made the sky streaky with pink and peach and lilac.

Steve had been propped against the wall of his house, just beside the back garden gate, hidden in that little lane that no one seemed to use. The space that smelled like honeysuckle and lavender, the place that grew a little wild and reminded him of you. There was more ivy on the wall that year, growing more untamed than it ever had and it made Steve smile to see that it was crawling up the side of your house too, almost to your bedroom window.

A cigarette hung from his lips, a bad habit he hadn’t picked up since he was seventeen and easily persuaded but work was shit, his dad was nagging at him about reapplying for colleges and he hated that he’d hardly seen you in a week.

And the reason why was creeping through the gate, shoulders hunched and eyes alert. Chris had stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of Steve, a scowl on his face as he snarled at him accusingly.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Steve rolled his eyes, cigarette still wet between his lips and it moved as he replied, his words an annoyed mumble.

“This is my fuckin’ garden, dickwad. You went through the wrong gate.”

It took the boy a moment to realise his mistake and instead of apologising, or admitting to it, he turned and continued to glare at Steve.

“S’your goddamn fault I’m sneaking around anyway, Harrington,” Chris hissed, his eyes already seeking out your bedroom window across from them.

It was ever so slightly cracked, curtains shut and blowing in the breeze but Steve knew you kept it open so you could smell the honeysuckle you loved so much, so that you could hear Steve if he opened his window across from you, to whisper into the night.

It had been a long time since you shared secrets and stories across the garden gates, but old habits die hard and Steve kept his open for the very same reason.

“My fault?” Steve snorted, an offended and somewhat dramatic hand pressed to his chest. He kicked off of the wall, cigarette throwing smoke into the air and he exhaled, smirking when some of it blew into Chris’ face. “And what the fuck did I do, Maxwell?”

“Everything’s always about you!” The other boy burst out, without much preamble, “whole fuckin’ relationship revolved around you, you’re all she talked about and then she tell has the nerve to tell me that she’s breaking up with me.”

Steve looked at Chris with raised brows, cigarette held lightly between a finger and his thumb, the top of it still burning in the dim light.

“Is that so?” Steve took a drag, tried to keep his heartbeat steady, tried not to smile. “Had nothin’ to do with the way you spoke to her like shit and was always demanding stuff, no?”

The boy levelled Steve with a stare, nostrils flared and hands shoved in his pockets. “Of course she tells you fucking everything.”

“Of course she tells me fucking everything,” Steve repeated, emphasis on every word as he glowered at your ex, brows furrowed and fist clenched by his side. “And what’s it to you if she does-”

“What the fuck is going on?”

The two boys looked up, one grinning, the other desperate at the sight of you, hanging out your open window.

Steve held up a hand in a way, features perfectly amicable as he beamed.

“What are you doing here, Chris? There’s a reason I’ve not taken your calls,” you sounded bored, tired and the boy had barely begun to answer before you’d already moved onto Steve.

“Honey, please, I’m begging you can we just ta-”

“Steve, are you smoking? Again? Really?” You tutted, elbow on the window frame as you looked down at him with a soft pout.

“My bad, princess,” but the boy was grinning, not looking very sorry at all ‘cause Chris was silently fuming beside him. “Stressful times, y’know?”

He took another long drag, blew the smoke out above the other boy's head and continued smiling that bright grin. Steve looked up at you again, head tilted as he gestured to your ex and squinted against the sun that was starting to set behind your roof.

“Want me to take out the trash for you?”

His words earned him a shove, a bark of laughter leaving his lips as he barely stumbled against the other boy's hands. But before Steve could retaliate, you were calling down in a voice Steve knew you reserved for telling him off when he got too drunk, when he pushed your buttons a little too much.

“Hey! Chris! Jesus, quit it!” You were leaning out of the window more, sleep shirt hanging off of one shoulder and a pucker between your brows. “Just go, okay? We’ve already spoken about this, I’m not interested.”

“See, this is what I was fuckin’ talking about,” Chris hissed, low enough so only Steve could hear and Steve didn’t know how to reply.

Quiet wrapped around all three of you, the distant trickle of the pool, the muted buzz of Steve’s television from his living room and eventually, a strangled curse from your ex boyfriend's lips as he shouldered past Steve and swung the garden gate open, the wood hitting the brick.

Steve tried not to grin as he looked back up at you, tongue pressed to the side of his cheek and his brown eyes glittering. The sunset made you both rosy, a sunbeam stretching across the side of your house, lighting up the bricks and you.

“He seems touchy.”

“Shut up, Harrington,” you knew Steve heard the smile in your voice, the affection in the roll of your eyes. “You coming up?”

And then you disappeared, ducking back into your room and sliding the window closed with a click.

Steve didn’t realise your parents were out until he walked over the empty driveway, the sun lowering itself into the line of trees across the street, the sky turning lavender, the moon making an appearance. He didn’t knock, just walked in through your front door, shoes toed off by the porch before he jogged up the stairs.

Your door was already open and he found you lazing on your bed, sheets ruffled and the lights off, just the leftover sun trickling in through the open curtains and the crystals you hung at the windows sent rainbows scattering across your walls.

Some of them fell across your bare thighs where you lay, stomach down, legs in the air in a pair of shorts that were hardly seen from underneath the huge shirt that you wore. Another streak of colour landed on your face, fluttering as the crystal spun on their chains, dancing in the last of the light.

Steve wanted to kiss it, to see if the pretty shades on your cheek made you taste any sweeter than he already knew.

“You didn’t tell me you broke up,” Steve said and there was nothing accusatory in his voice, just genuine curiosity, soft and gentle.

He fell onto the bed beside you, made the mattress dip as he shelled into your pile of pillows at the opposite end from where you lay. He pushed a socked foot into your side, digging in at the spaces between your ribs and making you squirm. Steve caught a smile, spread on your lips just for him and you twisted to bat him away, not surprised when his hands found yours and tugged.

You let him pull you beside him, into the mess of sheets and too many cushions, lying so you were facing him, noses a breadth apart, eyes lowered as you spoke, suddenly nervous.

You shrugged, fingers playing with the edges of a pillow, “just sort of happened, wasn’t a big deal.”

A beat of silence, the boy wondering if that was the truth, if there was something more behind your words, if you were hiding something in the way you refused to meet his gaze. Steve wondered if you could feel his heart pounding against the mattress, if it was echoing loud through your pillow the way he was sure it was his.

It felt like something was building, like something was coming. Something big, something new, something wild. Like a tropical storm, a bolt of lightning across the town, a flash flood, a hurricane, something to announce that summer was over.

That time was up.

“You don’t seem too heartbroken ‘bout it,” Steve hedged, his gaze trained on your hands, the way your fingers picked and played with the cotton between you both. He wanted to take your hand in his, run a thumb across your palm and soothe you.

“Cant get my heart broken by a guy that never had it.”

“He didn’t?”

“Don’t play dumb, Stevie,” you chided gently, teasing, “it doesn’t suit you.”

“Always thought he wasn’t good enough for you,” the boy responded, keeping what he really wanted to say hidden behind his tongue.

“You said that about all the guys I got with.”

A gentle nudge, your hand on his chest, a shuffle closer, breathing the same air, the rainbow on your cheekbone flitting to Steve’s lips as the sun moved down. He watched you chase it with your eyes, gaze soft, looking a little longingly, or maybe he was just hopeful.

“It’s true.”

A soft hum, a pleased noise, a smile that finally reached your eyes and a hand that fell to Steve’s arm, running down the length of it until your fingers found the cuff of his sweater and played with that instead.

It was the closet Steve had been to holding your hand for a while and it felt like the beginning of summer again, back to bike rides to the arcade, sticky fingers tips and slurpees that were almost too big to hold.

“Why’d you break up with him?”

You stopped, fingertips brushing over Steve’s wrist, a pause on his pulse point that told you that maybe he was as nervous as you felt. Your knees bumped his, rough denim on soft skin, the day leaking out of your room as the sun fell behind the treetops and suddenly everything was blue.

Navy tinted shadows, inky skin, indigo lines of barely there light that turned Steve’s skin lilac and you breathed in, held it, let the burn in your chest for a second or two before letting it back out.

Summer was leaking away, slipping behind the moon and the night, and you suddenly felt too tired to lie anymore, to pretend.

“He wasn’t all that happy that I was in love with someone else.”

God, you felt brave.

Bold.

Blue.

Steve didn’t look all that surprised, a flicker of soft realisation over his eyes, no shock, just a gentle breath of ‘it’s time?’

“I can’t say I blame the guy,” Steve murmured, chin ducking to meet yours, foreheads pressed together on the same pillow and his hand found yours, fingers twisted together. “Don’t think I’d be very pleased either.”

“I know,” you told him, gaze trained on the way his lips moved when he spoke. “I didn’t mean to, I don’t even know when it happened.”

“No?”

You shook your head, feeling heavier than you had, like you were pulled into the boy and something magic was keeping you there. You could smell lavender and cedar and smoke and Steve.

“Might’ve been at this party, in someone’s basement. Might’ve been the time I was pushed into a closet and my best friend kissed me.”

“That sounds awful,” Steve mused and the beginnings of a grin were pulling at his lips, “a whole five years, huh?”

“Right? Isn’t that just the worst thing you’ve ever heard?”

He liked the way you said those words, like it was the opposite, your voice all sunshine and warmth and leftover summer. You were blue skies and honeysuckle, wildflowers and long drives, sleepovers on your bedroom carpet and sneaking out through the back gate.

“Y’know, I think I’ve got you beat,” said the boy, all faux seriousness as he brought his hand to your waist, palm wide and warm as he pushed at your shirt, bunching it up over your ribs until he could touch bare skin.

“You do?” You felt a little breathless at his touch, a feeling you’d craved since last summer at the quarry, a feeling you’d missed despite knowing you’d get it again soon, eventually. Now.

“Oh yeah,” Steve scoffed, voice teasing, gaze staring at you from between dark lashes. “I once knocked on this girl’s front door, asked her if she wanted to go to the arcade with me and I didn’t even mind when she hogged all the slurpee. I was a goner.”

“I did not!” You laughed, the sound pressed to Steve’s neck ‘cause he was pulling you into him, beaming bright and more carefree than you’d seen him in a while. “Liar.”

“Fell in love with the first girl I ever kissed,” he whispered, cheek pressed against yours as he whispered into your hair, like a secret he was sure you already knew. “How sad is that?”

You shook your head, hands clutched the material of Steve’s shirt, fists to his chest as if he was going to leave.

“S’not sad at all,” you told him and god your voice was a hush, your lips against the shell of his ear and you felt the breath that he sucked in and held. “Long time to wait though, huh?”

Steve nodded, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip as he pulled back, seeking you out in the dark of your room, noses bumping.

“Feels worth it, don’t you think?”

And god, it did.

It happened the way summer did. Slow and inevitable, like the gradual pick up of warmth through the year, the way you expected the sun in the morning, blue skies through your window, ice cream for lunch.

It happened like it was supposed to, like it was meant to, like you’d waited all that time just to greet it with a warm shyness, a coy, “oh, I’ve been expecting you.”

It rolled in like a present, like a gift, like a reward. Like something that the world wanted you both to have, like the universe knew you were supposed to be together. So you shared first kisses between the wildflowers, let the seeds of something more bloom between your ribs, the spaces between your chests and your hearts. You let it simmer in the warm afternoons, burn a little stronger on cliff tops over quarry’s, picnic blankets rough under bare knees and hands in hair.

“It does,” you breathed, closer to the boy than you had been, noses pressed into cheeks and for the last time, your best friend asked you your favourite question, one that tasted like fresh lemonade and smoke, cherry slurpees and fresh flowers in the air.

“Hey princess?”

You hummed a response, eyes already closed, lashes brushing at the corners, a small smile playing on the curve of your lips.

“Can I kiss you?”

You were on Steve before he could finish asking, hands on his jaw, tugging him into you, the hand that he had on your waist tightening its grip as your lips met.

It felt different than last summer. Slower, deeper, lazier, like you both knew that this wasn’t the last kiss, like you both knew you didn’t have to wait until next year, or the year after.

Like you both knew that this time was it.

You moved in the dark of your room together, Steve pushing you back into the plush of your bed, moving over you to hold himself there, chest just brushing yours as one hand found purchase in your sheets, careful not to crush you.

He caught the leg that you brought up to his side on instinct, desperate to feel more of him, wanting to press into him. Steve’s finger curled under the space behind your knee, hooked there so he could hold your thigh against his hip, so he could move into the space you created for him, body rolling into yours.

He swallowed the gasp you gave him, kissed away the sigh and the blue of the room seemed a little brighter with his lips on yours. You whined against him until the boy caught on, moving back onto his knees only for you to follow, chest pressed against his and only breaking the kiss for him to lift his arms for you. His shirt hit the floor, yours following suit, all bare skin underneath with some new freckles to find, a trail of summer; water fights, sneaking out and greeting the morning together on the hood of Steve’s car.

Steve ducked down to meet you, to let you kiss him a little deeper, a little dirtier, tongue licking at the seam of your lips, groaning when you opened for him, hand spanning the width of your back, hips pressed together with intent.

“I’m fucking desperate for you, y’know that right?” Steve groaned, words sinking into your mouth with every push of his lips against yours and you swore you’d never heard anything prettier. “Always have been, totally gone on you, princess.”

“Steve,” you felt hot with the prick of emotion, tears brimming at your lashes ‘cause it was all too much and not enough, want and longing and need building up, years of looking, of touching and just tasting, searching kisses, useless excuses, never talking about it after.

And then his hands were back on your legs, palms hooked around the backs of your knees and you were falling together, bouncing off of the mattress, pillows falling to the floor and god, you were crashing into each other.

It was mixtapes on birthdays, fresh strawberries after swimming, a hand held in the dark after a scary movie, sitting in the yard after dark when the night was still warm and you don’t know how to tell your best friend that you thought they were perfect.

Your shorts slid off too easily, hips raised from the bed and Steve’s fingers curled into the waistband. He kicked off his jeans with the help of your feet, toes pushed into the denim as he shucked them to the floor.

Suddenly, there was more skin to touch, to taste, to look at, and Steve took note of every curve he hadn’t seen, every little mole and scar, tan lines in places he always tried not to stare at.

But he kissed them instead, lips trailing hot over your chest, kisses pressed to the dip of your clavicle, the patch of sunburn on your shoulder and you felt like you had caught the entire months of summer in your chest.

It all felt a little golden.

But night had crawled in and the shadows were darker, making every touch more intense, every kiss feeling like a confession. Your underwear joined his, piled at the foot of your bed with spilled sheets and pushed pillows and the world fell into silence for you both.

No buzz or insects, no sprinklers in the yard, no screech of brakes from the street, no yelling from a tv.

Everything was hushed as Steve spread his fingers over you, a choked gasp at the way he made you feel, a kiss to soothe. He kissed you through it, fingers feeling thick as he slid one and then two inside of you, curling up and searching, face pulled back from your own so he could watch you fall apart beneath him.

“So fuckin’ pretty, so pretty,” Steve told you and you felt it, you believed him, forehead pressed to his as you gasped out his name, hands wrapped around his biceps as he coaxed you over the edge. “Can you come for me princess? Please?”

You did as he asked, as if you had any say in the matter, crashing and tumbling and falling into him, body tight, eyes clenched shut and lips falling apart in the prettiest moan Steve had ever heard.

“Oh shit, babe, that’s it, ‘atta girl, princess.”

He pulled your hands from his length when you made an eager grasp for him, not cruel, just desperate. Steve shook his head, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed thickly, jaw slack and eyes heavy.

“Babe, if you touch me s’all gonna be over in a second,” he admitted hoarsely and his voice held no shame.

So you covered him in kisses, flipped your positions from where you lay on the bed and pushed the boy into the pillows instead. You caught his lips on yours, messier now that you’d had a taste of what was to come, mouth leaving gloss over his jaw, down his throat and you felt the vibrations over your tongue when Steve moaned.

You moved over him, slick and warm, hips pushing into his as you straddled him, making a mess of his boxers and short circuiting his brain as Steve gripped your thighs, touch almost cruel as he held on for dear life.

You pressed your palms to his chest, dropped yourself down a little so your lips could graze his own, a new kind of kiss, teasing, a whisper that was barely there.

It promised more to come, it kept him waiting and wanting, made Steve groan out at the realisation that he was entirely yours and god, maybe, just maybe, you were his too.

“Fucking hell,” he whispered, and his voice was shot, “princess, please, s’not nice to tease a man like that.”

You grinned, filled with a confidence you only ever gained from being near Steve, bolstered by the way he looked at you - all heavy lidded and slack jade, chest and cheeks flushed underneath you.

“You’ve never complained before,” you murmured back, mouth parted over his, Cupid’s bows touching but never really pressing your lips to his.

It made you both think back to all the looks, the gazes, the stares filled with longing and wanting and yearning. That same question, asked with uncertainty, with a tumble of nerves, a burst of wonder, over the years until you knew what each other would taste like, until you knew how their lips felt between your own.

“Vixen,” Steve mumbled and it should’ve been said like an insult, like a curse but his voice was molten honey, sweet caramel and the start of a summer morning.

“Can I kiss you, Harrington?” The question wasn’t needed, and you were starting to think it never had been, but you loved the way his lips lifted into a soft smile under yours, noses brushing as he nodded, waiting patiently with his hands smoothing over the backs of your thighs.

Steve made a pretty noise at the back of his throat, a gasp and a moan, a wrecked, “please,” falling onto your lips.

You kissed him without any worries, without any thoughts of what does this mean for tomorrow? You kissed him like you were greeting summer, like he was the month of June and blue skies, like you could taste peaches and fresh lemonade on his lips, like he held all your secrets behind his teeth.

He did.

Your harsh pants and soft moans mixed as you moved together, the boy shuffling underneath you as he rid himself of his underwear, boxers kicked to the end of your bed where they’d eventually be lost.

He took himself in his hand, hard and long, his breath shaky as you slid down, gasping into his mouth as you got yourself seated, tightening around him for the first time.

Steve whispered your name, soft, sinful, like a prayer, like a praise.

“I’m not gonna last long,” he grunted, eyes squeezed shut as he clasped your face in his hands, fingers splayed across the line of your jaw, over the apples of your cheeks. “M’sorry, it’s just- you’re too much, princess-”

You cut him off with a kiss - a silent ‘it’s okay’ - hips shifting, rolling over him as you moved, whimpering into his mouth. Steve swallowed your noises, gave you back his own and it wasn’t long before he was rolling you both over.

His hands found the insides of your thighs first, spreading them so he could fit between, length still inside of you, pressing into all the right places. Palms smoothed up your sides, over the ripples of your ribs, calluses catching soft skin and the feel of it all made you sigh, head tilted back.

Your hands found his, fingers intertwined as he pressed them back into the pillow below you, chest brushing up against your own as he moved, your legs curled around his waist and it was bliss, it was bright white behind your eyes, it was glitter in the dark, it was a electricity in your bones.

“Steve,” your voice was a whimper, an almost cry, your hands grappling at his shoulders for purchase as he pushed you into the mattress with thrust after thrust.

It all felt a little wild, gasping into open mouths, lips barely managing to find the other for a kiss, sliding messy over each other as hands pulled hair and fingers squeezed at arms, at thighs, at waists.

“I know,” the boy said, sounding just as wrecked as you did, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his hands under the small of your back, fingers splayed wide so he could lift your hips into his own. “I know, fuck, you close? Please tell me you’re close.”

You answered with a moan, a pitched keen, your fingers tugging the lengths of hair at the nape of the boys neck and he groaned, a deep dirty sound in response and then you were falling apart, a vice around him, eyes clenched shut and teeth biting down on the muscle in his shoulder.

Your name tumbled from his lips, a holy sound and Steve moved a little messier, his hips stuttering before he pulled out, both of you sighing at the loss, before he spilled onto your stomach with the help of your hand.

The air smelled like summer and sex and Steve.

Your pants filled the air, mixing with the boys and the trickle of the pool in the backyard. You lay together, breathless and skin slick, flyaway hairs sticking to your forehead, eyes a little glassy and lips rosy from greedy kisses.

Steve pressed another to you then, and you were almost dizzy with it. He didn’t ask, neither did you. You didn’t have to. Not anymore. So he kissed you a little harder, tempting pretty sounds from your chest that he chased with his mouth, body still pressed against yours in a way you were sure you’d never grow tired of.

No one spoke until you were both cleaned and half dressed, bodies lazy across your sheets, the night still too warm to wear anything more than your underwear, chests bare in the dark and pressed greedily to each other. A slow hand brushed across the small of your back as you lay on your stomach, head on the boy’s chest and your fingers carding through his hair.

Every now and then you’d press a kiss to wherever you could reach: his palm when it smoothed over your cheek, his sternum where you lay, the sharp line of his jaw when you found the energy to tilt your head up.

Steve responded in kind, his lips on your forehead, the top of your crown, the end of your nose.

The silence was filled with the wonder of each touch, both of you bursting at the seams as you pressed your mouths to each other without worrying, without asking.

But then Steve shifted against the pillows, moved until you were over him, chest to chest and your legs in the space between his. You propped your chin on his chest, eyes sleepy as you looked up at him and you hummed in delight when he smoothed hand over your hair, tucking it behind your ear.

“You know I’m in love with you, don’t you?”

Heavy words were said so simply, so easily, and you did. You knew. But it still sucked the breath from you, it still made you ache to hear it out loud.

“Yeah, I do,” you answered, because you did. You knew it from the way Steve looked at you, the way he liked to be near you, to sit a fraction too close. You knew it from the way he shared his slurpees, his car, his bed, his thoughts, his secrets. You felt it in his gaze, his touch, in the way he’d grown with you. “I’m in love with you too.”

“Yeah, princess, I know.”

And it was as easy as that. Simple like summer, inevitable, like the way the month of June rolls in after May. It was expected, like the warmth and the heat, like the sun in the morning and the clear starry skies at night.

It was an eventuality, a slow burn, a want, a need, a necessity.

It was Steve and it was summer and they belonged in their entirety to you.

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parkersdoll · 2 years

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𝐬𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 | 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summary steve harrington is your boyfriend now. your boyfriend. and having a boyfriend means doing lots of new things, like dinner dates and movies, cuddling on the couch and kissing — lots of kissing. but there’s one thing you guys haven’t done yet, and steve’s just asked you to spend the night. [17.3k words]

warnings SMUT 18+ only, fem!reader, fluff heavy, new established relationship, first time, an overload of intimacy and affection, p in v sex, pet names, steve being the most loving dork on the entire planet and r being equally infatuated, mentioned that r has stretch marks, proofread not perfect

this is a companion to have you seen her? you don’t have to read it to understand, but if you want to it’s here <3

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Inside a sea of flowers lies a girl. Her skin glows with colour, the reflection of pigments. Sunspots of darkest red buffeted by buttery orange, indigo stretching into magenta, whites; endless whites ranging from creamy ivory to the violet shine of snow in the nighttime.

It's as if the flowers themselves bloom over your skin. Steve blinks and everything settles, your skin returns to skin, the reflections fade from focus. You stretch your leg out absentmindedly and lean forward to follow the book resting against the top of your thigh, entirely distracted.

The room smells as bright and fresh as the florist's itself. The flowers he'd given you, more than he could ever name, permeate everything. Most remain in good condition two weeks later, where some wilt despite your dedicated care.

Your fingertips are pin-pricked by the thorns of a rose's stem, injuries sustained in the hours you've spent preening each bouquet. You bring one such fingertip to your lips and suck lightly for a moment like it'll draw the small pain from your skin.

He leans against the doorway and takes in your appearance indulgently. Plaid pyjama bottoms hug your thighs. Your socked feet wiggle along to the sounds of your Walkman, music loud enough that you've missed his entrance.

He doesn't want to scare you into flinching and ruin the content little bubble you're in but he's certainly not about to turn around and leave after waiting all day to see you, no matter how selfish it might be to disturb you. I'm only human, he thinks.

"Hey, beautiful," he says. You don't hear him.

Steve bends at the waist to unlace his shoes before stepping onto the plush carpeting of your room. He weaves between vases and skinny buckets, repurposed cookware and every mug you own, worried that one wrong move will domino your intricate arrangements and spill flowers everywhere.

You catch sight of him before he's made it to your side. You flinch as he suspected you would, only a small jump but a jump nonetheless.

Steve's face creases in sympathy as you pull off your headphones, orange foam padding around your neck. "I'm sorry," he says, expecting you to be at least a little peeved at his sneaking. "I knocked, I swear."

You abandon your book carelessly and are only slightly kinder to your Walkman as you tug the headphones from your neck.

"Steve," you say, smiling.

"That's me. Hey."

You swing your legs over the side of the bed, white sheets rumpled in your wake as you scramble to your feet. Steve doesn't know who does what first but he opens his arms and you've opened yours and you fit into the circle of his embrace like you were made to.

"Sorry to scare you," he says.

You're not as confident as he is. Where Steve throws his arms over your shoulders, quick to press his mouth to the skin of your forehead, your hands draw tentative lines up his back.

To be touched so carefully is numbing in the best way. Steve wonders how his affection for you can continue to grow, more when you laugh half-breathless into his chest and look up, pinning him with your bright gaze.

"That's okay," you say, your happiness to see him palpable. It makes his chest hurt.

Steve puts some space between you to hold you at arm's length, one hand clasping your shoulder and the other following the curve of your neck.

He feels almost too happy to speak, like the words won't come out right. You seem to feel similarly, smiling wide, your lips pressed together tightly.

"I missed you," he says finally. Your reaction emboldens him; your eyes crease with pleasure and he has to duck down for a kiss.

Just one, pressed chastely to the skin left of your cupid's bow. You lift your chin in reaction, your hands searching up towards his shoulder blades.

"I missed you too," you say.

He decides to push his luck and kiss you properly. Your lips are warm under his and your cheek is aflame under his hand as he cradles your face.

"Haven't been lying out in the sun again, have you?" he asks as he pulls away. Your eyes flutter open.

"Huh? No, I've been reading inside all day."

"Good. You'll get sick, you sunbathe so much," he chides with no real heat.

He squeezes your face mildly and you steal another quick kiss. Steve would let you steal as many as you want to no matter the duration, but you stick to just one.

"Are you hungry?" you ask. You don't wait for an answer, skirting around him.

His hands miss your skin as soon as you're out of reach. He follows you to the kitchen like a lost dog hungry for scraps – scraps of your voice in the shadow of your exhale, any small flash of your skin, the back of your wrist as you pull open the refrigerator door. Steve situates himself by the sink so he can see your face. Your arms quickly grow heavy with fresh vegetables and a precarious china dish, a familiar carafe slipping in your fingers.

"Here," he mutters, reaching for the glass carafe with both hands.

"Thank you," you say, giggling. "Thought I was gonna drop it."

You set everything down on the clean counter. The sun kisses your skin where it shines golden-orange through the window. A bouquet of tulips sits in the sill, thin petals translucent and bright like the bulbs are made up of sweet maraschino cherries.

"I would've caught it."

"Yeah?"

"Uh-huh. Super fast reflexes. LaRusso style," he says, putting down your carafe. Fruit slices and rose petals bob on the water's surface.

"The Karate Kid?" you ask, pushing up your sleeves.

He smiles as you walk towards him. "Exactly. You like that movie?"

You turn on the faucet and wash your hands without looking, your eyes drawn to his face. "I loved that movie. I've only seen it twice, though. Once at the movies, once with Dustin."

"You watched it with Dustin?" he asks.

Your eyes flit between the sink and his face as you turn off the faucet and shake your wet hands over the basin. "Yeah, and his mom. She's really nice, you know?"

"She's a real treasure. It's her kid I'm not too sure about."

You laugh and he loves it, less when you flick your still-wet hands at him and pattern him in tap water.

"Stop, idiot," he protests, leaning away from you.

"It's raining, babe. I don't control the weather."

"Sure."

You grin over your shoulder and flounce to the counter where your wooden chopping board resides. He's desperate to be close to you but doesn't want to look it.

It's too early to show her how much of a total loser I am, he thinks, turning to the sink and washing his hands so he can help you make dinner and steal some closeness.

"Did you have a crush on him?" he asks.

"Dustin?" you ask, horrified.

Steve laughs and rubs the slippery bar of soap between his palms. "No, weirdo, Daniel LaRusso. The Karate Kid."

"Nah, Mister Miyagi was more my type."

Steve drops the bar of soap into the basin and struggles to pick it back up, only pausing in his panic when he hears your self-satisfied giggling. It's infectious.

"That's so sick. Dude was ninety years old," he says, rinsing the suds off.

"I'm kidding!"

You're still laughing to yourself when he joins you. You've already chopped the inedible tops off of three long carrots and peeled them. You start to cut them into uniform batons, your quick peeling and knife work both impressive and daunting to Steve, who's only just weaned himself off of a steady high school diet of TV dinners and chips.

He shakes his hands at you. Flecks of water hit you and shine on your skin like the fine mist of morning dew, a dampened flower. You smell like one, though Steve supposes that's inevitable when you're sleeping surrounded by a crush of petals every night.

"Can I help?" he asks.

You blow a raspberry. "I should kick you out."

He flicks more water at you and you hide your face in your shoulder, the soft skin of your cheek pulled cruelly.

"Don't hide."

"Stop flicking me."

"It's raining, babe. I don't control the weather," he says dryly.

Finely spritzed, you open your eyes just enough to see him through your lashes, smiling like you wish you weren't. Steve holds his hands up in surrender, mostly because they're dry enough now that any flickage is negligent, and because you're much too pretty to be hiding away. The sun has begun to set, its descent marked by a gaussian blur spreading across the countertops and cabinets, your arms blanketed in a glow. Steve finds your face practically dietific to begin with – the light makes you something else entirely.

He wants to say something too heartfelt, say, Fuck, you're so pretty.

He's not that brave.

"You want a drink?" he asks.

"Yes please. You know where the cups are?"

He grabs two glass cups from the cabinet othweise pillaged for makeshift vases to your left and you cut the celery, a small lull in conversation filled only by the crisp crunch of your preparations and the slosh of Steve's pouring. The flower petals have bled their pigments into the carafe's cold water and turned it a transparent vermillion, something so quietly inordinate that he can't not mention it.

"The water's purple, babe," he says.

"Huh?" you ask. You hold the cutting board aloft, your knife guiding chopped vegetables into a shiny metal colander.

"The water," he says, punctuating his claim with a sharp click as he puts your glass down in front of you.

You discard your knife distractedly. "Oh. It must've been the rose petals."

"Can we still drink it?"

"Sure we can. Rosewater is really good for you. Though I'm not sure if this counts as rosewater, actually, I think you have to steep the petals in hot water first."

You shrug your shoulders and bring your glass to your mouth.

Steve frowns. "Are you sure?" he asks worriedly. He doesn't want you to get sick, especially from flowers he brought you.

You get a crease between your eyebrows, lips pursed quizzically. "I'm sure. You worry too much, Stevie," you say.

It's like being struck. You've never called him that before.

The nickname had sounded easy as breathing for you to say and had felt easier, felt right, like you'd used it a hundred times before.

He laughs, says, "Fine, but if you turn purple don't say I didn't warn you," and proceeds to work himself into a poorly contained frenzy.

He takes the colander to the sink and washes the carrot and celery sticks more thoroughly than he needs to whilst he composes himself. He listens with ears made keen by his racing heart as you turn on the stove. The fan hums. There's a loud crackling as you peel back the aluminum foil covering a medium sized casserole dish.

"I forgot to ask you, you like buffalo wings, right?"

He turns off the faucet and almost misses your question, too busy thinking So she called you Stevie, are you twelve? Get a hold of yourself, you-

"What?"

"I can make something else, if you don't."

Steve shakes the colander to drain any excess water as he reassures you. "No, that's okay. That's perfect. I love wings, and I'll love them double if you're the one making them." After all, you make a mean BLT.

The oven door swings open and he turns in time to watch you bend at the waist and insert the dish of chicken wings, your eyes narrowed. Adorable.

You straighten up and dust your hands off, bumping the door closed with your hip. "Awesome. Here, let me-" You take the colander from his hand like you're going to whiz away and then evidently change your mind, stuttering to a jolting stop. "Thank you," you tell him earnestly.

"You're welcome. You did all the hard work," he says, caught off guard.

"Super hard work, cutting up some carrot sticks," you say, mock-agreeably.

Steve reaches out to pinch your side. "Just because you made it look easy doesn't mean it is. It would've taken me double the time to make something, and it would've been, like, a grease fest," he says. "You already made the chicken, too, so that's more hard work you're not thinking about."

"The chicken marinades itself," you admonish lightly. You step on toes to kiss the high point of his cheek. "But thank you."

You turn to tip your veggie sticks into a bowl with a quarter inch of water at the bottom. Steve prods your kiss mark unthinkingly, the skin tingling from a combination of your gifted kiss and the affectionate tone you'd used.

"I got all kinds of dip. Hummus, artichoke and spinach, tahini, ranch. Do you like those?" you ask hopefully.

If he didn't he'd try and find a way. "Who doesn't like ranch?"

"I'll make fries too, okay?"

He really, really likes you.

Steve still looks kind of silly eating at your small kitchen table. You're in the seat that's crammed against the refrigerator and he's in the opposite. You're so close that your calves keep touching, often enough that you both forgo apologies in favour of sending the other a small smile. Less of an 'I'm sorry,' and more of a 'We touched again,' a confirmation that he's real and you're real and you're eating a home cooked meal that you made together.

He's so handsome, so ridiculously lovely, and the food is good but not good enough to keep your attention. Not when Steve takes a sip of water and his arm moves, the muscle beneath his skin shifts, pulls taut, and his shirt tightens around his bicep and you're just as hopeless as you were the very first time you'd invited him in.

He's saying something and it must be pretty funny because he's laughing, a chesty, giggling thing that sounds boyishly happy, like he just can't help it. You're not sure what he's laughing at but it's enough to set you off, infectious as it is.

"So Robin's in the back pretending to search for this movie that doesn't exist, and I'm thinking, shit, maybe I should call the police. Because he's got both hands in his pockets and, whaddya know, one pocket is like bulging out."

"Steve?" you ask, trying to sound forceful, befuddled that he's laughing at all. "Someone came into the store with a gun?"

His laugh peters off. "No," he says reassuringly. "Klondike bar."

He chews through a big mouthful of celery and you dissolve into giggles.

Cleaning up with Steve ends up being just as fun as cooking. He stands at your side with a hand towel wiping off dishes as you wash them, hip to hip.

"I can wash them," he says.

"That's okay."

You pass him a wet plate. He wipes it dry and sets it to the side. It could only be five minutes of this before you're done. Weirdly, you wish it had taken a little longer.

It's nice to spend time with him.

"I was thinking you could come over to my place tomorrow, if you wanted to."

Your heart flutters and you're hit with the realisation that you might get to do dishes with him tomorrow, and again, that today isn't a one off. That Steve likes you enough to kiss you and buy you flowers and invite you over.

"I've never been to your house," you say.

"I know. It's supposed to be really hot out tomorrow until seven. I thought you could sunbathe for an hour and I could keep an eye on you, you know. We can get takeout, listen to music," he continues, his voice soft, a melodic cadence to his suggestions.

Why is he trying to sell you on it? You hand him the last plate and twist, holding your dripping hands in the basin.

"I'd love to," you say, smiling. "Though I resent the idea that I need to be supervised."

"I just don't want all those brains to turn to mush." He puts the plate down on top of the others and reaches for your hands without saying anything, eyes on your face as he dries off your fingers gently. "Though you were super adorable when you had heat stroke. All clingy and giggly," he teases.

"Heat exhaustion," you correct. You feel like there's water in your ears.

"Mh-hm."

When your hands are to his satisfaction he swings the towel over his shoulder and takes them into his own, your fingers hooked gently over his. He rubs the fingernail of your index finger and then moves up, smoothing a path over your knuckles. He arrives at your pinky finger and wraps his index finger around it, massaging the length of it with the pad of his thumb.

"Are they still hurting?" he asks, hushed.

"A little bit. Not really, though. It's like after a splinter."

He holds your hand open, palm bared, his thumb pressed to the bottom of your last three fingers as he bends to look at your fingertips. Every touch, every detail, every movement he makes feels urgent to you, your heart racing fast as a mouse's.

"Poor girl," he mumbles to himself. He looks up and sees what must look similar to panic on your face. "Are you sure they're not hurting you? They look sore."

You're gonna say Yes, I'm sure, but he straightens up and brings your hand to his lips before you can muster the strength. He kisses your smattering of tiny injuries and grins when he's done, your entire body awash with a dizzying pleasure.

His hair is falling in his face. You take your kiss-warmed hand from his grip to tuck the longer strands behind his ear. Your heartbeat plays loud. You worry he can hear it.

You stall with your index finger shaking over his skin. Steve covers your hand with his, the look in his eyes unreadable, and you know he's going to kiss you.

You shut your eyes. His breath warms your lips as he closes in, his nose sliding against yours slowly. Your anticipation is a hand closing around your throat, at first a welcome touch and then dizzying breathlessness, an aching for the brush of his lips. He squeezes your hand where it cradles his cheek.

"Breathe," he whispers in bemusement. "Breathe, baby."

You suck in a breath and lift your chin as Steve knocks your nose with his and crosses the distance, his lips parted just slightly. Your head moves back under his kiss, your eyes screwed too tight. Steve takes your hand from his face and guides it over the slope of his shoulder until you're cupping his neck, his fingertips trailing down the length of your arm and moving under, palm to your shoulder blade. He pulls you in, makes the softest little sound against your lips that tickles madly and has a warmth like the setting sun filling your chest.

He kisses slow and sweet, his lips a softness against yours. You can feel as he starts to smile, as he takes your face into his hand, almost pulling at your skin in efforts to be impossibly nearer.

He laughs first, a huff that fans over your twin smile. You can't help but join in as you search up, ardent and excited, laughing into his open mouth until every kiss is a struggle.

"Y/N," he says. It doesn't even sound like your name. He could've said babe or baby or sweetheart and it would've burned the same.

"Do you have to go home?" you ask knowingly, reluctantly opening your eyes.

He strokes your cheek with the back of his hand.

It's getting late, a warm Thursday evening becoming night. The street lamps outside burn yellow-white in the darkening sky and the flowers on the sill have lost their shine. Steve is the brightest thing in the room.

He checks his watch and frowns. "I probably should."

"But I'll see you tomorrow?" you check.

"Did you wanna stay the night? I'm not working Saturday."

You have the first thought that most girls your age might have at a new love asking that question: sex. For a moment, a split second of a moment, Did you wanna stay the night? becomes Do you wanna have sex with me?

You give him a guilty smile and he mistakes it for something else. He says, "You don't have to, I can drive you home. And uh, you know, I would…" You bring your hand back to his face. "We wouldn't do anything you don't wanna do."

"I know," you say quickly. "Yeah, I wanna stay the night." Which is scary to admit. Scary to want.

Whether anything happens or it doesn't, you want to go.

You walk Steve out and he kisses you goodnight chastely. You watch him all the way to his car and wave as he drives away, standing in the doorway until his tail lights are a mere suggestion of white in the distance, small and bright as a pearly star.

Robin shrieks as her chair reclines back as far as it can. "Shit, why does it go back this far?"

Steve is more than tired from a full day of work and while he loves Robin to the point of dying for her, he can't handle stupid questions. His short fuse is further shortened by missing you, and he groans.

"You fucking reclined it all the way?"

Steve watches in the rear view as she raises her eyebrows and hugs herself with both arms. "It went down too easy, is all I'm saying."

"That's all?" he asks.

He knows exactly what she's implying and he refuses to feed into it, even when she hums to herself happily. Her happiness lasts for only a few seconds before she's springing up and giving herself whiplash.

"You haven't actually fucked in this seat, right?"

"Christ, Robin."

Her nose wrinkles. "Have you?"

"No! No, I haven't done anything in here… in a while. And me and Y/N haven't-" He bites his tongue.

"You haven't?" she asks. There's no teasing to be detected in her voice, only curiosity.

He keeps his eyes on the road but his thoughts travel elsewhere. You're so close he convinces himself for a second that he can smell your sweet floral scent, a hundred different flowers clinging to your skin. He lets himself sink further, imagining the feeling of your cheek under his hand and the softness of your skin and fine hairs, the shape of your eyes as he leans in.

"Loverboy?" Robin asks expectantly.

Steve clears his throat. "What?"

"Ew, you're being disgusting."

"I didn't say anything!"

"You didn't have to," she says, and then laughs. "In deep, huh?"

"Shut up."

"I'm serious! I'm serious, you like her. And it's nice," she draws the word out hesitantly, "to see you happy. I guess. After I broke your heart, and all."

He doesn't blush like he might have before. Steve had liked Robin, a lot, and it was easy to understand why: she's the first real friend he's ever had. He's more than over his crush now, platonic (with a capital 'P') suits them well.

"Thanks, Robs," he mutters, rolling his eyes.

"You're welcome." She whistles. "So, you haven't fucked?"

Steve turns his face. "Don't you think that's, like, a private thing?"

"I'm your best friend."

"Y/N is an entire other person who isn't your best friend."

"I'm not gonna tell anybody."

Steve knows that. He sighs to himself, conflicted. He doesn't wanna kiss and tell but he does need advice. "She's staying over tonight."

"Ah, huzzah!" Robin cheers. Steve worries his eyes might get stuck inside his head from all the rolling. "And you're gonna…"

He chews his lip. "I don't think so. I think I scared the shit out of her when I asked her to spend the night."

"I doubt that, she still said yes. But, you know. Not all of us lose our V-card when we're in junior year."

He hadn't even thought about that. "Shit. Having a girlfriend is terrifying."

Robin laughs and throws the seat back up. "If she's scared, it might not even be about hooking up. You've been together for, what, a week?"

"Two weeks today."

Robin nods thoughtfully and then shrugs. "Forget about sex and everything and just have fun."

"I'm not a nympho." He isn't. He doesn't care if you want to hook up or not (though care might be indelicate – he won't lie and say he hasn't thought about it).

"I know. I'm just saying, there's no point worrying about if you will or won't."

He takes the turn onto Robin's street. Her house comes into view, and he suddenly realises, "I wasn't worried until you brought it up!"

"Then forget I said anything!" she shouts back, laughing.

Steve laughs too as he pulls up at the curb outside of Robin's house.

"It's fine," he says decidedly. He's still worrying about it because if you do want to hook up he's not exactly in practice right now, but underneath it is that building anticipation, an excitement. "Fuck, she's so fucking pretty, Robin."

"Sure is, idiot," Robin agrees, unbuckling and kicking open the door. "Wear a rubber or your kids will be pretty, too."

She closes the door with a smug smile.

"You're awful!" he calls at her retreating figure. She waves over her shoulder and doesn't look back.

Steve drops his head into the wheel and startles himself when it beeps.

By the time he's pulling up outside of his house he's forgotten all his sex-related nerves, any anxiety occluded by a want to see you. He rushes to clean up the huge mess he's made over the week in the kitchen and the smaller mess in the living room, soda cans and take out and all the gross things he'd rather die than have you see.

He throws open every window and heads out to the back yard to make sure the pool is actually swimmable. The sun is high but falling. The day's most punishing heat is over. Perfectly safe for sunbathing.

He doesn't have anything fancy but he fills a jug with water and tops it with badly cut orange slices to cool in the fridge while he waits for you.

Steve stretches, smells himself, realises he smells like sweat and checks his watch in alarm. Your visit is fast approaching but if he does it quickly he can shower before you get here.

He's not right. He's still in the shower when you knock the door. Steve almost kills himself as he scrambles over wet tiles. He's still basically soaking as he drags his clean clothes on, hair sopping and quickly saturating the neck of his shirt.

You smile when he opens the door, though your smile quickly fades. "I'm sorry, were you showering? I know I'm early, I just wanted to see you."

You look like you always do – pretty, so pretty, your hair a little messy, your shirt crinkled at the bottom, the slit in your skirt showing a tantalising stripe of your thigh. A breezy, thin outfit for the hot weather.

Steve couldn't say why but he needs to kiss you badly. He takes your shoulder into his hand to hold you in place and kisses the corner of your smile, your cheek, the small stripe under your earlobe. He lingers there for longer than the others, feeling the ever-present heat of your skin beneath his lips. He presses a second kiss over the first and then pulls away.

"Don't be sorry," he says. He pats your face. "I'm glad you're early. I wanted to see you more, I swear."

"You make everything a competition," you grumble, though your eyes evidence your bliss.

Steve leads you into the living room and you drop your backpack onto the couch. The sight of it makes him fawn, because you really are staying the night and you look cute and you'd wanted to see him. It's enough to make him ecstatic. It likely shows on his face.

You turn on your heels, taking it all in. "You have a really nice house, Steve."

"I'd say thank you, but it's all my parents'."

"Where are they?" you ask.

Where are they usually? He doesn't really know. "Chicago, I think? My dad's on business and mom always goes with him, so…"

You turn your eyes from the open patio door and back to Steve where he stands in the middle of the room towel drying his hair. "Lucky me, I get you all to myself," you murmur.

"Do you wanna take your shoes off?" he asks. "There's water in the fridge. Are you hungry?"

You peek up at home where you've bent down to unstrap your sandals and smile. "I'm good, Stevie," you say softly.

When you've stepped out of both sandals you hold them by the straps and they dangle from your hand, swaying with your steps as you walk towards him.

You look up at him and tilt your head to one side. Always charming, Steve's fondness for sky rockets.

"Are you okay?" you ask, a murmur, raising your hand to his bicep. Your fingers slip under his sleeve. "You seem frazzled. Long day?"

It felt endless, knowing that you'd be waiting for him.

"I'm fine. I'm good. I'm great, actually. Got a whole night with my girl."

"And tomorrow, too," you say, sounding as happy as he feels.

"What are we gonna do with it all?" he says teasingly.

Again, a flash of that nervous smile. He hadn't meant to insinuate anything at all. He's about to clarify when you bring your hand to his collar and kiss him.

Steve really likes your hands, he's fascinated by them, the way you move them and the way they feel, their tentative but tender touch as you feel along the ridge of his collar bone. You come to a stuttering pause as he kisses you harder, the wet of your tongue addictive as he opens you up.

He takes your face into both hands and pushes your face to one side so he can move in closer, thumbs careless where they press into your cheeks. You taste like something sweet and the sound you make is sweeter as he dedicates himself to your top lip, a quivering breath as he slows.

He tries not to feel smug at the lost glaze in your eyes when they blink open.

Your bottom lip shines. He wipes it clean with his thumb. "You wanna go sunbathe now?" he asks mildly.

You nod like he thought you would, slow, but then there's a sudden clarity on your face. "I brought you something."

You move out of his reach and he follows. You're only stepping towards the couch where your backpack rests, unzipping it and in no rush as you pull your pajamas out and lay them on the cushion. He tries very hard to pretend he hasn't noticed your underwear, a pair of pink lacy panties, but he thinks maybe you can tell as you turn to him with a tupperware of cookies in your hands.

"More flower shortbread?" he asks happily. "You spoil me."

"I think you're someone who deserves to be spoiled."

Steve's mouth goes dry. He holds his hands out for the tupperware and hugs it to his chest, throwing a hand around your shoulders to tug you close. He presses a kiss to your forehead.

"Thank you," he says.

"You're welcome."

He takes your hand and pulls you out into the backyard. You beam, your head tilting back to take in the warmth of the fading sun.

Steve drags two sun loungers close together and you waste no time in stretching out on one.

You bloom.

There's no other word for it. You unfurl like the petals on your beloved flowers. Your body relaxes completely. Steve reaches across the gap to take your hand again and they hang between your languid bodies.

You're smiling as you balance your red shiny Walkman across your chest and click play, adjusting the volume until the feminine scratch of Cyndi Lauper echoes over the concrete space of his backyard. You close your eyes soon after, and Steve knows he might not get as much conversation out of you as he craves but it's worth it to see you like this, to hold your hand.

He struggles to open your tupperware with one hand but doesn't consider letting you go, eyebrows furrowing at the stubborn lid.

When it clicks it's loud and he inhales fast, worried the entire thing is gonna topple off of his chest and your perfect shortbread biscuits will be destroyed. Flower petals adorn the top. Steve picks them off while you're not looking – they're beautiful, of course, and don't taste like much, but the texture is super weird.

"How was work?" you ask.

He takes a big bite of shortbread. "It was fine. I mean, it was fucking boring as hell. We watched Back to the Future again."

"I've never seen that movie."

"Never?"

"No. Is it good?"

He squeezes your fingers and pushes the rest of the shortbread into his mouth. It's not too sweet. You've dusted the tops with fine sugar that melts in his mouth and the crumbly texture is awesome, better than any store bought cookies he's ever tried.

He swallows and lets his head fall back, greedy enough to pick up a second one. "Wanna hear a story?"

You turn your head towards him and your eyes crack open. "A good one?"

"Depends on your politics."

You close your eyes. "Tell me."

"The first time I saw Back to the Future was at the Starcourt mall with Robin. We were high out of our minds, total whitey's. And I had a concussion, so I was… worse."

Your eyes open fast. Your one shoulder lifts, like you might have to protect him from something. "What?" you ask, frowning.

He pulls your hand towards him, a tug, not to come closer but more in an everything is okay, kind of way.

"It's fine. Anyways, we laughed our asses off and left before the end. The first time we watched it sober I thought it was the wrong movie."

"Why did you have a concussion?"

He shakes the tupperware at you until you take one. Only when you've bitten into it does he answer, though he's not entirely truthful, "It was like, you know how there was a fire?" he asks. You nod. "Well, everything in starcourt was fucking janky, and we went down this one elevator shaft and- concussion." He explains without explaining. He doesn't lie.

No way is he ready to tell you about all the weird shit he's had to deal with. Not yet. He doesn't wanna scare you off or scare you at all, and the upside down shit is fucking terrifying.

You take his explanation without any suspicion and he feels a little guilty.

"You should get workers comp," you say, brows pinched.

He chuckles and rubs his thumb over the back of your hand. Being cared about like this is so weird, he thinks. How mad and worried you are over something that happened before you knew him makes him feel hot, something electric and melting on top of his chest.

"You wanna be my lawyer?" he asks, grinning.

You reach for another shortbread. "I wouldn't know the first thing about it."

"You'd look cute in a suit, though."

"Shush," you mumble. You roll your thumb over your shortbread until the flower petals fall off. "They're so pretty but they feel so weird. Maybe I shouldn't put them on there."

He looks at the scattered flower petals on the floor to his left where you can't see them. "Nah, I like 'em."

You glow. "If you like them I guess I'll leave them on there."

"That's generous. You'd never be a good lawyer."

"Lawyers can be generous! They do stuff for free, right? Pro-bono. Like that one movie last year, with the guy who kills his wife, but he doesn't kill his wife, but he totally does, um…"

"Jagged Edge."

"Jagged Edge! Exactly."

"Was she pro bono?" he asks sceptically.

"Maybe not," you say, and laugh. "That movie sucked."

"Better than Back to the Future."

You choke on a laugh and pull your hand out of his to dust yourself off. He misses your touch but doesn't complain, clicking the lid back onto your tupperware and hiding them under the lounger from the heat. The sunshine is amazing, not too suffocating but definitely warm enough to melt him into jelly. He'd been a little worried about wearing shorts rather than jeans but you hadn't mentioned anything.

He combs his hair out of his face and wonders if it looks awful. It probably does. Only the strands closest to his neck feel chilly with damp, half dried by the sunshine.

"Steve," you say shyly.

He turns back to you and you're sitting up, one leg off the lounger.

"What?"

"Can I… you don't mind if I take off my shirt, do you?" you ask.

He's quick to assure you. "No way, beautiful. Throw it off."

You huff a laugh and cross your arms. Steve's fascinated by the way you take off your shirt, how you've dragged the front over your face where he would've grabbed the back and pulled indelicately. Your back arches and your chest moves up as it comes off.

You're wearing some sort of animal print bikini top underneath, a cheetah or a panther or something. Steve watches the curves of your breasts rise as you breathe in and then snaps his gaze to your face, guilty. You aren't looking at him, busy fiddling with the Walkman in your lap.

"Do you have anything you wanna listen to?" you ask him offhandedly. "I brought this and A Night at the Opera, but if there's something else you wanted to-"

"Night at the Opera?"

"Queen?" you ask.

"Like Hammer to Fall?" he asks.

You turn to face him entirely, skirt ruffled by a gentle breeze. "That's their new one. Night at The Opera is from, like, '76? '75? It has that really long one. And there was," you start giggling, your words all jumpy and honeyed, "there's one called 'I'm in Love with my Car.'"

"Sounds like an album for me. I'll go get it."

You spring up, something he can't read on your face. You look fucking insane shirtless, all soft and shiny, the lightest sheen of sweat illuminating the hills and dips, the slope of your shoulder, the lengths of your arms. "No, I'll do it. I'll get the water at the same time."

He watches you pass back into the house from over his shoulder. "It's in the fridge!" he calls.

"I guessed!"

He wonders for a second why you'd sounded nervous before remembering your underwear. His cheeks go a similar colour as he tries not to think about it, only he can't not think about it. They had not constituted a great deal of fabric, and then he's wondering how much the current ones are made up of and feeling guilty for that too.

She's my girlfriend, he thinks. I can think about these things. Not, like, obsessively. But in passing. God, she's fucking beautiful. He descends into a panicked reasoning.

Steve scrubs his face with his hand and looks out over the pool. It's been a while since they used it. He can't say he wants to use it after last time, and he definitely wouldn't consider any night time swimming but if you want to splash around in there in the daylight hours he's not gonna stop you.

You flounce back onto the patio with the cold jug in your hands and two glasses hugged to your chest, the cassette in the other. "Here, Stevie, can you-"

"Yeah." He stands up. He takes the cassette and jug from you and you manoeuvre the glasses into your hands. "Swap?" he asks.

You swap one glass for the cassette and the two of you sit down in tandem. Steve pours water for you both as you take Cyndi Lauper out, the cold a blessing. He holds his glass to his face and sighs.

"It's still hot even though it's late," you say knowingly.

"Endless Indiana summer." You're struggling with the cassette, your lips puckered in confusion. "Hey, what's wrong?"

"I think I jammed it."

He watches you struggle with the lip that doesn't wanna open. "Pass it over?" he offers.

You pass it as soon as he asks, moving to sit by his side. He's very gentle with the small machine that you've once or twice affectionately monikered your 'baby'. He doesn't know a lot about tech and doesn't know why he offered. It had felt automatic. You had a problem and he just wanted to fix it.

The button that usually opens the door is pressed down, but the door is closed. He digs his fingernail under the button and pulls it up until it pops back into place and tests the play button.

The cassette starts to spin.

"Sticky button," he says easily.

Your thigh presses into his. "You're a genius, Harrington."

"That's Steve to you, babe."

You laugh and shift ever closer, until your arm is pressed to his arm, both perspiring lightly and too warm to really be touching like this. He should pull away, or you should. One of you should.

"Whatever you say…Harrington," you murmur through the corner of your mouth, smiling so nicely that he can't be bothered to argue.

He tucks his hand between your arm and your naked chest and pulls it toward him. You drop your head against his shoulder and turn the Walkman in your hand.

"How's your brain? Jello?" he asks lightly, flexing his fingers against the crook of your elbow and resting his head on top of yours carefully

"Jello pudding pops," you say wistfully. "You remember those? I haven't had one of those in years. Think they still make 'em?"

Your question is out of the blue. Enough to worry him some more.

He brings the arm furthest from you to your head and brushes his pinky finger up from your eyebrows to your hairline. "You feel warm."

"I'm perfectly fine, nelly."

"I'm allowed to be nervous. You were kind of out of it last time."

"We've barely been out here for thirty minutes," you argue with barely any heat.

His hand smooths down to your neck and then back up. He pulls your cheek back with his thumb and then drops his hand. "Just tell me if you feel sick, okay?"

"I promise I'm fine."

"Jeez," he groans, his lips barely parted. A fond annoyance. "Think a guy was asking the world."

You let your weight lean on him, the hand of the arm he's hugging moving around his back until you've found his side. You move it up and down sluggishly.

Like this, Steve has a perfect view of your lovely shoulder. One hidden behind, the other bared.

"You're beautiful," he says.

You tense up and he hates it, bringing his hand to your coveted shoulder. He rubs a line up the soft slope, the curve of your neck and then down again until you've relaxed.

"You… can't even see my face," you murmur. Your breath is a small hot patch into his sleeve.

"I don't need to see your face," he says, feigning a frustration he doesn't feel. "Think I haven't stared at you enough to know? And I was talking about your shoulders."

You laugh and drag your face up. "My shoulders?"

"Well I can only see one. But I assume the second is just as nice."

"You're weird," you say.

There's a certain weakness to it. He thinks maybe you need to hear him say it again. He doesn't hesitate.

"You have nice shoulders."

You shake your head almost imperceptibly. Steve takes the player from your lap and turns it down by half, putting it on the floor with the water jug.

Your legs poke into his as he encourages you towards him.

"Come on," he says, "I don't bite, babe. 'Less you ask me to."

"You'd like that, you sicko."

He laughs and really bundles you up, a too warm hug where your face presses to his shoulder and his hovers above yours. He squeezes and drags his hand down your arm, rough but not cruel.

"What are you doing?" you ask.

"Shh, I'm busy."

You've wrapped your arms around his waist loosely. Steve tugs your thigh over his until your legs are overlapped, as close as you can be while sitting side by side like this. He'd pull you completely into his lap if he thought you'd let him.

He can feel your smile.

His hand soothes a kinder path over your arm before he gives in. Shyly at first, Steve drops his mouth to your shoulder and leaves it there, barely a kiss.

Don't be a loser, he thinks.

Cautious but sincere kisses. He drops them in a uniform line down your arm, your sunned skin hot under his lips. Kisses not meant to be anything but kisses, little worships, a scattering of affection. Indiscriminately. His mouth passes over blemishes, beauty marks, the fine hairs at the top of your arm. You curl tighter around his waist.

He kisses back up the hill of your shoulder and his lips part. He sucks very, very gently, kissing the same spot until he's adorned your skin with shiny crescent moons. He doesn't know how long he kisses you for. He doesn't want to stop, or pause, or do anything but this.

His hands have moved to your back. One toys with the tie of your bikini top unthinkingly, the other rubbing your shoulder. You're limp in his arms.

He rubs his nose against your shoulder for long, quiet minutes. Perfumed by a thousand flowers and yet you still smell like yourself underneath it, your skin an indescribable scent and secret, something he selfishly doesn't ever want to share. Steve can't make himself move from you and you don't seem inclined either.

He groans. "Alright, you hungry?" he asks.

Your fingers stretch across his back. "Maybe."

"I'll call Mazzio's. What do you want?"

"Anything."

Steve pulls back to give you a fierce look. "Just tell me. I gotta know your favourite toppings. S'like, a boyfriend thing."

"A boyfriend thing?" you repeat, smiling wide.

You tell him what you like and he squeezes your shoulder, disappearing into the house to call the pizza place. When he returns you've laid out in his lounger, your eyes closed like you're sleeping. The worst of the heat has fallen away and cloud cover threatens to give you the chills.

"Come inside?" he asks from the doorway.

"No… come and give me another hug. It was nice."

"I bet it was," he mutters, a feigned irritation that's completely overturned by how quickly he does what you tell him to.

The lounger isn't big enough for both of you. Steve's already laughing as he climbs on top of you, careful but not really as he crushes the fabric of your skirt with his knees and thighs and wraps his arms tightly around your neck, rubbing your foreheads together roughly.

"This what you meant?" he asks through a grin.

"No."

Steve's bed smells of him unequivocally. You're trying to withhold from lying down and sniffing, wondering curiously if that's something you're 1) allowed to do, and 2) supposed to want to do. Is it odd to like the way he smells as much as you do? That familiar bergamot, the almost smokey undertone of lavender, cedar. It makes you feel doped up. Your happiness has you heavy-limbed.

"You head up, okay? I'm just gonna lock the door," he'd said.

So here you are, backpack at your feet. After greasy takeout and an entire movie holding hands you think you're probably as content as it's possible to be in this body and in this life.

You hear Steve's footsteps up the stairs and lie down flat against his pillows, turning your face to sniff indulgently, the fabric cold under your cheek.

He walks in and he's all rumpled clothes and smiles, his hair in total disarray like you've never seen. As soon as he's crossed the threshold he's pulling off his polo and you think Oh fuck, that was quicker than I imagined this happening. Your heart feels fit to explode but he's barely looking at you, his sights set on the huge oak dresser at the end of the room.

You watch his arms as he walks past, your heart a hummingbird as Steve says, "Did you pick a movie?"

You gawp at what you can see of his naked chest, the side of a pec. You've never seen him undressed like this. Your distraction leaves you quiet, and Steve turns to you with a soft looking t-shirt in hand.

"Baby?"

"I didn't," you say, your voice scratchy. "Uh, sorry. I just laid down and…forgot."

He bends forward a little before he puts the shirt on and his entire chest moves. You can't help but look at it. Steve has… Steve has pecs. Pillowy-

"Y/N?"

"Sorry," you say, blinking hard.

"Are you tired or something?" He turns back to the dresser and opens a different drawer and pulls out a pair of sweatpants. "Don't look," he says teasingly.

You avert your eyes.

"Do you wanna change?" he asks when he's done, leaning back against the dresser with his arms crossed.

You don't know what Steve wants, if he wants to hook up or if he doesn't, and you don't mind either way. (A bad lie – you really, really want to.) (But it's cool if he doesn't want to.)

You won't be upset if he doesn't make a move, but if he does you'd prefer to be less sweaty.

"Can I shower? Not to wash my hair, just…"

"Sure you can."

Steve holds out his hand and you take it, grabbing your backpack as he pulls you off of the bed and into the bathroom. He drops your hand as fast as he'd taken it to open the cabinet under the sink. "Listen, the shower doesn't work. Well, it does, but the hot water only gets lukewarm and I don't know how to fix it. But the bath works fine. Uh…" He pulls a basket of girly toiletries out. "You can use whatever you want, my stuff or my mom's, whatever."

You stand by the tub. "She won't mind?"

"It's fine. I'll have to get you stuff next time you stay over." He moves you to the side with his hand on your hip and you look up as he moves down, turning the faucet. He holds his hand under the stream and messes with the temperature until he's satisfied. "Sorry. I should've thought about all of this before I asked you to spend the night."

"It's okay," you say quietly. "I didn't think about any of that stuff either. It's like I said, I- I just wanted to see you. Wasn't thinking about shower gel."

You laugh awkwardly. It ebbs when he grabs your shoulder and gives you a little shake. "Half as much as I wanted to see you."

He ends the shake with a good rub of his thumb.

"Want me to get in with you?" he asks with a smirk.

You laugh and start shoving at his chest playfully. "Get out," you whine.

He puts his hands up in surrender and you close the door between you, unsurprised when his voice rings out against it. "You come here often?" he asks.

"Do you?" you ask. Your voice sounds loud.

You strip off your clothes and your bikini top and slip into the water.

"Every morning for the last twenty years."

"What do you recommend?"

"The three in one."

You gawp and giggle, horrified at his suggestion. You know he's lying, his hair's too nice to use something like that. There's a few seconds of silence where you shudder at the new heat and rub yourself down.

"Which shower gel is yours?" you ask, looking between bottles unsure.

"Just use whatever you want. What movie d'you wanna watch?"

"Can't you choose?" you ask, bringing each gel to your nose until you find the one that smells like him. You lather the soap between your palms and run it over your body.

"I picked the last one."

"And you're good at it!" You reason, laughing loudly at your own joke. Steve's reluctant chuckles echo from the other side of the door.

You go to ask, Why are you still standing there, dork? But you're afraid that asking will make him move, and you like him too much to want that to happen.

"You were half asleep, how do you know it was good?"

"You were rubbing my hand!" you argue.

"You liked that?" he asks. His tone is honest.

You cup water in both hands to wash off your shoulders. You don't want to answer and give yourself away. Of course you'd fucking liked it, is he kidding? Boys. No, you think, not boys. Steve.

And after the stunt he'd pulled in the back yard, too. The nerve.

Warm water laps at your naked stomach. You think about his lips running over your shoulder and how tenderly he'd held you. Suddenly the water feels scorching, and you climb out over the lip as Steve says, "How much longer?"

"Stop stalking me."

"You're taking forever."

It's barely been five minutes. You go dizzy with pleasure at the idea that he might miss you so badly, the implication that he likes you that much.

You wrap a towel around yourself and squat down to sort through the contents of your bag for your pajamas and underwear.

"I'm getting dressed," you inform him, putting your clothes on the counter so you can dry off.

"I've never been any good at that," he says.

You pull your underwear over damp thighs and laugh under your breath so he can't hear it and get spurred on. "At getting dressed?"

"Right. Just awful. You should see me in the mornings, it's like, what limb does this go on?"

You stop scrubbing the towel over yourself to ask, "Are you flirting with me?"

"I'm trying. You're dodging the punchline."

"Wouldn't you want me to teach you how to take them off, rather than on?"

"How presumptuous!" You can hear his smirk.

"What was the punchline?" you ask, eager to draw the attention back to his bad joke rather than your suggestion.

You pull your shirt over your head and step into your pyjamas pants, tying the strings into a neat bow.

"Well, because you're so ridiculously nice I thought you'd offer to teach me how to do it, and then I'd get to say something like, 'Baby, I'm a visual learner.'"

"That's awful," you mumble, bent at the waist as you hop into your socks.

He hears it anyways. "Say it to my face."

You look yourself over in the mirror. Fresh faced, shirt sticking to your damp chest, pajama trousers high on your hips. You tug your shirt over the waistband. An entirely normal outfit for a normal night.

You open the door and Steve falls onto his back into the bathroom, looking up as you look down. He must've been sitting with his legs hiked, too much weight on the door to fall in readily. You laugh guiltily.

"Are you okay?"

He blinks. His eyes look impossibly wide.

"Steve?" You tilt your head to the side.

"You look killer," he says.

You mime like a slasher over his prone body and try to do the sound effects. Steve giggles and you decide it's your new favourite sound. He covers his face with his hands, one shoulder lifting from the floor with the force of it. You've never heard him laugh like this, all high pitched and gasping.

You can't decide whether you want to kneel down and kiss him or kneel down and pretend to stab him to death. You think the latter will make him laugh some more and you'll do anything for that next hit, falling to your knees with a threatening hand poised above you.

When Steve laughs really hard his mouth opens in a big smile, all his top teeth on display and shining.

You drop your hand to his chest, having lost all steam. The need to tell him how handsome he is, pretty, lovely, beautiful, all of it, is maddeningly high. You don't want to ruin the moment and you won't, spreading your palm flat over his chest and leaning down.

"I'm gonna kill you," you murmur, lips barely parted as you look between both of his eyes, memorising their flush of dark lashes. You drag your hand down his torso. "Why are you laughing?"

"I mean, if I'm gonna die-" He blows a big puff of air up his face and his hair moves like sea grass. "I'm okay with it being you who kills me."

"You'd let me kill you, baby?" you ask, still quiet, bemused and endeared and on the precipice of something big.

"I'd let you do a lot worse," he says.

You brush the hair out of his face. "I don't wanna do any of that stuff."

"Good. I was getting nervous. Here, give me-" he lifts up off of the ground to kiss you once. A chaste peck that leaves you a smiling mess.

You climb off of him before he has to ask and put your hand out to help him up. He takes it but doesn't need it, surprisingly lithe as he stands and pushes you back into his room. You laugh when he encourages you none too gently into his bed again. He flips on the TV, swaps the VHS out for one you can't see and then joins you at the top, lying down with a suffering sigh.

He stretches and groans. You ogle him.

"What's the movie?"

"Don't laugh?" he asks.

"No, I won't."

He shifts so you're two halves of a heart curved towards each other. "Fast Times at Ridgemont High." You nibble the inside of your lip. "You said you wouldn't laugh!"

"Am I laughing, Steve?"

"Just about," he grumbles.

You don't know why but it feels more than natural to curl up towards him. Any insecurity is fixed quickly when he pulls you close, one arm behind your head and propping him up tall, the other coming over your waist loosely, his wrist to your hip but his fingers not touching you.

You have to turn your neck to see the TV across the room. After a few minutes it aches and you consider moving, then Steve manoeuvres to press his lips to your head and you forget all about it.

His shirt's ridden up. His stomach is soft from the way he's on his side, and you can see the dark trail of hair leading from his navel that disappears into the plaid of his pants.

You reach out to slip your fingers under the hem and wrap your arm around him, feeling the croft of silky hair at the small of his back. You trail up, your finger bumping over the smoothed ridges of horizontal stretch marks.

"Can you feel that?" you ask.

Steve slowly moves his elbow. His face level with yours, he asks, "Can you feel this?" He scratches his fingers lightly over your hip.

You giggle with your mouth closed. "Yeah, I guess it was a stupid question."

Steve moves back and you turn to look at him. You're very close. You're in bed.

"Wasn't stupid," he says quietly.

You raise your brows and incline your head to his until he's laughing.

"It was misguided," he allows.

"I don't know why- I mean, I have enough stretch marks. I know they're not-" you laugh, a bubble of sound that warms his lips, "not dead."

"Maybe yours are special," he teases.

"Wanna find out?"

He laughs and kisses you. Pressure that slowly builds, a chaste pressing of his lips to yours. It's miraculous how quickly your breathing syncs, how you're inhaling at every parting, how your mouths open at the same time. He takes in a big sigh that lights you up and pulls you in like it's nothing.

He dedicates himself to your top lip. There's urgency there that wasn't before, and you're feeling it too. His mouth a crescent of heat, he takes your lip between his and sucks gently. You gasp and your hand twists in his shirt.

"Shit, sorry," he says, "I haven't done this in-"

"It's okay. It's okay, I liked it."

"Yeah?"

You huff against his lips. He's smiling as he does it again. You shudder at the feeling of his teeth, his careless nipping, your hands searching for comfort.

Everything goes slow. He kisses slow, he touches slow. His hands move over your back, slip under your shirt and climb up. Not looking for anything, just looking.

Your hand climbs over his chest. You brush your fingers through the ends of his carefully before pushing up, weaving into the soft strands at the back of his neck. You rub his thumb over his skin in time with your kisses.

Steve encourages you onto your back. You feel a heat growing in your chest, somewhere lower, as he hovers over you, his lips pushing you down into a space that doesn't exist. Your fingers are busy learning the back of his head, fingertips moving over his scalp, scratching lightly as you trail back down to hold him in place.

You kiss up. Steve's hand knocks your shirt up your chest as he squeezes the skin just below your breasts, breathing hard.

He hesitates. His fingers pinch your shirt as if he's going to pull it back down.

"Steve," you murmur. "It's okay."

He kisses your cheek without looking at you, his eyes on your naked skin. "You sure?"

You bring your knees up until they brush his hip and push them away from him, petting the hair out of his face. "Yeah," you say, smiling.

More kissing. Steve ducks down and holds your face steady in one hand, giving you short-lived, wet kisses as his fingers approach your chest. He pauses, watching your face as his fingertips bump into the swell of your breast. "Okay?" he asks.

You lift your chin. "It's fine, Harrington."

"Steve," he corrects steadily, the pads of his fingers ghosting under your nipple to caress the side. His thumb rubs a quarter circle just underneath and you feel the soft skin perk up.

"Steve," you utter.

From there you endure some of the worst kisses of your life – worst as in, life changing, as in sticky, as in everything you've ever wondered about and more. You know you're hopeless. You feel yourself melt into nothing as he massages your peaking nipple, laughing into his mouth when he squeezes and hitching when he squeezes harder.

He pushes the small nub between his index and middle finger and his teasing stutters. He holds you like this and kisses you and you don't know how much time passes. With him, time feels implausible. Like a guideline you ignore.

When you think you might be more him than yourself he pulls away, leaving your lips hot and bruising.

"Can I take this off?" he asks, pulling the hem of your shirt over his finger. His eyes are so brown. You can't believe how brown they are.

"Please."

"Don't- You don't have to say please with me. Not with this, okay?" He rubs his hand over your breast and presses it deep into your heart. "Not with anything."

"You'll regret that," you say, heat like nothing you've ever felt in your chest and the tips of your ears.

"I don't think I will."

He kisses you again like he just can't help it and sits up enough to work your t-shirt from under your back. The excitement gets mixed up with enough insecurity then to make you nauseous.

Steve drops your shirt onto the floor and plants his hands on either side of you. "Oh, you're fucking pretty."

His eyes take you in. It surprises you when he spends half the time staring at your face, entirely too much of it at your eyes. "You know how pretty you are?"

"You tell me enough, Stevie," you mumble, aflame.

"Wanna hear it again?"

You don't say anything. His eyes bore into yours. His lashes kiss.

His grin is practically dietific as his lips curve up. "You're beautiful. 'So fine and pretty,'" he says, almost but not quite singing.

"You're just as handsome," you say, bringing your hands to his defined cheeks. You smooth your hands over his face and ears and hair, holding it all away from him. "You're…" You drop your hands to the curve of his neck and follow over his trap muscle. "You're amazing."

"Stop," he says. You take it for 'keep going'.

"Handsome sounds too formal," you mutter, almost to yourself, "but it's true. You're handsome. More than handsome, you're- you're funny and kind and-" You shake your head. "I think you're the first person I've ever wanted like this."

You don't mean to get emotional. 'This' comes out so rough it burns, and you swallow it all down, blinking fast.

"Like 'this'?" he asks.

He brings a hand to your face, holding your cheek like you're made of solid silver, like you might bend under his touch.

"Like this," you say again. "If you want to."

"I want to," he says, nodding happily. "Of course I do."

You laugh and he laughs. There's a gap where you're both thinking, Oh, we're doing this.

And then Steve's in motion.

He pulls his shirt over the back of his head and you're starstruck. His hair's a dark mess, the ends cast light by the TV. You reach up to smooth them down and it's too late, Steve's ducking down for a smattering of heavy kisses across your lips, one corner to the other. His nose taps into yours and you turn your face to accommodate him, his tongue a wet heat as he pushes it into yours. You reciprocate as best you can, eyes closed tight and hands all over the place. You start at his collar. One hand runs over the twisting of chest hair over his pecs and the other holds his face to yours. He curls his fingers around your wrist, the other paying some much needed attention to your neglected breast. He plays until both nipples are aching and then some.

He spreads your legs and your heart skips as he puts his knee between your thighs, lips starting a ruinous journey downward. He sets kisses like tiny sparks of heat against your jaw and under it, nose dragging down your neck as he turns. You cup the back of his head as his lips part, as he takes your flesh between his teeth and sucks tenderly.

"You smell like flowers," he says, kissing his half-hearted hickey.

"Some idiot bought me a florists," you tease.

His hand slides under your back. His knee presses to the bump of your cunt. "Best decision that idiot ever made," he says, words soaking into your neck, smothered.

You roll your hips shyly against his knee, a negligible friction as he rubs your back and scandalises your neck.

You lift your hips high and he gets the idea very quickly, fingers pinching at fabric until your thighs are out. He tries to move away and you hold him there, dazed by his ravenous attentions.

He laughs and strokes your arm. "I'm gonna take them off, okay?"

You drop your hands from his hair sheepishly and he moves back onto his knees.

"Pretty panties," he says. You don't think he's teasing.

"I thought you might like them," you tell him honestly.

"I do. They're dainty," he says, sliding your pajama pants off of your ankles. "Almost don't wanna take 'em off."

You feel a little bit nervous and decide to direct your attention to his own pants. There's a noticeable bulge at the seat of them. Your cunt twinges at the sight.

Steve's hands worship at your ankles. "Is everything okay?" he asks.

"This is the first time you're seeing me like this. I'm just nervous."

He pulls your foot onto his thighs and fiddles with the elastic of your sock. "If you could see what I'm seeing, I don't think you would be."

You try to imagine yourself as he sees you. Mostly naked and kiss mussed after a day of sun and fun and his affection, the dopey, slightly shy smile, with one arm crossed under your breasts and the other picking nervously at the lace of your underwear.

"You're fucking killer." He mimes a stabbing motion and you giggle. "I don't have to let you kill me, seeing you like this might just do it."

You let him keep your ankle in his lap but bring the other leg up, folding it across your thigh to hide your cunt from view. His eyes dip to the twin globes of your ass and he groans. Your ears strain to hear it.

"Are you gonna take them off?" you ask, eyes on the curve of his dick, eyebrows raised cheekily.

"You don't wanna take them off for me?" he asks. Your startled expression makes him giggle as he slides off of the bed and hooks his thumbs in the waistband.

He kicks them off, his boxers tighter than you'd pictured. You hike up on your elbows and bring your knees together, biting the inside of your lip as his hand drops to his cock. He readjusts the sizable length and a hiss of breath escapes him as he does.

"Fuck," he groans. "Shit, you're fucking- you're fucking everything."

You rub your thighs together coquettishly. "Come back and kiss me?" you ask. He takes a step forward. You tilt your head towards your shoulder. "Are you gonna take those off too?"

You had your suspicions, but the real thing makes your heart stop.

Steve kicks out of his boxers and holds his hands out. You spread your legs and he climbs on top of you, hands braced above your shoulders until he's negotiated himself into the gap. You feel the curve of his cock press into your stomach as he kisses you.

You try your best to be casual and let him kiss you, but you're curious and excited and you can't not think about it now that it's happening.

You stroke your hands down his back and leave them loose at his waist. "Steve," you whisper, breaking the kiss early.

"You wanna touch me?"

"Please?" you whisper.

"What did I say about please?" he murmurs. He doesn't sound very scolding.

"That I don't have to say it."

He leans back on his haunches. "So don't."

You sit up, hands between your laps and wringing. "Uh," you reach out. "Tell me if I do something wrong?"

He softens. "Sure, baby."

You lean in and Steve pulls you closer by the calves. Your hand trembles as you take his cock into your hands. He's thick. Fat. Girthier than you'd thought he would be and twice as hairy, though trimmed neatly at the outskirts, you slide your hand down to the underside of his shaft and pause.

When you align your hand, bottom of your palm to the very start of his shaft, the tip of your index finger misses the tip by two whole inches. You encircle him curiously.

"Spit in your hand," he says gently.

"Oh."

You spit into your hand and press it back into his cock, spreading it with loose strokes over veined ridges. The curls of his pubes brush your hand as you reach the bottom. The entire length of him jumps.

You're honestly dazzled. You laugh out of the corner of his mouth and look up at him with a happy smile. "You're packing a lot of heat here, Harrington."

He looks relieved. "Do you know how fucking scary it is when your girl has your dick in her hand and gets the giggles? I started second-guessing everything I thought about myself."

"I can see why you're popular with the ladies," you murmur, eyes bright with mirth as you dip down and kiss the tip where a dot of precum wells.

"Oh, don't, baby."

"Huh?" You sit up tall. "Do you wanna stop?"

"The opposite. I don't know how long I'll last, especially," he pulls you by the chin to his lips, "in this pretty mouth."

More giggles. He swallows them in their entirety, hand wrapped around your wrist to pull your fingers from his length. Your hands go limp, languid under his gentle kisses and featherlight touching.

You pull away from each other but fight to kiss anyways, cheeks aching with a smile as he steals one, another, a handful of sweet, catching pecks.

You pout as he pulls away.

"D'you wanna lie back?" he asks, hand behind his neck. He rakes his fingers through his hair.

You lie down with his pillows under your head.

Steve smooths his thumbs against the waistband of your panties.

"It's okay," you say, wiggling your hips from left to right encouragingly.

He drags them down. Over the slopes of your thighs and the hills of your knees, he slides them down to your calves. He pulls them off one ankle and they hang off of the other. You lift your leg and let the dampened pink fabric fall onto his rumpled sheets.

He crawls forward, hands hooking under your knee. "Lemme see you, babe."

You bring your legs up and spread your thighs, feet between his knees.

He takes his cock into his hand and tugs. "Fuck," he says, eyes heavy, "fuck, are you wet?"

"You've been kissing me for hours," you say bashfully.

"I'd kiss you longer if you're gonna let me. Can I touch you?"

You push your palm down to your cunt and spread yourself just slightly, more to get used to it than to tease him. "Yes, please."

Steve crawls until you're close and you settle your legs either side of him. He does as you'd done, pushing his thumb to the small well of slick at your entrance and spreading you open with his fingers. "Fuck," he says again. "Shit, baby. Look at you…"

He pushes his slick-wet thumb into the waiting bead of your clit. "There?" he asks.

You remember to breathe. "Yeah," you say, eyes drifting closed as he familiarises himself. You drop your head into his pillows, neck aching. "Right there."

"Aww," he says sympathetically, free hand pressed flat to the inside of your thigh, holding you open. "You have the cutest fucking pussy ever. Shit, i'so wet, you must have such a crush on me."

You smile to yourself and hide your face in a pillow that smells like him. "A huge one. It's kind of embarrassing."

"I bet it is."

His fingers probe your clit. It pulses under his touch, swollen and sensitive to every brush of skin.

"Can you come kiss me some more?"

He looks like he wants to argue.

"Please, Stevie."

Steve reaches over your chest and pulls open his nightstand, procuring a new box of rubbers. You flick his chest. "Is that a new box?"

"Maybe."

You kiss his shoulder and he rips one open with his teeth. "How many's in there?"

"Enough, you minx." He rolls it on.

Kissing. His weight pressed over you, his cock against your mess of slick. You whine as he grinds down into you hard, his tangle of dark curls a blessed friction.

His hips jerk back and the tip of his dick hits into your clit.

"Are you gonna tease me all night?" you ask.

"Hmm," he pretends to think about it, dropping his head next to yours, his arm wrapping around your neck. You turn your face to his. His eyes are closed and his smile is nearly peaceful, though the crinkle between his brows speaks to his growing desperation. It's as casual as any cuddle with him before. "I could."

"But you won't."

"No, I won't."

Steve gives you one last kiss and situates himself between your legs at full height, pushing your legs back until the tops of your thighs kiss the bump of your stomach. He takes his cock into his hand and guides the tip down the length of your crease. His head bumps your entrance.

You let one leg fall to the side, arm crossed under your rising chest, looking at Steve with bright, adoring eyes. He's beautiful above you, pumping his cock with one hand. The other plays at your weeping hole, fingertips dipping inside two at a time.

You clench around his fingers as they ease in.

"Shit, you're tight. You okay?"

You nod voraciously.

He spreads his fingers wide, his eyes rolling back showfully. "Fuck, babe… Gonna spread you wide open, yeah? Is that what you want?"

"Want you inside."

"Yeah?" His eyebrows are furrowed, a certain stress to his voice.

"Are you gonna make me say please?"

He takes your thighs into both hands and lines up. His grin is both salacious and adorable, a familiar mischief adorning his pretty features. "Never."

The stretch is a lot but he takes it slow. Really slow, his hands on your skin and constantly measuring your reaction. Which must be a super ego trip for him, because your face goes slack with pleasure and you have to focus a lot of energy on smiling rather than frowning; there's somethingwonderful about being this close to him. His cock pushes into you and you gasp with every gentle intrusion, every half inch of space he takes until he's halfway inside and staying there.

He bends over you and takes your face into his hand. You hadn't realised before you met Steve how often your face could be held by someone, and how safe it could make you feel. How the brush of someone's fingertips over your cheek could tickle and somehow you never want to move away. He pulls his hips back, rolls in, and your eyes crease with pleasure, lashes touching as you squint.

He smells like everything you're used to. He must be thinking the same thing as you, because he smiles, and says, "You might as well be a flower for how much you smell like one."

Bergamot. He touches something sensitive, gummy walls stretched around him. You whine under your breath.

Lavender. "Make that sound again?" he asks.

Cedarwood. The murmur of the TV fades away entirely. The only things you can hear are you and Steve. You; your panting, the high warping of every breath as his thick cock works you open. Steve; a panting all his own, a scratchy roughness. You try not to make too much noise in efforts to hear him.

The slightest hint of citrus. An impression. Maybe his breath, something lingering from the orange-infused water you'd sipped on earlier. His breath fans out over your collar as he bottoms out, a sound like a hiccup ripped from him.

You wrap your hands around his back. "Oh my god, Stevie."

"How's that feel? That okay?" He stays very still. "Pretty baby, taking all of me right now." He starts to move his hips in leisurely circles.

You pull him down for a kiss, a world away from being able to answer intelligibly. You're so full it aches, so full – the blunt tip of his cock pushes into your sweet spot and you have to break the kiss to gasp for air.

"Feels so good," you whisper, rubbing his back unhurried.

A shiver courses down your spine as he pulls out to push in again. The sound is filthy, an erotic slapping as his thighs hit into yours and he moans. He fucking moans.

"Fuck, Steve. Can you go faster?"

Steve forces his forearms under your shoulder blades and his forehead presses to your collar, lips sluggish as they kiss your chest. He pulls your nipple into his mouth as he starts to thrust into you rhythmically, sucking and nibbling and twisting, his ministrations sending little bolts of pleasure down to your throbbing cunt.

He kisses hickey after hickey into your chest. You're too busy getting fucked out to notice, lavished by his mouth and numbed by his cock. Every thrust starts to hit deep, and every thrust pulls an unintelligible sound from you. Panting turns to moaning, moans turn to mewls.

"Hear how wet you are? Do you hear that?" Steve asks as he pulls away. He flicks at your bruising nipples and pouts when you jump. "Sorry, I'm sorry. Not my fault you have the cutest rack ever."

"Steve!" you cry, flushing with an embarrassed heat.

"What? It's fucking true." He takes your hips into his hands and hits in hard, cock prodding your spongey g-spot unapologetically. "Cutest pussy, too."

He brings his hand down to your cunt and slows his pace, thrusts shallow and eyes wide as he spreads you open. You can feel your hole shaping around him, the stretch as he opens you up. His thick fingers press into the bead of your clit and he starts to draw, tight messy circles in time with his thrusts.

"Taking me so well, babygirl."

You cup your aching tits and feel them sway with every thrust, every hit of his thighs into yours. A sticky mess grows between you that leaves your clit wet with slick. Steve fights to find purchase as he spreads your lips, thumb coming up to pinch at it.

He moans and looks up at the ceiling, his throat bared as he rolls his hips and pulls you onto his cock. "Fuck…" he groans, beggy and out of breath.

You stare at him, unabashed in your rabid attraction.

"Fuck, Steve," you say between hitching breaths, "I'm lucky you're mine."

His gaze jumps to yours. He snaps his hips and you squeal happily. "Say that again."

"I'm lucky you're mine," you say without missing a beat. It's true.

He holds your hips in an iron grip and ruts into you, deep-seated and unrelenting. He's barely a half-inch back when he's rubbing back in, moulding you to the shape of his cock. Dark curls press into your clit as he leans forward.

"You wouldn't believe how perfect you look on my dick." He grinds down, pulls out and thuds back in.

Your face screws up.

"You like that, baby? You want me to do it again?"

You nod and open your arms. Steve falls into them, letting you wrap him up in a grip so tight you can feel the suggestion of his ribs, his chest hair scratching your chest as he repeats the motion. You squeeze your eyes closed and whimper into the top of his head, hands pulling at his back as he rocks in again and again and again.

"Y'making such a mess on me."

You're not surprised. Every thrust into your sopping heat sounds loud in the quiet of his room, and your slick is everywhere. Wetting the thatch of pubes around his cock, the insides of your soft thighs.

"Steve, can you- can you-"

He presses his fingers back to your clit. "This? Sorry, you're just gripping me tight, I had to hold onto something," he apologises, sounding a short fall from reverential. "I got you."

Your sticky thighs start to shake as he fucks into you, the quick rub of his fingers against your clit tightening the coil inside you until it's snapping hard. You can't even warn him, chasing the circles he's making with your hips as you force your face into his pillow and fall apart.

You want to hate the sound that you make. It's an embarrassing combination of a squeal and a breathless gasp, only partially muffled by the fabric under your lips. You find yourself unable when Steve chokes on his words, stuttering, "F-fuck, oh fuck, sweetheart, you sound like- like heaven. You fucking feel like it, clamping down on me."

Steve fucks into that extra snugness and you can see on his face that he's close.

You blink out of the haze of your climax and cover Steve's hand where it teases your overstimulated clit, pulling it up and around your neck. You slide your arms around him and scratch up his back lightly, his hips staggering into yours as you say, "You gonna cum too, baby? Please?"

"Fuck," he groans through gritted teeth.

You clench your walls down around him and the drag is insane, better when he gets his final burst of energy and fucks into you with big, rough thrusts, your knees clamped around his hips. His teeth close around your shoulder and he bites you, maybe harder than he means to, a white hot pain that lasts a split-second, his hitching breaths hot in your skin. His hips slow and his entire weight falls into your tummy, wrought with post-orgasm aching.

You rub his back, damp with perspiration.

He kisses an apology over his cruel hickey.

"Fuck," he whispers.

His kisses move up and he moves too. You both hiss – disturbed, sweaty, blood still pumping fast. He's only adjusting for the height advantage, his mouth at your ear.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah." You have a lot more to say, but you need a second.

Steve makes a humming sound at the back of his throat. "Can I go get a towel? I'll be right back."

"Yeah, Stevie. Whatever you wanna do," you say lightly, rubbing his back and hoping each pass of your palm implies the depth of your fondness.

Steve is cautious as he climbs off of you. You close your eyes and bring your hands to your sweaty face, fingers over your eyes before pushing them to either side of your forehead to stare at his ceiling, entirely blissed and in disbelief.

Steve climbs over you with a towel in hand. You can feel the warmth coming off of its wet corner.

He drops it onto your stomach and you go to pick it up. He grabs your hands in both of his and holds them, joined, against your shoulders. "I'll do it, but just-" He ducks his face to yours. "Let me kiss you."

You smile happily and close your eyes, fingers flexing in his grip as he brushes his lips against yours, at first gently and then with an enthusiastic pressure. You're worn out from everything and can't respond how you want to, but if Steve minds he doesn't say anything, hands squeezing your hands and his lips all lazy and curled up against yours.

Your chest hurts.

Steve keeps a hold of one hand as he breaks the kiss in favour of cleaning you up though quickly drops it to take your shaky thigh into his hand. Spread wide, he wipes every trace of slick he can find, especially kind to your centre.

He's already discarded the condom and wiped himself down. You reach out to stroke the start of his damp snail trail as he throws the towel on the floor next to your discarded clothes. Pulling the sheets where they'd fallen to the bottom of the bed over your naked bodies, Steve slouches onto his side.

"Come here," he says, pulling you into his chest with infinite tenderness.

You turn into his hold and ram your face into his skin, hand searching for the tempting curve of his bicep.

He drops a kiss into your temple and then another. You feel surprisingly awake, his body a hot and heavy thing beside you.

"Do you feel like talking?" he asks softly.

"Yeah," you say, giggling. "Yeah, sorry. God, Steve."

He bends at the waist to cuddle you like he's shielding you. "I know."

You lie there in his embrace and you can't stop thinking about it. That was perfect. That was fucking perfect. Right? You want to ask him. You'd never felt that pretty or pleased before in your life.

"God, that was fucking perfect," Steve says.

You rub your nose against his chest and giggle, an overabundance of joy bubbling messy at the surface. "I was just thinking that."

"Yeah?"

"Oh my god."

"I'm kind of pissed off. Like, if that's the standard, how am I gonna live up to this every time?"

Every time, you think.

"Maybe we just got really lucky. We're never gonna have sex that good ever again," you theorise.

He starts laughing, big, contagious chuckles that boom from the centre of his chest and catch you by surprise. He sounds as happy as you feel.

"Don't jinx it." He rubs his hand over your shoulder blades.

You kiss his chest lazily and he slinks down under the sheets with you, dragging you up until your face is eye-level with his. His eyes are closed and you close your own, moaning as he crushes you to his chest and starts to pat your back.

It's an immense domestic pleasure. You couldn't explain why, but the continuous, steady rhythm of his firm patting makes it easier to calm your racing heart.

"You look really beautiful," he says.

"Your eyes are closed."

"So? You looked beautiful when I closed them. I just want you to know. And your sounds… God, I'm gonna be touching you all the time if that's what you sound like."

"I love how you sounded too." You rub his chest with your knuckle. "I love that you sounded like that for me."

"Because of you."

"I meant what I said. I'm really lucky."

Steve pushes his hand behind your ear and draws your face from his. You open your eyes and find him already looking at you, eyebrows raised. "Thanks for telling me?"

"Shut up! You know what I mean. I'm lucky to have you."

"If you're lucky I'm fucking blessed."

"I've never heard you swear that much."

"And it's entirely your fault," he jokes.

You're okay with that.

You tuck yourself into Steve's neck and trace the lines of his body. The small roundness of his Adam's apple and the ridges of his collarbones, the small dip between his chest muscles and the line underneath his pec. You go to just below his ribs before needing your hand between his torso and his arm, hugging him like he's hugging you.

The hickey he'd given you on your shoulder twinges, reminding you of his maltreatment. You place your lips against his throat and mouth lazy kisses until he sighs in content. When you know you've lulled him into a false sense of security, you take his skin between your teeth and nip.

"What's that for?" he asks in bemusement.

"You tried to take a chunk of me."

"Shit," he says.

You kitten lick the tiny welt you've bitten into his pale skin and he tenses. Your eyebrows jump in surprise, wondering if he likes that, and deign to give him a smattering of wet, sloppy hickeys to find out.

"Did I hurt you?" he asks, fingers brushing over the small embeddings of his teeth in your shoulder.

"Not really," you say, mouthing up until your nose is to his cheek. You close your eyes as he turns his head. You can feel his breath against your lips. "No, I like it, anyway."

Your arms slide over his back as he pulls back to take you in. You stare at each other, not sure how to say anything that hasn't already been said or anything that hasn't been felt. He looks pretty and ragged, perfect hair mussed and dainty brown lashes in damp triangles. The dim lighting shadows his face, the lightest brightness under the well of his eye.

"I wish I was one of the old masters."

He smiles. "What's that?"

"Like, the great artists. Painters, masters of their craft. Like the guy who painted The Girl with a Pearl Earring."

Steve starts to shift onto his back. You lay your arm across his chest and hold your weight off of him. He doesn't like that very much, pulling you in with one arm crossed over the small of your back, the other held high but loose. He brushes your cheek with the back of his hand, fingernails sliding over your skin. "Is painting something you like to do?"

Your heart melts at his genuine interest and his willingness to listen to something seemingly tangential. "I wish I could paint like they could. I would paint you."

"Yeah?" he asks, clarity brightening his face. His eyes are lined with pleasure.

"I would. The," you raise your hand to his face and start to trace each feature as you go, "bridge of your nose. The slopes here," his brow, the dip underneath, careful of his eye, "your cheekbones. Your lips. This line here, and this one. This one, too."

"Are you trying to tell me I have wrinkles?" he jokes.

"Only this one." You smooth the pad of your thumb between his eyebrows. "Though I think it's inevitable."

"Oh you do, do you?" he asks, abruptly loud. You're startled into giggling, dropping your hand over one of his eyes in your shock. He kisses your palm.

You fall silent. You take your hand to his jaw and press the invisible remains of his kiss to his cheek as you lean in.

"I think… I think I'd want to paint you. Just so people know," you murmur, touching your forehead to his, "that you were this handsome."

You wait for him to laugh and he doesn't. Like the trepidation of a sneeze that doesn't come, you feel off-kilter.

"Steve?"

He shushes you and kisses you for the hundredth time tonight. You could happily take another hundred, eyebrows pinching up at his silence.

He kisses you until you forget what you'd been saying, until the aching in your abdomen can't be ignored.

"I need to go to the bathroom," you announce regretfully.

"Yeah, okay. Want me to come with you?"

You laugh and climb off of him. His hand reaches for you as you go, his fingers catching yours until you pull away. You grab the damp towel and your sleep shirt off of the floor, slipping it on as you walk away. Steve acts like he's been grievously injured.

In the bathroom you clean up properly and pull on the spare underwear you'd had the foresight to bring. You stretch until you moan.

"You okay?" Steve calls.

"Stop listening to me in the bathroom, perv."

You can hear him stand. His footsteps in the bedroom. You shiver in the cool bathroom and smile at yourself really hard in the mirror.

When you return he's done the same as you, changed into new boxers. You stare at his thighs unabashed as he steps into his pyjama bottoms, yours rescued and folded on the end of the bed. Steve holds his hands out at your approach and tugs you towards him, not hugging but close. He pushes your shirt up to your ribs and you struggle to see what he's doing, craning your neck.

"What?" you ask.

He follows the impression of a stretch mark down your skin. "Did you feel that?" he asks genuinely.

You'd more than felt it. He pulls up the waistband of your panties thoughtlessly and traces another stretch mark. "You're pretty," he murmurs.

You hug him hard enough that he has to take a step back to avoid falling over. His hands stop their studying, braced at your waist and walking you backwards toward the bed. He pushes you down and you fall onto your back, clinging to him as he tries to pull away.

"Come on," he says, laughing, "I'm gonna get you something to drink. Let go."

"Whatever," you grumble.

Steve disappears downstairs and you sit up, eyes bright like you're seeing his room for the first time all over again. Fast Times at Ridgemont High looks to be nearing its end. You switch off the TV with a triumphant smile and move your attention to his dresser, where the cassette player you'd 'loaned' him sits. You're half hoping Van Halen II will be inside but it must still be in his car. Your disappointment ebbs quickly when you see what's really inside.

Steve has the good graces to blush when he returns. You've clicked play and sit with the tape deck in your lap, beaming. "American Pie?" you ask knowingly.

"It's a good album."

He presses a cold glass of water into your hands and you sip feverishly, best pleased when he sits beside you, thigh to your naked thigh.

"Softie."

He dips his fingers into his glass and flicks you. It feels good and you move back encouragingly. He indulges you, flicking cold water over your face and neck until you're finely misted as a flower in the morning dew.

The best part of American Pie starts to play. You gasp as Steve pulls the glass from your hand and sets them heavily on the dresser, hands wet with condensation as he sews your fingers together and pulls you up.

"What are you doing?" you ask curiously.

His shoulders move back. "Dancing?"

"You wanna dance?" you ask. Your legs are tired – his must be double.

"You're old enough," he says, encouraging your hands from side to side.

You were gonna give him what he wanted anyways, but that small smile toying over his pretty pink mouth spurs you on. You jump on toes and follow his lead.

Steve digs a short fingernail into the deep orange skin of what he thinks is a tangerine and watches as citrus spritzes into the air. It leaps from the fruit with every slice of rind he pulls away, and his hands quickly smell of it.

You lay in the grass with his sunglasses perched over your nose. Steve worries you might be sleeping, your smile demure and your arms still where they've crossed over your chest. Your cotton dress blankets the grass around your thighs, the hem waved as the thin edge of a peony petal.

"You better not be sleeping, Y/N," he warns.

You'd definitely been dozing. You hide it well, your hand hardly trembling as you stretch it across the grass towards him. "I wasn't."

"You know what happened last time."

"You're here to protect me."

He can't argue with that. Orange juice stains his fingers as he splits the segments apart, pulling white pith from the flesh until each slice is clean. He drops two into your hand. "For you."

"Thank you," you say, sounding genuinely excited. You sit up slow and your dress falls down enough to expose the top of your breast where Steve had hickied at a risk of excess the night before.

He moves across the grass until your knees knock together and presses his hand to your forehead. You're definitely hotter than you should be but not about to burst into flames. Steve ushers more tangerine into your hand and reaches for the grocery bag to grab your drink and put it in your lap. You gasp at the sudden cold and gasp again when he pulls the strap of your dress up your shoulder. There’s no hiding the worst one at the meeting of your neck and shoulder. Every time he looks at it, he blushes.

"Was I flashing?" you ask worriedly through a mouthful of fruit.

"Not really? But, uh, you know. Hickey."

"Ohhh," you say knowingly. "Well, that's your fault."

"Did I say otherwise? Have some water. We're gonna have to go soon, it's too hot."

"Steve."

"I'm serious."

"Let's just go buy one of those little hand crank fans."

"So I can crank it all day? No way."

"You'll dictate-"

"Dictate!"

"-my sunbathing but won't crank a little fan for me? What kind of relationship even is this?"

"Stop it," he says concisely.

Your lips pull into a self satisfied smile and you drink your drink like he'd asked you to. "What are we gonna do after?"

You'd woken Steve up early, before the sun had really come out, a vision and perfect and everything he'd known you would be in the mornings. Hands on his shoulders, you'd kissed him until he'd stirred, skipping kisses over his neck and chest.

"Ba-by," you'd whispered, dragging the last syllable, your voice croaky with tiredness, "let's go get breakfast."

Breakfast at a sticky diner that consisted of pancakes with too much syrup and whipped cream on strawberries. You'd dragged him into the fancy grocery store across the street and filled a basket with fancy drinks, pretzels, lip balm and a net of tangerines.

Now, hours later, sweaty from the outpour of ultra-hot sunlight and your company, Steve doesn't know what's left to do that could be any better than this.

He spread his legs and tucks a rogue lock of hair behind his ear. "What do you wanna do?"

You twist the cap back onto your drink and push onto your knees, grass crushed. "I don't know. Anything. I don't have anything to do tomorrow, so you can keep me as late as you want."

He doesn't feel bad when he says, "Could I keep your for the night again?"

You hesitate. He doubles down.

"I'll take you to your place and you can get some more clothes. And I'll make you something better than takeout, if you want," he promises, thinking of your home-cooked meals, the evident love poured into each one.

"No, it's not-" You smile at him, your eyes soft. "Of course you can keep me. But I'm not staying up to dance with you again." You yawn to drive the point home.

He breaks grass between his fingers. "Fine, no dancing."

You nod in agreement and take his shoulder into your hand, throwing your leg over his to straddle his thigh. You look comfortable despite the 'w' shape you're in, settling down with a harrumph of breath.

Steve tries not to think about the silk of your underwear against his leg, but of course he does. The pink colouring his cheeks isn't from the sun.

You look shy but happy as he grabs your hands, stroking your knuckles with his thumbs. "We can make something cool for the weather," you suggest lightly, the skirt of your dress ruffled by the breeze. "Sanwhiches. And something sweet for dessert 'cos we didn't have any yesterday."

"I don't know about you, but I think I had more than my fair share of dessert."

You drop the top of your head into his chest. "Sicko."

"A little. When it comes to you."

You start to fiddle with the bottom of his shirt, humming something very quietly. The Waterboys or something like that, your lips pressed together tightly. You lashes flutter and you rub your cheek with your shoulder.

"What?" he asks.

"I'm just really happy," you confess.

What's he supposed to do? Not kiss you silly? He wraps his arms around your back and pulls you in.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

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parkersdoll · 2 years

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hi!! im pretty sure your requests are open, but if they’re not feel free to ignore this. i keep thinking about holding steve’s hand or like holding onto his bicep. especially in public and with a shy reader. i just want a steve and i want him to hold my hand when im feeling anxious

thank you for ur request! ♡ shy!gn!reader | 1k words

Steve can see you hesitating from the corner of his eye. The lunch club (minus its Californian counterparts) have all somehow managed to fit inside the 733i, survive the journey up to Indianapolis city centre, and now meander through a mall that feels bigger than Hawkins' in its entirety.

Robin and Max are talking about something Steve is too 'boy' to understand, apparently, and you're getting your ear talked off by Eddie and Dustin, though their nerd explosion seems pretty self contained. You're more of a bystander than an active part of the conversation.

And Steve knows it isn't their fault that you're anxious. It's just how you get sometimes, especially in places like this: it's loud, it's busy, people rush past and don't stop.

He holds his hand out across the way. You smile at him shyly and move from Eddie's left, almost stepping on Dustin's rubber toes as you cross the walkway and take Steve's hand.

Your hand is cold. He gives your fingers a good squeeze and pulls you close, your elbows brushing with every step forward.

"Look, there it is!" Dustin says excitedly.

Steve looks forward and finds a bad dream in front of him – a nerd store. Dork paraphernalia lines the windows, merchandise and action figures, posters boasting comic books and the newest sci-fi novels.

"Oh my god," he groans, tipping his head back just slightly. The ceiling is out of reach, big glass skylights that showcase the blue sky outside. "I can't believe we're gonna waste one of the hottest days of the year here."

Your fingers jump in his. He pulls his gaze back to you and is less than pleased with what he finds. You're tense, your back a stiff board, your shoulders rising slowly towards your ears and your eyes glued to the floor.

"Don't be a jock," Max says.

"Let's not stereotype our dear Stevie," Eddie says, his voice so smooth he knows what's coming before it happens, "he's not a jock. You have to actually play a sport to be a jock. Steve's more like, a washout." He says 'washout' with feigned perplexion.

Steve knows he's only joking – Eddie's funny, and despite any better judgement Steve really likes him these days. It's the perfect invitation for some bantering back and forth. He can feel something scathing on the tip of his tongue and Eddie looks excited to hear it, but you make this really small sound that stops Steve dead. A ragged inhale.

He smiles at Eddie and the metalhead looks surprised and then understanding, him and Robin ushering the kids inside the store.

You're in your own head enough not to notice their departure.

Steve walks past the store slowly, squeezing your hand in time to a song he can't hear. "Babe, are you hungry? I saw a pretzel stand somewhere on the map."

You blink and look up at him. You finally notice that you're alone and turn in a half circle, your joined hands tugging against your chest as you do. "Where did everyone go?"

"That weird nerd haven. I'm selfish so I thought we'd give it a miss. Do you care?" he asks lightly.

Your smile is chest-aching in its softness. "No. And yeah, uh… I'm hungry if you are."

He takes his hand from yours and draws close, head inclined to yours as he takes your warm cheek into his palm. "Thanks, baby. You're the best."

Your expression slackens. Steve loves to get you like this, loves to melt you to the bone with small, soft touches and pet names that you clearly adore even when you scold him like you do.

"Stop," you whisper. You're smiling so much it barely sounds like a word, more a fond sound, the 'o' completely disappearing.

"Sorry," he says. He moves his hand to kiss your cheek where it had been and then taps your shoulder lightly. "It's this way."

Your hand tucks itself between his torso and his arm, fingers curling around his bicep. Steve worries he might blush at your careful touch, feeling shy himself for once as he walks you both through the crowd to join the line for pretzels.

"You okay?" he murmurs to you.

You step closer until the side of your converse touches his. "It's… yeah, I'm okay."

"No, tell me. Honestly," he says, gentle but pleading.

Your hand tightens incrementally around his skin. He covers your fingertips peeking out with his hand and leans down, waiting. Your head drops into his arm.

"I'm really okay, it's only…" Your voice lightens a little. "My heart's, like, racing."

He isn't happy to hear that. "God, I'm sorry. I'll try to stop being so handsome," he jokes in efforts to get you to smile.

It works. You laugh, bringing your other hand to his arm as you say, "It would be a big help."

And to hear you joking around is always something he can't handle, it makes him weirdly, stupidly happy.

He laughs a riot and you come apart, drifting away from each other to giggle. Your hand stays firmly wedged in that place between his arm and his chest, but your grip relaxes.

"Just- you know. Let me know if you need to find somewhere quiet, okay?" he asks.

"I will. Thanks, Stevie." You say it like you're embarrassed, your eyes to the floor again. He wrinkles his nose.

"You're welcome. If you wanna find somewhere secluded for other reasons, I wouldn't be opposed to that either. For your information only, of course."

"Other reasons," you repeat wryly, giving him a knowing look from under your lashes.

He winks at you. It's not a good wink. You giggle and a lot of the stiffness you'd held before falls away. Not all of it, but Steve thinks it's a pretty good start.

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parkersdoll · 2 years

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The “very tired mother of 6” stance

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parkersdoll · 2 years

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Goddamn, What's A Boy To Do?

Steve Harrington x fem!reader [2.3k] prompt: "Is that my shirt?" soft Steve, sleepovers, clothes sharing. Going to work on a Saturday morning was easily one of the most difficult things Steve had to do with his week.

Going to work on a Saturday morning and leaving his girlfriend in his bed was fucking torture.

He groaned when the alarm went off, beeping obnoxiously from his nightstand and the tell tale signs of the morning sun slipped into the room through the gap in his curtains. It painted lines of gold over your bare back, new freckles on your shoulders from spending the previous afternoon in the pool and Steve rolled into you, lips pressing kisses along your spine.

You mumbled something into the pillow, voice sleep thick and when you finally rolled over, your boyfriend wasted no time in pressing his face to your naked chest, humming in content. You were bed warm, skin smelling like your mango body butter and leftover chlorine.

By the time you’d run your fingers through his hair, nails scratching at his scalp, Steve was dozing again, cheek squished to your sternum and his legs tangled with yours and the sheets. You felt the soft puffs of his breath over your bare skin, his arms wrapped right around your waist, he shifted in his sleep, pulling you closer.

It pained you to do it, but you dropped a kiss to his forehead, pushing your nose playfully into his wild hair, murmuring softly that he was going to be late.

He groaned again, brows furrowed and lips pouting as he pushed them into your skin, butterfly kisses across the curves of your breasts, the dip in between.

“No,” he mumbled and you smiled at the roughness of his voice, deep and scratchy with sleep. “Wanna stay w’you.”

You hummed at the thought, Saturday mornings with Steve were seldom but they were your favourite. The house to yourself, his parents naturally absent, in another state, another country, another business trip.

But it meant you could spend the day being lazy with him, tangled in sheets, whispering his name as he woke you up with his head between your thighs, dark brown eyes shining as they looked up at you. You relished in his bed head, his hair soft and misbehaving all day ‘cause he couldn’t be bothered styling it if you had no plans to leave the house.

You loved eleven o’clock showers, the morning turning bright, a hot Indiana summer outside but you shared the warm spray with Steve, the smell of his body wash filling the small en-suite. He took his time with you like that, morning stretching into lunch, bubbles and hands slipping over your skin, kisses lazy and languid, the tiles cold against your back.

You ate in the yard, half dressed and legs in the pool, body stretched out over the hot patio floor, sun drenched and eating cheese sandwiches and bowls of strawberries.

You loved the way he looked at you, like he couldn’t stop, like he never planned to. The static buzz of the radio would flood from the open kitchen window, pints of fresh lemonade on the garden table, hearts and smiley faces painted on both your backs with coconut sunscreen.

You’d swap anything for one of those days.

Steve seemed to have the same idea, his tall frame still stretched out across the bed, moving over you instead of into the shower. He pressed a knee between your thighs, a promise of something he didn’t have time to give you but he held himself over you, smile soft, eyes sleepy.

“Shower with me,” he murmured, lips ghosting over your jaw, trailing to the shell of your ear and he grinned at the eruption of goosebumps across your skin. “Please.”

You groaned, both at the idea and the reality of knowing it would make Steve late. Again. You gazed up at him, wondering how you were ever able to say no to him. He was grinning at you, hair a mess, bare chested and still warm from where he’d been pressed against you all night.

“Keith will straight up murder you if you’re not there on time,” you told him, sentence half gone as he leaned down to crowd into you, lips pushed to the corner of your own as if he could kiss away the logic.

“You’d avenge me though, right?” He asked, lips sucking a bruise underneath your jaw, successfully doing everything he could to distract you and himself from his impending shift.

You snorted, a smile on your lips and head tilted back to allow Steve more access, his teeth grazing over your neck in a way that made you wiggle against him. His hand found your hip, fingers flirting with the edge of your underwear, soft cotton and lace edges that made him feel a little weak.

“Oh, of course babe,” you nodded, pressing kisses and sarcasm to his cheek, “Keith wouldn’t stand a fucking chance.”

He grinned at the thought of you going up against his boss, lanky as you were small, but god, you were fierce. Steve pulled back a little, nudge at your cheek with his nose so you met his gaze, lips melting together, lazy and slow.

“I haven’t even brushed my teeth,” you whined, still chasing his kiss despite your protests.

“Don’t care,” the boy countered, hands sliding up your sides, thumbs grazing the soft skin on the dip of your hip, his knee moving higher into the space between your legs, rocking into you.

You sighed, dreamlike, blissed, the sun that slipped through the window bathing you both in warm and light. You could see the strip of blue sky through it, the top of Steve’s bed head as he moved down your body, taking the sheets with him as he kissed a path between your breasts, tongue catching the dip of your hip bone.

“Steve,” you tried to chastise, but it came out softer, like a whine and it made him grin against you and the press of his teeth against the band of your underwear made you cant your hips into him.

He pressed the bridge of his nose into your navel, hands on either side of your hips, drawing you into him and he tutted at the way your wriggled in his grasp.

“Pretty,” he hummed, fingers finding the lace against your thighs, plucking at it delicately. “Y’know, if you came and showered with me, we could save water-”

His words were cut short as you shook your head, grinning, bringing one of your knees up and between your bodies. Steve pouted, but your pressed your shin against his chest and pushed him away, just a little, just enough.

You raised your brows, tried to look stern when you said: “you’re going to be late, Harrington.”

Steve sighed, head tilted back to show off the strong column of his neck, faux exasperation painting his pretty features. You eyed the bruise you’d suckled on his skin, at the base of his throat where it was still pretty and lilac, proof of how good he made you feel the night before.

He grabbed your leg in response, hands wide and strong as he gripped your ankle, pressing one more kiss to the inside of your knee before relenting, tumbling off of the bed and huffing.

His gaze was dark and heavy when he looked back down at you, jaw a little slack and hair over his eyes, bed rumpled and half dressed.

“Now that’s just not fair,” he told you, lips twisted as he held in a groan.

You laughed, cheeks flushed at the effect he still had on you after all this time, looking at you like you were gold dust. You twisted in his sheets, hair mussed as you sunk further into the pillow, bare skin still on show, thighs rubbing together under the heat of his stare.

“What’s not fair?” You asked, doe eyed and acting innocent but Steve knew you better than that, knew the husk in your voice meant you knew exactly what you were doing to him.

You preened, sliding one leg up over the bed, knee bent and sheets shifting, flashing the cherry red of your underwear, cut high on your hips. You grinned when he moaned theatrically, a hand slapped to his chest as he bent at the knees, clutching at his heart.

He beamed when you laughed, sunshine and softness.

“Goddamn, what’s a boy to do?” He asked, voice dropped low as he stood at the foot of the mattress, hands wandering back up your calves, skimming over sun kissed skin, eyes on the red lace that was still peeking out from the mess of sheets and pillows.

But you repeated your earlier actions, one leg extended long as your foot found the middle of chest, pressing firm as you pushed him away and towards the bathroom door. Steve pouted, pretended to bite at your toes but he turned, grabbing the towel that hung from the hook on the door.

He threw you a look over his shoulder, still huffing at having to leave you for the entire day.

“Succubus,” he muttered.

When he finally reappeared, hair a little damp but dressed for work, wrestling into his Family Video vest, he stopped dead in the doorway, staring as you sat on the edge of the bed, shoving your feet into your shoes.

“Is that my shirt?” He asked, voice a rumble.

You looked up, plucking at the material that fell to the middle of your thighs. It was almost a dress, the tight material of your cycle shorts barely peeking out from underneath the hem.

“Mmm,” you confirmed, watching in interest as Steve wandered back into the bedroom, eyes glazed, lips parted. “Mine is still wet from when someone threw me into the pool last night.”

You stood, swiping at the strands of hair that had fallen into your face before walking over to your boyfriend, hands flat against his chest as you leaned into him.

“Is that okay?” You whispered the last part, knowing fine well the only issue Steve had with you wearing his clothes was the fact that he wasn’t able to immediately strip you out of them.

He let out a laugh, a little humourless, a little pained and he took his chance to wind his arms around your waist, spinning you both until he was able to back you against his dresser. He dropped a kiss to your cheek, chasing the corner of your lip.

“You tryin’ to make me act up?” He murmured and at your silence, he hummed, a little breathless. “Succubus,” he repeated his statement from earlier, pushing kiss after kiss into your neck until you squealed and wriggled away from him.

“You’re going to be late, Steve!” But you couldn’t help but laugh, stumbling around the room as you tried and failed to escape the boy’s wandering hands.

He caught you again, pulling you into a hug that you happily accepted, your own arms winding around his neck as you both swayed together, still sleepy and soft with happiness.

“Don’t wanna leave you,” he told you again, bending to push his face into the crook of your neck, wondering how you always smelled so good, like summer and all his favourite things.

“I know, babe,” you soothed, sympathising. ‘Cause you truly didn’t want to let him go either, but the clock by the bed was flashing angry, red letters telling you both it was almost nine. “I told Max I’d drive her to the skatepark but how ‘bout we pick you up some lunch on the way home, huh?”

Steve hummed at this, a happy sound from the back of his throat that led to his lips pressed against yours, a deep, warm kiss of appreciation.

“You gonna give me my shirt back then, too?”

“You think Keith would appreciate it? A little flash of skin?” You mused, already grinning as Steve grumbled his protests, swearing as you laughed. “Maybe that’s how we can make up for your terrible timekeeping skills!”

Your faux enthusiasm made the boy smile but he tried to hide it with a scowl, lips twisted and eyes dark at the idea of anyone else but him seeing you like that.

“Absolutely fucking not, sweetheart,” he growled and he tapped at your ass, a little possessive, a little playful.

You hummed happily, laughter still bubbling in your chest but you kissed the pout from Steve’s lips to make up for your teasing, hand grasping his chin to bring him down to meet you, the boy obliging without protest.

He nipped at your bottom lip, making you squeal, another kiss pressed quick to your cheek and then your forehead before he grabbed your hand, leading you out of the door.

“C’mon now, you’re gonna make me late.”

He grinned at your gasp, slipping out the way of your playful smacks of indignation and he got handsy with you as you both stumbled your way out of his house, sun beaming through each window you passed, Mrs Harrington’s crystal vases spilling rainbows over the floors and walls.

Steve called out to you as you parted one last time, your hand already on the door of your car, keys jingling. He whistled, a flirtatious noise that always had you blushing and when you looked over the roof of the vehicle, you caught his eye.

He already had his sunglasses on, arms tanned and flexed as he rested them on the top of his own car, lips curled into a smile that was just for you. He nodded his head at your chest, his shirt soft and too big against your body, and he called out, voice full of adoration. “It looks better on you.”

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parkersdoll · 2 years

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𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 | 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summary Steve might be acting strange but he's still a good friend. If he did get body snatched, the aliens are doing a great job at making you like him. [3.2k]

warnings fem!reader, anxious reader, fluff, hurt/comfort, steve pining, mutual pining, soft and protective steve, no spoilers, kind of requested

𓆩❤︎𓆪

An orange as big as your fist falls into your lap. You flinch away from it before you realise what it is, and an apology echoes from overhead.

"Shit," Steve says quietly. "Babe, I'm sorry. Thought you heard me."

Your nose wrinkles at his pet name. An inadvertent reaction to your own feelings, how his calling you 'babe' is enough to amp up your already racing heart.

Steve sits down easily beside you, the two of you knee to knee under the ticket counter. There's a hubbub of noise behind you but on your lunch break that's a world's away, somebody else's problem.

"It's hard to hear anything when it's so loud in here," you explain, smiling at him in greeting. You love it when he comes to visit you.

He's still wearing his Family Video vest. He must be on break too. You take the orange into your hand. Its rind is amazingly cold and a beautiful, deep orange.

"This is huge," you say, offering it back to him.

He takes it and pulls the small pocket knife you'd known he'd bring with him from his jeans, performing a dangerous manoeuvre wherein he slices it into two in his palm. The zesty smell of citrus clouds the air quickly, replacing the Palace arcade's musk.

"It's a big one, for sure." He cuts one half into two quarters and passes them into your eager hand. "I hope it's good. Sixty cents at Bradley's."

"For one orange?" you ask, licking a drop of juice off of your finger before digging into your given treasure.

"Good thing I like you so much," he says, cutting his own half into two.

You grin around your orange slice and he grins back, popping the rind between his teeth. Even with his lips parted this wide and your absurd orange slice smiles he's handsome. You almost choke from laughter, pulling the peel from your mouth, cheeks full of sweet flesh.

"It's a good one," you confirm. He nods his agreement.

Your coworker walks towards the desk, sees you behind it and swiftly turns on her heel.

"She doesn't like you," you say quietly, pulling the corners of your second slice until juice bubbles up past broken skin.

Steve's already finished his, the rinds clean on his dark jeans. He scowls at your observation, leaning back with his arms braced behind him.

"Why do you say that?"

"Sorry, I didn't mean- uh," you stammer, put off by his stern look.

He softens quickly, his frown melting away. "Tell me why you think she doesn't like me," he rephrases.

You toy with the orange slice in your hand and try to quell the nausea that has swept you up. You've been like this for as long as you can remember – so afraid to upset people that even a hint of displeasure sickens you. Steve seems to understand, and he knows how to talk you down. Most of the time.

"Well, she won't come near me when you're here," you say.

"Maybe she's just giving us some privacy." He wiggles his eyebrows at you.

You take a big bite of orange and cover your mouth with your hand. "For what?" you ask, perplexed.

Steve shifts and the veins in his arms flex. "Just in general." There's something weird about how he says it, though you're hardly one to judge.

"Hey, what are you doing after work?" he asks.

You wipe your face with the back of your hand.

"You wanna come over? Watch an old movie?"

You love old movies. "Sure. Yeah. Thank you."

He smiles like he's endeared and you feel at once patronised and well-loved. Steve flicks his wrist to check the time and doesn't like the answer, moving to his knees to take the peel from your lap. He kisses your cheek before you know what he's doing and stands.

"I'll see you later, okay?"

"Okay," you say, slightly breathless and very confused.

You watch him walk away and wonder if your Steve has been replaced with a doppelganger. It would explain why he's wearing dark jeans, you reason. But he'd been too Steve to not be Steve, too weirdly caring, too perceptive of your feelings.

You're still wondering why he kissed you when you leave the Palace. The short walk is racked by trepidation. Is this, like, a bodysnatchers scenario? You peer through the glass door for a moment to analyse his behaviour but he looks normal as ever behind the counter, a rubik's cube in his hands.

You let yourself in and his expression clears, frustration turning to something much kinder. "Hey. Come pick a movie for us."

You smile nervously and stride into the room. The neon behind him is bright and paints him pink now that the sun's going down.

"Are you closing soon?" you ask.

Steve points to the sign. You look over your shoulder and flush with heat, embarrassed. "Already closed. Just waiting for you."

"Sorry, I took forever-"

"S'fine. Choose a movie, babe. And snacks, if you want them." He nods to the Indiana Jones stand boasting long bags of yellow buttered popcorn and pink-blue candyfloss.

"You don't want to pick?" you ask.

It's so quiet in the store that speaking feels taboo.

"I picked last time! Go, go pick one. Don't be lazy."

He sets down the puzzle and follows you to the section you always peruse, transatlantic movies from the fifties. There aren't too many, but enough. You can't make up your mind, finger trailing lightly over their tops, weighing your options whilst trying to work out what it is that's wrong with Steve.

Maybe he has been body snatched. He's so quiet. Usually he'd be filling the silence with something, an anecdote from work, a debate with Robin that he wants a verdict for.

Your finger comes to a random stop. You look to him, mouth open and about to ask him if he's alright when he asks, "That one again?"

His hand reaches for it and your fingers brush, his thumb sliding over your index finger. He grabs the tape and turns it around to read the summary though he's seen it before at least three times.

"You always cry in the middle. Think you can handle it today? I don't want you crying as bad as you did last time, that was heartbreaking," he says conversationally.

You're close enough to see the sparse freckles on his skin. Almost invisible. What can only be a handful of them. Your breath catches as he meets your eyes, a teasing smile taking his lips as he holds the VHS aloft and shakes it.

"I won't cry," you say.

"Are you sure?" he asks.

"Yeah."

He looks between your eyes as if you might break and change your answer, but you don't, and he tucks the tape to his chest. "Alright. Get your snacks. I'll rent it."

You're glad to get some space from him, more than confused, your heartbeat fast at your wrist. You worry your thumb over your pulse point and stare at the popcorn, willing yourself to calm down. You can't tell whether this is your everyday anxiety or because of Steve, and if it is because of Steve, what are you going to do? Steve's your friend.

You've always liked him a little bit more than you should. You'd never considered he might like you anymore than as a friend, but his affection seems far past the bounds of amity. What if Steve likes me? you think, nibbling your bottom lip.

Steve plucks a bag of popcorn off the stand from over your shoulder, surprising you for the third time today. You wince and he goes all soft.

"Fuck, I'm sorry. I did it again."

"I was in my head," you say, wanting to reassure him. It's hardly his fault you're flighty.

He lets his arms drop from his chest, the popcorn and movie held in loose fingers. "Is it bad today?" he asks gently.

You shake your head, then pause. "I mean. A little. I don't know how to explain it."

Steve puts your movie bounties in one hand and tucks a stray strand of hair behind his ear quickly, scratching at his neck. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

"It's just work, Steve," you say, not entirely truthful.

You can see that he's caught you, disbelief in the way his lips part, like he might pry. He doesn't, only nods and takes your shoulder into his hand to give you a familiar, bruising squeeze. You'd think after what must be a hundred or more of these you'd be used to them.

"Let's go," he says.

He flicks off the lights and shepherd's you out of the door to lock it. You don't stay to watch, letting yourself into the 733i to hide from the gnats swarming the store's overhead light.

"Buckle up," he says as he climbs in, dumping the popcorn and movie into your lap.

"I'm already buckled."

"Double buckle? I don't know. Don't get sarcy with me."

You bite back a smile and as soon as Steve's turned on the engine you're reaching for the stereo, pressing eject on the tape deck to see what cassette is currently inside.

"She's So Unusual?" you ask, grinning.

"That's not mine."

"Uh-huh."

"It's not. That's Max's."

"I know for a fact that Max doesn't like Cyndi Lauper."

Steve grabs your seat with his left hand to reverse out of the parking lot and you blink rapidly to dispel the traitorous thoughts that instantly infiltrate your mind, whispers of fuck, and oh, and Jesus, his arms.

"How would you know that?" he asks, his voice low enough to make your stomach ache with butterflies.

You catch his eyes as he turns back to the wheel. His eyes are about as dark as his voice, smooth as velveteen.

You're so flustered you forget to answer. Steve takes your silence for the wrong thing, his devil-may-care grin turning down.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he asks.

You shove She's So Unusual back into the stereo. "She told me. When you took us up to Indianapolis."

Steve reaches out for your hand in your lap and rolls your fingers in his. "Are you okay?" he asks again.

You squeeze his fingers weakly. "Yeah," you say. It's an unconvincing attempt and neither of you miss it. Your chest is hurting, a tightening. You try not not pay it any mind because focusing on the worry will only make it worse, but the thing is – you can't not feel it. It's impossible to ignore.

"Take a deep breath," he says.

You nod and do what he says. In through your mouth, out through your nose. Slow. In through your mouth. Hold it. Out through your nose. Steve's hand an anchor in your lap, his breathing an exaggerated instruction for you to follow.

"You've had a long week, huh?" he murmurs sympathetically.

"I'm okay," you say, the panic waning again.

You're waiting for the dam to break, but Steve keeps it at bay for a moment, his presence and touch undoubtedly and invaluable. Soothing, he rubs the back of your hand and returns his hand to the wheel.

Your relationship with Steve could be described in so many ways; amicable, irreplaceable, soppy words with big meanings. Or it could be described like this, your skin still tingling from his hand, a thousand small touches over the time you've been friends and each one a brand.

A phantom bruise, aching like he'd kissed your fingers to tenderness.

You bring your hand to your neck and push into your skin, searching for the gap between your collar bnes.

"I can take you home, if you want. Not that I want you to go home." He rushes over his words. Very not Steve. Again, you think of your body snatcher theory. "I know it's easier sometimes to be by yourself."

"I don't want to be alone."

He turns to you and he really shouldn't because he's driving, giving you a three second smile that feels like three minutes before he says, "Lucky me."

Up the driveway, out of the car and sequestered in Steve's living room. You collapse into his couch and pull one of the cushions onto your chest for a little bit of compression, to hide away for just a second.

"Take your shoes off," Steve encourages, flicking on the TV.

"I will."

He huffs and puts the VHS into the TV. The previews and commercials begin and he slinks to where you're sitting, looking down at you quizzically.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asks.

"I was just gonna ask you the same thing."

"Is that so…" Steve perches on the edge of the couch cushion beside you and starts to untie your shoelaces. "How am I looking at you?"

You know a trap when you hear one. You listen to the tugging sound of your shoelaces coming undone and stare at the back of Steve's head, his nice hair. You brush a rogue lock with the tip of your finger.

"Have you seen any pink flowers around lately?" you ask.

Steve laughs and pulls your left shoe off before starting on the right. "No?"

"Like. Weird looking cabbages? Gelatinous creatures? Jeff Goldblum?"

Steve finishes untying your laces and looks up as he slides off your shoe, pausing with it in his hand. "Babe," he says, real slow with an awful smirk, "are you talking about Invasion of the Body Snatchers? You think I've been replaced by an alien?"

You shy away from his expression but double down. "Have you? I guess you wouldn't tell me."

"Am I acting like a body snatcher? They were jerks."

"No," you say, dragging the word as he takes off your second shoe.

He pulls your sock up where it had been falling down before collapsing backwards, completely slouched with his hands behind his head.

Why does he do this to you? You're having more conflicting feelings than any one person should ever have, and you're a shaken bottle of soda most days. It's like having a tube of mentos dropped in and the lid closed tight. You're gonna burst.

Steve shifts his hips. "Where's the popcorn?"

You fish it from the side of the couch and break it open. It smells cloying. Almost too buttery, you shake a handful into your open palm and feel the greasy fat coat your skin.

"You're not being a jerk."

"Then why am I a body snatcher?"

You pretend to watch the TV. "I don't know. You're just… being different."

"Bad different?"

"Different."

"Am I not usually this handsome and charismatic?" he asks expectantly.

"Well, you're always handsome. Charismatic might be a stretch."

His smile fades into a straight line. "You think I'm handsome?"

You flick a popcorn kernel at him. "Me and every person in Hawkins."

He laughs and it's not right. Weak. The two of you turn your attention back to the TV. The movie's opening credits have begun. They're always long in these black and white romances, and usually you and Steve would talk over them.

"Of course I think you're handsome," you say.

"Of course."

You can't understand him. There's a hint of dejection there. You barely have to think before you're trying to salve his insecurity.

"You have… you have these amazing brown eyes. They could talk for you. You're so expressive, and you get so frustrated, but your eyes never seem… mean." You cringe at yourself. It's a bad explanation. You try again. "You're… really pretty, Steve."

"Pretty," he says.

You flush with heat. "Right. Handsome. You're very handsome."

"I liked pretty."

The movie's music blares. Traditional pop of the late forties. You decide to pretend like you've just had a completely normal conversation with your friend and now that the movies started you're invested in that instead. You share popcorn and watch the movie.

The leading lady is crying beautiful, carved tears down her face pale as the moon.

"But I'll miss you," you say with her.

"You won't have to miss me. I'm only the other side of the ocean."

"Only! Dearest, dearest, dearest," she can't go on. She cries and cries into her patterned handkerchief and her beloved clutches her wrists.

"Dearest," he says to her. "Don't you see? An ocean is a teardrop in the face of love. You might take a step and find me at your side again."

"But I won't," she says. You say it with her, on the verge of tears. You hate these stupid movies.

You can feel Steve looking at you. You turn your face, eye to eye as the love interest says, "You talk with great surety. But I talk with more. I love you. I love you."

You blink, alarmed and feeling caught. Steve's eyes flash down to your lips. You think for a moment that he's going to kiss you, and then the moment ends.

He speaks on, "Surely, that love will tenure across the Pacific."

"You said you wouldn't cry," Steve whispers. Then, with more weight than it needs, "You're a bad liar."

"I'm not crying," you say. You press the back of your index finger to your damp lashes and sniffle.

He rolls his eyes and the movie goes on. Your eyes start to tire, aching from the threat of tears and a long day. You let yourself melt into the couch beneath you and pull your legs up, hand under your cheek, the other stretched into the gap between you and Steve.

You're just gonna sleep for five minutes, you swear, but suddenly it's dark and the movies ended, and Steve's whispering.

"Are you awake?" he asks.

You're afraid to say yes. You don't want him to make you go home or set you up in his bed, as selfish and childish as it might be, content and lazy and really wanting to sleep right here on the couch next to him.

Something bumps your hand. Long, deft fingers smooth over your knuckles and trace your skin. Reverential in slowness, in care, hot fingertips that spread a feeling like light, blooming.

"I should've told you," he says. He brushes the broad of his thumb over the back of your hand.

Steve turns your hand and threads his fingers through yours. Should've told me what? You want him to tell you what he'd meant before a bad thought metastasizes. His hand, miraculous, keeps any unkind thought at bay, his big palm to yours, his fingers pressing into the divots of your knuckles.

It's over too fast. He pulls his hand away and you hear him stand. He crosses the room to turn off the TV. Popcorn rattles as he ties the bag closed.

He brings his hand to your forehead. You hardly feel it through the fog of fatigue.

"I wish you wouldn't worry so much," Steve says.

Something softer against your crown, and then you're falling asleep.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

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parkersdoll · 2 years

Text

You Make It Easy

Steve Harrington x fem!reader [9k] prompts: "I almost lost you" "I fucking hate you" "I’m never leaving, promise" and "I’ve never felt this way before and I’m terrified to be honest.” A little upside down angst, some soft sex, best friends to lovers.

“God, I fucking hate you,” Steve panted, his voice pained and his words harsh but there wasn’t any heat behind it, his hands soft on you as he pulled you into the rough surface of the rock face.

“Hey now, that’s not v’nice” you mumbled, voice fuzzy and you hissed in pain when Steve tried to gather you into his side, lifting at your sleeve, exposing the bite marks on your shoulder.

You really didn’t understand Steve’s confusion at the sight of you appearing from the gate, waterlogged and chest heaving, ready to run for him, fight for him. You knew he’d do the same for you, for any of you. It’s why the idiot was the one to declare he was jumping over the side of the boat in the first place.

He’d left you on the narrow bench, rocking on the surface of Lovers Lake in darkness as Robin counted the seconds he’d been submerged, sounding like a ticking time bomb as you stared into the water, willing him to surface.

When he eventually did, you didn’t anticipate him to be ripped from your grip so quickly, so easily. You’d heard him call out your name, voice shocked, just as he swallowed water and disappeared.

The only person that seemed so shocked you’d immediately followed him, was Steve himself. Your jacket and any logic you’d had, had been left on the floor of the boat, your only thought being the safety of your best friend.

“Shut up,” there still wasn't any bite to his words, his eyes flashing with worry and anger, and you could feel it roll off of him in waves, his hands shaking on you.

Robin and Nancy exchanged a look, unsure if they should be helping or not, but god they were just as scared, eyes frantic, knowing all too well what else could come out from the vines and red mist of the upside down. So they stayed at the edges of you both, shoulder to shoulder and watching the tree line for monsters and nightmares.

Steve sucked in his bottom lip, trying to stay calm despite the situation you were all in. He felt helpless, frantic at the sight of your blood and the way your eyes were turning a little unfocused.

Dust and grey matter floated around you all, Eddie and the girls bathed in a dull, crimson light as they stared at you both, everyone with their own injuries. Cuts littered everyone’s skin, their clothes ripped, eyes wide, chests heaving.

“You never listen to me, you never goddamn listen to me, I told you to stay in the boat!” Steve was rambling now, voice climbing a little higher in volume as the landscape around you roared and hissed with life.

He stared at you, wide eyed. “Why d’you gotta be so fuckin’ stubborn, huh, sweetheart?”

“It’s been four years Harrington, that shit is on you if you think if I’m gonna start listening now.”

Your eyes were closed, hiding from the pain or your best friend’s accusatory glare, you weren’t sure, but when you heard a small snort of laughter, you knew it was Robin. You opened one eye, peeking out from your lashes and you watched the girl shake her head when you winked at her.

Steve was decidedly less amused. He was muttering to himself, completely ignoring your smart ass cracks but he winced and frowned every time you let a whimper of pain slip out. He felt sick, stomach rolling at the sight of your injuries, hating that you were hurt, mortified that it was because of him.

You could feel his hands on you, pressure and something stung, something seared at your skin and you tried not to think about it, tried not to think about how it was almost Steve. You felt a little sick, the image of the boy in the ground with that thing wrapped around his neck, like something out of a horror movie, your own personal nightmare.

It didn’t matter that you were hurt. You were fine. And Steve was safe. You’d slammed the bat with a broken oar, the wood rotting and damp in your hands and it left splinters and dirt in your palms. But you’d swung it almost mindlessly, panic in your chest that burned worse than the cuts and bites, because Steve had been choking.

He whispered your name and it sounded like a prayer, like a cry for help and you immediately sobered when you pulled your gaze away from Robin and looked back at the boy.

The smile slipped from your face and you realised you’d been slipping down further against skull rock, eyes lazy and unseeing as you let sleep pull at you. It all felt like a bad dream, a nightmare that nipped and sliced at your skin, razor sharp teeth gnawing at your bones until they burned.

Steve was on the ground next to you, kneeling in the rocks and dirt as he crowded into you, hands pressing material onto your upper arm that you quickly realised Nancy had ripped from her shirt.

His movements were clumsy and he was trying so hard to be gentle, to not hurt you anymore than you already were but his chest was heaving, his brown eyes were glassy.

Nancy hovered, placing a hand on his shoulder before whispering, “Hey, why don’t you let me help her?“

But he was shaking his head furiously, eyes set on you, on the blood that was running down your arm, soaking into your shirt and turning the cotton a dark red. He was stubborn and determined, completely unaware of the tears that were making his vision blurry because his attention was solely set on you - the fact that he could feel you warm and moving under his palms was the only thing keeping him together.

“Steve-” you began gently, voice breaking and wavering at the sight of him.

Dirt and blood streaked the sides of his face and neck, an angry, red welt there that you knew you would stay for a while; a horrific reminder of what you had to watch. He blinked at your voice, hands pausing, chest wrecked and finally, a tear tracked its way down his cheek, cutting through the grime and landing on his lip.

“I told you to stay on the boat,” he said again, but this time his voice was shot, cracking, splitting, shaking and he shuddered a little when he stole a gasp of air, his forearm swiping angrily across his lips, smearing tears and blood.

You tried to move, groaning when you shifted closer to him, just an inch - it was all you could manage - but you caught his chin in your hand, eyes wide, fingers splayed across his cheek and jaw as you rubbed circles into his skin with your thumb.

“I’m fine,” you whispered, trying with everything in you to soothe the boy, to bring back the same sarky attitude he had with you before. “I’m okay, I’m here and I know you hate me, I was just trying to-”

“I don’t hate you,” he scoffed and Steve was shaking his head, loosening your grasp on him and rocked back on his knees, staring at you with such guilt that it ruined you.

“I almost lost you,” Steve’s voice had risen again, his words biting and left hanging in the air and behind the anger, the frustration you could hear what was written in his eyes, what was making his chest heave.

Fear.

Behind you both, Nancy, Robin and Eddie shuffled, moving a few feet away to offer you what little privacy they could afford despite the overwhelming threat of god knows what.

The Upside Down was still breathing with you all, it had its own heartbeat, a pulse underneath your feet that served as a constant reminder that you were being watched, tracked.

Like something was waiting.

But suddenly, there wasn’t anything more terrifying than watching Steve break apart in front of you, face damp with dirt, blood and tears, a pretty mess that you wanted to curl into, to ask ‘please take me home, it hurts.’

You sniffed instead, swallowed a gulp of air that tasted stale and like metal and you nodded, understanding. It took you a second but you moved to your knees, pulling yourself up gingerly with your hands gripping your best friend's sides. He was swearing, alarmed and annoyed that you were exerting yourself more than you should but you could feel the way his chest heaved underneath your touch, the way the air between you both crackled and roared with panic.

Anxiety was rolling off of the boy in waves and you wanted to do what you couldn’t do before, you wanted to grab his hand and pull him back up. Out of the water, out of the dark and into the boat.

Safe.

Your hands found his face again, thumbs smoothing away the tears that streaked his cheeks and lip as you swayed into him, chests bumping and he caught you, hands wide across your ribs, his palms gingerly avoiding your wounds.

“Steve,” you whispered, trying to sound stern, trying to cut through his panic but your voice was cracking too, his emotions seeping into your own chest, squeezing at your heart, “Steve, babe, hey.”

He blinked, focusing on you, eyes roaming desperately over your features and he let out a gasp of breath that sounded like a sigh of relief and as he leant into you, forehead brushing your own, he was mumbling, voice soft and a little broken.

“I almost lost you,” he repeated, “you should’ve stayed on the boat, I thought I fucking lost you.”

“Shh, I know, it’s okay, I know,” you soothed him, eyes frantic as you scanned his face, watching how his strong features crumpled, like he was losing the strength that was holding him together.

“I’m here, I’m okay,” you reminded him and you moved slowly and carefully into him, hands dragging from his cheeks and into the hair at the nape of his neck as you wound your arms around him.

It took a second or two, maybe less, before Steve let himself return the touch, strong arms wrapping around your waist and you closed your eyes at the feel of it, not at all surprised to feel your own tears slipping down your cheeks, salt on your lips.

The pain you felt from your bites and cuts disappeared at his embrace, just for a minute. It was enough to warm you, the cold damp from the lake still sticking to your clothes and skin, but the feel of Steve safe and solid against you made you feel like everything was okay.

Somewhere in the distance, a creature roared and the boy’s hold on you tightened.

“You think I’m that easy to get rid of, huh?” You tried to lighten your voice, soften your tone, and you pressed the words into the soft skin of the boy's neck, your lips moving against the curve of it in an almost kiss. “Someone’s gotta stick around and watch your dumb ass, you’d never get anything done without me.”

You felt Steve let out a huff of breath, hot air falling onto your cheek as he pressed himself into you and it sounded like a laugh, like relief and sunshine and safety.

If you closed your eyes and played make believe, you could imagine you were in Steve’s bedroom, drunk after a stupid party and holding your best friend as you fell asleep, wishing and pretending it was something more.

“I’m okay,” you told him again, voice a little firmer and he nodded against you, his breathing stuttering as you soothed a hand over his wild hair, trailing your palm across the back of his neck. “We’re okay, I’m not leaving. Not leaving you, promise.”

The feel of his lips pressed to your temple, white hot and burning your skin, told you that he believed you.

—————

Going back to Steve’s house was the easiest option, for all of you. The home lay empty, free of worried parents, panicked questions, calls to the police that wouldn’t make any difference.

You sat in the back of the car, pressed between Robin and Steve, ‘cause after the kids dropped you a lifeline from Eddie's trailer, you’d watched in surprise as Steve threw his car keys to the other boy, his hand tightly intertwined with your own and no one questioned it.

He wasn’t letting go of you and nobody was going to make him.

Dustin, Max and Lucas were in the trunk, quiet and wide eyes searching their older friends for some signs of reassurance. Nancy was up front with Eddie, talking softly about how everyone needed a hot shower and a good sleep, answering the questions that Dustin was asking, the younger boy’s voice worried and choked.

You leaned into Steve, your cheek on his shoulder, his head resting on yours and every now and then, he’d run his thumb over the top of your hand, reassuring you and himself, that you were both still there.

Eddie slowed and stopped at each house, dropping off the younger of the bunch and you all watched until they disappeared into the safety of their homes, one by one, waving before the doors closed.

You weren’t sure who decided the five of you were staying at Steve’s, it could’ve been Nancy, maybe even Robin. But Steve hummed his agreement and Robin directed the other boy to the house, impressive as it was empty. The windows were dark, the driveway clear and when you all stepped out onto the front porch, you could smell the chlorine from the backyard pool, a false sense of summer and happy memories.

It was easy to let Steve guide you to one of the bathrooms, Nancy and Eddie peeling off on the ground floor to find a shower and food, the kitchen lit up as the smaller girl busied herself at the oven, pressing buttons until it hummed to life and she searched the freezer drawers for pizzas and chicken nuggets, potato waffles and frozen fries, a late night dinner than Dustin would have envied.

You could smell pepperoni and the coffee machine that Steve’s mom bought but never used groaned and clicked to life, but Steve still had his hand in yours, the other on the small of your back as he led you to the en-suite off of his bedroom, as if keeping you as close as possible to the things he held dear would keep you the safest.

It was a little hazy as he pushed open the shower door, murmuring softly about water temperatures and left to right as he tapped the dials. You could only really nod, your grip on him still tight and you briefly wondered if you were able to let him go, if he was gonna be able to walk away from you.

But then he was turning on the water for you, spray hitting against the tray and it immediately engulfed you both in warm steam, sticking to your skin and easing some of the tension you held in your bones.

“I’ll be right back okay?” Steve told you, voice low and gentle as if he was worried he’d scare you. “I’m just gonna get you some clean clothes.”

You nodded again and despite what he’d just told you, you were surprised when his hand slid from your own. You felt uneasy, alone, surrounded by the mist of the hot water but Steve kept the door open and you watched him as he busied himself at his drawers, pulling out shorts and shirts, discarding them on the floor until he found one he deemed comfortable enough for you.

Slipping back into the small bathroom, he placed the clothes on the sink top and ducked his head a little to look at you, gazes meeting. You felt far away and somewhere in the back of your head, you wondered if this is what shock felt like. The humour and sarcasm that fuelled your experience in the Upside Down had long left, sinking away with the adrenaline that kept most of the pain at bay.

But now your arm was aching and your mind was slower, foggier; and moving felt like running through water. Catching Steve’s gaze was the only thing that seemed to ground you then, one hand catching your chin and he lifted your face to look at him, eyes searching.

“You okay?” He whispered it, as if he was terrified to hear the answer.

You were ready to nod again, for a third time but he caught you, fingers smoothing your hair back from your eyes and he looked at you almost pleadingly when he asked, “please, sweetheart, lemme hear you? I need to know if you’re alright, yeah?”

Your throat felt dry but you licked your lips and swallowed, hand reaching up to where he held you, fingers wrapping around his wrist as if he was the only thing that was giving you the strength to still stand. You were so tired.

“I’m okay,” you mumbled, voice cracking a little. “Exhausted.”

Steve nodded, a humourless smile on his lips and he pressed his forehead to yours, leaning down into you as you both sought out that little slice of home within a house that didn’t feel like it belonged to either of you.

“What ‘bout you?” Your words were pushed into his top lip, barely grazing but he felt you, warm and soft in front of him.

“Used to it,” he grimaced, chuckling when you rolled your eyes. He turned serious when he cupped the back of your neck, somehow bringing you impossibly closer. “Just please, please don’t do that again. Not for me.”

If you’d had the energy, you would’ve argued with him all night. You would’ve shoved at the boy, angry tears in your eyes, frustration biting at your skin before pulling him back into you and telling him how loved he was, how much you needed him. How you’d jump out of any boat, how you’d follow him to the ends of the earth if he needed your help.

But the shower was still running and the room was filled with heat and steam, making your clothes stick to your skin, the dirt and blood still caking both your bodies slick and itchy.

You didn’t know how to tell your best friend you loved him. How you were so in love with him that it hurt, it ached. It was a push and pull on your heart that you’d felt since you were fourteen, young and too dumb to understand that the boy next door was everything you ever needed.

So instead, you moved away from him, leaning tiredly against the wall and letting the corners of your lips lift into a smile that held just the right amounts of fight and attitude.

Your eyes were shining and you wondered if the boy looked hard enough, that he’d find all the love that you knew was held in your gaze.

“We’ve been making bad decisions together since 1972, Harrington. I’m not gonna stop now,” you grinned and he huffed, an almost laugh you were sure. “If you’re gonna make it a habit of throwing yourself into lakes, you better sure as hell expect me to follow.”

And that was that.

He nodded, pointing to the towels and backing towards the door. Your heart leapt, realising he was leaving you.

“Towels are there, just shout if you need me, yeah?” Steve caught your gaze, watching the tension in your body that had returned, the lock of your shoulders, the square of your jaw. “I’m gonna be right outside sweetheart, I’m not leaving, promise.”

If his words seemed familiar, neither of you mentioned it and the door clicked softly as it shut, leaving you alone.

Shedding your damp, dirty clothes made you feel a little better, the material pooling at your bare feet as you stepped out of them and into the shower. The hot spray stung at your cuts, bore down on your bones and made you ache in a new way, like you were being broken down and put back together again.

You leaned your forehead against the cool tiles, watching as the dirt and blood from your skin swirled down the drain and when you finally turned the shower off, you could hear soft voices from Steve’s room, dulled by the closed door but drawers were opening and shutting, a sure sign that the rest of your friends were freshly washed and stealing clean clothes from the boy too.

When you opened the door, Steve’s shirt was hanging to your knees, hiding the soft cotton shorts he’d given you and the boy was sitting on the edge of his bed, face still streaked with grime and blood, the cut on his brow and lip still angry.

“You should’ve cleaned yourself up,” you told him, frowning as you stepped into the pool of soft light that came from his bedside lamp. It lit the room up in a warm glow, a welcome change from red skies and shadows. “You must be freezing.”

“I told you I wasn’t leaving,” he shrugged, eyes searching your upper arm for your injuries, for any signs of pain or discomfort. He nodded to your shoulder, “How’s the arm?”

You shrugged back, pushing one foot into the plush carpet as you tried to avoid his heavy gaze. It made you feel too warm, like you didn’t know what to do with yourself and before you could brush him off, before you could lie and say you were fine, Steve reached out to grasp your hand, pulling you towards him.

He steadied you in the bracket of his spread legs, his knees on either side of your thighs and he still sat tall before you, his hands making quick work of softly pulling his sleeve up until it uncovered your upper bicep.

He tutted, eyes soft and his thumbs made gentle work of turning your arm this way and that as he inspected the wound. It was smaller now that it was clean, the filth and dried blood that had coated it making it seem worse and angrier than it was.

It still stung, a nip and prick on your skin when the cool air hit it but Steve pressed a quick kiss to the unmarred space below, a hot push of his lips that lit your body up, skin burning, eyes wide.

“There,” he mumbled, voice thick and if you didn’t know any better, you could’ve sworn the highs of his cheeks were turning pink. “All better.”

And shit, maybe it was.

You ate with the others as Steve showered, the distant sound of the running water the only thing that soothed you enough and allowed you to swallow down a slice or two of pizza, a chicken nugget that you smothered in ketchup. When Steve finally joined you all, hair clean and damp, on end from where he’d run a towel through it, he frowned at your near empty plate and slid another slice on it when you weren’t looking.

The five of you ate in silence, crowded around the breakfast bar, barely having the strength to pull out the stools as you all picked at the food Nancy made. You were all shoulder to shoulder, dressed in Steve’s clothes, sweatpants that hung off slim hips, shirts with too short sleeves and sweaters that hung off collar bones. Everyone smelled like apple shampoo, clean like body wash and laundry detergent, but the cuts were still on everyone’s skin, red and fresh, unable to be hidden.

And when the plates were empty, Steve batted you away from gathering them all up, planning to take them to the sink. You’d wondered if you could scrub away the blood that was still embedded under your fingernails, and fuck, you wondered who’s it was.

But Steve caught your hand, still gentle as he led you down the hall. Robin followed you both, passing Eddie as he threw himself onto a sofa, blanket in hand and shoving cushions under his head. Nancy disappeared, searching for the phone so she could call Jonathan, her eyes heavy with sleep.

It was easy to let Steve cajole you into the guest room and you stood tired and heavy on your own feet as the boy busied himself with pulling back the heavy duvet, launching the ridiculous amount of throw pillows to the floor.

Robin jumped in first, a noise of content purring at the back of her throat as she slipped between the sheets, head pushed into the plush pillow and her eyes fluttering closed.

You turned to Steve, panic settling into your chest once more at the thought of him leaving, of him walking back down the hall and up the stairs to his own room, a walk that practically took him to the other side of the house.

You wanted to ask him if you could stay with him, if he could take you by the hand again and lead you to his bed but you didn’t feel brave anymore, and he wasn’t asking you that question either.

You stared at him, eyes searching and beneath the strands of hair that fell across his eyes, you could see that he looked as troubled about it as you felt.

But he nodded to Robin, already half asleep and breathing softly. “You look after each other, yeah?” He tapped at your hand with his own, squeezing it briefly, a flash of warmth and comfort before he stepped back into the open door frame. “Come get me if you need anything, okay?”

You wanted to tell him to wait, to stop, to come back. You wanted to tell Steve that you needed him. But you were sure that if you parted your lips to speak, you’d only release the tears that were making your throat tight, your eyes sting.

You felt too small, too fragile and you were desperate to say something, anything. Steve was looking at you as if he was hoping for the same, like he could burst with all the unsaid things that buzzed and fizzed in the air between you.

But he wasn’t feeling all that brave either. Not right now.

So you smiled, watery and nodded, moving backwards until your knees hit the edge of the bed and Robin grumbled, reminding you both of her presence.

“Night Harrington,” you whispered, throat tight, eyes glassy.

You watched his neck bob and move as he swallowed, eyes holding just as much emotion as your own. He nodded too, willingly himself to back away from the door.

“Night, sweetheart.”

———————

You tossed and turned for what seemed an age, Robin plastered up against your side and providing you with warmth and the soft sounds of snuffled breathing, her head pressed between her pillow and your shoulder. You wondered how she could sleep after the events that took place merely hours before, how the scrape across her cheek wasn’t stinging against the cotton.

There wasn’t a clock in the room to tell you the time but the sky outside was still dark, then night unmoving and still despite all the things you knew that roamed under the earth, in the depths of lakes and between shadows.

You were buzzing, an electric current that flowed through your body, keeping you awake and on edge. You wondered if it was residual adrenaline, maybe the looming threat of nightmares that promised to take you when you eventually closed your eyes.

Maybe it was just Steve, only a few rooms away.

The thought spurred you into action and with as much care as you could, you pulled away from Robin, smiling slightly when she mumbled her protests, still very much asleep. You pulled the duvet back over her as you slipped from the bed, toes pushed into the soft carpet and it softened your steps and as you headed for the door, leaving the room.

You could hear Eddie snoring from the couch, head tipped back and hair dripping messily over the arm, his lips parted, brow creased. You wondered how he’d coped with everything that had happened, how he’d managed to sleep so deeply so soon. He didn’t stir when you walked past, feet finding the stairs even in the dark, so very used to the house's layout after years of sneaking in and sneaking out.

You stood outside Steve’s room for what seemed like too long, the minutes stretching in, the night barely moving around you. You had raised your hand to knock several times, chickening out everytime, just before your knuckles met the wood. You felt like your heart was in your throat, too hot and too much.

You lifted your arm for the sixth time, chest hammering, stomach fluttering and before you could press your knuckles to the door, it opened, leaving you knocking on air before your gaze met Steve’s.

You stilled, lips parted.

The boy was shirtless, sleep mussed despite his eyes being bright and wide. He looked like he’d slept as much as you, hair misbehaving from where he’d dragged it across his pillows, seeking a comfortable spot that he could never find. His sweatpants hung low on his hips and there were some dinosaur themed plasters stuck haphazardly across his ribs, hiding cuts you never got a chance to care for.

No one spoke.

But you lowered your arm, wondering what you should say, wondering what he was still doing awake. Steve was looking at you like you were a dream, surprised and dazed, and he parted his lips to speak, stopping short when he realised he didn’t know what to say either.

Briefly, you considered asking him if he was okay, but you knew the answer, could read it in the way he looked at you, the way he held himself. You thought about telling him you didn’t mean to wake him, that you were sorry and were going back to bed, but there was something in his gaze that had you rooted to the spot, chest warm, breath coming in harsh pants.

The idea of telling him, your best friend, that you were in love with him, flickered through your mind and the mere thought of it made your tummy roll and dip. You shuffled from foot to foot, wondering if there was another way, if Steve could make it easy for you and read your mind instead.

He whispered your name, a soft noise that sounded like a prayer, a question, a promise all at once. It had your eyes flying to his, gazes locked and something passed between you both, a silent answer, an understanding, a ‘oh, thank god.’

You moved at the same time, you think. A push and pull of two bodies, meeting in the middle, as natural as the tide. He found your hand between you both, grasping in the dark and he tugged you to him as you surged forward, a clash in his door frame, a heavy sigh, a blissed out swear.

Your lips found his easily, his own searching for yours as one of his hands tucked itself across your jaw, fingers splayed messy across your cheekbone, his thumb pulling impatiently at your bottom lip, asking for you to give him more.

You obliged immediately, the kiss deep and slow and languid. It filled your body with heat, it made your toes curl, it made you push yourself further into the boy until your grip on each other left crescent shaped moons on the other's skin, nails raking through hair, fingers pulling at clothes.

You sighed into him, relief and wonder and Steve swallowed your sounds, groaning at your noises, at the way you were pulling him down to you, desperate for more, for everything, for all of it.

For him.

You barely registered moving, his hands cupping each side of your jaw as you stumbled together, chests meeting, feet clumsy as you moved into his room, Steve’s hand only leaving you to push the door shut before pressing you against it.

You weren’t sure if it was the underlying threat of danger, of losing each other all night or simply the decade of growing up together, tension building, bodies blooming, curious stares that turned into lingering gazes over new milestones and hot Indiana summers.

You weren’t sure why it felt the way it did, Steve’s lips on yours, his tongue licking into your mouth, his hands heavy and wandering, pulling up the hem of the shirt that he gave you palms seeking out smooth, bare skin. You had never had a chance to thread your fingers through his hair so roughly, tugging with confidence, as if you already knew he liked it.

He did.

You weren’t sure why it felt so familiar, so natural, like it was some cosmic event that was just waiting to happen, a comet waiting to fall, a star waiting to burst.

His kiss felt like magic, like kismet, like home.

Steve Harrington was mint chocolate chip ice cream, the smell of sunscreen and old arcades, cherry slurpees and Coca Cola, sleepovers on bedroom floors, bike rides without training wheels, first trips to the beach, old cassettes passed between classes, notes in your locker, smiley faces inked into the palm of your hand during lunch.

He was a first crush, last love, favourite kiss, first good morning, last goodnight, twirling your fingers around the phone cord, late night chats, and sneaking through your window.

He was picking you up. Breath heavy and chest heaving as you wrapped your legs around him, both oblivious to the aches and pains the press of your bodies brought you both. It all felt too good, too fucking good to let go of. You pressed closer, his hands under your ass, fingers digging into your flesh and your back was against the door, pushing your moans and sighs into each other's lips.

It was too easy to fall into him, a lifetime of trust there as he smoothed a hand over your bare thigh, snuck his fingers under the hem of your shirt and swore at the discovery of more bare skin underneath, tracing the dips and curves of your body.

The kiss slowed and stuttered, stopping as Steve pulled back just a fraction, just enough for his nose to graze against yours and he found your gaze, both of your eyes hooded and heavy, watching each other through your lashes. You were panting, chests pressed together and heaving, puffs of hot air brushing across the others lips.

You thumbed at his cheek, an affection press of your fingers against his face and he turned, pushing a kiss into your palm that you wished you could peel away and keep forever.

His eyes were still on you, searching for an answer, a question, maybe even regret. He didn’t find any of the latter and when he whispered your name, voice wrecked, you nodded, giving him everything he wanted to ask.

You moved when Steve did, carrying you easily from your perch against the door and across his dark room, the only light coming from the split in the curtains, the open window letting in the summer air, still heavy in the night and the glow from the moon.

He kicked a shoe out of the way, lips finding yours again as his knees hit the bed, bringing you both down until he pressed you into the mattress, sheets tangled and smelling of him. Steve moved over you, knee between your legs, hitched up into the apex of your thighs and you gasped at the friction, the solid weight of it pressed against you.

His arms caged you in, his hands braced on either side of your head as he kept too much of his weight off of you, scared to go too fast too soon. But you let out a soft sound, a whine, a plea; and you reached for him, hand at the back of his neck as you dragged him back down to you, kiss messy and desperate.

You felt like you were going to float away, like you’d open your eyes and you’d still be sitting in the barren landscape of another world, Steve in a chokehold and monsters clawing you apart.

But Steve sighed, soft and pleading, your fingers diving into the hair at the nape of his neck and as you silently told him, more, harder, more, please.

He took the hint, hands roaming, kisses turning heated, with more pressure and bite and the tears of build up burst for you both, an outpouring of crushes and tension, jealousy and what ifs, experiencing lust and falling in love.

His hands found your sides, fingertips walking up the steps of your ribs before smoothing across your bare skin, nothing under his shirt. He grazed a thumb over your nipple, both of you groaning at the feel of it, a new shock of pleasure for you to share together.

The boy pulled back, forehead against yours and eyes squeezed shut as if he was in pain, as if it was all too much. He spoke against your mouth, words rushing across the part in your lips and each syllable felt like another kiss.

“Sweetheart, you gotta tell me if you wanna stop,” he was whispering, voice low and rushed, “I don’t wanna fuck this up, don’t wanna go too fast…”

You shook your head, back arching to press yourself along the length of him, hard against your bare thigh, Steve’s shorts rucked up to the highest point of your leg.

“No, no,” you were panting, voice a high and a little desperate and you would’ve been embarrassed if he wasn’t looking at you like you were the entire fucking world. “Steve, please, please don’t stop.”

His lips came back down on yours at that, greedy and pushy, urging you to open for him and you did, easily, keening into him, legs spreading so he could fall into the cradle of your thighs. His hand still stroked over your skin, underneath the shirt, thumb circling over your breast, running down your side, lifting at the hem of your shorts.

You felt dizzy.

“Take it off,” you mumbled, your request mixed in with kisses, lips, teeth and tongue, but the boy got the hint, swearing as he pressed his mouth into your neck and leaned back enough to pull your top off of you.

His lips parted at the sight, another sigh leaving him, eyes hooded and dark as he took you in. You gave him no time for recovery, wiggling prettily against his sheets and his body as you shuffled out of the shorts, dragging the material down your leg and kicking them away.

Steve rocked back onto his knees, jaw slack, hair mussed from your hands and lips rosy from yours. He whispered your name, took his hand and dragged it from your knee to your thigh, gripping at the curves there, staring at how you put yourself on show for him.

“Can I touch you?“ he asked, voice reverent, breaking halfway through his question, like he could barely keep himself together.

You nodded, teeth biting into your bottom lip, body tensed in anticipation.

“Words, sweetheart,” Steve reminded you, “c’mon.”

You gasped at the sensation of his fingers curling into your inner thigh, lifting your leg over his so he could prop you up and spread you out, eyes hungry and disbelieving.

He felt like he was going insane.

“Jesus, yes, Steve,” you groaned, a little impatient, your hands pulling at his, pushing them across the small curve of your tummy, down to where you were desperate.

He fell apart when his fingers swept through you, cursing at how wet you were, telling you how soft you felt. He thumbed at your clit, quickly leaning down and pressing his lips back to yours when you keened loudly, your appreciation ringing out across the house.

Steve kissed away the noise, soothed you down from your frantic reaction and he dipped a finger into you, groaning against you as he slipped one inside, a second joining quickly.

You were overwhelmed, hands grabbing at his hair as he pressed open mouthed kisses to your jawline, smoothing his lips over your neck, sucking a bruise there, biting at the skin before running his tongue over the marks he made.

You were pushing at the waistband of his sweatpants, grinding down against his hand, his fingers moving a little faster as they brought you to the edge, far too quickly.

“Easy, easy,” he soothed, voice hushed, eyes lit up at how you responded to him, “I got you babe, c’mon.”

But you shook your head, hands desperate as they dove beneath the cotton of his trousers, finding him hard and heavy for you, Steve swearing profusely as you pumped him once, twice, in your hand.

“Not yet,” you told him, voice shaking, eyes glassy, “want you.”

You heard his breath stutter, his fingers slipping from you, only to glide over your clit again, pressure building at each stroke. You whimpered, grip tightening around him and thumb swiping at his head.

He looked like he was unravelling.

“You gotta stop, I’m not gonna last long,” Steve murmured, voice gone, rough and hoarse. He licked his lips, looking down at you as he ran his hands up your body, gripping you at the waist and pulling you into him. “Not with you, not when you look like that.”

But you were desperate, needing to feel him, over you, on you, in you. Maybe it was the way you were looking at him, bottom lip jutted, eyes glassy, skin still marked up from your cuts and his teeth. Maybe it was when you pulled him down into you, lips at his ear telling him, “I’m already close too.”

He gave into you. You made it easy.

His sweatpants hit his bedroom floor, a soft thud against the drawers of his dresser, neither of you looking to see where they landed. His lips were on you again, body flush, skin warm and Steve was mouthing at your jaw, your neck as you tilted your head back, giving him everything he wanted.

You brought your knees up to his sides, caging him and he crowded into you, one forearm on the pillow by your head, holding himself over you as the other smoothed over your cheek, into your hair and you communicated through soft gazes and parted lips, a tilt of your head, a hand on his chest, as he pushed into you.

It took everything you had not to moan too loud, biting down on the muscles of Steve’s shoulder instead, the boy sighing, muscles taught, staying still. He gave you both a minute, his hand dropping to your waist, the curve of your ass before lighting up your skin, trailing fire down your thigh and hooking his fingers underneath your knee. He hitched your leg to his side, thigh pulled high as he opened you for him, the slick slid of both of you making it easier to move.

Steve set a slow pace, agonising as it was amazing, both of you blissed out and lips parted, the summer air painting a sheen over your skin, stray hairs stuck to flushed cheeks, eyes heavy and hooded. He moved over you like he’d done it before, head bent, lips brushing almost lazy against your own, as if kissing you was already second nature, as if he should’ve been doing this all along.

You bit back a sound, a tight huff that made Steve snap his hips, making both of you stutter and swear. You could tell the boy was growing impatient, tightly wound and ready to snap but he was holding back, holding on, waiting for you.

Pushing yourself up, you grabbed at him, hands slick on his skin as you gripped his shoulders and he got the hint, lips curling into a smile that made your heart thump and he grabbed at your ass, rocking back onto his knees until you were seated on top of him.

He took the chance to push your hair back from your face, kiss you slow and deep, hands squeezing at your ass, sliding over the small of your back as he held you to him and you couldn’t help it anymore, couldn’t wait, couldn’t stop. Not when he felt so deep, so good.

You rolled your hips, gasping when the movement caught him off guard, made him bite down on your bottom lip. He hissed, eyes wide as he looked down between your bodies, watching your hips move over him, rocking, grinding and taking him in over and over again.

“Jesus christ,” he whispered and he sounded fervent, voice swallowed by the whimpers and moans that fell from your mouth. “Fuck, you’re too pretty, too much,” he puncuated each word with a press of his lips, pushing kisses to your cheeks, you jaw, your neck and shoulders. “You close?” Steve asked, mouth agape as you started to move quicker, hips stuttering with impatience and greed and you almost sobbed when he clutched at your tighter, one arm around your waist as he helped you move, leaning you back as he thrust into you, his other hand dropping between you, thumb rubbing tight circles over you.

You hummed, nodding frantically, hands grasping at his broad shoulders, his neck, crying out as you tightened around him and Steve swore, head tilted back and eyes clenched shut at the sensation. He gathered you to him, arms wrapped around you and he let you both fall back into the mess of sheets and pillows, hand out to catch you both as he moved another once, twice, three times, into you, hips stuttering, all rhythm lost.

He fell when you did, eyes shut, stars blinking behind lids, the world warm and hazy. You clutched at each other, hand petting and soothing over damp skin and smoothing back hair, mouths panting out hot air into the crook of the other’s neck. You pressed kisses to his jaw, stubble rasping over your cheeks in a way that you decided you loved, skin flushed and sticky.

It took a second or two, before Steve realised you were both shaking, limbs liquid, voices gone. Carefully, as not to hurt you, he pulled back, slipping out from between your legs and you exhaled at the loss, hands reaching out to him in the dark and he found your fingers, twisting them between your own as he fell onto the bed beside you, chest still heaving.

You wondered when it would feel awkward, if at all. If the inevitable moment of regret would hit, a common feeling after having sex with your best friend, you were sure. But it never came, the moment stayed warm, familiar, safe. Steve turned to you, slipping the sheets over both of you, pressing a kiss to your palm and pulling you into the heat of his chest.

You fit just under his chin, the perfect height to place your lips on his collar bone, dropping kisses along the line of it, legs tangled.

“I feel like this is normally the part when one of us says we’ll need to talk about this, y’know?” Steve murmured, his lips pressed to the crown of your head. His thumb soothed over your ribs, dancing across your skin in a way that made you feel heavy, melting into him. “But I get the feeling that you might feel the same way I do.”

The boy’s voice cracked a little at that, and he cleared his throat, ducking his head into you as if he was scared to see your reaction, as if you were ever going to tell him he’d got the wrong idea.

You hummed, a soft noise of agreement and you pulled back a little in his arms, just enough where you could nudge at his nose with your own, silently asking him to meet your gaze. You found his eyes, brown and warm like honey, but looking so conflicted, so unsure.

You brushed your nose against his again, once, twice, soft, slow.

“Would it help if I said it first?” You asked quietly.

Steve didn’t reply but you felt him hold his breath, his chest still and tight against yours, both of you still bare, warmed by the other, slick from sex. You continued despite his silence, knowing the boy well enough by now that despite the bravado and confidence he had throughout high school, he was fucking terrifed of what could possibly be rejection.

You saw him swallow hard, adam’s apple bobbing and if you didn’t know the boy any better you might have laughed. ‘Cause you were naked and in his arms, your bare chest pressed against his, his leg wedged between your naked thighs and you’d jumped off a boat for him earlier, swam to another dimension to save his life.

But it was Steve, the boy whose family left him alone, the boy who looked after everyone before himself. So you shifted from his arms, catching the way his eyes widened in panic, as if you were going to get dressed and hightail it out of his bedroom window.

You soothed him, hand stroking over his cheek and you smiled when he realised your intentions, crawling over his body and settling yourself onto his lap again. Your thighs spread themselves over his, leaning down and into him as he propped himself against the messy pile of pillows at his headboard.

His palms smoothed over your thighs, a solid and warm weight that gave you more comfort than he knew, making you feel a little braver as you crowded into him, hands pushing back his wild hair, nose bumping against his.

You cradled his face, hands on the strong line of his jaw, tilting his head for him as you brought your lips back to his, a soft press of your lips that turned into a demanding kiss, a little force and heat behind it as you wished and prayed for him to feel the way you did for him. You left him breathless, a mess underneath you, hands gripping your legs, lips parted, eyes wide.

You smiled.

“Hey, Harrington?” You whispered, lips brushing over his in an almost kiss that he tried to chase. He hummed at you, answering without words. “I’ve never felt this way before and I’m terrified, to be honest.”

It felt a lot like saying I love you, and Steve must’ve understood cause he gaped at you, brown eyes shining in the dark and he brought his arms around you, pulling you down and into him in a hug that engulfed you.

He spoke into your hair, eyes closed and the dark of the night making him feel brave. “Fuck, yeah, same.” He cleared his throat, voice thick, “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“I don’t wanna lose you,” you started, voice quiet and small and the boy was quick to bring your face to his, eyes serious when he interrupted.

“You won’t,” he choked out, “shit, sweetheart, you could never.”

“Yeah?” You sniffed, eyes glassy and god, you were overwhelmed. By the night, by Steve, by his lips, his bed, his body against yours. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

———————

No one said anything the next morning.

Not Robin when she woke up in the guest room alone, your pillow cold. Not Nancy when she passed you both leaving Steve’s room as she left the bathroom, his shirt swallowing your frame, your shorts on his bedroom floor.

She had smiled at you both, knowing, looking at your sleep mussed hair, soft smiles and marked up neck, Steve’s hand on the small of your back as he led you downstairs. Eddie followed your joined hands from where he was still sprawled across the couch, chest bare, rings glinting in the morning light. He grinned, laughing quietly when he caught Robin’s eye behind you both, shrugging when she shushed him.

It felt like a new day, a fresh start, a second chance.

The idea of defeating whatever this monster was, working out what it was that he wanted with you all, keeping the kids safe, helping your friends. It all felt a little less impossible than the day before. Your arm still stung, a dull ache that reminded you of the fights that had already been lost, but Steve was pressed against your back as you cracked some eggs into a pan, a breakfast for all of you, his arms around your waist and his chin resting on top of your head.

He pressed a kiss there and you decided that he made it feel a whole lot easier than it should.

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parkersdoll · 2 years

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𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫? | 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summary steve finds out that falling in love can be really, really easy. you find out what it’s like when somebody wants to take care of you [10.5k]

warnings fem!reader, fluff, mutual pining, getting together, dustins next-door neighbour!reader, sick fic, hurt/comfort, reader is implied to weigh more than nancy, you’re upset one time and steve goes overboard, small s4 spoilers no major plot details, post s3 pre s4, feat. the lunch club, karaoke, rollerblading, sunbathing

A vast green jungle, so damp the forest floor bathes your ankles in rainwater runoff. The air is thick with humidity and smells green. Earthy, the sweet scent of petrichor tickles your nose, and-

A shadow distends over the yellow pages of your paperback, dark, eating up the image of the amazon and replacing it with reality – a normal summer's day in Hawkins.

Steve Harrington stands in front of you, his body blocking the sun and its warm glow. The light throws a halo around his head and turns the ends of his brown hair golden.

"Watcha reading?" he asks in lieu of ‘hello’.

"Ever read Journey to the Center of the Earth?" you ask him, leaning towards him invitingly.

You love to mess with him like this, watch his cheeks slowly pink as you bend towards your knees with a demure smile playing on your lips.

"Yeah, I did. In middle school," he says, trying his best to play it cool, hands pushing deep into the pockets of his pants.

"Well, it's nothing like that."

The grin he gets when he realises you're messing with him is adorable. He chuckles warmly and pulls a hand through his hair, looking down at the ground and then up at you again with a bashful pinch to his thick eyebrows.

"You're looking for Dustin?" you ask. You haven't seen your young neighbour since this morning. "He ran off earlier with his huge radio thing."

Steve rolls his eyes. "Typical. I paid him fifteen dollars," he says, his frustration clear, "fifteen dollars, Y/N, to fix my Walkman like three weeks ago. Every time I come by he's out. Little shit probably hasn't even looked at it."

You like Steve. He's a great looking guy who's more than nice when he sees you even though you're always pushing his buttons, and his poorly hidden fondness for Dustin is something you find heart-squeezingly attractive. You don't think twice about your next move.

You stand up from your lounger and have to shield your eyes from the sun, tucking your book under your naked arm. "If you want… I have a cassette player I'm not using. I got a Walkman for my birthday." You don't give him an opportunity to say no as you start for the front door.

"Are you sure?" Steve asks. You hold the door open for him, standing at the threshold with a grin.

"Positive. It's collecting dust, at this point."

"I mean, sure, if that's cool. Just until Dustin gets his act together," he says, pushing past you. His hand brushes your hip.

"That's cool," you confirm, walking behind him through your open kitchen and living room. "It's on the left."

Steve pushes into your bedroom. The window's open, breezing around the smell of fresh linens and the hydrangeas in the planter on your sill, shifting the gauzy white curtains.

The suncatcher hanging from the window sprays rainbow kisses over your walls and posters, your laundry basket full of summer dresses and discarded night shirts. The carpet is freshly vacuumed and plush underfoot as you beeline for your desk. Steve hovers by the door before leaning his weight against your bookshelf, eyes taking it in curiously.

"Cyndi Lauper," Steve says, eyes on a big poster of said singer with her iconic orange hair and hat. You raise your eyebrows at him, pleased, and he shrugs. "She's famous."

"You like her?"

"Nah," he says. "But I'll listen to anything. Except Depeche Mode; sharing a player with Robin all summer has sailed that boat."

"Yeah?" you ask, kneeling down in front of your desk to dig through the cabinet underneath. You frown, up to your elbow in bric a brac and forgotten trinkets. "It's in here somewhere."

"Yeah. I mean, maybe not anything. I don't think I have the palate for some of those rock and roll bands. Dustin made me listen to Black Scabbard in the car last week and…"

"Black Sabbath," you correct lightly, pulling out of your cupboard with a relieved huff.

"Right," he says.

You look over your shoulder to find him perusing your bookshelf, his hand running lightly over the shiny glass paper weight you use as a book end. He teases the spine of a hardback book curiously but must feel your gaze, turning to you with a sheepish smile.

"Do you like to read?" you ask.

Steve wrings his hands held at his hip. "Sure, I don't mind it. Bigger fan of movies."

"Right, Family Video must get pretty distracting," you say, walking towards him on light footing to offer the dinged-up cassette player. "She's well loved but she works, I swear."

He takes it from you, fingers brushing the backs of yours. "Thank you."

You shift from one foot to the other — because oh my god there's a boy in my room — before smiling with teeth. You stop. "You're welcome. Want a drink?"

"Uh…"

"I've got pink lemonade."

"Oh, then definitely."

You lead him into the kitchen and install him at the kitchen table with two empty glasses. The carafe of lemonade is beautifully cold from the refrigerator with slices of lemon and strawberry bouncing around the top as you pour it. The condensation wets your fingers.

Steve looks handsome and maybe slightly silly behind your homely oak table, all clean cut and well dressed. You feel bare beside him in your tank top and flowy midi skirt, too much skin.

"Are you hungry? I make a mean BLT," you say, bringing your feet up onto the chair, knees digging into the table.

"I'm good, thanks," he says.

"Are you having a good time of it at FV? They denied my application, but that's 'cos Keith has a vendetta against me for wiping out his score on the Palace's Tempest."

"You're a Tempest girl?"

"Everybody plays Tempest," you say.

Steve gives you a look. "Nerds play Tempest."

"Fine, every nerd plays Tempest," you allow, rolling your eyes. "Lemme guess, you're a Centipede guy. No, worse! You play Pac-Man. I can tell."

His silence is enough to make you giggle in triumph, elated to have sussed him out so quickly.

"How did you know that?" he asks finally.

"You called Black Sabbath 'Black Scabbard'. You're not a nerd."

"I could be."

"But you're not."

You share a steady look over the table. His eyes are bright with mirth, a sleek brown like fresh brewed coffee. You love the shape of them, deepest with the round under eye blanketed in straight black lashes. A red polo stretches across his chest. You find your eyes drawn down the length of his arm to his hand where he's drawing circles around the rim of his glass. He takes it into his hand and you watch his wrist bend, his arm flex as he brings the cup to his lips and a drop of condensation drips onto the table mat.

"I don't look the type?" he asks after a rough swallow. He sounds almost incensed.

"No, of course you don't. King Steve," you croon.

He crosses his arms across his chest and leans back, looking you up and down showfully. "Neither do you."

He's all charming smiles as he raises his chin and shakes his head, lips stretched up in an open-mouthed smile.

"Tempest," he mutters in bemusement.

You burst into laughter, quick to defend yourself when there's a pounding knock at the door. You're still laughing as you stand, calling to Steve as you walk to the door, "Tempest isn't even that nerdy! It's the Dragon's Lair dorks you need to watch out for. Oh, hi baby. What's wrong?"

"You haven't seen Steve, have you? His cars outside," Dustin announces, standing under the porch with his wild curls stuffed under a hat, his pulley cart ditched halfway between your yard and his.

"He's in the kitchen. You want some lemonade? You look frazzled," you offer, brushing your hand over his sunburned shoulder lightly as he scoots right past you.

"Thanks, Y/N." Dustin strides into the kitchen with purpose, glaring at Steve pretty heavily as he takes your seat at the table. "Why are you here?"

"Fucking charming. I came to see you, Henderson, but you're never home. Too busy finding secluded knolls to radio your girlfriend and play karaoke."

"Dick," Dustin says, though he defrosts as you fill a glass for him.

"What do you want?" Steve asks him.

"Why do you assume I want something?"

"Don’t be coy, you're not Madonna. It's tacky."

"Dick," Dustin says again, glaring.

"Dustin, do you want something to eat? You shouldn't go out in the sun all day by yourself, you know? What if you get heat stroke?" you ask.

Steve gives you a strange look like he's puzzled with you. You smile back at him, hand coming down on the back of Dustin's chair easily.

"Steve, I need a ride to Mike's," Dustin says, completely ignoring you.

Steve kicks him under the table. "Manners."

"Can I please have a ride-"

"To her, dipshit. Jeez, what's wrong with you? She asked if you're hungry."

Dustin beams at you innocently, soft cheeks rounding. "No thank you Y/N you're a godsend and I appreciate you very much," he says all in a rush, turning back to Steve, the act entirely dropped. "Now can we go?"

"Christ, fine. I'm gonna get you one of those rewards cards for being a shithead. This incident would be a double stamp, by the way."

"Uh-huh," Dustin says.

The younger teen chugs his glass of lemonade and spins off, calling a thank you over his shoulder. Steve gets up to follow him, your old cassette player held carefully in his hands.

"I'm sorry about him."

"Don't be. I've known him his entire life. He's in a phase," you inform him with a small grin, shrugging as if to say, what you gonna do?

"Long phase. Thank you. For the player and the lemonade."

"You're welcome," you say warmly, walking him to the door.

Dustin's already in the passenger seat, having taken his pulley cart back inside. He makes a hurry up motion from behind his window and Steve mutters expletives to himself, giving you one last smile before he trudges off.

The two boys wave at you through the windshield. You wave back.

When Steve's car has winked from view you take your lemonade and paperback outside again to lie under what's left of the sun. You try your best to fall back into the jungle and conjure its sights and sounds, only you keep finding your thoughts wrapped up around a certain boy's laugh and the face he makes as he does, that startled grin, a fist half raised to his mouth.

"Y/N!" A familiar teen voice accompanied by battering knocking at your front door.

You pull it open, still in your pajamas, hair a mess. His knocking had woken you up. You'd had about ten seconds to check you hadn't drooled too violently in your sleep before he was calling your name, and so you hadn't bothered getting dressed.

You wish you had. Dustin stood at the door with Steve Harrington behind him, a happy smile on both their faces.

You try not to flinch as you throw an arm across your chest subconsciously. "Hi?" you ask. "Is everything okay?"

Dustin's dressed for the beautiful weather in shorts and a shirt with sleeves so short it may as well be a tank top, a hat perched familiarly over his cute curls. Steve is dressed in a tormenting pair of jeans paired with a denim jacket. Double denim. He looks hot, physically and figuratively.

"Do you wanna come skating?" Dustin asks urgently.

You blink at him, pulling the edges of your strappy vest down to cover your navel, plaid bottoms low on your hips – you're a mess.

"Skating? I don't have one."

"A skateboard?" Dustin asks, shrugging. "Bring your rollerblades."

You err at the door, leaning your weight against it as you think. "When?"

"Now!" he says.

"I don't want to hold you up," you say, aimed more towards Steve than Dustin.

Steve smiles, hooking cheeks pink with the heat, and is about to talk when Dustin says, "He made me come ask you, he's fine to wait."

You bite back a smirk at Steve's deer-in-the-headlights expression and nod happily. "Alright. Twenty minutes and I'll be ready. If that's okay?"

"Totally," Steve says.

You close the door most of the way and catch a look over his shoulder, finding his pretty friend Robin in one seat and a gaggle of Dustin's friends in the back.

You hear a sharp thwarping sound as you spin away followed by a "What the fuck, dude?" from Dustin and hope that he hasn't tripped over one of your flower pots. You get ready and spend at least ten minutes worrying after your appearance in the mirror before grabbing the skates and jetting into the kitchen. You gather as many impromptu snacks you can find and shove them into a grocery bag, struggling to lock the door behind you in want of a free hand.

Steve jumps out of the driver's side to open the side door for you. You smile gratefully and dump the snacks and your skates in the footwell before climbing in, an empty seat between you and Dustin’s redheaded friend.

You're saved from the awkwardness of seeing people you've met but don't quite know by their ongoing debate, something about which Bruce Springsteen song is best.

“It’s obviously Dancing in the Dark. I don’t really know why we’re still talking about this,” Robin says from the passenger seat.

“You’re just saying that because it’s his most popular,” the girl next to you says.

“Things are popular for a reason.” Robin shrugs.

“Yeah, Max. Plus, popular or not, it’s his best.”

Max scrunches up her entire face. “Better than I’m on Fire?”

There’s a long pause where each child deliberates. Dustin and Mike dissolve into fierce looks.

“Nobodies talking about Born in the USA,” Steve says into the quiet, eyes on the road but head tilted back.

“Shut up, Steve,” Mike says, looking as exhausted as he usually does when you’ve seen him coming in and out of Dustin’s. Though it's been a while, he hasn't changed. Perpetually done with people's shit.

“Disrespectful,” Steve murmurs. His eyes flash to the rear view, catching you red-handed as you stare at him. “What do you think?”

“About what?”

“About Springsteen."

You consider him, his smile, his gaggle of cruel children. “I like Born in the USA,” you say nonchalantly.

“That’s two points,” Steve says triumphantly.

The skatepark is pretty busy because of the good weather. You and Steve end up unpacking your snacks onto a blanket Robin lays out whilst the boys go look for their friend Lucas, who's supposedly already here.

Max doesn't seem pleased with this revelation, sitting down heavily by Steve's picnic basket. Steve offers her a PB&J from the basket and a cold caprisun and she perks up, but not a lot. You want to spend time with Steve, you're not disillusioned into thinking you're anything but a flower under his attention, blooming and wanting, but Max's sad eyes get the better of you.

Too late for introductions, you dive straight in. “What’s in the Walkman?” you ask, nodding at the player sticking out of her jacket pocket, the foam padded headphones around her neck.

“Wild Things Run Fast, Joni Mitchell.” It sounds like a question.

You’ve struck gold immediately. “I love Joni Mitchell! Have you heard her new stuff?”

Max seems alarmed and happy at once, red messy braids swaying as she lifts her chin. “I mean, only what they’ve played on the radio.”

“Her album came out this October, Dog Eat Dog? I have the cassette if you wanna borrow it. It’s amazing.”

“Really?” she asks. She’s peeling the crusts off of her sandwich, one side at a time, dropping them into the small pile of discarded Saran Wrap.

“For sure. You’ve heard Shiny Toys?” Max nods. “It’s all as good as that one. Seriously.”

“Awesome,” she says, taking a huge bite of her sandwhich.

You realise you might’ve come on a little strong and try to backtrack into cool territory again, hand brushing Steve’s ankles as you lean away from the poor girl, smiling sheepishly.

“My mom loves Joni Mitchell,” Robin says.

“Robin," Steve chides lightly.

“What?”

You and Steve share a look that’s so familiar it gives you pins and needles in your hands, something small between the two of you clicking into place. Or at least that’s how you feel.

Max has almost finished her sandwich by the time Mike returns. “Are you ready?” he asks her.

She clambers onto her feet and grabs her skateboard from behind Steve. The two walk away, a distance from Dustin and Lucas, who both seem to have acquired a pair of skates each. Dustin in knee pads and a helmet, Lucas without.

“Why would you say Max listens to mom music?” Steve asks incredulously once they’re out of hearing distance.

Robin shakes her head, similarly incensed. “I didn’t say that.”

“There were so many other things you could’ve said, Robs.” He sounds less mad and more pitying.

"I didn't say that! I said my mom listens to her. She does!"

"Don't take offense. Robin got dropped as a baby," Steve says to you offhandedly.

You know the best course of action here and you take it – in what world would you make an enemy of a boy you might like's best friend who is a girl? Not this one. Plus, Robin seems super nice.

"I'm not offended. My mom loves Joni too," you say cheerily, smiling at Robin, unabashed.

You're slightly disappointed when she looks away towards her lap, until she says, "Projections a bad look on you, Harrington. He has, like, a flat head," she tells you.

Steve starts yammering loudly. "Shut up! My head's perfect, you're being ridiculous. Perfectly round and ordinary, thank you."

"Yeah, I'd definitely say your head's perfectly round," you agree through giggles, reaching for your skates.

You have a funny feeling that a silent conversation is happening as you slide off your shoes and into the skates, lacing up tight, but when you look up Robin's sifting through the accumulated snack pile and Steve's looking the opposite way, towards the kids.

You clear your throat. "Are you guys gonna skate too?"

"Steve is."

"I didn't bring-"

"He's borrowing mine. It's too hot, I can't skate. And I don't have the coordination, anyway."

Steve looks at Robin, at you, Robin again. "I'm not good," he says. You take it for yes.

Steve gets on his skates and straps out of his denim jacket, exposing the distracting lengths of his arms. He's better than he gives himself credit for, steady on his feet. He knows how to stop and start, and you smile to yourself when the two of you skate off towards Dustin and Lucas, following their journey around the skate park, careful to stay clear of the bowls and rails.

"You're good! You said you weren't good!" you say to him.

"I'm not good."

"You're doing great!"

He smiles gratefully, the expression at home over his warm features. He's not really a very smiley guy, you've realised, his lips often pulled up into a grimace or a cruel approximation of a smile, sarcastic. It suits him. You go to say as much, eyes eating up every little detail of him.

"Hey Steve? You should-" and your foot pops over a rock.

You shriek and throw your arm out towards him. Steve catches you with impressive strength and speed as your leg buckles. You've quickly righted yourself and he brings you to a slow but not quite stop. Stopping on skates is easier said than done, especially old skates with the front guards already worn down.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

You've taken his hand without thinking, the two of you widening apart and then coming together like the eclipse of a blinking eye.

You pull your hand away apologetically, the warmth of his palm lingering.

"I'm sorry!" you say.

"Don’t be. Last thing I wanna do is have you crack your head open on my watch. I’m glad you didn’t wipe out."

"Thanks to you."

You slow and stop. Steve does the same, the two of you clumsy for different reasons. He watches as you calm your racing heart.

"Shit, I really thought I was gonna fall. You're a lifesaver." You stare straight into his eyes, their sunlight honey brown, smiling with complete genuineness. He's more than pretty. "Thank you."

Steve swallows and his smile is warmer, somehow, impossibly warmer. Maybe it's the beautiful weather, maybe it's the beautiful boy. You suddenly feel very, very hot.

"I think I might need to sit down."

"Oh, shit," he says, reaching for your arm. You're about to correct his touching – you're not dizzy, just a little nauseous. Only, his hand. His fingers clasped around your elbow, his face fiercely protective.

You let him guide you back to the picnic blanket. One hand around your elbow, the other behind your sun-warmed back, and somehow his hand is the hottest spot.

"Are you okay?" Robin asks, shielding her eyes from the sun. The book in her lap slips shut as she straightens.

"She's okay," Steve says. “Too hot. Budge up."

Robin moves over on the blanket and throws the basket open. Steve reaches in for a capri sun and passes it to you. It's lukewarm, though the day is so hot it's a relief to drink it.

"Steve's really good," you tell her after a noisy suck, the orange plastic straw stabbing your lip. You frown down at it.

"I saw you guys whizzing around. Public menaces, both of you," Robin says, though she smiles as she does. You know she's joking. You don't want to think it in case it's not true, but you feel like maybe she wants to be friends.

"We prefer speed demons," Steve says easily, still kneeling at your side.

"They should lock you up."

You snort and almost squirt juice from your nose, spluttering and coughing as you bend at the waist. Steve pats your back less than gently and then more so as you move your hand towards him.

"I'm okay," you cough, embarrassed at how you must look hacking your lungs out.

Steve's hand, again on your back, rubs a stern line. "Chill out, Y/N. You can't die before dinner."

"We're getting McDonald's," Robin supplies.

"Don't tell the kids," he says, smirking.

He's still rubbing your back. You suspect you might agree to anything while he's this close.

"You sound like such a dad when you say shit like that."

Steve scowls at Robin's words and pulls his hands away, crossing them over his chest. "Don't say that. Babysitter is more than enough, don't you think? Y/N?"

"An older brother?" you suggest to Robin's extreme delight.

She laughs. Steve scrubs at his face with both hands until his eyes are red.

Robin's sick and Steve's going crazy by himself, manning the desk at FV with almost no energy and even less enthusiasm. A week since he'd held your hand and he can't seem to stop thinking about it.

He catches himself staring at his own empty palm and clenches his fist, bringing his eyes back to the door in case someone walks in and he has to pull off the headphones of your borrowed cassette player.

Steve had discovered a forgotten cassette inside, listening to it out of curiosity the night you'd given him the player and then every night since then. He felt guilty about keeping it without saying anything but he was only borrowing it, he reasoned. He'd give it back when Dustin fixed his skipping Walkman.

The tape was Van Halen II. And Steve's not stupid, he knows who Van Halen are, but he's never sat and listened through any of their full albums. Now he can't stop, constantly rewinding back to the same song, over and over.

He does so now, fingers clumsy and too big over small buttons until the first line kicks in, powerful and high energy like a burst of fresh air.

Have you seen her?

So fine and pretty.

He grins as it plays, thinking of you instantly. Your smile and your legs, the wind whipping at your skirt and exposing stretches of skin he can't stop remembering. You on your rollerblades, the second time after an emergency PB&J, skating in front of him without looking behind you.

"Don't let me crash into someone, okay?" you'd asked, swaying from one side to the other as you shifted your weight.

"It'll be too late to stop you if I see someone! Turn around!" he'd demanded, though his fondness had peeked through.

You'd thrown your hands out. "You'll have to steer me!"

And so he'd grabbed your hands and you'd laughed like a fool as you skated together, squealing through close calls and bumpy ground.

He thinks of your hands in his, their weight and size, the magnetic pulse he'd felt between them, how happy you'd seemed to be with him.

He was harbouring a crush on you. Too old to deny what it feels like to want a pretty girl, Steve wonders if this is entirely a good idea – letting himself like you when the possibility of rejection feels high. You are, as Dustin had promised him, out of Steve's league. "Don't try your luck, dude."

Steve thought for a second that his thinking about you had summoned your image, your easy walk and the elegant way about your hands and how you held them, in a blue dress with matching strappy mary-jane's, white socks with the ruffle tops. He blinks. No way he could think up anything as pretty.

You push open the door and grin from across the room, a large tupperware of some type in your hands. His eyes move up from your fingers where they clutch plastic, your wrist, your arms. The puff sleeves of your dress are short and cuffed, similar to the matching ruched neckline that shows enough to make him swallow. A necklace lays in the valley of your chest, a silver chain with a blue flower at the end, small but thick. Five round petals, a cutout missing that shows a circle of your chest beneath.

"Steve," you say, like you'd been in mid conversation. "Please tell me you have a sweet tooth."

He pulls the headphones from his head and leaves them around his neck, fixing his hair as casually as he can when he says, "Sure, I like candy."

You set your container down on the counter and crack it open, the rich, buttery smells of its contents quickly filling the room.

"I made penuche for Dustin's mom's birthday, but I made so-" you drag the word out, lips a gloss-sticky 'o', "much of it. I can't eat it all. And she said I wasn't allowed to give it to Dustin 'cos he keeps using the f-word."

His laugh is startled but genuine. "Not the f-word."

The fudge is a light brown, almost pink in the neon tinted lighting. It smells divine, and he's saved from an internal debate about what's cool when you push the tub towards him. "Do you like fudge?" you ask him.

He takes one and you take one, and he tries not to look at you as you eat, or when you scratch gloss and a crumb from the corner of your mouth.

"You’re a modern Martha Stewart," Steve says happily.

"Only on special occasions. Where's Robin?" you ask, elbows braced on the counter and leaning in.

"Sick. Apparently."

"Apparently," you repeat, grinning. "What, she didn't look sick?"

"She talked to me on the phone. She sounded sick," he concedes. "Good things it's Thursday."

You look around the completely empty store. "This is what it usually looks like on a Thursday?"

"It's Hawkins. Half the people here get their VHS from the library, the others drive out to Blockbuster. We get about as much foot traffic as an ice cream stand in September."

"It's 'cos you take too long to get the new ones,'' you say. "No offense."

"The tone of someone personally victimised by a Family Video wait list."

"You got me. I've been trying to get the Breakfast Club for two months!" you complain, scratching your chest lazily.

Steve crosses his arms over his chest until his hands are hidden, rolling his eyes. "Oh, so this is bribery penuche."

You blink at him and then your lips part in horror, pretty eyes widening. "No!"

"It totally is. You're trying to butter me up," he says, suave tone disrupted by the need to giggle at his own pun. "Y/N, how could you? Here I thought we were starting to be friends and you're using me for my video store?"

His mock horror puts you eat ease when you realise he's joking. "I really wanna see that movie," you say dejectedly. You reach for another piece of fudge and bite it in half, your chewing morose. "It feels like everybody saw it at the movies but me."

"Of course they did. Why didn't you?"

You glare at him. "I was busy!"

"For the month it was in theatres?"

"Yes!" you defend yourself from his teasing. "I have things to do!"

"Like what?"

"Like school!"

"Everybody has school."

"You're picking on me after I brought you candy. This is so cruel." You don't sound like you've suffered any cruelty. Steve might say you're really enjoying yourself.

"Sorry, sweetheart."

You glare at his insincere pet name. "Whatever. Oh, hey, how's she treating you?" you ask, eyes on the cassette player. "Steve, you have my Van Halen tape! Thank god, I thought I lost it."

"Right. Sorry, I meant to give it back," he lies.

You shrug your shoulders. "Keep it however long you want to. It's good, right? Which one's your favourite?"

He pulls the headphones out and rewinds back before setting the player in front of you. You raise your eyebrows at him but click play, and the audio starts abruptly, loud and mid quality.

Yes, it's love in the third degree.

You grin, head bobbing, eyes flitting to his with approval written all over your face. You don't seem to hesitate before you sing along under your breath, high pitched but quiet.

"Ooh, baby baby. Won't-cha turn your head my way?"

He feels a little enchanted by you, that same magnetism he'd felt between his hands, can't believe how pretty you are and how sweetly you move. You laugh at yourself as you sing the next line, an intense, almost theatrical look upon your face. Like you're swooning.

"Ooh, baby baby. Ah come on! Take a chance, you're old enough to-" You flare your eyes at him and nod, mouth open encouragingly.

He won't join in, no matter how electric he finds you. You roll your eyes and your shoulders roll in a half-dance as you hum along to the chorus.

Dance the night away.

"You're no fun, Steve," you complain, giggling.

"You're enough for the two of us."

You peer over the counter, still moving with the music as you ask, "What were you doing? Before I came in?"

"Looking through the computer at what's late being returned. Riveting, extremely hard work."

"Do you get, like, secret intel on what new movies are coming in?"

"Sure we do. Wanna see?" he asks.

You creep around the counter and stand by his side. He scrolls through the system and translates acronyms for you. "This is the coming in," he says, drawing a line down a list of movie names. "These are what's being moved back to the headquarters."

"Headquarters," you repeat, leaning in to see the screen more clearly. You browse the new titles idly, slipping closer and closer to the computer.

"You'll burn your retinas."

"Invaders from Mars, Youngblood, Black Moon Rising," you list thoughtfully. You turn on your heel. "I don't know any of those. You got a chic-flicks section?"

You're really close. Steve looks at you, this close, this pretty, his hands itching to touch you. He leans in and your arms fall to your sides, the space between you growing ever smaller.

"We do," he says slowly, eye to eye, almost daring you to look at his mouth instead. He wants you to. He wants to look at yours.

You're steadfast, not impassive but certainly unreadable as you say, "Show me?"

Steve reaches for the mouse behind you like he was always intending to, hiding any smugness he feels when you exhale noticeably. You turn back around, his arm brushing over yours as he sorts through the tag system to show you "ROM-COM INCO".

"These are all the ones we have coming in. You know any of those?"

"Hannah and Her Sisters. I saw that one."

"Finally had some free time?" he asks wryly.

"Shut up, Steve."

"You know… I can keep the Breakfast Club for you. Next time it comes in."

The smile you give him is blinding. "Thanks, Steve."

"Yeah, no problem." He hopes the sudden increase in temperature is mutual.

Your backyard is a field of flowers. Maybe dramatic, but Steve's never seen so many, a heavy green spotted in chartreuse, vermillion, bright oranges and pink-white. You lay on a towel in the grass surrounded by them, the sun lighting you up, your skin glowing and perfect.

You're in black, spandex type shorts and a bikini top. Steve feels like a perv for looking, so he clears his throat. You don't budge.

He creeps closer. You're in headphones listening to your Walkman. He can hear the music from where he stands at your backdoor, so it must be loud. He stands over you and hopes his shadow will wake you up. When it still doesn't he gets concerned, kneeling down carefully with his knees digging into your towel.

"Y/N. Hey," he says.

Still nothing.

He pulls your headphones off gently, looking over your face in worry. You must be sleeping.

"Y/N, you shouldn't sleep out here. You'll get sun stroke," he says. He strokes your arm though he shouldn't. He can't help himself, his fingers pressing into the crook of your elbow.

You blink awake and then slam your eyes closed. Steve adjusts himself to block the sun from your face and you manage to pry your eyes open, confused.

"Hello."

"Hey," he says. He can't help the fondness that plays over his smile.

"Shit." Your eyes go wide and you cover your chest with your arm. "I'm naked."

"You're not naked," he says.

"I'm naked. Stop looking at me."

Steve turns away obligingly.

"Stop laughing at me, Harrington."

"Is there anything I'm allowed to do?" he asks, though he does stop laughing.

"I'm so embarrassed. I was sunbathing and I must've fallen asleep."

Steve lets his eyes stray to your naked thigh. He stares at your skin, follows a stretch mark upwards and then swiftly peels his gaze away. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be a total perv. I can go wait in my car."

"You're not a perv. I'm being a priss. Sorry. I know I'm not, like, a model and I wasn't expecting to have this much skin on show. I don't look like Nancy Wheeler."

You sound more nervous than Steve has ever heard you. Worse, you sound dejected, though you've tried for nonchalance. Steve stares at you until you raise your chin, your fingers pinching meanly at your thighs.

"You're messing with me," he says.

"What?" you ask, incredulous. "I'm not messing with you."

"You gotta know you're beautiful. That's, like, a stone cold fact. A hard truth. You're beautiful. Who cares if you don't look like Nance?"

You sigh, though it's not very believable when you're smiling so much. "She's really pretty."

"So are you."

"You know what I mean, Steve. She's… small."

"She's a small woman," he agrees. "That doesn't make her prettier than you."

"You're sure?" you ask quietly.

Steve means it a hundred percent when he says, "I'm sure."

The two of you sit there for a few seconds. He can hear your breathing and he's wondering if you can hear his.

"What are you doing here?" you ask.

Your hand is still held across your stomach but you're thankfully looking more relaxed. Steve meant what he said, you're beautiful, he couldn't care less that you're taller or that you weigh more than his ex. You're fucking pretty, and seeing you all laid out and sun kissed has made him kind of crazy.

"Steve?" you ask.

"Oh. I brought you The Breakfast Club. Just got it back in this morning," he rushes to say, grabbing the VHS tape from where he'd left it on the ground. The Family Video spine is glaringly ugly compared to you and your flowers.

"Woah, thank you!"

"You're welcome. It's under my name though, so don't keep it late. Can't disprespect the FV name. I'm going for employee of the month."

You giggle. "You are? Are you the top contender?"

"Nope."

You laugh some more, the sound delicate and sweet as spun sugar, in Steve's humble opinion.

"Not that my fellow employees try any harder, but Keith just picks himself every month for the free credits."

You rub your fingers across the front of the box. "I won't be late. I mean, I'll watch it today, I've been so excited to see it."

Steve stands up. "Sorry to disturb your idyllic sunbathing."

"Idyllic," you murmur, smiling. "You're good, Steve. Thank you for the movie."

"You're welcome. I'll see you later?" he asks, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, slowly backing away.

"No," you say. He raises his eyebrows and you look sheepish but not shy when you continue, "Do you wanna stay? Watch the movie with me? I have stovetop popcorn and soda and everything."

"What about the great weather? You don't wanna waste it."

You force your hands between your thighs and hunch forward slightly. "I do wanna waste it. I mean, I've had enough for today, don't you think? I'm a half hour from heat stroke."

"You're looking pretty warm," he says. Anything to take you up on your offer without sounding too interested.

You're trying not to give Steve the side eye. Trying, but he's very attractive and very close, and he keeps making funny jokes. It's annoying how hot he is.

Steve has slouched back and his jeans have slowly edged down, exposing the flesh of his hip. Not that you've noticed, or anything.

You cram a big handful of popcorn into your mouth and flick your eyes back to the screen. You'd really wanted to see this movie but Steve keeps capturing your attention, again and again, over and over. You can't believe you'd asked him to stay and he had, can't believe he brought the VHS for you in the first place.

That's a dedicated employee right there.

You shuffle closer to him under the guise of sharing your popcorn. Your shoulders touch.

"Thanks," he says. His thigh hits your thigh as he takes a handful.

"Steve," you say softly.

"What?"

"I don't feel well. I think the sun killed me."

He throws his arm around the back of the couch and twists, careful not to upend the popcorn bowl as he looks over you searchingly. You've seen Steve play caretaker before, but being under his watch is different. He's almost a different person as he checks you over.

"You feel sick?" he asks. He holds his hand out between you, his knuckles at your eye level. "Can I?"

You tilt your head back and close your eyes. Steve presses the back of his hand to your forehead and pets down softly, feeling for your temperature.

"You're still really warm. Let's get you cooled down."

Steve springs up and knocks the bowl. You blink, slightly disoriented as he disappears into the kitchen, picking up spilled popcorn off of the couch and eating it with slow chews. Now you think of it, your arms hurt, too.

Steve returns and sits on the edge of the sofa, a bag of peas in his hand. "I raided your freezer. Lean your head back."

"I'm fine," you say, but tilt your head back anyways, gasping when the cold hits you.

"You might actually get heatstroke. Do you know how dangerous heat stroke is? You need to cool down. Where's the A/C?"

"It's on."

Steve feels along your cheek gingerly. "I can't believe you fell asleep outside. What's that about?" He pauses. "Are you sleeping okay?"

"I'm sleeping fine."

"Are you sure?"

His wrist turns and you feel the pad of his fingers rather than the back, the palm of his hand as he cups your face.

You peek through your lashes at him. His eyebrows are pinched and his bottom lip juts out in a concerned pout.

"You can tell me."

The way he says it – well, you imagine you could tell him anything. He sounds warm and worried. This close you can smell his cologne, something heavy with sage, a little bit of lilac hidden under unmistakable bergamot. It's all so comforting and the sun has loosened your tongue.

"Maybe not so much. It's… it's hot. You know? And…"

"What?" he murmurs. Your heart skips as his thumb rubs over your cheek.

You close your eyes like your confession might take form. "I'm kind of lonely, lately," it sounds like a question, "and it's- it keeps me up sometimes. I don't know, it sounds stupid when I say it out loud."

"It doesn't sound stupid."

"No?"

"No, I get it." He pulls away but doesn't move too far, his hand still holding the freezing peas to your forehead, the other brushing against your arm as he drops it in his lap. "These days Dustin doesn't leave me alone. I don't want him to, either. The same with Robs."

You let your head loll to the side. Steve doesn't look shy or scared to tell you, talking almost matter of fact. "But my parents were never home when I was in high school. They still aren't. I felt it more back then."

"Yeah. I don't know. I never see anybody. Besides Dustin," you say. "We have him in common."

"You see me."

"When I'm annoying you at work."

"You don't annoy me." He's stern though he abruptly turns into a conspirator whispering secrets. "Robin's fuse gets shorter with me everyday."

"How come?" you ask, co-conspirator.

"I can't stop watching the door."

You lift your head. Steve takes back his bag of peas and feels along your forehead, now cold enough to ache.

"Here, hold these to your chest. I'd do it for you, but…"

You take the peas and hide a terrible smile, heart racing between your ears. Your nausea has flipped completely into butterflies and they're rabid, knocking at your abdomen insistently.

You're trying to think of a way to make him say nice things again when there's a knock at the door.

"Dustin," you both say.

"Jinx, buy me a soda," Steve says.

You glare at him and he laughs all the way to the door.

"Why are you always here? Where's Y/N?"

"She's got heat stroke."

"I don't!" you call hoarsely.

"You sound like you do," Dustin says. "Can one of you give me a ride?"

"She has heat stroke."

You climb onto the back of the sofa to look down the hallway. Dustin stands at the front door with a huge piece of engineering in his arms that you don't understand, wires and ciricuits and things.

"Remeber when you used to bike everywhere? What happened to that?" Steve asks, sounding majorly pissed. You can't work out why he's so frustrated but it makes you laugh again.

The two boys turn to you with twin looks of confusion.

"I can't bike there, genius. This won't fit in the basket."

You laugh again, twice as loud.

"What's wrong with her?" Dustin asks, shaking his head.

"What don't you understand about heat stroke?

"Potential heat stroke," you interject.

"She fell asleep in the sun. I don't know how long she was out there her brain might be totally jellified, dude."

"You should take her to the hospital."

You clamber onto aching limbs and walk until your behind Steve, reaching for his elbow automatically. "I'm fine, babe. What's your doohickey?"

Dustin smirks and pulls the weight closer to his chest. "Prototype."

"For what?"

"Top secret."

You giggle some more, wobbling with the force of it. Steve sighs and wraps his arm around your back, his hand under your arm to grip you at the ribs.

Dustin gets wide eyes like a looney tunes character. "What's going on here?"

"Nothing," Steve hisses. "Look, let me set Y/N up with the works and I'll drive you where you want to go, you brat."

Dustin drops his suspicion, having got what he wants. "I'll wait in the car. Feel better!"

"That's three stamps on the shithead card, shithead!" Steve calls after him. The two of you watch his retreating figure and then Steve is manhandling you (not too roughly) down the hallway and back onto the sofa.

"I'm not dying, Steve."

Steve puts your popcorn bowl in your lap and the frozen peas back on your chest. He fills your glass either the warming carafe on the coffee table and then bends down to talk to you, entirely too intense.

"Are you good?" he asks.

"Perfect. I don't even feel hot anymore."

He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, okay. Listen, I'm gonna go drop Dustin off, and then I'm gonna call you to make sure you're not dead."

"You don't have to do that, Steve," you say, moving down into the couch, a cushion falling over as you do. He straightens it out, cups your face in his hand so fast you think you've imagined it and then squints at you.

"Don't die of heat stroke."

He starts to walk away and you're startled. Unfairly, you don't want him to go, and you call, "Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"What about The Breakfast Club?"

He grins at you, a lazy, King Steve kind of smile. "I was always gonna leave that here. So you can come 'annoy' me at work when you return it." He pulls a hand through his hair and gives you a once over and then spins on his heel. "Make sure you answer when I call!"

You lose sight of him as he leaves, the couch backing too tall. He shuts the door kindly and you can just about hear the crunch of gravel as his car pulls away.

"He was definitely flirting with me," you say to yourself, pouring a sweet handful of popcorn into your mouth. You're smiling so wide it's hard to chew.

Dustin bursts into Family Video with his small entourage, Mike and Lucas, and an urgent look on his face. Steve quickly stops his facade of being busy when he clocks them.

"What? Need to borrow ten dollars?" he asks, rolling his eyes.

"Actually, it's about Y/N," Dustin says.

Steve stretches across the desk on his elbows.

"What about her?" he asks, suspecting a waste of time.

"She was crying her eyes out in her backyard last night."

Steve blinks, feeling a pit open up in his chest. "What? Why?"

"Well…" Dustin says. "I didn't ask."

Steve pictures your pretty face crinkled with tears, sitting on the paving stones outside your house. He wonders what would make you cry, sob, whatever it was. You'd confessed to being lonely though he sort of hopes that the feeling has ebbed now that he's calling you every day. At first, under the guise of checking up on you, but, I don't think I'm at risk of heat stroke anymore Steve. It's been a week and a half.

Better safe than sorry.

"Nancy said she saw her outside outside Bradley's Big Buy last night looking miserable," Mike adds, in one of his worst outfits, a mismatch of colours and long socks, a visor that Steve once tried to bribe Dustin to destroy on a hot day with his magnifying glass. The small burned spot perseveres at the caps edge.

Steve feels weirdly proud at their concern and better, their detective skills. The three of them look like they could solve crimes, a mystery gang. Lucas is the only one dressed well in Steve's opinion, though that might be because he's in similar fashion, a nice polo and blue jeans.

"You don't know what's wrong with her?" Lucas asks.

His pride wanes. "Oh, you guys are here for gossip?" he asks scathingly.

"No!"

"You're her boyfriend, right?"

"Not-" Steve swallows, "exactly."

Robin, who had been listening from her stool a few feet back, strides over and falls into place by his side, braced by her elbows.

"If Steve were her boyfriend, we'd know why she was crying," she says, earning a round of boyish chuckles.

Steve nods and then understands her meaning, feeling stupid for assuming Robin would say something that wasn't mean while at work. "Fuck off, I'm a good boyfriend."

Four sets of eyebrows raise.

"I am! I'm romantic."

"You smashed our trellis and dislodged a drain pipe," Mike says.

Steve pins the dark haired boy with a smarted look.

"Sorry, is that not romantic? Sneaking out to see a girl?"

"Sneaking in to a young woman's bedroom," Robin says dryly.

"Pervert style," Dustin agrees sagely.

"Jesus Christ." Steve turns away from his band of adopted heathens and takes the phone into his hand. "I'm gonna call her."

"And what? Tell her we were spying?" Dustin says.

Steve holds the cold plastic to his neck. "Were you?"

"Girls lie about their feelings, anyway. You're never gonna get a straight answer," Lucas says morosely. "Trust me."

He slams the phone down. "What am I supposed to do?"

They stand in a heavy silence. Steve can feel a headache clipping his heels, approaching fast, stress and a sharp worry for you. He really doesn't see why he can't call you and check in.

"Something nice?" Robin suggests, picking at her nails.

"Like what?" he asks. Though, as soon as he says it, he already has the beginnings of an idea. Whether its a good one or not is anyones guess.

Somebody knocks the door and all you can think is, oh god why me?

You're in a bad approximation of pajamas - your comfiest and yet your sloppiest, old and worn and unattractive. Fresh out of a stress-cry shower, you've only just managed to catch your breath.

It's like you told Steve, everything lately feels so lonely. You'd gone grocery shopping by yourself and had known without a doubt that you were moving unseen through the world. Something about deciding between TV dinners. Nobody knew where you were, what you were doing, or where you were going. The only people seeing you were the storegoers of Bradley's Big Buy and your disgruntled cashier. You doubt you'd made a good impression.

It was maybe a silly thing to feel overwhelmed by, but you felt it anyways. Sick with loneliness and then panic. A thousand what ifs had filled your head; you couldn't stop thinking, what if it's like this forever?

What if I feel this lonely forever?

You'd finished grocery shopping with a peculiar numbness weighing you down and then you'd gone home to cry in the garden, comforted and horrified by your flowers. They were pretty and you'd planted them and it didn't matter, you were still alone. A ladybug had crawled over the nearest planter and you'd watched it until you calmed down, knees crossed and elbows digging into your thighs, pins and needles in your hands.

Another insistent knock. You consider ignoring it and curling up into a ball. Something hooks you out of it. What if it's Steve?

If it's Steve, you're gonna feel very embarrassed about your appearance. You check your reflection in the sheen of a photo frame and sigh, rubbing your face with one hand as you open the door.

Steve stands a few feet away, leaning against the side of his car with a pair of shades slipping down his nose. He takes them off.

You're so happy to see him you forget your rumpled outfit.

"Hi," you say, half-shouting to cover the distance.

"Hey beautiful!" Steve shouts, properly, loud and unabashed.

The door digs into your tummy. You don't know what to say. His compliment flusters you from the get go.

"Hi," you say again, laughing under your breath.

"Hey."

"What are you doing here?"

"Somebody told me you weren't feeling well!"

You frown, thoughts racing, and suddenly summon the image of your nosey young neighbour. You take a step back instinctively and Steve must see it because his face goes stony.

"I'm sorry, I know you probably didn't want me to know. But- when I found out you were upset, I couldn't ignore that. You'll have to forgive me."

You try pushing the smile off your face with your hand and stand there scratching your top lip. "No. No, it's okay."

He raises his eyebrows and takes a few big steps towards your house. You step out onto the porch and he closes the space between you, holding his hands out. You take them and he envelopes you, warm hands pulling you along and up the path.

He walks backwards. "Don't let me crash into someone, okay?"

A memory. The two of you hand in hand, ground flashing under your skates.

"Okay," you say weakly.

He squeezes your hands and drops them, a foot from the car. "Stay," and he doesn't finish, turning away from you. He opens the passenger door, the door behind and then the trunk.

The smell is beautiful. A floral wave.

The sight is something else. A carpet of bunches, bell-shaped freesias and carnations, roses in darkest red, chrysanthemums, dahlias, tiny orchids and irises; gorgeous purple irises with white centred petals buffeted by frilly sweetpeas.

"They didn't want to give me the buckets but I told them I had a really pretty girl waiting for me, and if they suffocated in the heat then I was gonna drive right back and complain loudly." He stands by your side and nudges you. "Break out in tears."

"That's a lot of flowers," you mumble.

"Half the store. The other half's on standby."

"Standby?"

"I worried you might not have the space."

"I won't."

Your gaze flits over soft petals and light green stems, thorns and leaves and greenery, baby breath tucked in by plastic wrapping.

"Why did you do this?"

"You…" he laughs at himself. "Okay, so. The day you had heat stroke-"

"I didn't have heat stroke. I had heat exhaustion."

"Semantics. You were lying in the backyard. Just… sleeping. I was waiting for you to look up and see me, and I couldn't- I still can't get the image out of my head. You looked unreal."

You feel hot all over as he searches for words. He's smiling wide as he talks, like he can't believe how happy he is. It's infectious.

He shakes his head. "Anyway, I know you like flowers. Obviously. So."

"So you got me a florists?"

"Half."

You hug your torso. The idea that somebody would do this for you, that Steve would do this for you, is so alien you can't comprehend it.

"They're for me?" you whisper.

"For you. All of them."

You look at him, the flowers, him again, and start to laugh. You throw your hands up to your cheeks and giggle like a little kid.

"Why are you laughing?" he asks, an undeniable affection in his curiosity.

"Why would you do this for me?" you ask in a similar tone.

He purses his lips and shrugs. "You could've called me. I want you to know that."

You scrub your hot cheeks and shift from foot to foot. "I was being silly."

"It's not silly. It's not stupid. And even if it was, I still want you to call me. These are 'call me' flowers. Call me first."

You wrap your hand around the top of the door and lean in for a look at the sea of flowers. Pollen sticks sweet in your nose.

"Do you like them?"

The smallest hint of insecurity. You can't stop laughing, joy warping every word. "Yeah, I love them," you say over your shoulder, feeling as though you've become nothing but a vestibule of breathless wonder.

"I didn't know which one was your favourite."

All of them, you think. Not sure you could pick one, your eyes bump from bouquet to bouquet.

You try to blink them away but tears form quickly, lashes heavy with them as you stand up straight and wipe under your eyes with the back of your index finger.

"Thank you, Steve."

"You're welcome." Steve comes up behind you and takes your shoulder into his hand, thumb rubbing roughly over your shirt. "C'mon, don't cry. I got you all those flowers because I don't want you to cry, not to make it worse."

"They're really pretty," you say, strained, pushing the bottoms of your palms into your eyes to stop from sobbing. That would be dramatic, you argue with yourself, so dramatic, but this is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for you.

"Shit," he mutters.

You tense up as his hand moves across your back to grip your other shoulder and he hugs you to his chest, left hand stroking the length of your upper arm, encouraging your hands from your face.

"You're okay, baby," he says.

You sniffle as his right hand climbs your shoulder to cup your neck. He pulls your face to his mouth and presses a kiss into your temple, warm and tingling, firecrackers under the skin. You turn your face to look at him and he pulls back, his chin jutting down.

The shape of his lips lingers on your forehead, a burn. White hot.

Steve wipes the tear tracks from your face with the side of his hand.

"I know what'll cheer you up," he says.

You miss his touch as soon as he's gone. He leans over the passenger seat, the chair and its footwell both bursting with flowers, and turns on the radio. You watch him click to the cassette player. He turns the volume up high and then pulls out.

Slowly, the song builds into a zinging guitar.

"Oh my god."

"Have you seen her? So fine and so pretty," Steve sings with no hesitation. You're startled by his confidence.

"Fooled me with her style and ease," he continues, holding out his hand.

You take it, listening to him fight his way to the right pitch, his voice cracking.

"And I feel her from across the room-" He takes your second hand, gaze electric. "Yes, it's love in the third degree."

He tugs at your hand, nodding until you join in.

"Ooh, baby, baby," you sing weakly, searching for footing.

"Won't-cha turn your head my way?" he begs.

"Ooh, baby, baby," you both sing, Steve with more passion, pulling your arm one way and another in an awkward dance.

"Come on, take a chance, you're old enough to," and here's where you both go weak and high and enthused all at once, glad the stereo's up so high you can't really hear it when you both shout, "dance the night away!"

It's not quite night yet. You've a lot of dancing to do if you're gonna listen to Van Halen's instructions, the sun a half-disk of gold on the horizon, the sky raspberry pink bleeding up into darkening indigo.

Steve grins at your growing enthusiasm and twirls you around. You only allow him this, too afraid to step on his toes as you come to a stop.

He hums along and you clutch his hand. You covet the other where it's held to his chest, pushing your fingers through his. They fit together perfectly.

"Am I ever gonna get that tape back?" you ask.

"No," he says, laughing loudly. "No way. I love this song."

"I love this song too. That's why I bought the album."

"You said however long I wanted!"

"I didn't think you'd stick around this long," you confess.

"I did," he says. He leans down, stops. "Can I kiss you?"

You nod and beat him to it, hand at his collar as you step on your toes and press your mouth to his. You're both smiling, your eyes closed tight and your lips tight together until he pulls back, pulling his hand from your brushing grip to stroke the side of your face, rough in his rush.

When you come back together it's slower, your lips parted mid-giggle as he moves in. You sigh, a high-pitched and embarrassing sound from the back of your throat that's quickly swallowed by his ardency.

"Stop laughing at me," he admonishes playfully.

"I'm not! I'm not, I'm really happy," you defend yourself, setting back on your heels.

You've forgotten all about your pajamas and the icky feeling in your chest. With Steve's palms to your cheeks like this – like you're something worth being cradled in careful hands – you can't feel anything but happy.

"I don't have enough vases for your flowers," you apologise as he chases you down, dropping kisses over the corner of your mouth and the apple of your cheek.

"Good thing I begged for all those buckets," he says, brown eyes squinting with the force of his cherubic smile. His pert nose flares with a silent laugh.

"Good thing," you agree.

He holds you by the shoulders. "Good thing," he says again.

You descend into another round of laughter that leaves you panting for air, your head dropping into his chest. "A really good thing."

"I didn't go overboard, did I?" he asks, petting the nape of your neck.

"You did."

"Sorry, I-"

You wrap your arms around his waist and squeeze him as hard as you can. He groans lightly as he encircles your shoulders, the tip of his nose a butterfly's wing against your forehead, impossibly light and skipping, back and forth and back again.

"I'm gonna make you flower shortbread," you say eventually, soaking in his warmth, his closeness.

"Yeah?"

"I swear. And more penuche. What's your favourite? I'll make you whatever you want. What do you have a sweet tooth for?"

"Could I get another kiss?" he asks quietly.

You tilt your head back and wait. Steve isn't quite smiling though his eyes boast an emotion you're afraid to name, unbearably fond.

"Are you gonna kiss me again?" you ask into the gap.

"In a sec, just… let me look at you," he says, hand cupping your cheek.

You blink back a stinging wave of tears and smile, tracing over his features greedily.

"You're beautiful," he says.

It’s funny. You were thinking the same thing about him.

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parkersdoll · 2 years

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these pics of joe keery… that’s it. that’s the post.

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parkersdoll · 2 years

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The Last Thing Ever Lost

Summary: Years after escaping from the lab with Eleven, you’ve found a home in Hawkins. When you, your boyfriend, Steve, and the rest of your friends come to realize that a new monster, Vecna, is cursing the town, you do everything you can to stop it. But when the mission takes a turn for the worse, Steve is the only one who can bring you back.

Female reader with powers and protective boyfriend Steve who would do anything for her. Requested by anon. Angst & hurt/comfort. Mentions of blood, injuries, and the S3 torture scene. Gif credit to smallscreensource.

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parkersdoll · 2 years

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[call me by blondie playing] THE STEVE HARRINGTON BABYSITTING SERVICE

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parkersdoll · 2 years

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“in every photo he was looking at you”

pls mind me while i go cry GOODBYE

MR STEVE HARRINGTON TAKING YOUR FIRST KISS WHEN YOU GO TAKE PHOTOBOOTH PICS IM MELTING

cutest idea EVER as soon as you sent it i was like omg

"How many photos are there?" you ask, squishing in against the wall as Steve slides onto the bench beside you.

"Four."

"How are we gonna pose for four photos?" you ask.

Steve closes the curtain and clicks on the screen with only a mild frustration when it proves finicky. "Uh, don't worry about it. I'm sure something will come to us."

The first photo begins. A feminine voice counts down, 3, 2, 1, and Steve has wrapped his hand around your elbow out of frame, leaning into your shoulder. You're both smiling wide, heads inclined, foreheads kissing.

"That's boring," Steve says after it's done. "We should go Bond for the next one."

He's already turning, his back pressed to your shoulder. You copy him though you're not sure what he means, spines pressed together. You crane over your shoulder to ask, "Bond?"

"You know, the spy? Double oh seven?"

You shake your head and laugh, the two of you with your shoulders digging in and guns upheld. Steve looks at the screen all cool and charming and you've got no clue what to do, looking up at the ceiling of the booth.

"Not like that! You look like a nun!" Steve says urgently, laughing. You whip your head forward, embarrassment like the heat of a flame licking over your skin.

3, 2, 1. The shutter clicks.

You scramble up, heart racing with no clue what pose to pull next. Steve throws up a peace sign as you giggle and place your hands under your face like a cherub angel. He approves.

"Perfect," he says.

The time counting down for this one feels longer. Steve's thigh to your thigh becomes a heating pad, his naked arm brushing yours an explosion of firecrackers under the skin. This close he smells like cedarwood and bergamot, an intoxicating, heady scent that you can't help but drift towards. He throws his arm around your shoulders in response and again your faces draw close. You imagine the warmth irradiating off of his cheek and onto your own.

3, 2, 1. The shutter clicks. You blink, affronted by the flash, the bright white eating at the centre of your vision. Steve's arm slides back but his hand stays on your shoulder, lithe fingers squeezing tight flesh.

You can't help laughing with nerves and a lot of happiness, pleased to be here with him taking silly couple's photos with a thousand contiguities between you, breathing the same air, hidden away from everyone in the world but each other.

You turn to Steve. He's alarmingly handsome this close, his warm, soft eyes and their fluttering lashes peering at you with an emotion you could describe but don't, too afraid to admit what it is to yourself in case you're terribly wrong.

A smile plays on his pretty mouth.

"What?" he asks, having watched your staring.

Get ready!

"You just look really handsome today. Every day," you say, turning away from him with a big photo ready smile.

You can feel his gaze, hear his smile. "You think so?" His hand slides over the back of your neck, skirting around to hold it in a hot, firm grip.

"I'm gonna kiss your cheek for this one," he says. "Okay?"

"Okay," you say weakly, sounding as nervous as you feel.

He leans in towards you, his face bringing with it a wave of goosebumps. They start at the base of your neck and sweep your entire body, shivering as his lips touch your cheek. He shifts in his seat to get close, really truly kissing you and you go a little blind, worse as the lady counts.

3. Steve brings his other hand up, firm but kind to the side of your face.

2. Your eyes close on instinct as he turns your head towards him.

His lips press to yours. Chaste, smooth, you find yourself forced back a half inch at the connection, a flower of warmth blossoming from the center of your chest outwards, all over your body, your tummy becoming a melted pool of heat. Your hands grab for his elbows. You don't return the kiss so much as let yourself be kissed.

The shutter clicks. A bright white flash.

Steve pulls away like he doesn't want to. You take in a big breath and open your eyes, find him staring at you with worry lining his expression.

"Sorry," he says. "I thought you-"

You nod and lean forward again, clumsily pressing your lips to his for a second kiss. Your enthusiasm gives him a confidence he didn't quite have the first time, his hands greedy where they rove over your neck and shoulders. What was chaste becomes less so, his lips slightly parted over yours, kissing you with an aching ardency.

Please exit the booth.

Steve breaks the kiss and drops his forehead against yours as you giggle breathlessly, sucking in keenly missed air.

"Sorry for freezing up the first time," you say, sounding even to yourself like a giddy, dizzied mess. "No one's ever kissed me before."

"That was your first kiss?" he murmurs, though his surprise peeks through.

You shudder as his hand rubs over your upper arm roughly. "Yeah. My second, too."

He kisses the corner of your mouth with a brilliant grin and pulls away from you. "And your third."

Steve throws open the curtain and you follow him out of the booth, bumping shoulders in a rush to see the photos as he pulls them out of the drop box. He takes your elbow into his hand, an unnecessary, irreplaceable closeness as he turns to show you the photos.

Standing with your heads angled down together, you brush your fingertips over the captured moment of your first kiss. Your surprise. Steve's clear affection.

Your eyes move up. In every photo he's looking at you. Even the Bond one, a lopsided smile as he corrects your position.

You try to take it from him and he won't allow it.

"I'm keeping it," he says.

"How's that fair? It's my first kiss. You've had loads of kisses."

"Not with you."

You try to glare at him and fail, especially when he gets a mischievous look about him and says, "We'll just have to do it again."

You let him push you back into the photo booth with little protest.

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parkersdoll · 2 years

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parkersdoll · 2 years

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don't you (forget about me) | steve harrington x reader

“Oh, great, she’s here,” Steve says, stepping away from the door. "First of all, Harrington," You scoff, glaring at that mop of hair with all the rage you can muster. "I have a name. Second of all, we are talking here—” Steve rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, whatever—" "You did not just roll your eyes at me—” Dustin sighs. "Here they go." (or: You've always thought Steve Harrington was a weirdo. When you find out you might be in terrible danger, he might be just what you need.)

pairing: steve harrington x fem!henderson!reader (she/her pronouns used), lots of henderson siblings bonding <3

words: 13.9k

a/n: gif by @dailysteveharrington. thank you all for being patient and i hope you all like it<3 i loved this season and i love steve so i hope you enjoy this lil enemies to lovers fic. this fic is a one shot, but let me know if you'd like a sequel once vol 2 is out bc its a bit of an open, ambiguous ending ;) also some fun facts before this fic starts: dustin's dad appears at will's funeral in s1 and there are several theories about him-- officially, he and dustin's mother are divorced in canon. i'll explore that in this fic. ST4 SPOILERS. this is set in season 4 ep 3 "the monster and the superhero" and follows vol 1 canon also sorry if this doesnt follow canon pretty well i mostly did it from memory cause the wiki still isnt fully updated 💀

disclaimer: this fic discusses the topic of an absent parent, please proceed with caution if this is hurtful to you. also warning for canon typical violence and cursing. english is not my first language so please let me know if there are any mistakes.

📼 NOW PLAYING: Don't You (Forget About Me) by Simple Mind

Your mother had always been slightly overbearing and fearful, but the murder of Chrissy Cunnigham you think might actually kill her. Or at least will force her to lock you in your bedroom and flush the key down the toilet.

“You can’t go anywhere without telling me,” your mother tells you over breakfast, worriedly overcooking her bacon. “You hear me? I don’t want you running around town without me knowing. Or better yet, don’t go anywhere at all!”

You glare at Dustin’s chair, where your brother is munching on toast and eggs, hoping your mother takes the hint. She does, and so she shakes her head and says, “Dustin’s different.”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“Maybe this killer has a thing for pretty girls,” your mother shakes her head, shivering. “Chrissy Cunningham was such a nice and pretty girl, right your age.”

“You don’t know what that killer was thinking!” You groan. “Why can Dustin leave but I can’t?!”

“Dustin’s not an eighteen year old girl with an easily breakable neck.”

“He’s easier to man-handle!”

Dustin frowns, finally looking up from his breakfast. “I’m not!”

”Besides, do you even know where he was last night?” You ignore your brother’s protests, choosing to point at him as he scoffs in offense. “I bet you don’t, because he’s always sneaking out!”

“I’m not always sneaking out!”

“I try my best with you, Dusty,” she sighs, finally sitting down. “But your sister is right, you’re difficult to keep track of. You’re always running around, like those little legs have minds of their own.” She points the spoon she was using for her coffee at your face. “Don’t you throw that in my face, (Y/N).”

“Mom, you’re right,” you nod, sipping your orange juice, trying to appeal to her soft spot. “He is difficult to keep track off, and there’s a dangerous killer on the loose. How about I keep track of him? Make sure he’s not getting into any trouble, hm? I’ll make sure we’re always safe, together.”

Of course, you were planning on bolting as soon as you were out of your mom’s sight. You mom’s cat Tews meows somewhere across the room, as if he knows not to trust you. That damned furball.

“What the fuck? No!”

“Dusty! Language.”

“Mom,” Dustin says, exasperated. “I don’t need a babysitter. Much less a babysitter that’s also my annoying older sister.”

“No, you have Steve Harrington for that,” you mutter under your breath, and Dustin manages to kick you under the table. You glare at your little brother, then turn to address your mom once again. “I promise we’ll stay together. I know— no, I understand that it’s scary out there right now, but I can take care of myself. And Dustin. You have to trust me.”

“I trust you. It’s the murderer I don’t trust.”

“Mom—”

“Let me finish,” she stares pointedly at you, and you promptly shut up. “I don’t want you two sneaking out. But, it’ll make me feel better if the both of you are together.”

Dustin covers his face with his hands. “Shit.”

“Yes!” You squeal. You stick out your tongue at him, and he rolls his eyes. “Guess you’re stuck with me, Dusty.”

“Screw you.”

“Dusty, it’ll be fun. (Y/N), don’t taunt your little brother,” your mom scolds both of you into silence. “It’ll be like old times, won’t it? Aw, you two used to be thick as thieves back then.”

Dustin sighs, picking at his toast absent-mindedly. “Was there a murderer on the loose back then too?”

📼📼📼📼📼📼📼📼📼

After breakfast, you give Dustin a ride until you arrive in a neighborhood that is most definitely not Lucas Sinclair’s like he told you it would be. You turn to stare at your brother before you unlock the car’s door, confused.

“Where are we?”

Dustin looks at your shoes. “I told you. Lucas’s.”

“Okay, you might lie to me whenever you want, just not to my actual face, Dustin.” You roll your eyes, and he mirrors you. “Seriously, why did you make me come all the way down here?”

“Why do you care?”

“I know we’re doing this to get mom off our backs, but there is actually a killer on the loose,” you say. “So, excuse me if I’m also a little wary about dropping you off at unknown locations, or whatever.”

“Fine,” Dustin sighs. “I’m here to see Max and Steve.”

“Steve?”

“Harrington.”

You blink at him. “Fucking Steve Harrington?”

“See?” Dustin rolls his eyes again. “This is why I didn’t tell you! You are extremely uncool about Steve, you know.”

“I’m not!” You try not to dwell about how defensive you sound even to yourself. “I’m extremely cool about him. I’m extremely cool about the fact you hang out with that douchebag with stupid hair.”

“He’s not a douchebag! I don’t get why you hate him so much.”

Because you remember him and his friends making fun of you all throughout High School, his sneering and stupid stares. Like your brother, you’d never fit in— you never liked going to parties or drinking and you never made an effort to be liked by him and his group of popular dorks, instead you spent most of your days in the library, reading, hiding from Steve and his friends. Whatever honorable things Dustin saw in Steve Harrington you think he might have imagined them.

Now, in your last year of High School and with Steve becoming a social pariah, you don’t have to hide the fact that you still dislike Steve as much as you did back when he was still King Steve. Steve, for however much Dustin insists that he’s changed, upon first meeting you had tried to sweet talk you as if he didn’t know who you were. And you had barely kept it together enough to tell him to fuck off. Ever since then, you and Steve Harrington had hated each other’s guts. Your mutual dislike of each other is not lost on Dustin, who continues to mostly ignore it and tiptoe around it as best as he can.

“He’s not not a douchebag,” You murmur. “Why is he hanging out with two fourteen year olds during spring break? Isn’t the barf bag, like, supposed to be in college, going to frat parties, having a life of his own?”

Dustin doesn’t appreciate the way you talk about him, clearly, but he still replies, albeit unhappily. “He’s helping me with something.”

“With what?”

Before Dustin can respond, someone knocks on Dustin’s window. You jump, surprised, but it’s just Steve and Dustin’s friend redhead Max, looking bored and impatient. You groan and reach over Dustin’s seat to roll the window down.

“Do you mind?” You say to Steve. “We’re talking.”

“Oh, great, she’s here,” Steve says, stepping away from the door.

"First of all, Harrington," You scoff, glaring at that mop of hair with all the rage you can muster. You ignore Dustin’s groan. "I have a name. Second of all, we are talking here—”

Steve rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, whatever—"

"You did not just roll your eyes at me—”

Dustin sighs. "Here they go."

“I did not roll my eyes—”

“You absolutely did!”

“There was something in my eyes.”

“That something was lies!”

“Jesus fuck,” Steve finally throws his arms up in exasperation and turns to your brother, ignoring your insults. “You done talking to your lovely sister there, Henderson? We got a counselor to see.”

“What?” You frown at Dustin, irritation immediately melting into concern. “What’s he talking about?”

“Steve, shut your mouth,” Dustin glares at Steve, who shrugs and finally steps away from the car. “Nothing, (Y/N), seriously. See you later?”

“No.” You shake your head. “What does he mean a counselor? Are you seeing Ms Kelly?”

“Nothing’s wrong, I promise. It’s—” he looks like he’s scrambling to think of an excuse, then his eyes land on Max. Something flashes across her face and she speaks next.

“It’s for me.” she says, “Chrissy died in my neighborhood.”

“She’s kind of freaking out,” Dustin says, and when you finally turn to look at Max you realize how tense she is, her shoulders square, with her lips forming a straight line.

“Oh. That sucks. Hey, Max.”

“Hey,” she greets, awkwardly. It’s part of her charm, you think.

“See?” Dustin asks. “Can I go now?”

You nod, a little shaken up for some reason. Maybe Chrissy’s murder still made you feel slightly ill, and the mention of it made you feel even worse. You couldn’t imagine what Max might be going through. It didn’t help that they had found another body this morning, either.

“Ye— yeah. Sorry. I hope everything’s alright, Max.”

“Yeah,” she nods.

Dustin nods to the door. “Can you unlock the car, then?”

You wordlessly comply, and as your little brother steps out of your mom’s blue Ford Cortina, you talk to Max once again. “Ms Kelly is great help. I’m sure she’ll make you feel better. She really helped me this year, you know, she’s a great listener.”

“Yeah, I know,” Max says. “I’ve been thinking about seeing her for a while, a—actually. I’ve heard she’s well… you know… fine, or whatever.”

“Hey, there’s no shame in that,” you shrug. “Lots of people go to see Ms Kelly… Actually, now that you mention it, Fred Benson, the guy they found this morning, was seeing Ms Kelly too. And Chrissy Cunningham.”

Dustin pauses before closing the car door. “What do you mean?”

You blink, slightly confused as to why you’d even bring it up. “I’ve seen them in Ms Kelly’s office before. I’m not sure why I’m even mentioning it, sorry.”

“No, no, (Y/N), that’s…” Dustin says, then doesn’t finish. “You’ve been seeing Ms Kelly too?”

“Yeah,” you nod, a little ashamed. You think about telling Dustin about everything that’s been going on, the nightmares, the guilt— but then you glance at his friends looking expectantly at him and cower. So you don’t continue.

It’s Steve who breaks the silence. “Henderson, chop chop, let’s go.”

“I’ll see you at home?” Dustin says, a little softer.

“Yeah, yeah. I was gonna go to Dinah’s near Ave Park, but do you think you’ll need a ride later?”

“Steve’s got his car,” he says. “Don’t wait up, okay?”

You nod, watching him leave.

📼📼📼📼📼📼📼📼📼

It’s around eight PM, and Dinah is painting her toenails as you skim through one of her books, the soft hum of the TV in the background, entering through the open bedroom door. Her parents are watching the news, the news anchors are urging people to stay home and to lock their doors to be safe of this new serial killer.

Dinah’s house is your usual hangout spot beside your own. You don’t have many other friends, and there’s only so many times you can force Dustin to watch The Breakfast Club before he’s fighting you for the remote.

“It was all Matty could talk about,” Dinah continues to rant. “I can’t stand this murder talk any longer! I can only hear about Chrissy Cunningham’s missing eyeballs so many times, (Y/N), it’s way too fucking gruesome, but it’s all everyone in this town seems to care about.”

“It’s a pretty pressing issue,” when Dinah glares, you shrug. “I’m just saying! You know I agree with you. I don’t want to hear about it anymore.”

“Chrissy was always so nice, wasn’t she?” Dinah shakes her head, putting her nail polish back in her nightstand, then wraps her arms around her legs, hugging herself. “And Fred had a future in front of him. It’s so unfair. They had a family that loved them.”

“Dinah, I really don’t wanna talk about it,” you say, feeling yourself shiver. You don’t want to think about poor Fred or Chrissy, or the families mourning them. You try to focus on the book in your hands, but the words start blurring together, becoming harder and harder to read.

You blink, confused, then realize Dinah is still talking.

“It’s the truth, isn’t it? I think about their dads too. Chrissy’s dad was crying so much at her wake. Do you think your dad would ever cry for you like that?”

You finally snap to look back at your friend. She’s staring at you like you’re small, like an insect she could stomp on. You’ve never seen her black eyes seem so soulless, so empty.

“Maybe they’ll be tears of joy, don’t you think? After all, weren’t you the one who made him walk away?” She tilts her head to the side, a sneer forming in her lips. “They could be a family without you.”

There’s something wrong in Dinah’s eyes. There’s something wrong about all of this, but you can’t point to what, where are you, when, why…what…?

When you blink, Dinah’s eyes look normal again.

“(Y/N),” She asks, frowning. “Are you there?”

You shake your head. What the fuck was all that?

“What?”

“You were staring at me like you weren’t all here,” she explains, grimacing. “Where did you go just now?”

“Sorry…” When you speak you feel a dull ache around your temple, and you lift a hand to rest against it, trying to soothe the pain aimlessly. “I think I need some painkillers or something, my head’s killing me.”

“Again?”

“Yeah,” even before spring break you had confided in your friend about the headaches and the nightmares— you never told her why, but she at least knew you were seeing Ms Kelly.

Dinah stands up, careful not to stain the carpet with her fresh black nail polish. “I’ll ask my dad for some Tylenol. Stay here, I’ll be back in a sec.”

Before Dinah is out the door she’s interrupted by the doorbell, which rings once, twice, three times and more. Dinah frowns, as her dad yells I’m coming, Jesus!

“Someone’s impatient…” you murmur, hand still resting on your temple.

“Hey,” Dinah, who has always had great hearing, says. “I think it’s your brother.”

You frown, and when Dinah’s father confirms it’s your brother by yelling out that It’s little Henderson!, you and Dinah head downstairs to find a heavy breathing Dustin, Max, Lucas and even Steve Harrington, looking as if they just ran a marathon.

Dustin’s eyes land on you. “(Y/N)!”

“Dustin?” you say, “What are you doing here? You need a ride ho—?”

Dustin runs to hug you by the waist, almost knocking the air out of you.

“Are you okay? Do you have a headache? Is your nose bleeding? Do you feel—?”

“Woah, Dustin,” you don’t know what to do with your hands— you and Dustin hadn’t hugged since he turned twelve and he and you both deemed it lame. “What’s going on? Did something happen?”

Dustin finally lets go of your waist to grab you by the face and inspect it properly. He roughly pulls your face down and tries to pull up your nose to look at your nostrils. “No nosebleed yet?”

Steve tries to stop him. “Dustin, buddy—”

Lucas adds a sustancial, “Dude.”

“Dustin!” you push his hands off your face, feeling your cheeks heat up when you notice everyone looking at you. “What the hell are you doing?”

Your brother opens his mouth to speak, but then seems to notice Dinah behind you and seems to think better of it. “We need to talk,” he says instead, “Like, right now.”

“Right now?” You ask. “I already told Dinah’s mom I’m staying for dinner. Dustin, what the hell is going on with you?”

Dinah clears her throat. “I’m… just gonna go get that Tylenol.”

“Tylenol?” Dustin asks when she walks away. “What for?”

“I have a headache.”

“Shit,” Max says, still by the door frame with Lucas and Steve.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Dustin curses, deep in thought. “It’s already started.”

“What?” You ask as Dustin starts pacing back and forth.

“We need to find out how to stop this right fucking now,” Dustin starts pacing back and forth. “Think, everyone.”

“Maybe Robin and Nancy found something in the library,” Steve offers.

“Yeah,” Lucas nods. “C’mon, man. Let’s go find them.”

“Okay, yeah. Okay, okay.” Dustin calms himself down, manages to stop his pacing. “Let’s go wait for them at the Wheeler’s. (Y/N), let’s go.”

You throw your hands up in disbelief. “Can someone tell me what the hell is going on?”

“(Y/N),” Dustin says, his voice unfaltering. Dustin is never serious about much, and this renders you speechless. “I need you to listen to me for once in your goddamn life, okay? We need to go. Now.”

“Okay, Jesus,” you say finally. “Dinah’s mom is making Lasagna so this better be worth it, Dustin.”

📼📼📼📼📼📼📼📼📼

On the way to Nancy Wheeler’s house, you learn two things: One, Dustin knows where a serial killer might be hiding, and two, your brother thinks you’re cursed and are going to die in, give or take, twenty four hours.

You glare at Steve Harrington in the rearview mirror. “What the fuck have you been giving him?”

“I’m serious!” Dustin yells. “I knew you wouldn’t fucking believe me.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, because he looks genuinely frustrated, but a second dimension and a supervillain? Does your brother think you’re stupid? Just how many movies has he been watching? “I just think D&D might actually be getting to your head, Dustin. There’s no way what you just told me is real.”

“Lucas and Max know it’s real too!”

Both of them nod furiously.

“Are the other two fourteen year olds your only source?”

“Steve too!”

Steve winks at you through the rearview mirror.

“Even worse,” you say.

“Listen,” Lucas tries to reason when Dustin groans in frustration, cursing under his breath at you. “I know this sounds absolutely crazy, I wouldn’t believe it either. But I promise you it’s all true, and if we don’t do something soon about it you’ll end up like Chrissy and Fred.”

An involuntary chill runs down your spine every time you think about them.

“Guys,” you say, slowly, “I know things are scary right now, but I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for the murders besides a demon supervillain.”

“I didn’t believe it at first either,” Max shakes her head. “Not until I saw it with my own eyes.”

“Didn’t Ms Kelly’s file say the others who were cursed were also having hallucinations?” Steve asks the kids, looking for a place to park. “So, have you gotten any weird visions lately?”

Hallucinations? You think back, but can’t seem to pinpoint anything similar to that. Except tonight at Dinah’s place, before Dustin and the rest had rung the doorbell. Suddenly you grow a little paler, uncomfortable at the memory being brought back. That had been weird, but you were exhausted and knowing a serial killer, Eddie Munson, who apparently your brother knew, was out there still was making you restless.

“I wouldn’t really call them visions,” you murmur.

“Shit,” Dustin breathes, looking at you with wide eyes. “It’s spreading faster.”

“Listen, Dustin, I may be going through some shit lately, but I promise you I’m okay. I just need some painkillers for my head, seriously.”

“(Y/N)!” Your brother takes you by the shoulders and shakes you. “Your life is in imminent danger! You don’t need painkillers!”

“I do if you keep shaking me like a ragdoll!”

“Listen,” Lucas says, grabbing Dustin and prying him off you despite his protests. “Just stay with us tonight, okay? We’ll sleep at the Wheeler’s and it’ll make Dustin feel better, right? We’re all tired.”

“Dude—”

Lucas cuts Dustin off and whispers, “We’ll wait for what Nancy and Robin have to say and then figure out how to convince her later, yeah?”

Dustin sighs. “This was so much easier when El had her powers.”

“So yeah? You’ll stay the night?” Lucas asks, hopeful.

You see all three of the kids staring at you and cave in. “Yeah, yeah. Okay.” You say, at the same time Steve parks right in front of the Wheeler residence. Before you can even step out of the car another car pulls over by the garage and Nancy Wheeler and another girl you don’t know step out of it.

“Nance, Robin!” Steve exclaims as he stops the car and steps out. “Had fun at the library? I sure didn’t.”

“It went well, I think—”

“We have a situation,” Dustin is quick to interrupt, reaching over your space and popping his head out from the open window. “It’s my sister. We think Vecna cursed her.”

“Whatever that means,” you mumble, getting out of the car, Dustin trailing behind you and slamming the door shut.

“She doesn’t believe us,” Max explains.

“Well, I personally would be more weirded out if she did,” The girl you don’t know shrugs a little. You recognize her now— she worked with Steve at Scoops Ahoy last summer before the fire at Starcourt, and now works at Family Video. You’ve spoken a bit with her before.

“She’s been having visions, headaches, nosebleeds,” Dustin continues, “like Fred and Chrissy were, according to Ms Kelly’s files. I think Vecna is preying on vulnerable people, people dealing with...” he looks at you for a second, then back at the girls, settling on saying: “Some shit.”

“We found some articles about Victor Creel at the library,” Nancy says, then motions at the house with her chin. “Let’s talk inside.”

📼📼📼📼📼📼📼📼📼

Nancy and Robin turn out to be as crazy as the rest of them— they tell the story of Victor Creel, infamous in Hawkins for murdering his entire family, and about how he was supposedly possesed by the devil according to some conspiracy newspaper. They want to talk to Victor, but the problem is that he’s now a patient at Pennhurst Mental Hospital and completely unreachable to the public. They plan to go first thing in the morning and the rest of the group seems to agree.

“We’ll need a disguise,” is Nancy’s big plan.

You never quite get that Tylenol, because the strongest thing Ms Wheeler has is green tea. You think everyone’s lost their goddamned minds.

“So what do you want me to do while all of you plan?” You ask, sitting on the couch. Nancy and Robin leave to Nancy’s room. Max and Lucas are by the desk in the corner speaking softly, Dustin is pacing around the room impatiently as he usually does when he’s this restless, while Steve is sitting on the couch beside you, playing with Dustin’s (or is it Mike’s?) walkie-talkie. “Am I allowed to eat something? Because I’m starving.”

Dustin snatches the walkie-talkie from Steve’s hand. “You’re gonna break that.”

Dustin’s, then.

“We don’t know yet,” Lucas says, walking over to where you are, holding Max’s hand gently. “We’re hoping the girls find out something from Victor. In the meantime…”

“You can eat,” Steve concludes. “... Right?”

“Right,” Max nods.

“We have to do something soon,” Dustin’s the most anxious you’ve ever seen him, even before you took him to see The Empire Strikes Back. “We don’t know how much time you even have once the visions and all the hallucinations start. We said twenty four hours but we can’t be sure.”

“If it helps, they started today. At Dinah’s.”

“You snapped out of it, right?” When you nod, Steve shrugs. “Henderson, I think we have time to order some pizza, at least.”

“And a movie?” You ask, finally relaxing into the couch. You toss away your shoes and hug them to your chest. “Does Mike have The Breakfast Club somewhere around here?”

“Not that movie again,” Dustin groans.

You throw a pillow at your brother, who manages to dodge it easily. “It’s a great movie!”

“It lost its charm after the thirteen time you forced me to watch it with you.”

“The Breakfast Club?” Steve asks aloud. “(Y/N) Henderson is obsessed with The Breakfast Club? Is that why Dustin is always renting it at Family Video?”

Dustin huffs, offended. “Why else would I want to rent that stupid movie?”

“Molly Ringwald,” Steve answers, at the same time you yell out, “It’s not stupid!”

When Nancy comes downstairs she informs you that sadly no, she doesn’t have The Breakfast Club, but that she should. She does have the soundtrack, however, and you think about asking to borrow it tomorrow before she goes back upstairs to order a pizza.

A while later it’s almost midnight, everyone around you is tired, except maybe for Dustin, but the majority wins and you all decide getting some sleep is the best option. You agree, but know that you’re probably not getting any sleep tonight, either; you’ve been having nightmares every night for the past few days and you don’t believe today is going to be any different.

When the lights go off and everyone is already starting to doze off, Dustin is quick to turn his flashlight on.

“Dude! Turn that off!” Steve moans, launching a pillow straight into his face. Dustin doesn’t dodge this one this time, much to Robin and Steve’s satisfaction, who chuckle lightly.

“C’mon, Dustin, what the hell?” Lucas groans.

“Shut up! I’m trying to see if I can find something else in Ms Kelly’s files!”

“Dude,” Max sighs, “you’ve read them each four times already.”

“You won’t be able to find anything if you’re exhausted,” Nancy tries more softly. “Just try to sleep for a bit, okay?”

“Dustin, c’mon,” you reach for his hand— it’s a bit uncomfortable from your position on the couch and his on the floor, but you do it anyway. That seems to soothe him slightly, to see you still offering comfort, like you’re still yourself. He manages a weak nod, and he squeezes your hand slightly before turning the flashlight off.

After a few minutes, Dustin starts snoring loudly. Steve, who you’re unfortunately stuck sharing the couch with, chuckles.

“He’s a good kid,” he says.

“Yeah,” you can’t help but agree. You wouldn’t trade your dork brother for anything. “He’s great. When he was little, he used to wet his bed all time after watching scary movies with me, and he’d wake me up to change his sheets so my dad wouldn’t yell at him for ruining them.”

“Steve raises a silent eyebrow at you, sounding amused. “And you actually did that?”

“I forced him to watch them. I felt bad,” you smile at the memory. “He would offer to wash the dishes for me, though.”

“Your moral compass is stronger than mine,” he hums.

“You know, he…” you start, unsure if Dustin would be upset if you shared this, then decide it’s not as embarrassing as telling him he used to wet his bed, and continue, “he really admires you. God knows why, Harrington, but he worships the ground you walk on.”

“Henderson?” He asks, a little in disbelief. “I don’t know—”

“I’m serious, Harrington. He loves you,” You hoped you didn’t sound jealous. There had been a time where you thought Steve was almost a replacement for you as an older sibling, but as time went on you realized how important Steve was to him.

“Well. I’m pretty loveable.”

You roll your eyes. “Sure.”

“He’s pretty loveable, too,” Steve says after a few beats of silence, more softly now. “I don’t have any siblings, did you know that? So it’s… uhm, really cool to have him around. Even if he’s kind of a little shit sometimes.”

“Such a little shit,” you agree.

The rest of the group seems to be asleep already, or maybe they don’t care about the conversation enough to join you. Steve starts telling you about the time Dustin burrowed his hair gel and almost set fire to his bathroom, and you have to cover your mouth to stifle your giggles.

It’s not long before you start to feel abnormally cold, and can’t keep your body from trembling. Steve’s gentle voice is gone. The room is dark around you, and realizing that you must’ve fallen asleep while talking with Steve at some point, you hug yourself trying to seek some warmth. You try to grab a blanket from somewhere. Jesus, it’s spring for fuck’s sake, it shouldn’t be this cold. But you realize that despite the darkness you can see, and when you look up at the ceiling, you find a grandfather clock that most definitely doesn’t belong in the Wheeler’s basement.

“(Y/N).”

The voice calling your name is unfamiliar and it makes you feel ill almost immediately, like your stomach has turned into nothing but knots. You try to speak, to ask who it is, but nothing comes out, you can barely even breathe.

“Do you think you could ever keep living with this guilt?” The voice asks, somehow you feel as if the voice is right behind you, whispering into your ear. It’s like nails scraping against chalkboard in your eardrums. “Knowing what you did to your family?”

You want to turn around and find the voice, but you can’t, you can’t, you can’t. The clock is ticking, haunting you, calling for you. You want nothing but to run away from it, but you can’t move— you’re glued in place somehow, maybe in fear, you can’t tell. Everything is uncertain, except for the clock. The clock, you know, it’s real.

It’s counting down. You know what it’s trying to tell you. It’s coming for you and you can’t escape it. It’s only a matter of time now.

“Soon, (Y/N)...” It whispers. “Soon, I’ll come for you, and no one will be able to help you, (Y/N)... (Y/N). (Y/N)!”

You open your eyes with a gasp to find Steve’s arms around your shoulders, shaking you slightly. His eyes are wide, a little frightened. When you look around you find Lucas and Max draped all over a chair, their chests rising slowly, asleep. Dustin is in a sleeping bag on the floor, near Robin and Nancy, hugging each other tightly in their sleep. Steve is the only one awake.

“Shit,” you say, placing your hand in your heart. “Did I wake you?”

“We were talking and then you just went somewhere,” he says. “You don’t remember?”

You suddenly feel very cold. “I thought I was sleeping. I saw…” You think about telling Steve, but it seems pointless now, almost. What would you tell him? You saw a clock? “I think it was one of those hallucinations you guys keep talking about. You’re really freaking me the hell out, you know.”

“Fuck, I think Dustin’s right,” he says.

“About me being cursed by a being from another dimension? Are you kidding?”

Steve does manage to look apologetic. “I know it sounds bonkers, but that’s because it is. I’ve seen it.”

“What? This other dimension?” You were starting to think Dustin and his nanny were just trying to play an extremely elaborate joke on you.

“The Upside Down, but no,” he shakes his head, and then his eyes land somewhere around the room, focusing on one of Mike’s many posters. “The monsters.”

“Vecna?”

“Others,” he says, then murmurs, “Haven’t had the pleasure just yet.”

“The demoger…? What was it?”

“Demogorgon, yeah,” he grumbles. “The Mind flayer too. It’s all real. I wish Will and Eleven were here to actually explain this stuff; they are the ones who actually know their stuff about this.”

You have never seen Steve actually sound so… serious, before. It’s all actually starting to freak you out, you decide, and you aren’t sure if you actually want to find out if it’s all actually real or not. You stay silent for a few moments, sleep escaping you. You figure Steve’s fallen asleep until his voice startles you again.

“You okay there, Henderson?”

No, you want to say. You can’t shake the feeling that the voice is watching you, waiting to catch you by surprise. “Yeah,” you mumble, sleepless, scared.

Steve doesn’t seem to buy your answer however, because you feel his body shifting near your side of the couch, sitting right beside you. When you give him a look (he’s so close he can actually make it out) he clicks his tongue.

“See, I don’t really believe you, Henderson. So, I’m gonna stay near you, just in case you get another vision. Or if you want to hold my hand.”

“Screw you, Steve,” You glare, turning to the other side so that your view is Harrington-less. If you do feel better with him beside you, that’s between you and maybe Vecna, if he’s actually inside your head.

In the morning, when you wake up and Nancy and Robin are both gone (probably visiting a murderer in a mental hospital) and Steve is tangled up beside you, you decide you’ve had enough.

“So we’re just gonna wait around to see what happens?” Dustin argues, as Lucas and Max try to reason with him.

“What else can we do?” Lucas asks, frustrated.

“Literally anything else, dude! My sister might die!”

“Okay, Dustin, you need to stop and we need to go home, now,” you tell him, looking around the basement for your jacket.

“No!” he points at you. “You’re not going anywhere until we know what to do.”

“Dustin. I’m four years older than you,” you glare, placing your hands on your hips. “I’m the older sibling. I’ve entertained this enough already, but I left mom’s car at Dinah’s and we need to go get it and then get our asses home before mom loses her shit.”

“(Y/N)! Listen to me!”

“No, Dustin!” You finally snap, taking Dustin’s walkie-talkie from his hand and shoving it into your bag despite his protests. “I’ve had enough about monsters and other dimensions and whatever other nonsense Eddie Munson has been feeding you! We’re going home, now!”

“I can’t believe I’m actually trying to help you!” Dustin screams, “You suck!”

“Well, you’re stuck with me!”

“I wish I wasn’t,” he says, his eyes cold. “I wish you weren’t my sister.”

The chills return like a slap across your face, making you stumble backwards slightly. The room around you turns dark immediately, the only person left is Dustin in front of you. But it’s not him, it can’t be, his eyes have never looked this lifeless.

“You took his chance away, didn’t you?” The unfamiliar, bone chilling voice returns. “His chance of having a real family, or at least a father figure. He’s right in wishing you weren’t his sister. He deserves someone better.”

Again you want to scream, but it’s like your mouth is taped shut. Around you Mike Wheeler’s basement seems to fade away into blue, and suddenly you’re standing on your front porch, watching your dad walk away. You’re saying the hardness around your eyes, your lips drawn into a tight line. You don’t look like yourself; you look older, and tired, and disappointed, more like a woman than the girl you were when this happened, the girl you must’ve been.

“Don’t come back again,” you tell your father’s retreating form. But your voice is distorted, so far away.

“How many times has Dustin needed his father?” The voice asks. When you blink you’re somewhere else; not Mike’s basement, not your home. There’s splinters of wood scattered by your feet, like a house just destroyed. Everywhere around you is red, like blood, like the blood in those horror movies you forced Dustin to watch because he made them less scary when he squealed. “Are you proud you broke up your family?”

“I was a kid,” you manage to say, and only now you realize you’ve been crying all along, the salty tears wetting your dry lips. “I didn’t want Dustin to know what he did. I would take it back if I knew he wouldn’t actually come back.”

“But you did it anyway. You did.”

I did, I did, I did, you think, over and over. You close your eyes, hard, ignoring how it almost hurts.

“You miss him too, don’t you? Despite everything. You’re sadder about the fact that he left you, too. He left his daughter behind.”

“Who are you?” You hiss out, through your anguish.

“I’m part of you, (Y/N). Whether you want to or not.”

You’re not alone. When you open your eyes you see him — a monster, vicious even in looks, like someone slowly peeled away his skin, and all that was left of him was muscle and meat, not even blood. Vecna. Around you there are two different bloody columns, and you’re quick to notice they’re holding Chrissy and Fred’s bodies, like morbid museum displays, tokens. He was right, Dustin was telling the truth about everything, and now you were going to die because you didn’t listen to him.

“No,” you want to say, you want to scream. But you’re not strong enough, you can’t—

Hey, hey, hey, hey

You blink through your tears. You manage to recognize that melody in this unfamiliar place. You want to run towards it, but you’re not sure your legs can even respond to your commands right now.

Vecna seems to think something’s wrong, too, because as the song progresses he grows more impatient. “You think you can escape like this?”

Tell me your troubles and doubts

Giving everything inside and out and

Love's strange, so real in the dark

Think of the tender things that we were working on

His hands— his claws are stroking your cheeks, an aborted tender gesture, like he’s trying to soothe his prey before going for the kill. It’s over, you think, there’s nothing but this certain death. But then; you think of the hundreds of times you forced Dustin to watch this movie with you; of you both playing with Tews until he scratches one of you in annoyance; driving Mike, Lucas, Dustin and Will to the movies; getting ice cream at Scoops Ahoy and guggling when Steve gets rejected once again; putting Dustin’s hair in braids and practicong makeup on him when he was younger; asking Will Byers what he was sketching at the park; Dustin and you laughing during dinner because of some stupid joke. You think about last night, sleeping beside Steve, and the way he made you laugh.

Don't you, forget about me

Don't, don't, don't, don't

Don't you, forget about me

You can’t give up. You can’t leave Dustin.

Somehow you manage to pull Vecna off you with a shove, and you run. You run, you run as fast as your legs let you, as your jeans stain with what looks like blood, as Vecna screams at you. You run like you've never run before.

And then you gasp and you’re falling.

“Shit, fuck, shit!” Someone’s arms are around you, and it takes you a second to calm down to realize it’s Steve, and that you’re in Mike Wheeler’s basement and you’re alive, somehow.

“Holy fucking shit,” Max is saying, but you can barely hear her over the rapid beating of your own heart— erratic, but unquestionably alive.

“God, god, (Y/N),” Dustin’s voice stands out from the others, and when you look at him there are tears streaming down his eyes, and you can barely process anything before you’re trying to reach for him despite feeling like you’re not even in your own body.

“I’m okay,” you tell him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, Steve letting go of yours. “I’m okay, I’m okay.”

“I thought you were gonna die,” he whimpers.

“I’m here,” you breathe out. “Oh my God, I’m here thanks to you.”

You realize that the song is still playing, only to notice the headphones in your ears. You see your scattered bag around the room, and the walkie-talkie that Dustin must’ve been looking for already on the floor. Don’t You (Forget About Me) slowly fades to an end before the next song on the soundtrack starts.

“I’m sorry,” Dustin says into your shirt. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice you were going through something, I should’ve noticed. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” You shake your head, holding your little brother even closer. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. And I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. Fuck, Dustin, I’m so sorry.”

You stay like that for a moment, hugging Dustin on the carpet, Max and Lucas hovering near, and Steve’s hand on your shoulder, grounding you.

📼📼📼📼📼📼📼📼📼

When you explain to Nancy what happened and what you saw once she comes back from Pennhurst she’s quick to pinpoint the house you saw when you met Vecna as Victor Creel’s house. All of you grab your things and head to that location. You try to not feel so dreadful, and Dustin forcing you to listen to Don’t You the entire car ride and holding onto your jacket sleeve helps soothe your nerves, at least a little bit.

But Victor Creel’s house is something out of a horror story, dark and abandoned as it is, and the only light source in the house seems to be the hole Robin made when she smashed the window.

“Let’s split up,” Nancy offers, and everyone seems to comply much to your dismay.

Lucas and Max leave to investigate with Dustin (reluctantly parting from your side) trailing off behind them, Nancy and Robin head upstairs and you and Steve are stuck together and instructed to stay downstairs by Nancy, the only thing illuminating your way being your flashlights.

You wander through hallways, staring at ruined wallpaper and dusty portraits. Victor and his family seemed so happy in their pictures, and you wonder why nobody, family or not, ever came to look for their things. The house seemed frozen in time, like one day the family had decided to get up and leave everything behind, the house nothing more than ghosts.

“I hate this place,” you comment, trying to hug yourself tightly to keep the cold at bay. “Thinking that people died here is…”

“Horrible,” Steve finishes for you. “Yeah… Fuck this place, man.”

When you turn to a corner, you freeze in place.

“Steve.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re seeing this, right?” You point at a clock with your flashlight, unmoving. It’s the same clock from your visions, the one you saw before meeting Vecna.

“Yeah,” Steve frowns. “Real old. Why?”

“I saw it,” you try to explain through the rapid beating of your own heart. “In my visions, I mean. This clock was in them— well, the second one, mostly. In the Wheeler’s basement last night.”

“Shit…” Eloquent as ever, Steve Harrington. “Has to mean something, right?”

“If anything it proves Nancy and Robin were right. It all started here.” You finally force yourself to look away and continue forward, ignoring the way you feel your skin crawling. You hold up your cassette before re-starting the song. “What would happen if I suddenly got tired of this song? Will it no longer work? Does this mean Vecna will… come back for me?”

“Listen, I— I’m not a genius at this like your brother, or like Nancy, or even Robin,” Steve admits, very honestly. “But I promise we’ll find a way, even if that happens. Besides, Dustin told us how much you love this song. Seems kinda impossible you’ll ever get tired of it if you listen to it every day. And listen, I gotta ask. Breakfast club?”

“What?” You feel heat rise up to your cheeks, embarrassed. You start walking away from the clock, trying to get rid of the chills that had gotten ahold of you just a few moments before. “It’s a great movie.”

“Yeah, absolutely,” Steve says, and even though you can’t really see him in the dark, you can hear his smirk, picture his smile. He’s teasing, and you’re kind of glad for it. It helps. “I just didn’t think it would be your thing, is all.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh? What’s my thing then?”

“I don’t know. You seem like a Dune fan, maybe.” He wonders out loud, your flashlight lighting the way.

“I do like the book.”

“See?” Steve points at his temple. “I knew it.”

“I think working at Family Video is finally getting to you.”

“I’m good at reading people,” he says, and you raise another silent eyebrow at him. He continues, “I’d always thought of you as a little brainiac, and that you’d liked movies that were kinda difficult. You were always reading in school. I didn’t think you’d like teen flicks and Hughes.”

“Dune is not difficult. And maybe you don’t really know me enough to know what my thing is,” you shrug. “... Or maybe every girl is a little bit in love with Judd Nelson.”

“Yeah,” Steve actually laughs. “Can’t beat that hair.”

And you can’t help yourself, you smirk. You think you might actually be dreaming, or maybe this curse made Steve seem more tolerable than usual. “You give him a good run for his money.”

“We’re still talking about hair here, right?”

Now you point your flashlight at Steve and elbow him.

“I’m just asking!”

“It was a stupid question. And just so you know, there’s nothing wrong about liking teen flicks,” you say, continuing to walk and not waiting to see if Steve follows. “Pretty in Pink is my new favorite movie and my GPA is still 3.5.”

“Oh wow. Pretty in Pink?” He whistles. “You have a soft spot for Molly Ringwald.”

“Who doesn’t?”

He hums in response.

You stay like that for a moment, walking through dusty hallways and trying to avoid spider webs. Even with the flashlights the place looks abandoned and lonely, and there’s a coldness running down your spine that you can’t shake off no matter how much you try. You focus on trying to catch the sound of Steve’s breathing to somehow ground yourself to reality. It feels like ever since meeting Vecna your grip on reality slowly fades away, like someone is unraveling the carpet from underneath you, trying to catch you by surprise. Like you’re falling into an abyss of darkness and you can’t hold onto anything— because nothing around you is truly real. And so you bite your lip to keep yourself from reaching out to Steve and holding on. You can’t think of a moment you’ve felt as uncertain as you do now; but Steve’s teasing and your bickering back and forth is normal, makes you feel like you’re not actually in immediate danger. You figure if there’s a different dimension called the Upside Down, then you can most definitely forgive Steve Harrington for being a jerk in High School. He has more than proven himself to you.

Because the truth is that maybe Vecna will win. Maybe you will never beat this curse. And you’ll end up like Chrissy Cunningham, like Fred Benson, like Patrick McKinney; just dead bodies along the trail.

“Hey, Steve,” you call, slowing down to walk beside him. He turns to look at you, but you can’t bring yourself to look at him. “Uhm. If something… like, happened to me—”

“Woah, woah, wait,” Steve shakes his head. “Nothing will. We beat the curse, remember? With the song?”

“Yeah, but we didn’t actually beat it, did we?” Now you do turn to look at him, and his big eyes almost render you speechless. You don’t know what to call the look on his eyes, but it makes you want to look away from him; makes you want to run. “Listen, Steve, I just— I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he says, quickly. You think he’s noticed how embarrassed you feel, and you look away, embarrassed. “You’re just scared shitless like the rest of us.”

“It’s not that,” you shake your head. “I’m sorry for being such a jerk around you and picking fights with you. You’ve— you’ve been there for Dustin when I wasn’t, and I guess you’re not actually a bad guy. So… I’m sorry I judged you. And thank you, I guess. For being there for Dustin. And… me.”

Steve doesn’t say anything for a second. You’re still looking anywhere but him, now focusing your eyes on a spider in one of the many spider webs in front of you. You feel embarrassed and stupid, but a little bit better. You know you’re doing the right thing by apologizing— you know Steve now, better than you’ve ever thought you would. You finally dare to take one look at him and his eyes are still on you, and when your eyes lock, he smiles softly.

“You’re apologizing for that?” Steve asks, and when you nod matter of factly, he tilts his head to the side. “Huh. Never thought I’d see the day Henderson’s sister apologized to me.”

“Don’t let it get to your head, Harrington,” you roll your eyes, but can’t help the small smile forming on your lips. “I’m only doing this because I might die.”

Steve chuckles, nodding. “Fair enough,” he says. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry too, Henderson. To be honest, I think I kind of deserved it. I was an asshole in High School, so… yeah. I, uh, I’m sorry it took me getting kicked off the clique to realize you’re not half bad.”

“Well,” Now it’s your turn to laugh. “It took me almost dying to realize you’re not half bad either. I think we’re even.”

Steve stops in his tracks, making you stop, too, a little confused. You turn to look at him, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him look quite so… earnest, maybe. You can’t name the look on his face, but you can’t look away, can’t seem to be able to keep walking. You’re frozen in place.

“You’re not gonna die, Henderson,” he says, determined. “I won’t let you.”

Your mouth goes dry. All you can do in response is nod. You want to say something, but the words escape you, and so you stare at each other for a few seconds, neither of you saying anything. You wonder if Steve can hear the rapid beating of your heart, if he can make out the way your eyes drop to his lips for a slow second despite the darkness around you both.

Then you hear Dustin yell out, “Guys!” and the moment fades away.

📼📼📼📼📼📼📼📼📼

Finding Eddie at Skull Rock seems to be harder than it should be, and once you find him you’re made to follow Dustin’s apparently broken compass. You feel like you’re wandering through the desert, with no clear path in mind. Dustin is at the front, with Lucas and Max following closely behind, Eddie (who you now have a hard time believing would ever be able to kill anyone), Robin and Nancy in front of you and Steve.

You find yourself time and time again choosing to spend more time with Steve, that he seems to be the one able to actually make you feel grounded, like you’re not gonna die in the next three seconds. You feel like yourself around him; but different. Steve is different. This whole experience is making you rethink everything you’ve ever known.

You can’t help but wonder in the silence about Dustin and the others, guiding the rest of you through the night time in the forest. Despite all of them being younger than you, they don’t seem to need your help, especially Dustin, who you think is completely in his element leading the way.

After a while of walking in silence, Dustin announces that the compass seems to be going even crazier. At this, Robin pries it off his hands to confirm that it’s true. Eddie and Dustin argue for a second about following the compass and make another Lord of the Rings reference that has you smiling.

“He’s not half bad,” you comment. “Eddie, I mean.”

“I still don’t know what the hell Modor is,” Steve mumbles under his breath.

You don’t try to explain Lord of The Rings to him— you don’t think there’s even enough time. But, maybe one day, when Hawkins isn’t in imminent danger and Steve still wants to hang out with your uncool self for whatever reason.

“What do you think we’ll find wherever this stupid compass is taking us?” You ask him, trying to avoid accidentally stepping on some poison ivy. Just your luck to get cursed and also poisoned on the same week. “You know more about this than me.”

“I’m actually more like, the, uhm, action guy of the group.”

“So you’re telling me you don’t know where we’re going,” You conclude.

Steve nods. “No damn clue, Henderson.”

“Great,” you chuckle lightly.

“All I know is that it’s probably a portal Vecna opened after killing someone.”

“A portal. To the upside down?” When Steve nods in confirmation, you sigh. “I still can’t get used to how crazy this is.”

“The third time you do this you kind of just start going with the flow of things,” Steve admits. “Russian spies, MK-Ultra, different dimensions, monsters— it all just kind of starts to sound like background noise.”

“Dustin and the kids seem to really know about all of this.”

“They do,” Steve nods. “Dustin is like, their leader. Our leader, I guess.”

“My little brother… fighting communists and monsters.” You shake your head. “Yeah, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that. How did Nancy? With you and Mike?”

Steve stops for a second to frown at you. “With me?”

“You know, with Nancy and you dating.”

“Me and Nancy?” he asks, then shakes his head. “No, me and Nance just… we go way back, but she’s with Jonathan. That ship sailed a long time ago. We’re friends now. Besides, she’s the one killing more monsters than me.”

“Oh.”

There’s no way to ignore the way your heart skips a beat at this, or the hopeful glint in Steve’s eyes. The rest of the woods disappear and it’s only you and Steve and your rapidly beating heart. The others are lost to you, in their own little world, searching in the dark with their flashlights like fireflies.

“Yeah,” Steve scratches the back of his neck. “And, just in case, me and Robin are not a thing, either. Just friends.”

“Platonic with a capital P!” You hear Robin yell out in front of you.

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you at Steve’s blush. “Yeah, yeah, think she got it, Buckley, thanks.”

“You’re welcome!”

“That’s… good to know,” you comment.

Steve raises his eyebrows at you, then scratches his chin. “Is it? Good to know?”

You nod slowly, avoiding his gaze. “Maybe.”

“Maybe. Okay. Maybe is—” he breathes out. “Maybe is cool.”

“Maybe is really cool,” you allow yourself a small smile.

“Really?” Steve inquires, and when he notices his smile he gifts you one of his own. “Okay. That’s great. Maybe is really cool. Cool. Cool beans.”

“Yeah?” You bite your lip, finally daring to look at him.

Steve follows your movement with his eyes. “Yeah,” he says, breathless.

“Hey guys,” Dustin’s voice rings out, the moment gone. “I think we found the portal!”

You both follow Dustin’s voice until you reach a lake, where Eddie explains Vecna killed Patrick when he was running away from Jason and the rest of the basketball team.

“So the portal is… what?” Robin asks, “Underwater?”

Dustin shrugs. “Worth a shot.”

He starts climbing up the boat, and you’re quick to grab him by the sleeves of his shirt to stop him.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” You ask him.

“Looking for the portal,” Dustin says, matter-of-factly.

“You told me this portal is supposed to teleport you to another dimension, one Will Byers got stuck in,” you reply, pulling him away from the boat. “You’re not going anywhere near that portal. None of you kids are.”

“Who died and made you the boss?”

“Three people died,” you note.

“I made her the boss,” Robin quips. “Well, Nancy might technically be the boss, actually. Nance?”

Nancy blinks at Robin’s words. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”

“Nance says yes.”

Eddie frowns. “Yes to being the boss or yes to—”

“Let’s just go,” Nancy urges, gesturing at Steve to help her drag the boat offshore. Steve complies, and helps Nancy climb into the boat, followed by Robin and then Eddie.

“But what about the curse?” Dustin wonders, looking at you.

“I have this, remember?” You hold up the cassette player, and wink at your brother. “Don’t worry about me, okay? Look after Lucas and Max. Nancy might be the boss, but you’re their leader.”

“Okay, yeah,” he nods, sounding more like he’s talking to reassure himself than anything.

“Compass, please,” you tell him, and Dustin complies unhappily. You can’t help yourself from grabbing him by the cheeks and kissing his forehead like you did when he was younger. Despite being a good leader, a fighter, he’ll always be little Dusty, who steals your waffles and makes really bad coffee. “See you soon.”

Steve offers his hand to help you climb the boat and you take it with a tiny smile.

The trip on the boat is short and dark. Even with Steve using his flashlight to try and light the way, it’s barely enough to keep you from being engulfed in the darkness of the night. When was the last time the moon shone down in Hawkins? There are almost no stars above, the view chillingly dark. You fear what you might find. Nancy stares at Dustin’s compass, trying to give any semblance of direction when the compass starts going crazy.

Steve starts pulling off his socks.

“Steve,” Nancy says slowly, “what are you doing?”

“Somebody’s gotta go down there and check this thing out. Was one of you four Hawkin’s High’s swimming co-captain and a certified lifeguard for three years?” He figures, already working on his other shoe. “It’s gotta be me, no complaints, alright?”

Eddie chuckles nervously. “Hey… I’m not complaining. I do not wanna go down there.”

You watch as Eddie takes something off his pocket and throws it on the boat’s floor. You want to stop Steve somehow, irrationally, because as far as you know Nancy, Robin and Eddie can’t dive, and you can barely float — but the words die on your throat when you look up and Steve is peeling off his shirt.

“Here,” Eddie says, and you realize now he had wrapped a plastic bag around a flashlight and is now handing it back to Steve. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Steve says, taking it from his hands.

“Steve,” Robin rasps out before he dives, and Steve stops to look at her. “Don’t… die?”

“Gee,” he scoffs. “Thanks for the encouraging speech, Robs.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Don’t die, seriously,” you manage to tell him, wanting to reach for his hand but stopping yourself. “Or I’ll kill you.”

Steve nods. He looks like he wants to say something else, but keeps his mouth shut before diving underwater.

The silence on the boat almost kills you, as it rocks quietly, everyone holds their breath waiting for Steve to come up once again. Your heart is in your throat, Don’t You still playing softly in your eardrums, the cassette player still on, a constant to remind you you’re still here. Miraculously.

“He’s…” Eddie whistles. “He’s got balls, King Steve.”

“Yeah,” you nod, looking at the water like you’re hypnotized, waiting for his soaked head to pop up.

“Not what you’d expect,” he adds, a little quietly.

“No,” Robin says, and the way she says it— so fond, so genuine. You couldn’t agree more. Steve is so much more than what you’d expected him to be. “Not at all.”

You stay silent for a few more seconds, all of you waiting for Steve to come back. When he does he emerges with a gasp for air, startling the rest of you. Eddie screams so loud you hear it perfectly well over the music.

“Found it,” Steve claims, holding onto the edge of the boat.

“You found it?” Nancy repeats.

“It was pretty wild,” Steve explains that he seemed to have stumbled into the portal, like an open gate illuminating the bottom of the lake and tinting it red. “It was pretty damn big—”

Before he can continue, Steve is pulled into the water once again, and you jump up instinctively, trying to reach for his hand, but he escapes your grasp quickly. He emerges again and you breathe a sigh of relief— but it’s short lived, because Steve is dragged under once again and he’s not coming up.

“Steve!” you yell. “Steve!”

“What the hell was that, man?!”

Between all the screaming going on, the only thing you can think about is Steve, Steve, Steve—

And so you stand up.

“Wait, (Y/N),” Nancy starts, “What are you—”

“You’re not going in there!” Eddie screams, trying to grab you by the arm.

“I—” You start, but can’t seem to decide on what to say. You don’t know what you’re trying to do, but you know you’ll do it anyway. You have no plan, that much is certain, you’ve never fought a day in your life. “I can’t just stay here!”

“Are you insane?!”

Robin pales. “No, (Y/N), wait—”

With one last look at the rest of the guys, you dive into the water and swim. You’ve never been a good swimmer, but you find yourself swimming like you’ve never had, quickly finding the red portal Steve had mentioned before being dragged down here. What you find on the other side reminds you of when you met Vecna— when he showed you your memories, cold, distorted and dark. You briefly wonder if Vecna had managed to drag you all the way here then, but you have no time to dwell on it too much.

Steve is laying on his back, as some creatures bite at his abdomen incessantly, like leeches. They are choking him, curling their tails around his neck. You stand up and run towards him, only to notice the others have followed behind you, their wet footsteps a reassurance.

“(Y/N)!” Nancy yells, making you turn. She throws one of the boat’s paddles at you, keeping one for herself.

You manage to catch it, God knows how. Steve is still struggling when you get to him, and the first thing you do is smack one of the things across the face, forcing it on its back and stopping it from further gnawing Steve’s abdomen. You see as Robin starts stomping on the one who has its tail curled around Steve’s neck, and Nancy takes on the other one.

“Shit,” Eddie murmurs when he looks up the sky and sees even more of them approaching.

One of them starts going after Nancy, Eddie trying to come to her rescue by grabbing Steve’s still working flashlight and smacking it as hard as he can manage. You help Robin by hitting the one she’s stomping on with the paddle, until Steve manages to bite its tail, forcing it to curl itself from his neck.

With more coming, you are distracted enough to barely notice when Steve manages to behead it, his lips stained with pitch black blood.

“Jesus christ,” Eddie mumbles. “Jesus H Christ!”

The adrenaline pumping through your veins, your heartbeat going faster— everything seems to go for so long, when in reality it must’ve been just a few minutes.

“Steve,” you manage to rasp out, walking towards him, only looking at his wounds, unsure of what you can do to help him. “Shit, Steve, are you okay?”

“They only took about a pound of flesh,” he says, making you sigh. “But other than that… Yeah, never better.”

He stares at you when he says it, and you can’t help the way your breath catches.

“You’ll need bandages,” Nancy notes.

“Do you guys know if these bats have like, rabbies?” Robin wonders aloud. Aware that everyone’s eyes are on her, Robin starts rambling about rabies symptoms and death. You and Steve glance at each other.

Steve’s chest is still rising erratically, exhausted, when he asks, “What the hell are you talking about, Robin?”

Before Robin can go on any longer though, the sky is tinted red again, and the screeching of even more approaching creatures gets you on edge.

“We need to get the fuck out of here,” you say, and the rest of the group seem to agree.

The five of you break into a run into the forest, as far as you can before Steve’s wounds start to appear more serious, and when Nancy deems it safe enough, you stop near a tree where Steve can lean against, still breathing rapidly. You remember that Nancy said he’d need bandages, and so you take the hem of your pants and start ripping them open.

“What are you—” Steve starts.

“Bandages,” you say. “I saw this in Indiana Jones.”

“Indiana Jones?” Steve asks with a chuckle, looking up at the sky, smiling. “Your movie choices keep surprising me, Henderson.”

You tie the cloth around his wounds as tightly as you can, hopeful that it’s a good enough job to keep him from bleeding out until you guys get out of here. The wounds don’t look too bad, but you have no idea how long you'll stay here for. Nancy, looking over your shoulders, seems to approve of your bandage work.

“Thanks,” Steve rasps out.

“Just don’t die on me,” you nod, staring at his eyes.

“I’ll try not to.”

He holds your gaze, your mouth going even more dry than it already is. “I’ll hold you to that, Harrington.”

You’re interrupted when Steve catches something behind you. It’s Eddie’s jean vest. When you turn, Eddie scrunches up his nose.

“For modesty, man.”

“We escaped now, but there’s more of those monsters than what we saw,” Nancy interrupts, walking around, trying to think. “They’ll come looking for us. We need to get out of here.”

“So,” Eddie starts, running a hand through his mouth. “What the hell do we do now? How do we get out of here, exactly?”

“We need to find another portal, right?” Robin replies. “That’s the only way to get out of here. But we can’t go back to Watergate, it’s probably full of those bats now. Those bats full of rabies!”

“Right now, the most important thing is to defend ourselves,” Nancy says. “We don’t know what kind of monsters are down here. Maybe they’re even worse than that.”

“Hell,” Eddie breathes. “You think Vecna is here?”

“I don’t know… Maybe.”

A chill runs down your spine at the mention of Vecna’s name. Your hand flies to your ear, and only then you realize you’ve jumped in the water with your headphones on, and when you reach the player secured inside your front pocket it’s wet and broken. Through the adrenaline of the fight, you hadn’t even noticed that the song was no longer playing.

“Shit,” Nancy breathes out, looking at your ruined headphones. “The player.”

“It’s ruined,” you lament, seeing the way it’s soaked. You toss the cassette player to the ground, near Steve’s feet, who pales even more, if it’s even possible.

“Fuck,” he says, breathless, the slight reassuring smile he’d been wearing disappears in an instant. He stands up straight despite his body clearly protesting against it. “We need to find another one before it’s too late.”

“Would it even work here?” Robin wonders. “If it’s one from the Upside Down, I mean. Things seem to be… kind of broken here, don’t they?”

“Then we need to get her out of here right now,” Steve urges, and when he starts trying to walk away it’s Eddie who stops him.

“Dude, do you want your intestines to hang out of your abdomen like some shitty Nightmare on Elm Street scene?” he asks, “Stay still! Those bats could be anywhere!”

“We need to move!”

“Steve, wait a second,” you urge after him.

“We could go to my house,” Nancy offers. “I have guns. We could use them to fend off the demo… bats, or whatever. And we need a player. We can use Mike’s, he has one he didn’t take to California.”

Eddie blinks. “You, Nancy Wheeler… have guns.”

Robin grins. “Full of surprises, isn’t she?”

Steve is already on his way despite his groans of pain, and even though the wounds had seemed pretty superficial to you when you wrapped them up, it doesn’t mean that they don’t hurt like a bitch.

“Steve, you’re just hurting yourself even more now,” Now Robin is sighing, exasperated. You briefly wonder how many times she’s had to deal with Steve like this.

“Let’s go,” he says, ignoring her.

“Steve...” you try to stop him, but he turns around quickly.

“Let’s go!”

Robin scoffs, crossing his arms. “Where are we even going, oh great leader?”

“Nancy’s!”

You all turn to look at each other, unsure if following Steve is the best idea, but with nothing else to do and no other ideas, there’s only one thing to do.

And so you all start walking.

📼📼📼📼📼📼📼📼📼

It’s a while before you arrive at the Wheeler’s, the five of you mostly exhausted from the fight, with Steve clutching his wounds but still leading the way, right next to Nancy. You’re all on edge the entire way back, but despite the lack of music you don’t feel different yet, and you don’t encounter any more demobats, as Nancy had called them.

Nancy’s house seems haunted in this place, just as much as the rest of Hawkins seems to be. Despite housing monsters, the Upside Down looks more like a ghost town than anything. You couldn’t help but wonder how tiny Will Byers had ever survived something like this so young… Nobody ever gives that kid enough credit.

Nancy wastes no time climbing up the stairs; she almost seems unaffected looking at her house like this, so… dead. She hovers near a door and turns to look at you.

“This is Mike’s room,” she nods at it. “His cassette player should be in there. Me, Eddie and Robin will get the guns and look for the cassette in my room.”

You agree to it, and she disappears down the hallway along with Eddie and Robin. You and Steve enter Mike’s room, start rummaging through cabinets. You work in silence. You’ve never seen Steve this quiet, this focused. You wonder if he’s mad at you— he had to be. Now besides demobats and trying to escape, he had to help you too because you’d went and done something stupid and completely irrational.

Steve clears his throat, holding up something in his hand. “Found it,” he calls. “Think it’ll work?” He wonders aloud, as you close the closet door before walking up to him.

“Here,” You say, then pull your ruined flashlight from your back pocket. You hit the back of it against the palm of your hand and the batteries come off. You’re not sure if this might work since the flashlight got wet and stopped working once you jumped into the water, but once you plug them into the cassette player it seems to come to life. Steve sighs, relieved. “Thank God that worked. Let’s get that stupid cassette and get out of here.”

“Sounds good to me,” he quips. He wets his lips, looking around. “You don’t feel any different, though, right?” When you shake your head, he seems to be able to relax a bit. “When we were on our way here, Eddie told me you didn’t waste a second to help me.”

You wait for Steve to continue, but he doesn’t.

“I’ve never been much of an adventurer when we were kids,” you say. “Dustin wanted to climb trees and go camping, and I wanted to stay home and read books. We used to fight all the time because I never wanted to play outside with him, because I was scared of bugs and dirt and I just wanted to stay inside.”

Steve doesn’t say anything to that, but he’s near you, hoving near your hand, like he knows you need the comfort, unsure if it’d be wanted from him.

“If I don’t make it out of this stupid curse, Steve,” you breathe out, legs feeling so shaky you want to throw up, “I need you to promise me you’ll take care of Dustin.”

“He’ll kill me before I let you die,” Steve says, trying t sound lighthearted but failing.

“Steve,” you rag out. “Promise me. Please.”

Steve nods, his voice soft in the way it does when he’s trying to be gentle. “Y—yeah. Of course. You know little Henderson’s like my own little brother.”

“I know,” you acknowledge. “You’ve been a way better sibling than me. I’ve been such a shitty sister and I’m… I’m really glad Dustin has you.”

“That’s not true,” he argues, reaching for your arm in the darkness of the room— you want to flinch away. “He loves you, (Y/N). Seriously, you should hear the way he talks about you when you’re not around.”

You ignore the sting in your eyes and berate yourself for tearing up.

“It’s my fault,” you whisper.

“What?”

“It’s my fault my dad walked away,” you shake your head, tearing your arm away from Steve’s touch, feeling cold as soon as you’re away from him. But you deserve it, you deserve the cold. “I told him I hated him after I learned he cheated on mom and that he had another family, and he never came back. I told him I never wanted to see him again. I’m the reason Dustin doesn’t have a dad now. But— but I was just fifteen, I didn’t— I didn’t know what I was asking—”

“Stop, stop,” Steve interrupts, and suddenly he’s pulling you close to your chest and holding you close.

And suddenly that’s all you need to break down, tears flowing freely down your cheeks. You feel embarrased, stupid for crying about something like this when the world might be about to end, horrifyingly guilty for everything— but for the first time you feel like something has been finally lifted off your chest and you can breathe, here, with Steve holding you. You’re glad Steve stayed behind with you. In truth, you think you might just be glad for Steve.

If someone had told you a week ago you’d be crying in Steve Harrington’s arms you would’ve smacked them. Life can change really fast, huh?

“Nobody is going to die,” his voice is so soft. You’d never thought you’d think of Steve’s voice as anything other than grating, but now you hold onto it like a lifeline. “I won’t let that happen.”

You breathe into his chest. You finally manage to let go of him, thanking God the others weren’t near. You miss the warmth almost immediately, as much as you don’t want to admit it. “Shit, sorry, your bandages.”

“You need to stop doing that,” he quips.

“What?”

“Apologizing so much,” he reaches for your arm again before walking, and you thank him silently. You have to bite your tongue not to apologize again. “Let’s go get that cassette.”

When you both step into Nancy’s room, the silence is almost deafening.

“What happened?”

“The guns,” Nancy explains, her eyes focused on her nightstand, not looking up at either of you. “They aren’t here. But so many things that shouldn’t be are. Like— like my curtains, and these— these toys I gifted my cousin Joanna. They haven’t been here since 1983.”

“We’re stuck in time, dude,” Eddie finishes for her.

“Three years, to be exact.”

“What?” Steve asks, confused. “Three years into the past?”

“... From when Will disappeared, you mean?” You question.

Nancy nods. “Yeah, I… think so. But, (Y/N), If we’re three years in the past, it means The Breakfast Club isn’t out yet,” Nancy swallows, hard, then finally looks up to stare into your eyes.

“What do you mean?” Steve asks, his chest rising erratically.

You bite your lip. “She means the song doesn’t exist, either.”

Nancy closes her eyes.

“I’m sorry, (Y/N).”

“Fuck!” Steve yells, “fuck!”

He kicks one of Nancy’s nightstands with so much force he manages to force it into the ground, Nancy’s belongings following suit, scattering around the carpet, making Nancy flinch.

“Steve,” you whisper, trying to reach for him. “Stop.”

Steve sits on Nancy’s bed, hand covering his mouth. He lets you rest your hand on his arm, and he breathes out another curse. He almost looks frozen in place like this, and it reminds you that everything in here feels like it is— ghosts, so many ghosts. You feel like you’re stuck in hell.

“Maybe any song will work,” Robin offers a little desperately, going through Nancy’s drawers, pulling out different cassettes and soundtracks, Duran Duran, Madonna, Elton John. “C’mon guys, one has to work.”

Eddie scratches his neck. “Doesn’t it have to be her favorite song? Isn’t that what Henderon said?”

“Screw it,” Nancy shakes her head, taking in a shaky breath. “We have to try whatever we can. This is our only option.”

“Okay,” you nod, shakily, prying your hand off of Steve’s arm, reaching to cruch own next to Robin and look through the rest of Nancy’s cassettes. “Okay, let’s— let’s try it.”

Robin holds up Total Eclipse of the Heart. “You like Bonnie Tyler?”

“Seems as good as anything,” you nod, taking it from her hands. As the first notes of Total Eclipse start playing, you gulp nervously, praying this might work, that you have at least enough time to get out of here alive.

Steve still looks miserable, but seems a little calmer now. “We need to get out of here right now.”

“How?” Robin sighs. “How did Will ever manage to get out of this place?”

“There has to be a way,” Nancy figures, then something seems to dawn on her. “Will. Will used to talk to Joyce with the Christmas lights while he was stuck in the Upside Down.”

“The Christmas lights?” Eddie asks, incredulously. “What are you talking about?”

As she explains, you can’t help but think that Nancy Wheeler is absolutely brilliant. You can’t blame Steve for falling in love with her before. She’s interrupted by Robin rather quickly though, when she claims she can hear Dustin’s voice— soon enough, all of you start to hear him, distorted and distant, but it's there no less. Quickly Dustin communicates that he thinks there might be another portal in Eddie’s trailer and that seems to be your best shot at an escape.

Robin and Nancy leave to get some supplies for the trip— whatever they can find to use as a weapon, while Eddie wanders off behind them, with the excuse of rummaging through little Wheeler’s action figures. Steve stays with you, as you stare at Holly’s Lite Brite, unsure on what to do.

You trust Dustin and his plan, of course you do. Dustin’s done nothing but prove himself to you these past few days. Still, the thought that everything might go incredibly wrong is almost unshakable at this point. What was it Max said to you? Something about how Vecna’s curse made people feel hopeless and lonely.

“You okay, right?” Steve wonders aloud, searching your face. “You haven’t had any visions yet?”

You haven’t felt Vecna’s pull yet, but you don’t want to be overly optimistic just yet. “I’m okay, I think. Are you?”

You glance down at his bandages, but he only nods. “Yeah, they don’t hurt anymore. I’m more worried about you.”

Warmth spreads all over your cheeks and inside your chest, but now’s really not the time for all of these feelings, and so you try to squeeze them out, to focus on something else.

“I just hope the plan works,” you mumble. “I want to get out of here.”

“You—” Steve shakes his head, looks at you with a look you can’t name. But he sounds frustrated, exhausted. “You just jumped in after me? You didn’t even think…” he trails off. “Eddie said you just jumped. Fucking jumped. You’re unbelievable, you know that, don’t you, Henderson? Absolutely fucking unbelievable.”

You look down at your hands.

“It was stupid, I know, I—”

“Thank you,” Steve murmurs, honesty bleeding into every word he speaks. You look up at him, surprised. “You saved my ass back there.”

The truth is you hadn’t doubted one second— you hadn’t even stopped to think about what might happen to you. Helping Steve was more important to you than anything in that moment, and you didn’t regret it, how could you regret that?

“You saved my ass first, back at the Wheeler’s,” you smile at him. “Even later, in the woods, and at Creel’s house. I don’t know if I could have kept going without you… so thank you.”

Steve stays silent for a few seconds, unsure of how to continue. You can practically feel him grow nervous now, when he clears his throat and begins speaking. “Listen, I know we are on the brink of life and death and maybe world threatening danger, but I kinda need some motivation to get out of here.”

“Yeah?”

“So, now that you know me and Nancy aren’t really a thing, and that me and Robin are platonic with a capital P…”

“Keep going.”

“And since you know, maybe is really cool,” you nod, trying to fight off a smile. “We should, maybe, go on a date together.”

“Hm…” you place a hand on your chin. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I can go out with someone who doesn’t like Pretty in Pink.”

“I’ve never said I didn’t,” he shrugs. “I just haven’t even seen it.”

“You haven’t seen Pretty in Pink, you monster?!”

“You know, I’m actively bleeding out here,” Steve gestures at your last minute bandages, his smile almost as handsome as him, even more so after tearing off a bat monster’s head off. Even more so now that it seems you finally have a plan to get out of this goddamn place. “You’re gonna make a dying man wait?”

“You’re not dying, Harrington.” You smack him gently across the shoulders. “I won’t let you.”

Steve chuckles, his hand finding its way to yours, almost nervous, scared of rejection.

“So? What do you say?”

“I say that if we get out of here alive, and it seems like kind of a longshot right now…” you acknowledge, holding onto his hand and squeezing. “I would really, really like that.”

“Yeah?”

You’re smiling. “Yeah.”

You both might be the people with the worst timing in the entire world— you’re cursed by a demon villain from another dimension, and Steve is bleeding out while you’re both trapped inside the Upside Down, with no clue if you’ll be able to actually escape. Not to mention this is all happening in his ex's house. And yet you can’t help but laugh when Steve tries to reach for the back of your neck and fails miserably.

“I really want to kiss you,” he says, “but my abdomen still really hurts.”

“I have to do everything,” you tease, before closing the distance between you, your lips pressing against his with a sigh.

Steve’s lips are chapped, bloody, raw, and yours must be equally as bad, salty, open and bleeding raw. But despite everything the kiss is perfect, as imperfect and uncoordinated as it is; the way your lips fit together, the way Steve cradles your cheek, and how you hold the back of his neck while Bonnie Tyler plays in the background of it all. Now, more than anything, you feel hope.

When you break off the kiss, Steve is smiling.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says. And you just might.

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