#Ring of Fire | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bettyfrommars · 2 months

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Ring of Fire

a biker Steve au

Part 1 || I went down, and the flames went higher

18+ONLY || afab!Reader, eventual smut, alcohol consumption, allusions to dirty deeds, smoking, allusions to sex with someone other than reader (not cheating), allusions to violence/fighting, bloody knuckles, eventual breaking & entering, biker!Eddie, biker!Hopper, reader and Steve are in their early 30's. Please read warning for each part.

masterlist playlist

Summary || You haven't set eyes on Steve Harrington since the 8th grade, but you have no problem recognizing him almost 20 years later when he steps back into your life. A lot has changed in Hawkeye, the town you grew up in, but a lot has stayed the same.

word count: 5k

A/N || This is my version of Hawkins, a town called Hawkeye, and it is a desert town surrounded by tumbleweeds, agriculture, and junkyards. Even though Steve is a biker and a mechanic, I try to maintain his "essence". I plan for this to be a shorter series, like 3 or 4 parts, but those are always famous last words from this lyin', cheatin' mouth. This is a niche fic, and for the ten people who will appreciate it, I love you.

The bell on the door dinged to let you know you had a customer, but you didn’t look up right away, you were too busy trying to figure out why your till was a few bucks short for the day. Donna would not be happy. Heavy foot falls made it to the counter and then the person in question cleared his throat.

“Ten on pump 2 and a pack of reds, please,” the voice was deep and scratchy, like he was recovering from a sore throat.

You closed the cash register and glanced up for the first time.

The sight made you inhale a sharp breath and hold it. The man had on a thick motorcycle jacket zipped up halfway over a white tee, atop blue jeans that were a dark denim wash, faded over time, with a tattered hole in one knee. There were tattoos scattered over his flesh, peeking from his collar, and down his hands. Letters on his knuckles spelled something that you couldn't quite make out, and he had a luscious mop of maple syrup hair on his head that looked like it had once been gelled into place but lost the fight hours ago. He raked a big hand through it slowly, pausing halfway through the movement, and tucked his chin to pin you with an anticipatory stare.

The last person you every expected to see again was Steve Harrington.

He pushed his wayfarer sunglasses up to reveal hazel eyes that were just as sad as they were electric. Swiping the tip of his tongue over his top lip, he repeated himself. “Pump 2?”

You gave a flustered wave of your hand. “Yes, of course,” turning to pull a soft pack from the wall behind you. “Matches?”

He shook his head, and then, “just a sec,” before sauntering over to the aisle on the other side of the potato chips.

Tossing a back of Magnum condoms on the counter next to his smokes, he dug his wallet out of his back pocket and said a polite, “those too, please.” The wallet was as worn as his jeans and connected by a chain to one of his belt loops.

The cash register made loud click-clack noises as you punched in the numbers and gave him the total. You weren’t expecting to see the wad of bills that fanned, but then he handed you what you needed.

“You new here?” He asked as you passed him his change, rolling a piece of bright green gum from the inside of his cheek to start chewing it again.

You stumbled over the question. “New to this store or Hawkeye?”

A smirk lifted up one side of his mouth. “Both, I guess?”

He was well aware that you were new to the corner gas n’ sip because he’d been a regular customer for years, and he definitely would have remembered you.

Definitely.

Yet, something about you felt very familiar.

“I grew up here,” your delivery was dry.

Steve tilted his head back to assess you down the bridge of his nose and frowned like he didn’t believe you. You noticed that his hands were rough and stained with evidence that he did some vocation of hard labor for a living.

You decided to humor him with a clue. “I left Hawkeye right before my freshman year. My hair was different back then, and my mom drove a big, white Buick LeSabre—-”

With an unblinking stare, he blurted your name, repeating it a few times in disbelief as the memory seized him.

There you were, the one who’d haunted his middle school dreams. The first notable crush he ever had, standing a few feet in front of him

“Shitttt,” he continued, scooping his purchases up in one hand, huffing out a breath. He searched your face, and you watched the light in his eyes intensify. “You were a year older than me, right? I remember you were always so bossy on the playground.”

You sealed your lips over a chuckle. “Well, someone had to keep you and Eddie from dismantling the playground equipment to sell to the salvage yard.”

Steve chomped down on his lip in a smile, his hip finding the edge of the counter, trying to get closer to you. “Copper,” he corrected with a one-eyed squint. “We wanted to dismantle the lampposts. Copper wiring could earn a pretty penny back then.”

“You’re still good with your hands I see,” gesturing to his calloused digits, the moons of his cuticles stained from motor oil, knuckles slashed with white scarring.

He flexed his right hand into a fist and then opened it again, deliberate and slow, watching you as he did so. “I do alright.”

He was leaning over the counter at that point, elbow resting next to the cash register, hip jutting out behind him, holding his mouth as if he were about to say something—-

“...and then, do you know what Ned said to me? Nothing, that’s what. Three days and I barely get two words out of him. Before you go, there are two crates that need to be put away in the back—-”

56 year old Donna, your boss, approached the front desk from the back room, buzzing with conversation. She stopped short when she saw Steve there, and tucked some silver, permed hair behind her ear.

“Oh, hey Steven,” she greeted.

“Donna,” he gave a twitch of a smile, standing to full height again, slipping his wallet into his back pocket. “I was just catching up with an old friend.”

Donna had on bright pink lipstick and heart-shaped, baby blue clip-on earrings. “You know Steve?”

“You could say that,” you stared at him as you said it. “I’ve tried to put it behind me.“

Steve ran his tongue over the ridge of his teeth at that, and you could see that the left incisor was gold.

Donna crowded in behind you, trying to get to the styrofoam container with her food inside that was on a stool just below the rack of caffeine pills. It was leftover burger and fries from the diner across the street and the smell had been making your mouth water.

“How’s Eddie?” Donna asked, and it was obvious she was talking to Steve. “Haven’t seen him drop by here in a while.”

Steve pulled his sunglasses out of his nest of hair and slid them back down to his nose before giving you one final look. You backed up against the cigarette display to watch him go.

“He’s been busy,” Steve gnawed his gum, addressing your boss. “Business at the garage has picked up since the only other mechanic in town split. I work there part time when I’m not—” he swallowed back whatever he was initially about to say. “---when I’m not doing other things.”

Donna shoved the corner of her sesame seed bun burger in her mouth, chewed it and kept talking. “I saw Robin yesterday. Her and Ratchet back together?”

In the past few days of your employment, you were learning that Donna was a pillar of gossip in the community, and she wasn’t afraid to ask the tough questions.

Steve scratched the stubble on his chin, possibly contemplating how much he should share. “I think they have an understanding,” he chimed diplomatically, stealing another glance in your direction.

“Say hi to Wayne for me,” Donna added as Steve pushed his way out the mostly glass door. He waved over his shoulder in response, nodding that he would.

You shimmied further along behind the counter, pretending to organize the pens, so that you could follow where Steve was going, see what he was driving.

To your surprise, he pumped gas into a hulking, coal black motorcycle with ape-hanger handlebars and blue ghost flames on the tank. You were staring with your mouth slightly agape when Donna’s voice broke your concentration.

“Don’t even think about it,” she said, cheek of food again. “That boy is adorable, but he’s bad news.”

“Why?” The question was out of your mouth before you were cognitively aware of it.

She thumbed ketchup from the corner of her mouth. “You ever heard of the Coffin Kings?”

Your gaze flicked to the side, catching Steve as he kicked a leg over to straddle the bike. “I don’t think—it doesn’t ring a bell.”

You were lying; of course you’d heard of the Coffin Kings. How could you forget the horde of long-haired bikers who cruised through town when you were a kid, a few of them stopping by to pick Eddie and Steve up from school on occasion. Eddie’s uncle Wayne was one of the original members, and most of the teachers kept their manners around the boys for that reason alone. Sure, Steve got detention for carving his initials into one of the school desks, but little did you know that it was only because he knew you would be in there too.

Steve revved the bike to life until it was growling, idling in place with his back to you while he strapped his bare bones helmet on.

“How do you know him?” Donna asked, not afraid to be pushy.

“Well, I—” you thought about the specifics of that question. “I don’t know him at all anymore, really. We were just kids. It’s been a long time.”

“You want my advice?” Donna wiped her mouth with a tissue from a nearby Kleenex box.

You didn’t, but you knew you couldn’t stop her from giving it to you.

“If you’re looking for a bad boy type, his friend Eddie is a much better catch. Runs his own business, works hard, stays out of trouble. Steve? Well, let’s say Stevie is just—-”

You turned to her as Steve hit the main road and shot into the distance. “He’s what?”

You waited while she rolled her lips together, wetting them thoughtfully, turning her gaze to the ceiling.

“He’s a nice kid, but he’s trouble,” she sighed. “He’s not the type you’d want to get serious with, if you know what I mean.”

Coincidentally, you did know what that meant. You were a bit of a connoisseur when it came to trouble; not only could you sniff it out, but it flocked to you like seagulls on a parking lot french fry.

But what Donna didn’t know was that you were no angel.

You scoffed at her suggestion. “I’m not looking for a relationship any time soon. I plan to stay single for a while.”

Donna dumped the rest of her dinner in the trash under the cash register. “In that case, you and Steve have more in common than I thought.”

—-----

Steve had the rest of the evening off, he should’ve gone straight home to have a beer in his boxers in front of the TV and try to pass out early. He’d been slinging wrenches at Munson’s Garage that day, a double shift to help Eddie out, and his hand was throbbing so hard he had to take it off the throttle and shake it out.

But also, who was he kidding? He hadn’t slept more than a few hours that whole week. He needed a distraction, he needed people, he needed to forget his gut-wrenching loneliness for a while.

He revved the throttle, shooting himself faster along the empty highway, passing nothing but flat alfalfa fields and the odd farmhouse every mile or so. The low, desert hills rolled like sleeping giants on the horizon as dusk descended.

The Blue Light Tavern was housed in a brick building built in the 40’s, located between the truck stop and the Rosebud Motel, about a mile or so from the center of town. The only way anyone passing by would even know it was a tavern was due to the neon Pabst and Jameson signs in the two tiny front windows. There were already two motorcycles out front when Steve pulled up, and he found a spot at the end.

The bartender that night was Angie, and she greeted him by name when he strolled in. He asked for a beer, picked some songs on the jukebox, and started a game of pool with a fellow MC member, cigarettes bobbing from their lips as they played.

That's when you walked in.

He took a drink from his pint glass, pausing it there, watching you scan the room before making your way quietly to one of the stools at the far end of the bar, on the corner, closest to the door, as if you might have to make a run for it. You were in the same clothes you’d had on at the gas n’ sip, but now you wore a zip-up black hoodie, hugging it around your ribs as if you were cold.

The guy Steve was playing pool with was known as Big Jim around Hawkeye. Head of hair slicked back with generous sideburns down to his jaw, and a white scar making a thin indentation from the corner of his mouth to his ear. He wore a long sleeve red and black flannel under his Coffin Kings kutte with the name Hopper patched on one side.

Hopper said something to Steve and he appeared to ignore him, but finally blinked a few times. “What did you say?”

Hopper held his pool cue across his lap as he sat on one of the tall swivel chairs against the wall, long legs braced wide. “It’s your move, Romeo,” he drawled, plucking his smoke from the ashtray to take a drag. .

Steve suddenly got very confused, frowning when he turned to his friend. How could Hop know he was interested in you?

Hop gestured to the green felt under the Budweiser chandelier with his chin, exhaling, framing his lips to make an “O” with the smoke. “Your turn, pipsqueak.”

“Right,” Steve huffed, shaking his head as he pushed off the wall.

—--------

You waited outside, staring up at the Pabst neon that was missing the “b”, trying to work up the nerve to go in. The Blue Light Tavern had been around so long, you remembered it from the rare occasions when your dad met up with his buddies, back when it was called The Hideaway. Before the accident, back when you were a kid and considered Hawkeye your home.

You were officially a resident once more, but you weren’t sure if you’d feel at home anywhere ever. You weren’t sure if you’d ever feel safe again. You weren’t sure you’d ever feel again.

When you finally opened the door, smoke billowed out, and the low-lit, grimey ambiance felt like a familiar friend. You weren’t in the mood to drink, necessarily, you just didn’t want to sit at your apartment alone. There weren’t many public places open in Hawkeye after 9, so you’d just been walking around aimlessly for the past hour. Your tiny rental above the Gas n’ Sip was empty but for a mattress, two kitchen chairs, and five or six boxes you still needed to unpack. It all felt too dismal and overwhelming to tackle after your first full day at your new job.

“What’ll it be darlin’?” The brunette bartender asked, using a white rag to wipe down the bar in front of you. There was ice melting in a tumbler, a few used toothpicks, and a sticky ring on the woodgrain. She scooped it all out of the way and then stared at you with a hand on her ample hips.

You were flustered and said the first thing that came to mind. “Can you make a gin and tonic?”

“I think I can handle that,” she winked, moving out of the way to grab a glass. You could hear the billiard balls clacking together over the music of Bringin' on the Heartache by Def Leppard , but there was a jukebox and a length of partition in the way, so you couldn’t see who was at the table. Including you, there were only a handful of customers that night; one surly man with a long gray beard at the bar, a couple at a table looking up at the mounted Zenith TV on the wall playing a muted episode of the Twilight Zone, and another two were throwing darts at a well worn target.

Angie placed a white cocktail napkin before setting your drink down. “Someone bought you this,” she had tiny veins of red around the cracks of her bare lips, as if she’d been wearing lipstick earlier.

“Someone?” Disbelief came first, and then it made you paranoid. The last thing you wanted was to get hit on by—-

“It was him,” Angie gestured down the end of the bar to where Steve caught your eye and bucked his chin at you.

The universe really did have a sense of humor.

—-----

A few minutes later, once he finished his game and let Hopper win just to move things along, he sauntered over to put his booted foot up on the bottom rung of the stool next to you. His white tee had a V-neck, exposing a tuft of chest hair. “Are you following me?”

You swished your drink with a red stir stick, and then sucked it clean. “I won’t let this freebie go to my head, Harrington. I bet you buy drinks for all the new women in town.”

He gripped a fresh cigarette between pursed lips and lit the end, looking up at you from under his furrowed, James Dean brow. “Yeah, but you’re not new.”

“Shhh it’s a secret,” you snipped two fingers in the air like a pair of scissors and he grinned at that, offering his pack of reds for you to take one. One of his ears was pierced, and a small silver hoop curved there.

“Since when do you smoke?”

“I don’t,” you answered flatly, leaning over so that he could light the end for you with his plastic blue Bic, inhaling so that your cheeks hollowed.

“You want to read my palm again?”

“Again?” You exhaled smoke to the side.

Steve straddled the stool and got comfortable with his elbows on the bar. “You read my palm once when we were kids,” he straightened his arm, locking his elbow, so that his palm was open in front of you. “I think you said my love life would be troubled, but I’d live a long life. And then you made some crack about how I’d let the right one get away.”

You huffed a laugh and chomped onto your bottom lip to keep from smiling too big, staring at his strong fingers as they wiggled in front of you, veins popping strong in his forearm.

“I can’t believe you remember that.” Tilting your head to the side, you took another sip of your drink, cringing a little at the strength of the alcohol; it was a glass of gin with a splash of tonic. But maybe Angie’s heavy hand was a blessing that night.

The gold in his tooth flashed like lightning in a storm. “I remember everything,” his voice was soft and deep, and you had to look away before he turned you into a brainless, lovesick zombie from his vampiric-strength powers of persuasion.

Clearing your throat, you squirmed a bit under the weight of his stare. “My palmistry days are behind me. I’m out of practice.”

He slid his hand back, but slowly, hoping you might want to touch it or grab it or—-

“But I am curious—”

Fingers flexed flat again as an invitation.

“---what does it say on your knuckles?”

“Oh these?” He made two fists and twisted them to read it himself as if he wasn’t sure, and then put both palms flat and slid them back in your direction, fingers splayed.

Murmuring aloud as you spelled it out, you realized that the right knuckles spelled LOVE and the left ones said PAIN in thick, capital lettering.

“My turn,” he pulled back his shoulders, taking another drag, squinting, before resting his cigarette butt back in the ashtray.

“Your turn for what?”

“Questions. What is that key around your neck for?”

You slapped a hand over the metal piece dangling from a chain, not realizing it had escaped the confines of your shirt collar, fingering it thoughtfully as you thought about what type of story you should make up.

You could tell him the truth, but you weren’t sure you were emotionally equipped to answer any further questions. You made a fist around the key and started massaging it with your thumb, when another hulking biker with a thick mustache cupped a meaty hand onto Steve’s shoulder.

“Bones just paged, we gotta meet them at the junkyard on ,” the big man shifted his kind, blue eyes to you, blinking with a nod of his head to acknowledge your presence, and offer his silent apologies all at once.

Steve stood without argument, clearly duty bound, but his attention remained on you. He motioned Hopper ahead, and then he idled there, internally stumbling over his words.

“Any chance you’ll be here again tomorrow night?” He flicked the spark on his lighter a few times as he spoke out of nervous habit.

You tucked the metal key into your shirt. “I work the late shift at the gas station tomorrow.”

His mood seemed to lift slightly at knowing where you would be.

“Taz,” Hopper hummed from the door where he braced it open with his broad back, offering a blast of fresh air to the nicotine saturated walls. Taz was Steve’s nickname in the club, but that was just one more thing you had yet to learn about him. He adjusted the collar of his leather jacket, gave your bicep a tender squeeze as he went by, and leaned down to whisper, “it’s good to see you,” at the shell of your ear, giving you goosebumps.

Once he was gone, the tavern suddenly felt emptier, the sound of George Thorogood singing about drinking alone pounding much louder as you stared down at the glass in your hand.

You finished your drink and then you made the trek back home, hugging yourself against the crisp night breeze, wondering how you would occupy your time for the next couple hours before you found sleep.

—------

The roar of their two engines cut through the dry June night like a knife, affording no illumination but their headlights and the moon. Steve had replaced his leather jacket with his own MC leather that said TAZ on the front from one of his saddlebags, bare flesh of his arms exposed to show the scattering of tattoos there as he gripped the handlebars. Both riders wore clear safety glasses to protect their eyes from the wind and the kamikazee bugs.

Snipes Junkyard loomed menacingly in the expanse of desert, shrouded in cobalt night. Heaps of twisted metal wreckage, smashed cars all piled on top of each other, and a high fence made of corrugated metal with curls of razor wire along the top ridge.

There was a group of bikes parked out front when they arrived and two of the Coffin Kings Prospects, Riot and Krebs, guarded the gate to the place.

Both new arrivals put their helmets on the end of their handlebars and tucked their safety glasses into their front pocket as they approached.

“What are we walking into?” Hopper asked, and Riot was already shaking his head in answer.

“The underground tunnels were breached,” he said, tucking a strand of curly black hair behind his ear. “Crater isn’t happy.”

Crater was a Hawkeye native who got his nickname because of the chicken pock scars that covered his cheeks and jaw. He was also President of one of the other MC’s in town called the Skull Crushers.

When tensions were high among the gangs, there was always a good chance someone would pull a gun or start punching, so Steve and Hopper shared a weary look, bracing themselves before entering.

—------

Just as you were about to step up onto your block, you caught sight of someone coming out of the mini mart that you lived above. A side door led up a flight of narrow stairs, and the top room was all yours; it was the size of a tin can, but it was shelter and you were grateful.

Through the soft glow of the front window, you saw Donna’s husband Ned behind the counter with his half-moon reading spectacles on and a novel open in front of him. Which reminded you to make sure you brought some material to entertain you on your shift the next night.

Somewhere not too far off in the distance, a group of coyotes yipped their excited whines.

The person who’d just come out paused on the sidewalk to light a smoke, and you sank around the corner of the building to watch the guy in the jeans, leather, and thick boots stroll over to put some gas in the tank of his Harley. Bulkier than the one Steve rode, this one was glossy obsidian with chrome pipes and a sissy bar in back, as if he usually had a rider with him. His hair was unruly, long and dark, and once you caught a glimpse of his profile from the dim beam above the pumps, you knew right away that it was Eddie Munson.

You thought about getting his attention to say hello, but then realized that your social battery was tapped for the day. The cigarette dangled from his mouth when he took off, and you waited until he was down the street before darting to the stairs of your apartment.

—-----

A few hours later, Steve’s left hand with the PAIN held a black payphone receiver to his ear while the other hand rolled the numbers on the rotary dial. His knuckles were freshly spit and bleeding, since one of the Skull Crushers had come at him during a misunderstanding at the meet earlier, and he was forced to lay the guy out. He felt wired, like rest had somehow become his enemy, something he ran from as it tracked him ruthlessly.

A woman who went by the name Lorelei picked up on the second ring.

“It’s me,” he coughed and tasted that familiar copper tang. “It’s Steve. Are you busy?”

It was almost 4 in the morning, but Steve had been a regular customer for a few months and, also, she didn’t mind his company. He wasn’t like her other customers; he didn’t want the typical things from her.

His hand haphazardly bandaged with a red handkerchief; he hugged it to his chest when he knocked at the door of room 8 at the Rosebud Motel. When it opened, Lorelei stood there with a silk, periwinkle kimono wrapped snug around her curves, and motioned him in. There were two lamps on in the room, both of their shades were draped with floral scarves, and a candle burned on the nightstand, smelling of essential oils, bergamot and lavender. She didn’t live at the Rosebud, but she did stay a few nights in a row there when she was working.

Steve's relationship history thus far had been a blur of endless disconnect, a series of hit and runs that left his heart empty and his eyes vacant. It was easy for a guy in a motorcycle club to get laid; their parties were always crawling with eager pussy. But after a certain age, that wasn’t what he craved anymore. He often worried that the parental dynamic he’d witnessed growing up, or lack thereof, had fucked him up to the point that he would never be able to have a normal relationship with a girl he liked.

A while ago he’d given up on love, figured that he was broken. But he still had urges, and making them transactional helped him to disengage further.

“What are you in the mood for?” Lorelei hooked a finger into his belt loop and pulled him closer, searching his face. “Same as last time, hmm?”

Steve lowered his head, internal exhaustion making him dizzy. He held her arm, thumbing the delicate material of her robe. “Not tonight,” he swallowed thickly. “Just the stuff that…comes after.”

Nodding that she understood, she cupped his chin so he would look at her. “Will three hours be enough?” One look at him told her what he needed was 24 at the least, but three was all she had to give.

Over the years, Steve had come to realize that his insomnia was somehow cured when he could sleep next to someone. To roll over and have them there, to hold them. Alone, his mind raced, and nightmares plagued the inside of his eyelids. With Lorelei, they mostly slept side by side, and the weight and familiarity of her was somehow enough to calm his nervous system down to a reasonable level.

“Come,” she sat him on the edge of the bed and knelt to unlace his boots. He wrestled to pull his wallet out of his back pocket, ready to pluck some bills out, but she put her hand up to stop him.

“After, okay? I trust you,” she whispered, tugging off the first boot by the heel, rubbing the ball of his foot a little before moving to the next shoe.

Steve’s head bobbed on his neck, and then he rolled it back to center, eyes heavy.

He always refused to undress fully, and Lorelei suspected it had something to do with how vulnerable it made him feel, but she never asked questions. He scooted up to find the pillow with his head, and by the time she crawled in next to him and put her hand on his thigh, he was out.

-------

Thank you to my darling readers who love biker Steve!

#Steve Harrington #Steve Harrington series #Steve Harrington fic #Stranger Things fic #biker!steve #biker!steve harrington #Ring of Fire

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