buckys-black-dress

[buckys-black-dress]

OHMY GODDD OH MY GOD. I NEED THIS FIC LITERALLY MADE INTO A MOVIE!!!!! bc how does one writer make something so scrumdidliumptious i need him to be real. i NEED him.

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.

-----

Ko-Fi ♡

#fic rec #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fic rec #i love him i love him i love him

[buckys-black-dress]

love is real. i hope it will happen to me

[buckys-black-dress]

i’m just in love with him there’s no other explanation

i feel faint

#peeta mellark i’ve always loved you #josh hutcherson #god please look at his arms

[buckys-black-dress]

I love being alone <- girl who has known nothing but loneliness her entire life and so has no choice but to take comfort in it

[buckys-black-dress]

personally i am just excited for it to get better

[buckys-black-dress]

OKAYYYYY I LOVE ME SOME ENEMIES TO LOVERS STEVE OGEJROGJIWOEF

wake up slow | barista!steve harrington

entry for my fall frenzy requests this request comes in from @superblysubpar: 'there's a scenario with bookstore / library date AND a dialogue prompt that says "what are you reading?"' with steve harrington summary: it's 1990. you're on the opening shift at the bookstore you work at, only to be surprised at a newcomer claiming to be up for an interview for the open barista position in the cafe at the back. sort of put off to start, it's no surprise when things start to bloom over time, and i'm not talking about coffee grounds. tl;dr carol writes a mini romcom.

tw: minors dni, there's nothing too out of whack in this one but i still don't want minors in here. reader is a little sassy but also like, pretty normal overall.

That damn key jams every time it rains -- doesn't help that you left your umbrella at home. Doesn't help that the 'light mist' turned into a heavy downpour the closer you made it to the book store. Doesn't help that you had to park a street over because of street cleaning and had to walk a block in the rain. Now the damn key.

"Come on," you grumble, jiggling an wiggling to no avail. Insert, r-insert, slight tilt to the right, jiggle, pull out a little, turn a little left and then -- nothing. You take the key out only for it to fall to the ground with a fairy like tinkling.

"Come -- the fuck -- on," you nearly growl under your breath while your coat gets heavier and heavier with rain, hood soaking through and dripping water onto your face. You bend down to get the key with a sigh meant for people with back pain, coming back up again to see the coffee bar manager on the other side of the glass door. He chuckles, salt and pepper beared thick over his chin and cheeks. Ruddy skin beams red even in the cool grey light of the morning, 30 years a butcher who pivoted into coffee when he turned fifty and had a really good knack for it.

"Easy morning?"

"Does it look like one, Carl?" you ask, stepping in when he opens the door. He laughs again, a hearty belly laugh that might as well have transported him into a Santa suit in December. "What happened to you?" he asks, following you into the back room where you start putting your stuff in your cubby. You switch out your wet sneakers and socks for the platform loafers and knee highs in your bag. Now that the fall weathers hit, it's all corduroy and knit sweaters, circle skirts and tall socks. If you're going to be on your fifth year working at an idyllic bookstore, you might as well look the part.

"Weather app lied, street cleaning, forgot an umbrella," you shrug, "Just another manic Monday, y'know?" "I know," he nods, "Gimme one second." Carl comes back with a white paper cup and black lid that makes you smile from the inside out, "Is that what I think it is?" "Isn't it always?" he smiles, "I got it ready the second I saw you on the schedule. Caramel latte, hint of cinnamon. Since its -- ya know, fall officially, I put a little maple in there, too." "You spoil me," you sigh, taking the cup from him and letting the warmth radiate through your hands.

"I do," he nods, "But, that latte was the last of my regular milk so I need to run out and grab a few gallons before we open up. You okay to be hangin' out by yourself?"

You nod, of course you're okay to be hanging out by yourself. You take the first sip, letting the caramel flood your tongue. The maple is a good addition. You're about to tell Carl to add this to the seasonal menu but he's already out the break room door with his coat before you can. You hear the jingle of the bell and the lock of the door and eventually the silence settling into the store around you.

You start to re-organize the window display which should've been done last night but 'last night you' said that 'this morning you' could handle it. You wish you could punch last night you in the face, but this is what you get for taking an assistant manager position.

You stack the back to school reads next to your knees where you're sat on them. The dust billows when you move them, making you sneeze with each turn of your head. You rub at your eyes, realizing at that very moment that the mascara you put on this morning has now definitely smudged -- you can't even find the emotional capacity to check considering the store opens in forty five minutes. You wipe down the display shelves, letting the oak gleam under the spot lights. The color is a warm reminder of the cozy moments to come the way that they do this time of year. As you start separating the 'cozy reads' from your 'spooky reads' in the pile on the other side of your knees you hear a knocking at the door --that's not very like Carl to forget his key.

You look over your shoulder, not seeing Carl at all, and if it is, he had some kind of Seventeen Again magic happen to him in that time at the store. You stand up, wiping off your knees and straightening your skirt before getting to the door where the rapping continues against the glass. "We aren't open yet!" you call out.

"M'here for Carl!" you hear, muffled through the panes. "For the barista spot?" you yell back. The guy nods under his hood, the rain picking up in heavy sheets. You sigh, unlocking the door and letting him in. "Carl's not here, he ran out to get some more milk but um, you're welcome to wait in the break room if you want," you explain, wiping a palm over another display through the main hallway and wiping the dust off on your hip. "Thanks," he says, hood coming down to reveal a head full of thick chestnut hair. A gold ring shines on the the hand that runs through it, looks like a family crest type, right on his middle finger.

"I'm Steve," he says with a smile, hand now outstretched to take yours. You look at it and then at him, finally taking in the sight before you. Prominent straight nose, warm amber eyes, lips that definitely use chapstick regularly. He has a nice smile, the kind you read about in the romance novels in the back of the store, the kind people write about.

You take his hand and introduce yourself, he has a business major handshake and you only know that because you dated a handful of them back in college. You try to stifle a chuckle but it comes out airily out of your nose.

"Something funny?" he asks when you both let go. "No, no, sorry, I just thought of something from the other day," you shake your head, "Don't worry about it." He nods, taking off his coat and closing his umbrella following your lead to the back, "It's a cute place."

"Yeah, it's nice in the morning," you nod, "I normally close but -- doing a favor for a key holder today; so you have the pleasure of seeing the troll of the store in her natural habitat."

"What?"

"Nothing -- nevermind," you shake your head, cheeks burning with a wave of embarrassment when you look back and notice that he's genuinely very handsome. You get to the break room, pointing out the spare cubby where he can hang his coat and umbrella. He's in a sweater you swear you've seen on the Cosby Show -- dark green and patterned, a perfect combination of colors against his skin. It cuffs at the wrists, you can see a sliver of his white t-shirt underneath at the collar, a whisper of a gold chain tucked beneath it.

"Yeah um," you start, feeling your heart start to patter in your chest when he takes a seat at the table by the cabinets, "You can just wait here. I'll let Carl know when he comes back."

"Okay," he smiles, "Thanks."

You nod again, heading into the employee bathroom to collect yourself for a moment -- seeing your reflection. You forgot you had rubbed your eyes, masacra smudged in black smears nearly down to your cheeks. "I look insane," you whisper in horror, "Oh my fucking god."

You cover your face for a moment, trying to hide yourself from the embarrassment racking your chest. Definitely looking like the troll of the store, you silently scream into your palms, another dramatic whisper of, "I should just fucking kill myself."

Despite the humiliation, you know it's funny. This would happen to you. This hot guy would come in when your mascaras a mess and your hair is fucked up from the rain, when the weather is bad and your tights have a run, when your allergies are rampant from the dust. Of course he would!

You wet a paper towel and do your best to wipe off the smudges, happy to look a little less insane after a dab of tinted lip balm makes it onto your lips and cheeks.

When you re-emerge he's fiddling with his CD player and his over ear headphones, working on a knot in the wire. You go back over to the counter and take a sip of your forgotten latte.

"What do you drink?" he asks.

"Carl makes it special for me, it's not on the menu," you tell him over the black plastic top before taking another sip. He grins, a soft nod moving his hair with him -- so it's like that. "I didn't ask if it was on the menu. I asked what you drink," he says, leaning back in the chair. His eyes lingering on you sends a zip up your spine, wondering if he's giving you a once over or not.

"It's a caramel latte with maple and cinnamon," you tell him. His confidence both intruiges and enrages you, both making you want to tell him to get out but also learn more about this hot guy that wants to be a barista with a Wall Street handshake, "So why do you wanna work here?"

"Is this the start of my interview?" he laughs.

"No, I'm just wondering," you shrug.

"I'm back in school about twenty minutes away," he says, "Did it for a little when I was in high school -- coffee, I mean. Ice cream shop after that, video store after that. Went to school, took a break, back in it. My dad thinks having jobs like this builds y'know -- character and whatever."

"Jobs like this?" you ask, jaw tensing with annoyance.

"Like, y'know, jobs with the people," he tries to explain, pink building on his cheeks when he realizes he might've said something shitty, "They're not like bad jobs, that's not what I mean -- I mean like, y'know -- not suits kind of jobs. Regular shit."

"Regular shit," you nod, biting back what you wanna say. That gold crest ring should've been enough to tip you off, but your next question is the ace in the hole, "What're you back in school for?"

"Getting my MBA."

Of course.

"Nice," you lie, fake smiling into your next sip -- the latte going cold as your insides when you come to the conclusion that he's just some hot grade A asshole, "Well, good luck."

"Thanks," he calls out while you make your way back to the floor, "I really like your name, by the way! It suits you."

You try not to let that compliment change your mind.

He gets the job, but you don't see him a lot. He opens an then goes to classes at night, you close most of the time -- only catching him really in the first hour of your shift and the last hour of his. You're both too busy to be finding time to talk; him with his mid-shift clean and you with your hourly sales goals and mid-day schedule re-adjustments.

But he does wave when you come in. He calls out your name when you bustle past the coffee counter and weave through the tables to get to where you need to go. It's nice of him, you guess, but the stain of him explaining that the job he's doing is just for regular people taints it for you. Maybe he thinks you're just some menial worker bee that he only knows for now, since his daddy probably has a job lined up for him once he pays through his masters degree.

Job with a suit where the bookstore will be a distant memory for him, whereas you're on a two year track to becoming the manager and likely future owner when the owners get too old to manage it. Job with a suit where he'll pass by the store and shake his head at 'how stupid it was', a 'can you believe people work there?' head toss to a coworker while he get a coffee somewhere else. Meanwhile, it's your entire life, and so are all the stories inside.

A few weeks pass and the days get a little colder, the nights starting earlier as they go. You have an opening shift that chills your bones, hugging your wool coat tight to your body while you fiddle with the key at the door, groaning at the tinkling of it hitting the concrete again.

"Rough morning?"

You look up to the door opening, seeing a pair clean white Nike Air Force 1's singaling who it is.

"It is now," you mumble, grabbing the key and bustling inside.

"Surprised to see you here," he says, following you to the back, "You're not on the schedule." "Last minute switch up, Rochelle has a christening," you say, hanging your coat in the cubby and switching out your sneakers for platfoms again.

"Oh, nice," he grins, "So why is it a rough morning? 'Cause I'm here?"

"Sorta kinda," you shrug, "Did you alread--"

"I got sales report from yesterday on the check out desk, yes," he crosses his arms, leaning against the door frame.

"And th--"

"And the inventory report, and before you ask, yes I checked that all the milk is in stock and that we aren't low on beans. I've been here for a month, honey, I know what I'm doing," he mutters.

"Gross," you pull a face at him over your shoulder, "Don't call me honey."

He shrugs with a smirk, "Rochelle likes it."

"Can you go skulk to your caffeine den and leave me alone?" you snap, "I'm trying to open a store, here."

"Skulk, huh?"

"Too big of a word for you, Harrington?"

"You're on fire this morning," he smiles, that smile they write about.

"I kinda like it," he adds before turning out of the door and back into the warm light of the store towards the coffee bar. You swallow while you watch him leave -- I kinda like it ringing in your ears and floating down to your chest where is settles in, cozy and kind.

The reports are where he said the would be, neat and organized like he was the manager and Carl was his employee. You normally spent at least thirty minutes trying to figure out what Carl had written in chicken scratch on the forms, but Steve's sharp and elegant script was easy to read and perfectly spaced. Annoying.

Even his signature was handsome.

After you get the registers counted and ready you file the forms and mark the reports so they'll be ready for your manager when they get back in store. You check the list of what needs to be done, the chilly late October air swooping in from the cracks under the door. Your face sours while you make your way over to the coffee bar in the back, seeing Steve set up the pastry delivery in the cases on the side.

"Did you come back here to yell at me about something?" he asks, focused on the task at hand, "I got all morning."

"You didn't turn the heat on," you cross your arms, "That's like, the first thing you're supposed to do."

He scoffs quietly, shaking his head, popping back up to lean on glass of the case, "Did you read your morning report or just sit there and admire my handwriting?"

"Excuse me?" you bite back.

"Heats fucked," he shrugs, ducking back down to finishing his display, "They're sending someone to take a look at it later today."

"Whatever," you grumble, turning on your heel to go dust the front shelving and reshelf the returns from yesterday.

"Hey," he calls out, waiting for you to turn around before he continues. Your eyes catch his amber ones, sparkling with a mischief reserved for school boys who are mean to the girls they like, "You look nice today."

You look him over, sucking in your cheeks to kill the smile growing on your lips. His navy sweater hugs a bit across his chest and shoulders, giving way to billow slightly over his midsection and arms. Kahki chinos cut just at his ankles so his sneakers don't even look stupid paired with the outfit, socks just the right height to look cool and not forced. Awful.

"Yeah, you too Harrington," you agree quietly before walking away; and while you killed the smile, he was able to catch that crease in your eyes, the twitch in your shoulders. You thought that was nice, he wonders if he can make you do that again.

You head over to the back of the cafe during your break, no windows near your designated 'break chair'. It's close enough to the fireplace that it always feels like a rainy day even when it's nice outside. Now that Carl started his shift he got your drink ready to go the moment you walked over.

"Well la-di-da," Steve cocks his head when Carl walks over to greet the customer at the register, rag in his hands wiping up the pick up counter, "Expert service and you're not even gonna tip?"

"Here's a tip: leave me alone when I'm on break," you bite. Why did he have to be so handsome? Slight pink on his cheeks from the heat of the espresso and coffee machines, the lights overhead. The heat finally works again and it's almost working too well from the small bead of sweat forming above his brow. He runs a big hand through his hair again, the same way he did when you first met him. You try to ingore the way his bicep bulges in his sleeve when his arm stretches.

His tongue runs over his teeth, settling between them for a second before looking straight at you, "Good one."

"That's what you get when you read books," you say sarcastically, "You should try it sometime."

"You should teach me," he leans over the counter, resting his chin on his palm, "Bet you're a great teacher."

You bite your tongue, pulling in your lips and squinting your eyes to keep the smile from brewing a second time. You pick up your mug and sip your latte while he crosses his arms over his chest. "Nothing this time?" he asks, waiting for you second blow. You shake your head no, occupying your mouth with the rim.

"No?" He asks, you shake your head again, somehow glued to the spot under his stare. He slings the rag over his shoulder, still looking at you. "Well I don't wanna keep you standing here," he teases, offering you a wink that is so soul crushingly charming you could just die, "Enjoy your break."

You've never turned around so quickly in your entire life.

The following week you take another opening shift, happy to settle into the quiet of the cafe now that the morning rush of moms, dads, students, and aspiring writers have cleared out. The fire crackles just right, the leather warmed up to your body heat while the book sucks you in further an further. Thirty minutes pass when you hear a shift infront of you, the subtle squeak of leather being sat in with a soft crunch.

"What're you reading?"

You peer over the top of the spine to see Steve sat in the chair across from you, legs open wide while he leans his forearms on his knees. His long fingers slide together, gold ring shining in the light again to remind you of who he is and where he comes from. As handsome as he is today in his black henley and white t-shirt combo you'll never quite forget the fact that some MBA bro is perched in front of you like a puppy with nowhere to go.

"Sound out the cover, that should tell you," you boredly mumble before tucking back into the chair. His fingers peak over the spine, pushing the book down from the top. He pulls the leather chintz closer to yours with ease -- of course he does.

"Or you could tell me," he says with a softness you weren't ready to hear. Your chest gets warm again, creeping up your neck to your cheeks.

"It's Pride and Prejudice."

"S'that your favorite book or something?" he asks, elbow driving into his thigh so he can rest his chin on his fist.

"One of them," you shrug, "I always read it this time of year, kind of fits the mood of the season."

"Hm," he nods, like he's really listening, "What's it about?"

"Basically," you start, thinking of a way to describe it in two sentences or less, "It's like -- hm -- it's about two people, a love story. One guy is some super rich asshole and he's a jerk because the girl isn't as rich and him. And the girl isn't from the same social standing so she's a jerk because she already assumes that he's a super rich asshole. Like...I don't know, idiots in love who are too stubborn to love each other."

"Hm," he nods again, grin splitting his face, "Interesting."

"What's your favorite book?" you ask, wanting to wipe that smug grin right off his face. His dumb handsome face with that perfect sloped nose, and eyes that look like they're looking directly into you.

"I don't have one," he shrugs.

"You have to have one," you balk, "Like, even if it's one you read in school or something." "Hmm," he sits back up, leaning back in the chair with his hands resting just under his chest.

"You have to know how to read to run a business," you shrug.

"I know how to read, honey," he laughs, "I just don't have a favorite book."

"At least try," you ecourage, albiet annoyed. He taps his fingers on his diaphragm, one knee bouncing while he thinks about it. His shirt rides up just a smidge in the back, revealing a sliver of skin you didn't think you'd ever see.

"Shel Silverstein," he says finally, "Where the Sidewalk Ends."

"You didn't strike me as a poetry guy," you say, closing your book over your finger to hold your place.

"My mom went through this poetry phase -- and I'm my mother's son, so I had a poetry phase with her," he shrugs, "We wore that book out, think we had to get a second copy cause the first one was just like -- destroyed."

"Well that's...you know," you lean your head from side to side, "That's nice. It's cute."

"You'd know, right?" he smiles, that god damn smile Shel would write about in a new book. You'd bring back book burning just to throw it in the flames after it was published. He gets up, disappearing behind you for a moment and reappearing with your favorite green mug. He gingerly places it on the side table next to you.

"Compliments of the chef," he says, presenting it like a Michelin star meal.

You look at it, a perfect pour -- the cream rosetta leaf striking against the warm brown espresso. You can smell the caramel and maple already wafting off it, cinnamon sprinkled delicately on top.

"Um, thanks," you say quietly, taking the mug to your lips. He looks down at you eagerly when you take a sip, waiting for your reaction.

"Did you do something to it?" you ask before you take one.

"No I'm just -- damn, come on. I'm excited to see you try it," he sighs, "I worked hard on it."

"Fine, fine," you murmur, letting the latte flood onto your tongue. Its -- regrettably -- one of the best iterations of you've had in a while. The perfect creaminess without being too milky, enough caramel and maple without being too sweet, the espresso's bitterness cuts the sugar in just the right way to make it smooth. He knows he did it right by the way you go for a second sip without saying anything.

"I did good?" he quirks a brow.

"You did good," you nod.

"Good," he smiles, tapping the top of your chair, "'Cause Carl's putting it on the menu starting in November."

"How come?" you ask into your third sip, the steam billowing over your cheeks.

Steve lets his eyes flicker over your face slowly, offering a half shrug, "I told him to."

November brings the first pre-season snow, not that it mattered now that your favorite drink was a regular menu item now. Caramel and maple always in stock, espresso machine always on first thing in the morning.

You open twice a week now, seeing Steve more often than not. Dropping your key became less common now that he was normally at the door when you'd get there, ready to let you in.

"Another great day, right?" he'd tease.

Now that the holidays were in full swing the bookstore was busier than ever -- sales, bundles, events. You even started carrying children's coloring books and crayons in the kid's section; a whole set up just for kids to sit and color while their parent's browsed.

The stress was getting to you, constantly checking and rechecking the end of day sales versus last year, wanting to make sure everything was on a steady incline with a nice cushion for the next. It helped that the cafe seemed to be absolutely climbing in numbers since September. More and more people wanted to spend time over there, and the more time they spent the more time they looked at books or started reading. It wasn't shocking to see people checking out at the counter with a second coffee and a new book or two in hand.

You don't want it to be true, but you're sure the new barista had a play in what makes so many people stick around. You'd see the way Steve would flirt when he took orders, how he's listen to them intently, make every customer feel like they were the only person in the room.

At least that's how he'd make you feel when he caught your gaze from over the shelving, helping find books for new patrons from the college nearby. You both started to wave at each other at each passing glance, each look caught by surprise, each accidental yearning stare.

Mid-November greets you with a bitter chill, the very early morning doesn't even have the decency to greet with you the rising sun. It'll be atleast another half hour until then.

For the first time in a long time you don't drop the key, pushing into the store with ease. You waste no time turning the heat on, making sure the radiators bled a bit before hand. You rub your hands together while they settle in, putting your coat away in the cubby and switching out your shoes in the break room.

Opening on a Saturday morning isn't common for you, but it's the first event you've planned by yourself. A very simple read-along story telling with some kids from the neighborhood and their parents. You collected three solid winter time reads: The Mitten, The Snowy Day, and A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving. A solid hour of reading while the parents could peruse, or sit and watch while their kids tuned into a book instead of cartoons on Nick Jr.

Once you've given yourself the onceover for the morning you feel more confident about the upcoming next few hours. Your knit tights fit snugly over your legs, a touch sheered out with the stretch over your thighs but the pleats in your plaid maroon skirt cover that just fine, hitting just above your knees -- still covered, still sensible. Still cute enough to snag a single dad if one were to show up.

Your feet stay tucked in a pair of worn in platform mary-janes stolen from your sister's New York City closet when you went to visit her over the summer. The chunky knit sweater over the whole ensemble completes you, a spitting image of a 'caught on the street' look you saw in a Seventeen magazine that you still get delivered to you despite being well past the age group.

You thrifted the sweater with Steve in mind, it looked like something he'd wear.

Anyway.

As you set up the 'reading rug' in the cafe area you hear the familar unlocking of the door. The sun finally starting to seep in in golden shards through the panes, leaving squares of light on the wood floors and carpets below.

"Hey Carl!" you call out, "I got everything up and running for you."

You hear the keys jingle but not his smoker's cough, not his heavy steps finding their way to the cafe area. Instead you look up to see Steve with his hands on his hips, watching you struggle to move the leather chintz to the back wall as your reading chair.

"Redecorating?" he asks, looking around the cafe. Under his shearling lined aviator jacket is an open hunter green flannel you wouldn't expect to see him in, his white t-shirt underneath hugs tights to his chest and stomach. You unfortunately noticed how great of a view that is for you.

"Um," you started, looking around the room and the dissaray you seem to have made without realizing, "Why are you here?"

"Same reason your here," he says, stepping forward to shoo you away from the chair, "I'm on the payroll."

"You don't work weekends," you say, crossing your arms over your chest while he lifts the chair over the rug with a soft grunt.

"I do today," he says with a slight strain, "Where do you want this?"

"Uh," you start, "Just right in the center against the wall so everyone can see me."

"Oh, so you're reading to the kids this morning?" he laughs to himself after putting the chair down. He wipes his hands off on each other, shrugging off the jacket and holding it in one arm, "Bitter Betty is gonna entertain the young minds of Main Street?"

"Bitter Betty, huh?" you challenge, following him into the back room, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know exactly what that's supposed to mean," he shakes his head.

"I am very sweet," you tell him, a serious edge to your voice, "There are so many customer reviews saying how sweet I am."

"Sure," he nods, putting his coat away in his cubby, "I bet there are; since y'know, you're selling them something."

"I'm not just nice when I'm selling something," you say softly, arms coming protectively across your chest. A frustration bubbles in your chest while you look at him, following him back out into the cafe so you can keep getting the place ready before the families start to show up, "You think you know everything."

"I don't," he shakes his head, smiling while he checks over the machines and gets the first pot of coffee started.

"Yeah, you do. You walked in here two months ago and swear you know everything," you huff, getting the cafe back to a place of organized coziness.

"Okay," he chuckles, "Whatever you say, boss."

"You're infuriating," you mumble under your breath.

"Got that caramel latte coming right up for you, by the way," he says warmly.

Your head turns to see him watching you, he smiles, "Maybe you're a little nicer after you've had a coffee."

You smile back, unable to stop it this time.

"So that's a yes, right?" he cocks his head, fingers drumming on the counter while he watches you. That Harringtom charm pumping out at full speed.

"Y-yeah," you nod, "Whatever. You gonna go chop down a tree, Harrington? What's with the flannel?"

He looks down at his shirt and then back up at you with a soft shake of his head, "I better hurry up and get that started for you."

The kids look up at you with starry eyes, their parents smiling along with their coffees, lattes, espressos, and pastries. The Mitten was a hit and The Snowy Day is so far showing up to be a great follow up.

You take your time to really point out the pictures and adding on to the story since all three of them are pretty short. However, you're finding that kids between two and five are pretty easy to entertain if you do enough counting and make enough sound effects. Maybe you should've been a kindergarten teacher -- or maybe not. Maybe you should just keep doing book events.

You're halfway through when you show the illustrations to the group again, listening to them ooh and ahh at all the snow.

"Did um -- Miss -- did you know -- it snowed? It snowed at my house," one of the older kids announces, arm straight up in the air.

"It snowed last week, Michael, that's right," his mom pipes up, "Daddy had to shovel outside."

"Has everyone else seen snow? Raise your hand if you've seen this much snow!" you announce in your perfect parentese, watching while the older kids and parents raise their hands. The two year olds don't really get it so they just sit there and laugh.

You look up at all the hands, an enthusiastic 'Wow!' coming out of your mouth -- but you barely hear it. Behind the hands are a set of warm amber eyes looking at you from the coffee bar, soft and gentle. Enthralled even. You swallow and lick your lips quickly before smiling, catching his smile back as you look back at the book to start again.

After each couple of pages you catch each other, the pink on his cheeks rising when he looks away -- pretending to be occupied with something else. Cleaning, organizing, resetting the espresso machine. He can tell you're flustered by the way you clear your throat whenever you start to read again.

After The Snowy Day you take a ten minute break so that the parents can take their kids to the bathroom or re-up their beverages. The tip jar is full to bursting because nobody knows how to make a single mom feel like Steve Harrington does; and husbands will pay anything to get him to leave their wives alone.

You reset your chair, making sure the books you're reading are on display for purchasing on the shelving close by in your Winter Children's Bundle for a discounted price. As the ten minutes closes up you feel a soft tap on your shoulder.

"Here," you turn around to Steve with a green mug in his hands, "It's just regular coffee this time, but -- figured you could use it."

You take it body first, reaching around for the handle only to feel his fingers brush against yours at the hand of. The soft touch isn't electric like it is in the books, it's like that but better. Warm like an oven, the gooey parts of you rising in a slow bake when you see him look down and turn away -- running that same hand through his hair on his way back to the counter.

"Thanks," you say over the chatter of parents and kids coming back to sit.

"Can I have something ready for you for your break?" he asks back.

"Surprise me," you shrug, sitting back on your chintz chair and taking the final book onto your lap. The kids cheer when they see Snoopy on the cover, a well loved favorite cartoon to finish off their morning. With the crack of the spine you can already smell the sales coming once this little event is over.

You work through your break, ringing up and helping customer after customer on easily one of the busiest Saturday's you've seen in a while. It normally doesn't get busy like this at least for another couple of weeks.

The stress of working through lunch barely matters though because your event was a bigger success than you could've hoped for -- logging in the notes for Rochelle that you should probably start doing this throughout the season just for good measure.

It's starting to get dark by the time your shift ends and the store closes -- early on Saturdays at a tight 4 PM. You let your sales girl go a little early, wanting to take the time to close up the store properly since you were the one who made it such a mess this morning. As you start to put the chairs back that had been moved from the cafe to the children's section you hear him, fingers tapping on the counter.

"You didn't come by for your break," he says, "And I put a lot of effort into that drink."

"Sorry, we can't all be flirting through our shifts like you can, Harrington," you snark with a grin, flipping the last chair over onto it's accompanied table.

"You don't have to clean up the coffee part of the store," he says, coming around with another mug in hand, "That's my job, y'know."

"I know," you say, "But I kind of fucked it up this morning so -- just doing my part."

"Well, here," he says, mug outstretched in his large hand, gold ring gleaming back at you, "For doing your part, I guess."

"You guess, huh?" you laugh lazily, taking it -- he places his fingers in a way that you have no choice but to touch them. You wonder if he did it on purpose, "What do you call this one?"

"'Surprise me'," he replies in a mocking drawl, flipping the rag over his shoulder again and leaning against the counter's edge. The first sip is unfortunately one of the most even temperatured hot drinks you've put past your lips.

"You're good at this," you blurt out, almost offended.

"Well don't look so upset about it."

"I am upset about it," you nod back over the lip of the mug, taking another sip. Mocha -- something. It's like hot chocolate and espresso but better, still caramel, still cinnamon, like a hug from your past but caffienated like your present.

"Consider me surprised," you nod, licking your lips again, "It's good -- it's um -- yeah. It's really good."

"Thanks," he smirks, "A few of the mom's thought so, too."

You let out a sigh through your teeth, rolling your eyes. He expected that, taking a step forward when your gaze comes back to center. You can smell the left over wraiths of his cologne and Old Spice deodorant, count the moles on his neck adorned with his hidden gold chain, see the hair on his forearms from his rolled up sleeves.

"You know something," he says quietly, "If I didn't know any better -- I'd think you like me."

"Like you?" you balk, eyes widening, "You wish."

He clicks his tongue when you get so defensive because it just proves him right. He crosses his arms with another step forward, head cocking to the side slightly while he sizes you up. Why did his creator need to make his forearms so beefy? So perfectly sculpted that you can't look at them without losing your train of thought? Stupid.

"I don't think I have to wish, honey," he says softly, Doc Martins creaking on the wooden floors, "I think...uh, I think I must allow you to tell me how ardently you admire and like me."

Your mouth falls open, staring at him with eyes as glassy at the kids who watched you read this morning.

"You -- no -- you read it?"

"Maybe," he says, another step forward, his arms bumping against your chest.

"Maybe?" you ask back, brow quirking.

"Yeah, maybe I did," he runs a hand through his hair, falling back away from his face to show off his sturdy brow bone, watching you with admiration down the slope of his nose.

He reaches down and takes the mug out of your hand with smooth finesse, arm long enough to reach back and place it on the counter behind him. When he leans back in place he's closer than before, toe to toe, nearly nose to nose.

"Maybe I bought it the day you told me about it," he shrugs, "Maybe I thought it was pretty close to something I had goin' on with a girl I know."

"A girl you know?" you challenge. You know exactly who he means, but it might be fun to hear him say it. "Yeah, sometimes I only see her like, an hour a day. But sometimes I get to watch her read on her break, sometimes I get to close with her on Saturdays," he explains warmly, the timbre of his voice deep against the crackling of the fire in the back corner of the cafe.

"This is the only Saturday you've closed with me," you counter, head tilting up slightly, close enough that the tip of your nose brushes his.

"Who said I was talking about you, honey?" he murmurs back, mischief in his eyes that are half hidden by his eyelids. You feel a puff of his breath over your top lip, still minty fresh like he just brushed his teeth.

"We both know you're talking about me," you smirk, self satisfied while his gaze flickers to your lips and back to your eyes. He steps at an angle, making you step back so you're against the pick up counter.

"So sure of yourself," he he scoffs quietly, leaning over you and getting into your space. Each hand coming to the side of you to lean on the granite, caging you in, "I like that in a pretty girl."

"Most do," you shrug matter of factly.

"Yeah," he nods, "Think that's what I like about you."

"Maybe that's what I like about you, too," you nearly whisper out.

"Maybe?" he asks, lower lip ghosting over yours. "Mayb--"

The hand he uses to run through his hair finds itself flat over the back of yours, sliding down to over your cheek and jaw where he keeps you angled just right. He closes the millimeters between you, warm lips catching yours in a kiss that feels like passion but a power play you want to match.

Your hands find their way to his shoulders, heads moving in soft tilts when you change angles. When you find yourself sat on the edge of the counter he uses the leverage to pull you close to him, hips between the fullness of your thighs.

His tongue skates over yours when it slides into your mouth, free hand ridding up the soft material of your tights, tips of his fingers inching under the hem of your skirt in an innocent tease.

Even the way he breathes through it is sexy, leaving you with a lingering guess of what he can do when he presses his lips against your neck. Tongue flitting and striping while he nearly nips a bruise onto your skin. You let out a gentle gasp, enough to admit defeat to him -- much to your chagrin. Steve comes back up to your lips to meet you with a few final deep kisses before you break apart.

He steps back once, the deep golden light of the sun setting cracks through the panes of the back window in the cafe, adoring him in a glow that shines of his hair and eyes. The kind of glow they write about, the kind of glow you read about.

You both take deep breaths, eyes hungry for each other -- unsure if you should go for more. He lingers, coming forward again to rest his hands on your thighs.

"I didn't read it," he confesses. "Pfffft. Why am I not surprised?" you huff, exasperated.

"But! But, but, but," he argues back, pecking you feverishly, "I had to go to like, five different places to find the movie from 1980 so -- I did actually put some effort into it."

"I love that one," you say back.

"I get points for that, right?" he asks expectantly.

"Yeah, fine. You're luck you're cute," you explain, "But you do definitely have to read it, at some point. If you wanna keep making out with me in the cafe after closing."

"Oh, absolutely," he grins, hand reaching to pull you in by the back of the neck for a final searing kiss, "You'll have to teach me, remember?"

You of course start closing together every single Saturday.

masterlist | fall frenzy | ko-fi

#steve harrington x reader #fic rec #STEVE FIC REC

[buckys-black-dress]

she had me in the first half. i thought this was gonna be a nice quiet little chapter. what the HEEEEELLLLLL is going on??!!????? GIVE ME MORKRRRREEERNEJEK

Simmer #7

CH7. Spice Box | The Menu [4.1K] Eddie Munson x shy fem!reader: a line cook au.

Eddie held the door open for you as you approached the trailer, hand waving you in as he smiled, shy. 

The trailer was tidier than you’d ever seen it before, a valiant effort made in anticipation for your arrival. The usual piles of washed laundry were moved from the dining booth bench, the ashtrays moved from the living room coffee tables. The trailer was unusually quiet, smelling like mountain cedar, if the can of air freshener on Wayne’s armchair was anything to go by. 

You did your usual, despite the way you felt like you were there for the first time. For a first date. But you toed off your shoes by the door and lingered in the kitchen, fingers twisting together as you wondered what came next. This? This part was new, this was different. 

Eddie smiled shyly as he followed behind, hands skimming your shoulders as he squeezed past you and the counter, opening the fridge. The white-yellow glow filled the room, clashing with the pink sunset that came in from the living room blinds. 

“Okay, what are you feelin’?” Eddie said into the refrigerator, his fingers tapping on the door. “We got stuff for omelettes, I could do pasta, oh, hey, I make a mean gnocchi.” Eddie emerged with a quart of pesto, wiggling one of the diners' plastic containers at you. 

You smiled, shrugging easily because you’d be happy with some toast if it meant Eddie kept looking at you like that. You leaned against the dining table edge, lips pressed together and trying your hardest to keep it together. Eddie looked too pretty in the sunlight, that peachy pink golden flow, the last rays turning his brown eyes the colour of caramel as he looked at you. 

“I don’t mind,” you told him softly, “anything you make will be good.”

Eddie grinned, bashful, cheeks pink and he held his hand out to you, coaxing you into holding onto his fingers so he could tug you forward. You were supposed to look in the fridge too, check out the mountains of fresh ingredients he liked to pack into it, the tubs of homemade sauces and pickled veg. But instead, you stumbled into the boy, socked feet touching his boots, knees bumping. 

It was awkward in an innocent way, your smile shy and matching Eddie’s, his faltering a little when he realised how close you were. His hand held yours a little tighter and when he realised you weren’t moving away, well shit, he didn’t bother to either. His fingers twisted in yours, thumb running over the backs of your knuckles and he swallowed hard as he looked down at you. 

“Uh, we could, uh, I could make some lasagna. Or, or a stir fry?” Eddie stumbled over his words, brows furrowed in concentration as he studied each part of your face. The line of your nose, the fan of your lashes, the curve of your lip. “If you want. I don’t, I don’t mind cookin’ whatever.”

You felt bolder than ever when you let your hand slip from Eddie’s and climb up his forearm, finger wrapping around the cords of muscle there, thumb rubbing at the sensitive skin on the inside crook of his elbow. It made the boy still, lips parting in surprise. It felt nice to be this close, chests almost touching, Eddie’s hand falling to hold your waist instead, fingertips pushed to the soft cotton of your sundress. 

“I’m not, I’m not really all that hungry, right now,” you told him softly. You were nervous, wondering if this was supposed to happen this way. If this was supposed to happen this soon. But you couldn’t bring yourself to step away. 

The refrigerator door was still open. 

Eddie nodded, agreeing. “Yeah, sure. No, same. We can eat later, if you want.” You watched his Adam’s apple bob, felt his fingers squeeze a little tighter at the plush of your hips. “How’s your head feelin’?”

You smiled at his concern and met his gaze. This much eye contact wasn’t all that surprising but the fact you hadn’t been interrupted yet by someone yelling about hot dog bugs or asking where the napkin refills were was. “It’s fine,” you promised him. “Doesn’t hurt anymore.”

A lie, it was a little tender. But definitely no concussion. You’d iced it when you’d gotten home but for a shorter time than you should’ve, too preoccupied with the idea of jumping into a warm shower and shaving every inch of your leg in preparation for your date. If anything, the idea of spending time alone with Eddie was what had your head spinning. 

“Good,” Eddie nodded and you could see him thinking, too much, before he sucked in a quiet breath and lifted a hand to cup the back of your neck. His hand was big enough that it curled all the way round, his thumb tucked into the space under your ear, right along your jaw. You wondered if he could feel your pulse - he probably could. You wondered if he could feel that way it was fucking racing. “Doesn’t hurt, if I do this?”

You were scared to move, worried if you shook your head it would break the spell, scared that Eddie would stop touching you. So you whispered instead, one word on a shaky breath that made Eddie’s eyes get a little wider. “No.”

Eddie pushed his thumb to your jaw a little firmer, suddenly not as worried about touching you, holding you now like you wouldn’t shatter underneath him. “So this is okay?” He whispered back and oh my god, it was more than okay, it was exactly what you wanted and you were still in the middle of his kitchen with the refrigerator light casting over your socks, your shins. 

You licked your lips and gave a small nod, eyes trained on his mouth and you heard the boy suck in a breath. “Yeah, it’s okay.” You swallowed, throat bobbing and Eddie felt it under his hand, the movement making him dizzy. “More than okay.”

His thumb moved up, skimming over the apple of your cheek, fingers fanning out over the side of your neck until they were pushing into your hairline and pulling goosebumps from your skin. You didn’t realise you were both walking you backwards until your hips hit the counter. It was a soft bump, everything Eddie did was gentle and his eyes were watching yours the entire time, searching for any hesitation. 

It’d been a while since he’d been in a situation like this, but he was pretty fucking positive there was none there. 

You confirmed his thoughts by clinging to the front of his shirt, fingertips tugging the material so he’d take the hint and move closer, meeting his chest with yours and it was as much of a first move as you could manage. Shyness still swallowed you, your heart beating embarrassingly fast and all you wanted to do was push up onto your toes and press your lips to Eddie’s but if he rejected you now - for whatever reason - you think you’d have to quit your job and move back to Chicago. 

Your back was against the worktop edge, softened only by the way Eddie let his other hand cup your hip and your chest was against his, chin tilted up to look at him, eyes half lidded and matching his own. You could see every freckle, the fan of his lashes, a tiny silver scar on the left corner of his bottom lip that you’d never noticed before. You wondered if he was close enough to feel the heat from your face, the way your bones must’ve been rattling from the thunder of your heartbeat. 

It was delicious, the way he crowded you, thumb pushing into your cheek so you’d tilt your head up for him, noses almost brushing now, just waiting for something to give. It had been two months of working alongside Eddie Munson, two months of being his friend, learning how he worked, what each of his smiles meant, how lucky you were to receive one. 

Two months of wondering how much longer it would take until he would kiss you. 

He licked his bottom lip, tongue peeking out just slightly, eyes studying every move you made, so hesitate, so unsure, as if the way you were pressing yourself against him wasn’t enough of a clue. “We could, uh,” Eddie cleared his throat, nervous. His hand was squeezing the dough of your hip over your dress, the soft material bunching in his palm. “We could watch a movie, if you wanted.”

He said it so distractedly that you were sure the boy didn’t actually know what he was asking. Eddie’s pupils were blown wide, eyes dark, a familiar sight except there wasn’t the haze of smoke between you both now. You smiled, nervous and shy and giddy and brave all at once. 

“I don’t wanna watch a movie, Eddie,” you breathed and out and the boy folded, the boy melted like butter under the hot sun and you saw his brows draw together, his tense shoulders fall in relief and then he was nodding, eyes on your mouth and moving closer and closer—

“Oh, thank fuck,” he sighed in return, pushing into you in a rush, his lips crashing to yours before he even finished talking. 

 It felt like kismet, that first kiss. It felt like it was supposed to happen, because after your heart soared and your stomach somersaulted, Eddie moved his head one way and tilted yours the other, drawing him closer still with your fingers hooked into the collar of his T-shirt. He made the softest noise, nose pushed to your cheek, his thumb dragging over the corner of your mouth and when you gasped for him, his tongue touched your bottom lip, a silent question. 

More?

You parted your lips for him, kiss deepening, Eddie’s hand on your waist gripping you tighter as your tongue licked over his and you couldn’t remember when kissing someone felt like this. It felt like a summer heatwave, like someone taking care of you, it felt like a bowl of the most perfect food pushed in front of you, like cracking your fucking head off a table and watching the world spin. 

There wasn’t any noise in the trailer except for the hum of the still open fridge door and the soft, breathy sounds from both of you. A sigh, a gasp, a muted groan. It was easy to get caught up in it, no one to interrupt, a whole evening, just for you two. It was a long time coming, a simmering pot, finally bubbling over and when you let out a little moan when Eddie’s hand trailed from your jaw down to your neck, fingers splayed over your throat, the boy pulled back to pant heavily and swear. 

Any shyness you’d ever felt was gone with the way he was looking at you, curls falling across flushed cheeks, lips swollen and probably a matching yours. You reached for him, desperate, your hands tangling into his hair as you tried not to pout. “Don’t stop. Please, Eddie,” you whispered and your voice cracked with need and god, it made Eddie’s eyes stutter shut, jaw dropping before tensing. 

“Fuck, fuck,” he was whispering, moving back to you with an eagerness that was almost overwhelming. 

You thought he was going to kiss you again, but he ducked just slightly and you squeaked when you felt his palms, warm and calloused and so fucking big, wrap around the backs of your thighs. He hauled you up, setting you on the edge of the kitchen counter so you were at his height and both of you ignored the angry squeal of the coffee container, the bread bin and mug stand as your body pushed them out of the way. A new pace was set now and Eddie’s mouth was back on yours before you could ask. 

A desperate, messy kind of kiss, deep and longing and all tongues and teeth. The boy nipped at your bottom lip, groaned when you whined and you didn’t even think twice about bringing your legs up to his hips, caging him in and pulling him against you until you felt the scratch of denim again the cotton of your underwear. 

It should’ve been too much too fast, it should’ve. 

But it wasn’t. 

“This okay?” Eddie asked you breathlessly, words gasped between kisses. He pulled back just slightly, hands cupping your hot cheeks, thumbs soothing over the apples of them. His forehead pressed against yours, a grounding touch. “We don’t have to— just tell me if you wanna stop, yeah?”

You nodded, eyes fluttering shut because you were already pulling him back to you and Eddie followed willingly, one hand dropping to your knee, coasting upupup until he was squeezing at the dough of your thigh and groaning into your open mouth. You felt like a couple of teenagers, making out somewhere you weren’t supposed to, getting felt up by your crush in his parents kitchen. It made you dizzy, it made you wet, embarrassingly so. A dirty, hot throb that wrecked your body and lit up, electric, every time Eddie touched you somewhere new. 

He didn’t go any higher, his hand stayed there, respectful as he could be when you were kissing him like you didn’t ever want to stop. A few inches below the hem of your dress, practically a gentleman, but his tongue was doing wonderful things against yours and when you rocked yourself a little, using your arms around his neck to press yourself against him, Eddie’s own hips canted forward and he moaned.  

It made it easier to drop his other hand from your neck, fingertips skimming just along the curve of your breast before he was dripping your waist and pulling you into him. It wasn’t the best place to be grinding against each other, not when the sofa and his bed were both so close by. But the height of the counter made for the perfect kind of friction and it was dizzying being so close, to be so wrapped up in Eddie. He smelled the same, like lemongrass and smoke and a little bit of cologne. 

And when you gripped his curls a little tighter than before and tugged, Eddie fucking whined into your open mouth, barely kissing, just panting into each other's lips and his gentlemanly touch on you wavered. His hand skirted up, fingers sliding under the hem of your red dress and when they skimmed over the elastic edge of your underwear, he was swearing, eyes squeezing shut tighter and raking his blunt nails back down your thigh.

You shuddered, ripping away from Eddie’s lips to suck in a breath but the boy only moved to your neck and you keened at the touch, opened mouth kisses along the line of your throat, his tongue peeking out to lick across your skin, teeth grazing and fiu let him, head thrown back until the already tender spot hir against the kitchen cabinets. 

It didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered. 

Not when Eddie was dragging his fingers across the neckline of your dress, pushing your sleeve out of the way to expose your shoulders, kissing and sucking at the crook of your neck, mouthing his way down your chest, no bra straps to get in his way. You sighed, the sound coming out with the letters of his name, a noise that made him groan aloud and fuse his lips back to yours, your fingers splayed out over his jaw so you could keep him there. 

You were on fire. It was hotter than being in the kitchen. The simmering pot was spilling over now, the flames were licking higher and the lid of it was crashing to the floor, jolting you back to reality. 

You pulled back, sucking in air, eyes unfocused and the world was spinning too fast and god you just needed to—   

“We should slow down,” Eddie gasped, sounding as wrecked as you felt. His hands were still on you, his forehead resting on your shoulder as he tried to catch his breath, two hands smoothing up and down your thighs. “Fuck, you’re— that was—”

“Yeah,” you agreed and god you sounded drunk. “I know.”

You tried to diffuse the heat, tried to turn down the flame so everything went back down to a simmer, smiling softly as if the kitchen was on metaphorical fire and Eddie wasn’t harder than he’d ever been in his life. “Umm, do you, d’you wanna eat now?”

Eddie laughed into your neck, cheeks flushed rosy pink and he was hot all over, breathless and the happiest he’d been in a long time. He hummed, nodding before he pulled back, dotting a kiss to your lips, much more chaste than before. He couldn’t help himself, placed another on your cheek, your jaw, the slope of you nose too. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he grinned. “How does a grilled cheese sound?”

You laughed too, nodding, because you didn’t think you’d be able to focus on chopping up ingredients or kneading out a dough right now either. “You gonna make it real fancy for me?” 

Eddie beamed, brows scrunched together in disbelief, like he was shocked you had to even ask. “What? Sweetheart, please,” he pushed one last kiss to your lips, grimaced at the open fridge door and kicked it shut witn his foot. “S’gonna be the fanciest grilled cheese you’ve ever had.”

—————

“You have a hickey,” Robin poked at your neck, stating the news very matter of factly as she leaned in between the drivers seat and yours. 

You batted at her hand, eyes wide, cheeks hot as you leaned back to glare at her. “What? No I don’t.”

Steve snorted and pulled into the diner parking lot, joining Eddie’s van and the other few cars that were waiting for a late breakfast. “Wow, that sounded so believable,” he deadpanned. “Enjoy your hot date with the chef last night?”

The day after your dinner with Eddie only egged on your good mood. A bright day, with blue skies and warm air, the kind of Sunday morning that was straight out of a photograph, big white clouds, sunflower fields in the distance, the smell of coffee and waffles coming from the diner doors. 

Eddie had dropped you back at your apartment late, later then he should’ve when he was starting work at six am the next day but you’d stayed to eat grilled cheeses on the sofa with him, pretending to watch some B-roll horror movie as you talked about everything and nothing, legs draped over his lap. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you tried to say but your words got tangled in a grin and they came out too happy, making Steve’s eyes roll as he climbed out of the car. 

“You’re a fuckin’ awful liar,” he told you over the roof and Robin snorted in agreement, bending down to peer at her reflection in Steve’s window. She snapped her gum, baby pink against rose coloured lip balm and flipped Steve off when he popped her bubble. “And we’re all late, ‘cause someone couldn’t find their keys, c’mon.”

It felt like a proper friendship, the way you walked around the side of the diner with Steve and Robin, jostling each other and laughing when they took it too far, the girl shrieking when Steve pulled her into a headlock, encouraging you with a grin to give her a noogie. And the laughter bled into the kitchen when you all stumbled into the fire exit door reserved for staff, smoke breaks and crying sessions in the alleyway. But the laughter stopped when you caught sight of Eddie at his station, whisking a bowl of egg yolks and butter, exactly like you expected him to be at eleven am on a sunday. 

You didn’t expect the girl, though. Or recognise her.

Strawberry blonde and petite, her uniform shorter than yours, her elbows leaning on Eddie’s station as she beamed up at him. She was pretty. Really pretty.

She turned at the noise of the three of you coming into the kitchen, laughter still on Steve’s lips, a faux argument brewing between him and Robin as they tailed off towards the lockers. You stayed standing, a little shocked. You weren’t sure why, you knew there was staff you hadn’t met before, seasonal members of the diner who split their time between Jim’s and other jobs. She wasn’t doing anything wrong. 

She was just— standing too close to the boy you spent the night making out with. 

Eddie had put down the bowl and whisk, cleaned his hands on the front of his apron and smiled at you,  his face lighting up at the sight, a genuine slice of joy in what was about to be an awkward moment. He said your name, almost shy, looking like he didn’t know how to greet you. 

“This is, uh, this is—” he gestured to the girl, trailing off when she bounced over to you, hand extended. 

“I’m Chrissy, it’s so nice to meet you,” she gushed. “You’re new, right?”

“Uh, kinda,” you laughed a little weakly. You didn’t feel new anymore. You felt like you belonged. You told her your name, even though she’d already heard Eddie say it. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

No one else really knew what to say then and your plans to greet Eddie with a kiss seemed ruined. The boy looked at you as if he were thinking the same, his smile lopsided and sweet. But he dished the eggs into a pot and started scrambling them, brushing away a stray curl with the back of his hand and he asked you, “have you had breakfast?”

You rolled your eyes, affection lingering there and you relaxed a little, knowing this routine, loving this routine. You grabbed your apron from the hook, tying it round your waist as you brushed past him, a hand skimming his lower back, the closest thing you could do to a greeting. 

Chrissy tracked the movement with curious eyes. 

“Not yet,” you told him softly and you ached to perch yourself on the stool by his station - your stool - but Chrissy had already walked back over and claimed it. “You gonna tell me off?”

You said it shyly, a hint of flirt there, cheeks warm and smile soft as you gazed up at the boy. Eddie responded in kind, the tips of his ears turning pink and he tried to scowl at you, brows pinching together but he grinned like he couldn’t help it. “I would, if I knew it would work,” he smiled down at you, head tilted to the side all lazy. “You want some eggs? Or I could make you some pancakes?”

And before you could tell him that eggs were perfectly fine, Chrissy’s voice interrupted, she was pushing herself onto the table, leaning on her hands, cheeks coloured with a pretty pink blush and squished together. “Don’t tell me I leave for the summer and you’ve got another favourite waitress already,” she pouted, lips shiny and glassy and pink. “I thought I was your number one, Ed.”

Her words made you feel too warm. That rolling heat that creeped across your chest, your neck, your face. An awfully uncomfortable sensation, anxious, unsettled. You tried to laugh when she did, but the sound came out weak, stilted. Chrissy was looking at Eddie, confident, playful, so sure of herself. 

She looked at him like she really knew him, like there was an inside joke that you didn’t know about. 

You backed away, ignoring how Eddie’s hand tried to catch yours. “Uh, I’m actually not that hungry,” you smiled but it wavered. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. “Thanks though. I’ll, um, I’ll catch up with you later. It was nice meeting you, Chrissy,” you nodded at her, hoping she didn’t see your glassy eyes before you turned and left them in the kitchen. 

[buckys-black-dress]

I can't help that I'm a mom friend, I have eldest daughter syndrome and I must take care of my friends as if they're my children

#painful but true #do you want anything to eat or drink? #don’t worry i’ll make you something

[buckys-black-dress]

this fic. this fic made me sob and cry and scream like a baby. i loved it so much. so so worth the read.

You Deserve Each Other

steve harrington x afab!reader (32k) Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 warnings: steve and reader are little jerks to one another; 18+ (minors dni) for later parts; swearing summary: You and Steve have been together for five years. He's seemingly the perfect boyfriend, kisses on the cheek, knowing your orders at restaurant. A great lover. Too bad you've had enough can't stand him. a/n: inspired by You Deserve Each Other by Sarah Hogle

The morning sunlight snuck through the window, stealing your plans to wake up later. You scrunched up your face, attempting to block out any light, but the effort failed. A soft whine came out of you as you tossed over. 

A long breath in, the smell of laundry detergent still clinging to the bed sheets mixed with sea salt and wild cypress. You let your eyes flutter open, waiting for them to adjust, taking in the sight of the shirtless boy laying on his stomach. Soft muffled snores came from him that made the corners of your lips tugged upwards. 

You did your routine and counted the freckles on his back as a way to wake yourself up. Twenty-seven. Not including the freckle on his shoulder. But you saved that one for last, always placing a soft kiss before getting out of the bed. 

However, you had refrained from doing so for the past month.You rolled out of the bed, leaving your boyfriend sound asleep. You glared at the window, annoyed. You had asked Steve to hang the curtains you bought three days ago. Yet the box was still sitting on the dining table– unopened. 

It was Saturday, and all you wanted to do was sleep in until ten. But now you were in the kitchen making breakfast at 8:30 in the morning. The scent of freshly brewed coffee stained the entire apartment. It must have woken up Steve because you heard the bedroom door creak open. His footsteps padded down the hallway. 

You felt his presence enter the kitchen, turning around to see him do his morning stretch. He scratched his bare stomach, taking a deep sniff of the aroma. “Mornin’,” he grumbled. His hair hadn’t been brushed, strands sticking up. He rubbed his eyes, squinting at the scenery around him. 

“You need to wear your glasses when you don’t have contacts in.” It was always the same. He refused to wear them, and you nagged that he needed to. 

He had been prescribed glasses six months ago and loathed them. He said that first it would be the glasses and then next it would turn into bifocals and he wasn’t having it. His ego would be destroyed and that was more important being able to see clearly. 

He grunted at the comment, walking over to the coffee pot that had just finished brewing. “You were asleep when I came home last night.” 

You didn’t answer right away, trying to pretend the bacon sizzling was too loud. “I tried to call the shop, but it kept going to the answering machine.” 

Steve poured the coffee in his #1 Dad mug you gave him as a joke when you first started dating. “Yeah,” he drew in a breath, like he was walking around eggshells, careful to say anything that might ensue an argument. The last thing he wanted to do was start his day arguing. But recently, that’s the only thing you had in common. “Went out to the Hideaway with Ed. He had a hard day. Went to go tow a car and the lady demanded someone else… who hasn’t been a suspected murderer.” 

You saw him look at you through the corner of his eye, testing the waters. He knew Eddie Munson was your weakness, and he knew you’d feel like an asshole if you started an argument because of him. So instead, you let out a deep sigh. “That’s fine. But next time call to let me know.”

“I’m sorry. It was last minute.” He took a sip of the coffee. 

You made a sound, but didn’t reply. It was a minor silent treatment. 

He noticed immediately. “You know this wouldn’t be an issue if we got those mobile phones.”

“Okay, let me know when you have the money to do that.” You gave him a sarcastic smile, teeth and all, and you can see frustration flash in his eyes, like a bolt of lightning. 

He’s the one who doesn’t say anything now. But his jaw was clenched. He sat his mug on the counter, the clink against the surface sounded passive aggressive. He turned around to walk away, ending the conversation. 

You took in a breath, turning around as well. “Steve, wait.” You licked your lips which suddenly became too dry. “I’m sorry. Today is stressful because I feel like I have a million things to do around the apartment. And then we have that dinner with your parents tonight and you know how nervous they make me.”

Steve had faced her again, his expression softer. He ran his hand through his hair. “No, I’m sorry. You were right. I should’ve called you from the bar.” He stepped closer, putting his hands on your arms, rubbing them up and down to comfort you. “Tell me anything you need me to do today. I’m all yours.” He gave you an assuring smile. 

Relaxation washed over you, but his touch somehow felt strange. You gave him a soft smile, regardless. “Can you please put the curtains up? That’s all I ask.” 

He rubbed a hand over his face, realizing his mistake. “Yes. Yes. Of course. I’ll get right on it after breakfast.” He placed a kiss on the top of her head. “Which smells absolutely delicious by the way.” He reached out and took a piece of already cooked bacon and shoved it in his mouth. “Mmm, babe you bacon me crazy.”

You scoffed, nudging his chest playfully. “Do you have a bad joke for everything?” You continued to cook the rest of the food.

“You’re the one who has been dating me for five years, shouldn’t you know that already?” He teased and snaked his arms around you. 

You were glad how he couldn’t see the sad expression on your face. You slipped from his grasp, playing it off as getting spices for the scrambled eggs. He seemed slightly hurt, but brushed it off and decided to pour himself a new cup of coffee instead. 

You both had finished your breakfast when the phone rang. Steve was the one who answered it as you took the dishes to the sink to wash them. “Hey, man.” He was hushed, like he didn’t want you to hear. But you could. “Come on. What about David?” Steve looked over at you. “Listen man, I can’t today. I know. I know. But…” His silence was loud. The “but” was you. 

You turned off the water to sink. “Just go.” 

Steve’s mouth fell agape, covering the mouth of the receiver. “Sweetheart, it’s fine they need to learn that I can’t come to their rescue all the time.” 

You strode over, taking the phone out of his hands. “He’ll be down in thirty minutes.” You hung up the phone and gave him a pointed look. 

He avoided your eyes, looking over somewhere behind you. “I don’t have to go.” 

Yes he did, because his shop was like a mother with her first child. One minor bump, and it’s like it’s the end of the world. You wouldn’t say that to him though. “You do have to go or we both know the shop is going to be hell next week.” 

“Sweetheart-“

You stopped him. “Just be home in time to go to your parent’s together. You know your mother freaks out when we show up in separate vehicles.” It was fake, but you gave him a sweet kiss on his cheek and went back to washing the dishes. 

Steve stood still, wondering if he should do something before he left. His eyes wandered to the box with the unhung curtains. He had to break his promise for the fourth time and it killed him. Nonetheless, he retreated back into the room to get ready for work. 

***

H&M Auto Repair was Steve’s most prized possession. Three years ago him and Eddie had one too many special brownies that Argyle had baked. They ended up laying in soggy wet grass outside of Eddie’s cabin. They didn’t know their friends had been looking for them for thirty minutes. But they were there, reminiscing when the stars used to look bigger. 

It was Steve who asked Eddie if he could do anything, what would it be. 

And it was Eddie who answered that he had wanted to fix cars. 

So Steve told him, “Fuck it, let’s start an autoshop. Harrington and Munson Auto Repair.”

Eddie’s eyes were pitch black but somehow widened bigger. “I don’t think the residents of Hawkins are ready for Eddie Munson to be the face of a business.” 

“Then we’ll name it H&M!” Steve argued back, not allowing his friend to make an excuse. 

Eddie blankly stared at Steve who had a stupid grin on his face. “But what about you?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“What do you really want to do?” 

Steve’s smile turned bashful, grinning. “I want to marry her.” Eddie noticed the adoring look Steve made when he looked back towards the cabin. “I’m gonna make sure she doesn’t have to worry about anything.” 

And Steve thought three years later that would be the case. He’d be married to you, living in whatever dream house you wanted. And maybe, just maybe, he’d convince you to start a family. 

But instead, he was only scraping by, living in a dingy apartment. And he really wasn’t sure if you really wanted to be with him anymore.

He sauntered inside his office after having to help his workers. Two of them had called out sick, and there was only so much Eddie could do. He sighed loudly, getting him a cup of water. 

Eddie stomped in, his face covered in soot. He opened the mini refrigerator, grabbing a beer out, popping the tab against the edge of Steve’s desk, the cap rolling somewhere in the room. He sat in the rolling chair on the other side, exhausted. 

Steve flipped through the finance book, shaking his head, and squinting because he had left his glasses at home. 

“Need a beer?” Eddie leaned over in a stance that would let him get up easily. 

Steve wanted to say yes. He rubbed a hand over his face, looking up at the clock above the office door. He closed the finance book and pushed away from the desk, rolling a bit while looking up at the ceiling. “No, I can’t. I need to go or my girlfriend is going to kill me.” 

Eddie wiggled his brows. “Ah. I forgot. It’s the big dinner with mom and pops today. You nervous?” 

Steve pretended not to know what he was talking about. “Why would I? We’ve had dinner with them before.” 

Eddie snorted, taking a long sip. “But this dinner you’re going to ask your dad for the ring.”

Steve looked at the ceiling fan above him. It was turned off but he could see the built up dust. “We should hire a secretary.” 

“No no no. You’re changing the subject.” Eddie set the beer bottle on the table. He reached behind him and tightened his ponytail. “Which makes me believe Lord Harrington is nervous about being betrothed to his fair maiden.” It was only a matter of time for Eddie to break out into dramatics. He always did when it came to romantics. 

Steve grumbled, standing up from his chair. It was so unlike him to be so passionless when it came to the subject of marriage. Before, he’d blush and stumble over his words because he couldn’t contain his feelings. Now, it only felt like he had to marry her. It seemed right because after five years, what else was there to do?

Life seemed so stagnant. He hoped popping the question would change that. Steve looked out the window of his shop. He could see Eddie’s Uncle outside with another one of his workers, Bill Higgins, smoking cigarettes, waiting for their next task of the day. Hawkins had been in a long recovery process since Vecna, but Steve hated to admit he missed feeling needed. 

“Why don’t we call it a day? I’ll set up the answering machine and put a sign out that we closed early.” Steve shimmied off his work vest, placing it on a hook. 

Eddie rolled his eyes at his friend’s indifference. He tilted his head, trying to make out what was behind the blank look as he gathered his belongings. “Alright, just let me know on Monday how everything goes.” He plopped his hands on his legs loudly, pushing himself up. 

He then picked up the half-drunk beer, chugging the rest before tossing it in the bin. He was about to walk out until he looked back, mouth open to say something else. He decided against it when Steve was already messing with the answering machine. He looked up at Eddie, giving him a flat smile and waved goodbye. 

***

Steve watched as you bounced your leg up and down, chewing on your bottom lip. “Sweetheart, the pie is going to fall on the floorboard.” He placed his hand on your knee. Which only made things worse because you jumped in the seat. “Woah.”

You let out a shaky breath, gripping the apple pie you had made earlier that day. “Right, don’t want your precious floorboard to be ruined.” It was only a joke, but it came across as passive aggressive. 

“Really? You want to start an argument right now?” Steve noticed a couple of rain drops on his windshield. He wondered if there was an umbrella still in the back. 

You closed your eyes. “It was a joke.”

“Didn’t sound like one.” He shot back. 

“It’s not my fault that your parents make me nervous.” You recalled the first time meeting them. His mom called you Nancy three times by “accident”, and five years later it still felt like she was comparing the two of you. Hell, she was probably comparing anyone Steve has been involved with to you. 

Steve clenched the steering wheel. “Not my fault either.” 

You almost had to bite your tongue. “Never said it was.” 

“My parents like you. How many times do I have to tell you that?” He looked at you briefly, almost forgetting to turn right. 

You laid your head on the headrest, groaning loudly.“I don’t really want to talk about it right now, Steve.” 

“When do you ever want to talk about it?” His voice had risen, and you noticed the vein on his neck protruding. Rarely did you ever see it appear, only when he was agitated from work or when Dustin was around. You had pursed your lips, fighting back tears. He noticed immediately. He sighed and in a calmer voice spoke again, “Hey, I’m sorry… I’m on edge too.” He didn’t explain why. But he knew you’d come up with your own conclusions. “Can we just listen to music and not talk the rest of the way there?” 

You didn’t say anything, just nodded, still upset. You reached over and turned on the radio, tuning out the melody drifting from the speakers. You felt him give your knee a squeeze. You wanted to pull it away out of protest, but that could possibly lead to more tension. So instead, you played the part of good girlfriend, slipping your hand in his. 

For a brief second you felt at ease. His palm burning into yours, making your stomach twist like the first time you had held his hand. His hands had become more tough because of his work at the shop. You remember when it had first opened and you kept getting scratched by the calluses that formed. He would chase you around the apartment, trying to tease you by touching your bare skin. You smiled.

The Harrington household had not changed over the past five years. It was still big and enveloped by cedar trees, taunting the rest of the town. The only damage to their house from the earthquake was a crack in the pool. 

You sat next to Steve at the big oak table in the dining room of his parent’s house. The surface was so glossy you could see your own reflection. Mrs. Harrington smiled at you, setting down a large bowl of chicken stew. She gave herself a tiny clap, beaming. “Connie! Dinner is ready.” She called out to Mr. Harrington who was in the kitchen on the phone. 

The three of you sat awkwardly as you waited for Steve’s dad to come into the dining room. When he did, he grunted in lieu of a greeting. Only smiling when he saw the fresh food steaming on the table. He sat at the end, tucking his napkin on his lap. 

It was quiet at first. Mrs. Harrington had made her husband’s plate and then her own. She frowned when Steve had made his own plate, but kept the comment to herself. “This is delicious, Mrs. Harrington.” You were the one to break the ice.

She smiled, thanking her and then looking at the two men who were eating like it was their last day on earth. Steve had a mouthful of a buttery roll, smiling at his mom. He swallowed. “Yeah, this is great, Mom.”

Mrs. Harrington tsked and shook her head. “My poor son. I noticed you were a bit thin. Have you been eating properly?” She glanced at you. 

“Stop pestering the boy, Martha. He looks fine. He’s been working hard, that’s all. The numbers at the shop have been doing great the past three months.” Mr. Harrington patted Steve aggressively on the shoulder. “I guess my investment wasn’t a complete waste, was it?” 

Steve awkwardly chuckled. “Guess not.” He looked down at his food, hiding the sad expression. 

Empathic, you slipped your hand underneath the table, placing it on his thigh, sending a silent comforting message. He received it because he looked at you through the corner of his eye, a half-hearted smile on his face. 

Mr. Harrington then turned his attention towards you. He had always had a sweet spot for you, making sure you were having a good time. “How has your first semester as a teacher been?” 

You grinned. “Great! It is a little strange to be working with teachers who have taught me. I’m hoping they move me to the high school next year.” 

He pointed his spoon at you. “Anyone would be lucky to have you as a teacher. I bet if you had been Steve’s he would’ve done a lot better in school. Hell, I would’ve too.” Mr. Harrington’s laugh was so obnoxiously loud that it shook your glass of chardonnay. 

“Conrad!”

“Dad!”

Mr. Harrington looked between his wife and son, unsure what he had said wrong. He held up his hands defensively. 

You laughed, changing the subject. “Well, I did tutor him. He’s a lot smarter than he leads on.”

Steve blushed at your comment. 

“I remember when you had excellent grades whenever you were with Nancy.” His mother chimed in. It was like she was holding a fully loaded gun, cocked and ready since the beginning and had finally found the perfect opportunity to pull the trigger. 

You kept your composure, still smiling, although you were metaphorically bleeding out. “I think that’s because she promised him favors if he did well. Where I decided to hold him accountable to do his work.” The fire slipped through your teeth.

Steve’s expression faltered, eyes wide. 

She scoffed, looking at her husband. “Accountable? He nearly had to retake his senior year.” 

“Because he was going through stuff.” You couldn’t let her have the last word. “Maybe if you had been home more you would’ve seen that.” 

Mrs. Harrington scowled, her nose flared. And for a second you felt as if you had finally won the battle. However, she sat up straighter in her chair and cleared her throat. “If I remember correctly, Steve wanted to marry Nancy two weeks after being with her. Yet, here you are… five years later.” She glanced at your bare hand, not needing to say more.

She smiled in satisfaction, taking a sip of her wine as you looked down at your hand, slipping it in your lap. You looked over at your boyfriend who was avoiding any eye contact. It was always the same, never taking your side. You angrily threw your napkin on the table and pushed yourself away from the table. The legs of the chair screeched against the hardwood floor, making the two older Harrington’s cringe. 

You glared at Steve, giving him one more chance to say something. 

Anything. 

You scoffed in disbelief. Tears pricked your eyes. “Enjoy the fucking pie.” You turned around, storming out of the dining room. 

Steve looked at his mother, “Really?”

She only shrugged, unashamed. 

He took a deep breath in before also scooting his chair back, standing up. As he was about to walk out to follow you, he turned back around. “Tonight was important to me.” His voice was full of disappointment. 

“Steve…” His mother closed her eyes. “I’m sorry.” 

He didn’t give her a response. 

You were already inside the car. Rain was plummeting down, bouncing on the sidewalk. The droplets soaked into his sweater, and he cursed not grabbing that umbrella from the back of his car earlier. He opened the door and hurriedly climbed in. 

You didn’t give him a chance to say anything. “I don’t want to talk to you. Just drive.” 

He did exactly as he was told and only drove. This time there was no music. No tears. It was only the sound of the windshield wipers and pitter patter of rain against the roof of the car. The silence between you, however, was louder than both of those things. 

Not once did he feel you glance at him either. You stared straight ahead, arms crossed, chest moving up and down like you were trying to control yourself. Your expression was unreadable, and if it weren’t for your flared nostrils, he wouldn’t have known you were furious. 

He pulled into the parking lot of the apartment, your car door had already opened and slammed shut by the time he had turned off the ignition. He had to jog to keep up with you, afraid you might get inside the apartment first and deadbolt it. 

But you didn’t. In fact, you had kept the door open behind you. 

As soon as you heard him close it, all hell broke loose. “Why didn’t you defend me?” 

He sighed, turning around. “I was in shock.” 

You laughed, except you didn’t really think it was funny. “But you always do that. You always let her get away with saying those terrible things. And you always make up excuses.” 

“You weren’t saying the nicest things either.” He recognized his mistake as soon as it came off his tongue. 

Your eyes flared, glassy and wide. “You will never understand, will you? Every single time I see her, it always feels like a test.” You gasped with realization. “And… oh my god… I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.” You threw your hands up in the air, as if you had had a breakthrough. An epiphany. “I fucking hate it!”

Steve held out his hands, trying to calm you down. “Sweetheart, of course I understand. I feel the same way when it comes to my dad. This dinner was important to me-”

But you weren’t listening. “I think we should break up.”

And suddenly it felt like Steve had forgotten how to speak. He had wondered if had heard you correctly. Or if you had misspoke. “Huh?” His bottom lip started to quiver. “You want to…” He couldn’t finish the sentence. 

“Look at us, Steve. Neither one of us is happy. All we do is argue. I don’t even remember the last time we’ve had sex.” You rang your hands together and bit your bottom lip. “I mean don’t you think if we really wanted to spend the rest of our lives together we would be married by now?” 

Steve had suppressed a sob at the back of his throat. He walked past you, running his hands through his hair, panicking. He caught sight of the box still on the table. “Is it about the curtains? I can hang them up right now.” 

You started to cry. “Steve, it isn’t about the curtains.”

“Then what is it? Don’t give me that we’re unhappy bullshit.” He choked, tears fell down his face. 

You wept, looking away from him because it was harder to think to say out loud. “But we are! We’re miserable. And I feel so lonely, Steve. Even when you’re here. Do you not feel it? Can’t you see we’re not in love any more?” 

The air was unbearable to him. The remaining life he had in him had been sucked out. His heart had dropped and he wondered if he was still alive. He felt like he was in that bathroom at the Halloween party all over again. He had almost forgotten how those words shattered his entire being in less than a second. “Okay.” 

You furrowed your brows. “Okay?” 

Steve looked around at the apartment, taking it all in, remembering everything. “Yeah, okay.”

You wiped your face unsure what to say. He locked eyes with you one final time. His honey colored irises shattered. It made you want to run up and envelope him in a hug, telling him you were only kidding. But your feet betrayed you, too afraid, and too stupid to move from where you were. He took his car keys out of his pocket, clutching them hard enough you could see his knuckles turn white. 

He gave you a curt nod. And he left like he was a stranger. 

***

Eddie Munson lived with his Uncle Wayne fifteen minutes outside of Hawkins. Their cabin was tucked away in the woods and you could only get there by an unmarked dirt road off the highway towards Indianapolis. 

The government had given them hush money when the trailer park had been destroyed, along with settlement money from a defamation of character lawsuit against the town of Hawkins. Wayne thought it was best to use the opportunity to get out of Hawkins, but Eddie wanted to stay, having finally found people who had accepted him.

They rarely had any visitors besides wildlife. So it came to much of a surprise when Eddie and Wayne were at the dining table playing poker, they heard a sharp knock on the front door. Eddie was the one who answered, eyes furrowed when he saw none other than Steve standing there. 

His hair was drenched, clinging to his forehead and in his eyes. He was breathing rapidly, and his eyes were blood stained. He didn’t even greet Eddie. He stormed past him, dragging water inside. 

He went straight to the kitchen, ignoring the hello Wayne had given him. He opened the refrigerator, grabbed a beer, popped the tab, put the top to his mouth, and threw his head back to take a large swig. The two Munsons gave one another a look and turned their focus back to Steve who had let out a sigh of relief, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. 

“Am I a good boyfriend?” Steve finally spoke, looking at Eddie. 

The long haired boy blinked trying to process what Steve had just asked. He looked over at his uncle, silently asking what to say. But Wayne was already standing, putting his hands up. “I think it’s time for me to call it a night.” 

As Wayne walked out, Eddie silently muttered, “Asshole.” He looked back at Steve. “What happened?” 

Steve shook his head, taking another sip. “Five years. Five years and this is how it all ends. Would you marry me after five years?” 

“Woah there, lover boy. You need to take me on a date first before we start talking about marriage.” Eddie smirked. Steve wasn’t impressed, blowing a puff of frustration through his nose. He finished his beer, opening the refrigerator to get another one. Eddie registered that whatever had happened was serious. “Hey, what happened? Did dinner not go well?” 

Steve laughed. A full guttural laugh, almost manically, like he had snapped. It went on for a minute, slowly fading out, turning into a sob. He looked up at Eddie, broken, shaking his head. “It’s over.” 

Eddie wasn’t sure what to say. Sure he knew they had been squabbling for a few months now, but he hadn’t realized it was that bad. He refrained from asking about the ring or if he had even gotten that far. He had never seen Steve so dejected and erratic. He felt bad for him. So he did what Steve had done for him five years ago when his life had turned into shit. He offered a hand, giving him a place to stay for the night.

Three days later, Robin burst through the cabin door. “Where is he?” 

Eddie greeted her, his face full of relief. “Thank god, Buckley.” He motioned for her to follow, leading her to the guest room. “Wasn’t sure you were gonna show.” He admitted. 

“I knew it was bad if you were begging me to come.” Robin was right, her and Eddie had a… complicated friendship. They had nothing in common, always bickering about music and how to live life. Eddie had been just as relieved as Robin when she had decided to attend Ohio University, three hours away from Hawkins, only coming down every other weekend. So for him to call her for help meant it was urgent. “I didn’t beg.” 

She hummed, opening the door to the guest room, cringing at the pathetic sight. Steve was dramatically sprawled face down on the bed, only wearing his boxers. 

“Jesus…”

“I know,” he whispered. “Uncle Wayne and the others have been covering for us and I’ve held it off as long as I could, but I need to go back today. Except, I’m afraid to leave him alone.” 

Robin rolled her eyes. “You baby him.” 

“Hey! He’s heartbroken, I’ve never seen him so…” He waved his hand, trying to find the word. 

“Miserable? Pathetic? Pitiful?.” Robin suggested. 

He snapped, pointing at her. “Yes!” 

“You two are loud.” Steve grumbled, shifting to look over his shoulder. 

Robin looked at Eddie, motioning for him to go. Her expression let him know she can handle it. 

He put his hand on her shoulder. “Good luck.” 

Robin leaned against the door frame, raising her brows. Steve made a raspberry, plopping his head back on the pillow. “I’m fine.” His words were muffled, but still loud enough for her to hear. 

“Fine, my ass. Steve, you look worse than summer of 85’.” She entered the room, clothes scattered the floor, but none of them looked like anything Steve would wear. She kicked a Def Leppard tee out of her way. She opened the blinds, letting sunlight wash the room. The manchild on the bed groaned, mumbling incoherent profanities. 

Robin nudged his shoulder. “Get up dingus.”

“Let me die here.” He looked up at her. “Alone.” 

She hit him with a pillow. “Stop being dramatic. Your girlfriend broke up with you, it’s not the end of the world.” 

He narrowed his eyes. “How’s Vickie?” 

She smiled, not taking the bait. “Nice try, bud.” It was a staring match, a battle, and whoever blinks first, would lose and do whatever the winner asked. Steve held his eyes open as long as he could, but he had tried too hard, they began to dry and he felt his eyelids droop down. Robin smiled in victory. “Get up.” 

“Why?” He still wouldn’t budge. 

“Because you’re taking advantage of Eddie’s hospitality. And I drove three hours straight to get here, missing one of my favorite classes. And I’m tired of seeing you look like a talking corpse.” She poked him in the side, his kryptonite. “Get up and get dressed.”

He flinched, giving her a dirty look, sitting up. “Fine.” 

She scrunched up her nose. “Jesus, take a shower too.”

He flipped her off as she left the room so he could get ready. 

Steve hadn’t been out in public the entirety he had gone rogue. Small town life meant being recognized and greeted by all of Hawkins. But today, he was irritated by everything and everyone. He hoped his ray bans would disguise him enough to not be approachable.

Robin, who had finally gotten her license four years ago, was the one to drive them to Kitty’s Cafe. It was a fairly new spot, but they had the best burgers in all of Indiana. She was not going to miss the chance to have one before she went back to school tomorrow. 

Steve picked a booth far in the back, hiding his figure behind the oversized menus. Robin snapped at him, pushed the menu down, yanked his sunglasses off, and scolded him to stop acting juvenile. He went back to sulking, crossing his arms. Silently deciding not to eat in protest of being dragged there. 

After ordering her food, Robin allowed the silence to brew, letting Steve grumpily stare at the wall next to him. She took a sip of her Dr. Pepper. It had all been tough love to get him out of Eddie’s cabin. But now, she was able to empathize, feeling the grief he was holding. She reached over and grabbed his hand. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

For the first time in three days he had relaxed, shoulders dropping, his vulnerable state peeking from the stony appearance he had been carrying. He swallowed the thickness, like molasses, in his throat. “I- I think I fucked up.” 

“Why do you say that?” She slipped her hand away, but not in anger. She knew he trusted her. 

He put his face in his hands. “It doesn’t matter.” 

She still didn’t understand. “There’s been so many times that she threatened to break up with you for being an asshole. Can you not sweet talk yourself out of it? Give her flowers or whatever you did to convince her to be with you for five years.” Robin had never beaten around the bush. She was a senior in college and it had turned her more rational, and as irritating as it was to others, it also kept them grounded. 

Steve frowned, feeling that slight pull back to the ground by her words. Except one fact that there were no flowers or sweet talk that could fix the problem. “She doesn’t love me anymore.” He went quiet, regretting that he was too stubborn to order food. 

If Robin had another opinion on the matter, she didn’t say it. “Do you still love her?” 

He was taken aback, leaning over in the seat, tapping his finger against the table. “Robin, I was going to propose. Of course I love her.” 

There was a beat of silence as their waitress put Robin’s food on the table. She thanked her and poked her burger. “Does she know that?” 

Steve’s mouth fell agape, speechless. His body drifted backwards, back hitting the cushioned booth. “Well… I… how could she not?”

“Men,” Robin whispered under her breath. “What are you going to do then? Move back in with your parents?” 

“Why would I do that?” He reached over and stole one of her fries. 

She pulled her plate closer to her, out of his reach. “Because you can’t live with your ex. It’s weird.” 

“You only say that because Nance still lives with Byers and she tells you everything.” 

She flicked her eyes elsewhere. She swallowed another sip of her drink. “Then where will you go?” 

Steve pondered for a moment. He hated that she was right. If this was a real breakup, he couldn’t live with you. He sure as hell wouldn’t move back in with parents. His only option was Eddie, and he had already overstayed his welcome. “I’m not leaving. She’s the one who broke up with me.” 

Robin laughed in his face. “You really think she, of all people, will let you kick her out?” She laughed again, clutching her stomach. 

He narrowed his eyes. “My name is on the lease. I have just the right to be there.” 

“Steve,” she warned him. 

“You know, I think I have a right to stay because I was there first.” 

“Oh my god.” Robin dropped her head. She didn’t like the manic tune in his voice.

“Don’t worry, Buckley. I’m not gonna kick her out.” His smile was painted with mischief. “I’m going to make her feel so miserable living there that she’s gonna want out.” 

Robin wasn’t sure if she should laugh or be worried about Steve's plan. It sounded ridiculous and implausible to turn out how he wanted it to end. “Is your sudden retaliation a defense to her breaking up with you?” 

Steve put his hand up. “No, you’re not doing that psychological bullshit on me.” 

“That ‘psychological bullshit’ helps.” 

Robin was passionate about psychology and she always casually attempted to dissect Steve’s mind. Much to his disdain. However, he hated to admit that he secretly meditated on whatever she had to say, eventually. But it was not that day. His mind was flooded with confusion, hurt, and anger. 

He had tried to remember the past five years and pinpoint when the relationship started to tarnish. He had missed the crack, apparently, because it was like an avalanche, unexpected and now he was trapped, trying to figure out how he had gotten there. It was frustrating because everything he had done was for you. Did you forget that? 

***

You had had a long day. You loved to teach, but middle schoolers were exhausting. It seemed like although they were just kids, they were bored of it and wanted to act like adults. You wondered if your mother had thought of you that way. You had hoped not. 

You walked into the empty apartment. It was always normal to be the one to come

home first. But the silence was almost deafening. You let out a heavy sigh, placing your purse on the counter. It was to fill the air with something other than the fire alarm that needed a change of batteries. 

It was only Tuesday, but it somehow felt like a Monday masked with another name. You sauntered into your bedroom, stripping bare from your work clothes. Who knew taking it off would feel relieving. 

You remember days like this when Steve would come home and see that tired expression on your face, he’d force you to take a shower. You decided to do that, letting hot water stream down your back. You had hoped it would ease your muscles, but a few minutes had gone by and they still felt pinched. 

You remembered it wasn’t the shower itself that had washed away the tightness in your back. It was because he would join you. He would start massaging your neck, slowly working any knots out all the way to your shoulders. 

Nothing about it was sexual or dirty. He would ask you to talk about your day, placing soft kisses on your wet skin, hugging you from behind, promising to one day get you a house with a bathtub. And it helped, because it was Steve. 

But now you were in the shower alone. Staring at the tiles on the wall fogging from the excessive heat, unable to reach your back. And all you wanted to do was cry. 

However, your moment of solitude was short lived. You jumped and nearly slipped when the door to the bathroom slammed open. Your mind raced with thoughts on how you survived years of monsters but it would be being murdered as your way of going out. 

In shock, you closed your eyes, bracing yourself for the knife that would soon slice you open. 

It took you a minute to realize that whoever it was had not pushed the curtain aside yet. You looked down at your body and couldn't see any open wounds or blood. Your brows furrowed when you heard a small stream that wasn’t the shower.You slowly peeked behind the curtain, gasping at the unbelievable sight in front of you. 

“What the hell, Steve?” You shouted at him. 

He didn’t jump or acknowledge the fury you shot at him. He just stood in front of the toilet. Taking a piss. When he finished he finally looked over his shoulder at you. “Sorry, I didn’t know how long you were gonna be and I really needed to go.” 

You laughed in disbelief. “So you barge in here with no announcement? I thought you were a killer!” 

Steve zipped his pants, fully turning around. His arms were crossed against his chest. He was wearing the same clothes the last time you had seen him, and the hair above his lip had grown out into small wisps. At least he looked like he had taken a shower recently. 

“Why did you think I was a killer?” 

You clutched the shower curtain tighter, because all of a sudden it felt wrong for him to see you naked. “You haven’t been home in three days. How should I have known who it was?” 

A beat went by.

“You’re wasting water just standing in there.” He flushed the toilet and exited the bathroom. 

You yelped in surprise when the water turned cold. It was like icicles piercing your back. You quickly shut off the water and tied your blue cotton robe around your body. You found Steve in the kitchen, rummaging through the refrigerator. “What the hell is your problem?” 

“Hm?” He picked up a brand new container of milk. Twisting the cap off, he brought it to his lips and took a long swig from it. He smirked when he brought it down from his lips, wiping the liquid with the back of his hand, finally looking at you with pointedness. 

Your mouth fell. You were in disbelief. “You’re doing it on purpose, aren’t you?”

Steve belched, putting the milk back where it belonged. “I don’t know what you mean.” “You’re purposely trying to piss me off.” 

“Are you saying I’m pissing you off?” His face fell. And  for a split second you thought he felt guilty. Until he smiled. “Good.” 

You were at a loss for words, watching as he walked over to the couch, sprawling his body on it, his shoes still on his feet. You tried not to go over and rip them off of him. “Why are you here?” 

He put his hands behind his head. “I live here, remember?” 

“Yes, but… we… it’s weird.” 

“Yeah, it is.”

“So, you came to get your stuff?” 

Steve chuckled, shimmying deeper into the cushions. “Nope.” 

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “We both can’t live here.”

“I agree.” 

You were flabbergasted. You knew Steve was stubborn and sometimes difficult, but not once had you seen him act so defiant. “You are such a child.” He didn’t answer. You took a deep breath in, holding the frustration bubbling inside you. You were sure that’s what he wanted to happen. You were not going to play his game. “I’m not leaving either.” 

He shot up. “Then what’s the point in breaking up if neither one of us wants to leave?” 

You looked away, avoiding his gaze because you didn’t want him to be right. “It’s more than that.”

“Right.” He threw his hands up. “I completely forgot about you not being in love with me anymore. I guess you and Nancy do have something in common.” 

You could tell he was trekking in dangerous territory on purpose. The one insecurity you had, even after being with him for five years, was her. And it wasn’t like you and Nancy weren’t friends, or that she ever made passes at him. But she was the only girl he had ever had a serious relationship with before you got together. It was intimidating. “You’re an asshole.” 

He scoffed, narrowing his eyes at you. “Yeah, well at least Nancy wasn’t a bitch.”

You had fought a 7-foot demogorgon before, but nothing hurt worse than the words that came out of his mouth. It was like his tongue was loaded with tiny spears, hitting you all over. You noticed how he immediately felt guilty. His face was softer, and he called out your name in an apologetic tone. 

You, however, closed your eyes and took a deep breath. “Fuck you.” You pivoted and stormed into the bedroom, slamming the door, locking it with an aggressive click. 

Steve must have been not too far behind you, he wiggled the handle, knocking frantically. “C’mon sweetheart. I’m sorry. Please open the door so we can talk about it.” 

You almost did as he asked, your hand hovering the lock. You laid your forehead against the frame, fighting back a sob. “N-no.” 

“Please.” He begged you. “Please.” His voice was weak and cracked. 

“I don’t want to see you right now,” you spat. He didn’t know it, but if you did open the door you’d engulf him in your arms, asking him where it all went wrong. “I can’t stand you.”

The door fell silent. You stepped backwards, watching as his shadow paced back and forth in front of the door. He finally turned off the light and you could faintly hear him settle on the couch. You swallowed, walking to the bed, which now seemed way too big. You fell backwards on it, grabbed a pillow and screamed into it. 

You weren’t sure when you had finally gone to sleep. You kept tossing and turning. Your mind wouldn’t stop shouting at you. And any time you had closed your eyes all you could hear was Steve’s words. You flopped over in the bed, looking at the empty space, scoffing to yourself. If he was going to act like an asshole, then so be it. 

Steve Harrington was not going to win. You would make him feel so miserable living in the apartment he would be the one begging to leave. By the end of the week he would have his bags packed, hustling out of the room. And even though you don’t remember the time you finally had shut your eyes, you remembered the wicked smile that lifted at the corners of your mouth. 

***

Steve woke up to the smell of dark coffee infiltrating his nose. He opened his eyes slowly, stretching his body. It ached from the uncomfortable couch. He sat up slowly, rubbing his neck. 

He looked over at the chair in the corner, his mouth fell agape. You sat crossed legged, reading a book and drinking something out of a mug. You were only wearing a big t-shirt, the hem riding up your thigh. 

For a moment, he wanted to spring from the couch and carry you to the bedroom, but he remembered why he had been on the couch in the first place. 

You looked up from your book, smiling sweetly. “Good morning.” 

He cleared his throat, looking somewhere else. “Uh-huh.” 

You smirked, closing the book. “I made coffee.” 

Steve looked over at you again. His brows were knitted together, clearly confused. He wondered if you had thought over everything last night.  He stood up, walking to the pot of coffee slowly, occasionally looking over his shoulder, feeling you watch him. He grabbed a mug and picked up the pot, frowning. “It’s empty.”

You sucked in your teeth. “Yes.” 

Steve set the pot down. “You said you made coffee?” 

“Yes.”

“But there’s none in here.” 

You raised your mug. “All I said was that I made coffee. Not that I made you coffee.” 

Steve faced the wall, closing his eyes. He was right. You had thought over everything and clearly you hadn’t changed your mind. Instead of giving into your morning antic, he opened the cabinet to get what he needed to brew a new pot. He frowned when he saw the usual spot where the coffee sat was empty. 

You made a noise which resembled the mix between a gasp and a giggle. You joined him by the counter.  “I’m sorry! Forgot to mention I used it all.” You gave him your best apologetic smile, but Steve could smell your bullshit. 

“You hate coffee.” He glanced over at you, hoping you didn’t see him look at your bare legs. 

You scrunched your lips playfully, looking at the mug in your hand. “Guess not anymore.” You brought it to your lips, sipping loudly.

He noticed the small cringe of disgust flash across your face when you swallowed. You had really come to win the war. He gave you a toothy smile. He still wasn’t going to give in. “That’s alright. I’ll make myself a coffee once I get to the shop. I can pick up some more on my way home. Do you need anything?” It was a domestic question that people in real relationships asked each other. Except Steve was unsure if you were even friends. 

Your own sarcastic smile never faltered. “I’m good.” 

He stood there a moment, glowering at you. His gaze flickered towards the clock, seeing that you only had an hour before you had to leave. You noticed his shift, and looked behind you to see what he had been looking at. He took the opportunity and sprinted to the bathroom. He could hear your quick footsteps behind him, but he had been successful, locking you out. 

He didn’t need to spend thirty minutes in the bathroom. But that’s how long it took for the hot water to run out in the shower. He stood leaned against the wall, watching the mirror fog from the steam filling the room, not once stepping under the running water. 

He spent the time trying to imagine your expression once he opened the door. He knew you liked being on time. In fact, you always made sure the two of you showed up thirty minutes early to everything you were invited to. 

He wasn’t sure if it was anxiety or you hated the idea of leaving a bad impression on people. Truthfully, he never saw the difference. The two of you always showed up to his parent’s house early, and his mother still treated you the way she did. 

He ran his hand under the water, satisfied with the coolness. He turned it off and walked out of the bathroom. You were sitting at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, jaw clenched. You looked up, scanning him up and down, taking note that he was dry from head to toe.

If you were furious, you didn’t show it. You smiled. “Enjoy yourself?” 

He noticed how you were already dressed. Even your hair was styled in a neat manner. He didn’t take into account that last night you had already taken a shower. He felt like he was three moves behind in this unexpected and unspoken war the two of you were in. It was like you had been masterminding it subconsciously and he didn’t know it. 

It felt like he didn’t know a lot of your plans recently. For example, your plan on breaking up with him. 

He watched you walk into the bathroom, leaving the door wide open because all you had left to do was brush your teeth. Once you finished you looked at the watch on your wrist. He had given it to you on your second year anniversary. It was dainty and on the back it had his initials. You smiled to yourself. “Look at that. I have time to spare.”

You left the room, a new sway to your hips he had never seen before. He wanted to pout and kick out his frustration. But if he did, you’d have more time to think what to do next.

It felt silly acting like this all because of an apartment where the pipes groan in the middle of the night. The walls are thin so he can hear the neighbors. The paint was chipped and peeling because it had been built in the 70s, and no one had taken the time to refurbish it. Yet, it felt like his duty to stand guard. 

But you knew the weakest spots in his armor. You knew where to exactly punch. And that’s why after you had been long gone to work, he couldn’t find his car keys.

At first, he thought he must have misplaced them when he rushed in last night. Maybe he had laid them in a spot that they normally don’t lay in. But when the sunlight bled through the window, reflecting a shiny glimmer on the kitchen table, Steve groaned. 

They were a pair of car keys. They were not his. 

His car had always been off-limits. Only in case of emergencies. And he wasn’t aware of any urgent matters at the moment. 

He thought about driving to the school, parking in the furthest spot from the front door, and exchanging their keys. That plan was scratched when he turned on the car and noticed the gas gauge was a hairline away from being empty. He was always getting onto her by waiting until the last minute to get gas. 

He ignored it as it yelled at him to be fed and drove to work. 

When he pulled into his reserved parking spot, he grumbled obscenities when his employees had confused looks on their faces when they saw him climb out. He slammed the car door, looking at them, scowling. “Get back to work.”

They hadn’t even opened yet. But they were scared, and obliged by messing with random tools in the work shed. He swore he saw David take the broom and sweep the walls. 

He stormed inside his office, going straight to the coffee maker. He didn’t have to look behind him when he heard the door open. He knew it was Eddie. They must have forced him to check on the boss. 

It was silent at first. He just watched as Steve aggressively prepared the coffee maker. “Nice ride, Harrington.” He couldn’t hold it in any longer, snickering. 

Steve wanted to snap around and strangle his friend. Exactly what you wanted him to do. Instead, he took a deep breath. “Yeah.” He stepped back, grabbing his vest off the hook. 

“How’d things go last night? Robin said you were a bit…” He waved his hand trying to find the word. He didn’t finish. Steve wasn’t listening to him. “Is everything okay, dude?” 

Steve opened a drawer with paper coffee cups, pouring himself a fresh batch. He didn’t even wait for it to cool down before taking a sip.  “How hard is it to wire a car so that when you press the brakes the horn goes off.” 

“Uh-”

“Ooh, even better. Is it possible to make it where reverse goes in drive and drive goes in reverse. Or is that too dangerous?” Steve turned around, taking another sip of his coffee. Internally cringing because it was nowhere good as yours. His eyes were serious and somehow innocent. 

Eddie scratched his head, his curls bouncing because he hadn’t put his hair up yet. “Listen man, I don’t know whatever is going on between you and the misses, but I’d rather not get roped into it. Especially if it involves me potentially going back to jail.” 

He frowned. Eddie had ruined his next move in your game. Lesson learned. Next time he’ll keep his plans to himself and figure it out. He bet David or Bill would’ve done it, no questions asked. 

Steve gloomily walked to his desk. He still needed to go over the finance book and there was a stack of paperwork that needed to be done from the three days he was gone. But he couldn’t think clearly. Not with you in his mind. 

Maybe if he banged his head hard enough on the desk all his problems would go away. But in reality, it wouldn’t. He would still be broke, sort-of single, and would have a major headache. He groaned out loud, putting his face in his hands. “She- she’s insufferable! The worst person I’ve ever met. And I had plans to marry her.”

“So, you’re not going to marry her?” Eddie asked him. 

Steve looked up, as if he had just uttered blasphemy. “Of course I’m going to marry her.”

“But you said-”

“She thinks after five years we’re just going to call it quits and that’s it?” He laughed out loud. “Oh no no no no.” 

Eddie felt like he was when Steve first showed up to his house four nights ago. He was scared. “How are you going to convince her to stay with you if you rewire her car?” 

Steve leaned back, plopping his feet on the desk, hands behind his head. This entire time he had tried to fight the blazing fire with more fire, forgetting that this entire time he could be fighting with gasoline. “We still have those full jerrycans in storage, right?” 

Eddie’s eyes widened. “Oh my god. Steve I know you’re upset but you don’t need to burn anything down.” 

He threw his head back and laughed. “Eddie, I’m not gonna burn anything down.” He stood up pointing at the car in the parking lot. It was a piece of junk on four wheels, but you were okay with it because it got you around. Steve smiled, looking back at his friend. “Her tank is empty.”

***

You had driven Steve’s car about as many times you could count the number on your fingers. On one hand. Most of those times it had been because he was too drunk to even register what year he was in. And once because he had gotten in a fight during a graduation party after some kid had called you a whore. You wondered where the Steve who defended you when someone looked at you wrong was. Not that you wanted him to punch his own mother. But simply telling her to shut up would suffice. Was that too much to ask?

You sat in the parking lot of Kitty’s Cafe, stuffing your face with too many fries, purposely passing the time. You had gotten off of work an hour ago and would be home by now. But you wanted to marvel at being behind the steering wheel of the BMW. 

You fully expected the police to show up and arrest you for stealing a car. But then again, if Hopper had been the one to receive the call from Steve, he would’ve laughed in his face and hung up. You had been driving all around town, sinking into the leather seats. The windows were all down, the sharp air kissing your cheeks. Your car’s windows had stopped rolling down six months ago, it was refreshing. At one point you had driven all the way to the “You are Now Leaving Hawkins, Indiana”. It took everything in your power not to step on the gas, leaving Hawkins in the rearview. 

But unfortunately, you had turned around and made your way to your favorite burger spot. 

Steve had taken you there on your first unofficial date. It was unofficial because originally it had been a double date and the two of you weren’t together. You couldn’t even remember the name of your date, but you remembered Steve’s. Patty Evans. The big haired bimbo who had an annoying shrill laugh and was way too handsy. 

Both Patty and your date conveniently had to go to the bathroom at the same time. You and Steve sat in silence for twenty minutes. You looked at the bathroom door and finally said, “I don’t think they’re coming back.”

Steve swallowed his shake, staring at his plate. “No. They left about fifteen minutes ago in his car.” 

You had kicked him under the table. “Why didn’t you tell me? He was my ride. I need to go call my mom.” 

“Or you could stay and finish our food. I’ll take you home.” Steve moved his empty basket to the side, grabbing Patty’s. 

You stared at him. The neon sign from the window illuminated his face. He looked so young and handsome. You couldn’t tell him that of course. He was only a friend– so you thought. You had had many lunches, dinners, and car rides alone with him. But that time it was clear something shifted between you. Because the rest of the night it was stolen glances, heated cheeks, and touches held too long. 

You sighed thinking about how you didn’t remember the last time you had been on a date with him. The memory which was once happy turned into resentment. You crinkled the fry in your hand, sprinkling it all over the passenger seat and floorboard.

Steve would already have an aneurysm if he saw you eating in his car. Just wait until he sees that. You wiped your greasy hand over the steering wheel, like it was a leather napkin. Satisfied, you opened the door to throw away the bag, but decided to throw it in the back instead. 

When you walked into the apartment, your nose was hit with a delicious flavor. For a second, your stomach cursed at you for already eating. You walked up to the stove, taking in the sight. 

“Where have you been?” Steve’s voice cut into your curiosity. You turned around and almost laughed. He stood there, hands on his hips, wearing a ridiculous polka-dotted apron. “You got off work an hour and half ago.”

“So?” 

He scoffed. “So? So, why didn’t you call to let me know you’d be home late?”

This conversation seems strangely familiar, you thought. Did you sound that ridiculous? “Sorry, mom.” You smirked at your comment. 

He didn’t think it was funny. He ripped off the apron and threw it to the side. “I won’t even mention the fact you took my car without asking. But when you hadn’t come home, I thought you were dead.” Steve ran his hands through his hair, clearly worked up. 

“Did you think I was dead or were you worried I did something to your car?” 

“Unbelievable!” Steve proclaimed. However, he paused for a moment, clearly wondering if you might have actually done something to his car. “I’m tired of you always bringing up my car into arguments. We could be talking about random shit like cows and somehow you’d bring her into it. She’s not the problem.” 

You laughed. “Her?”

He ignored the comment, continuing on another tangent. “I filled up your tank by the way. I also changed your oil and rotated your tires. You know, things I told you you needed to do months ago. I even came home early, washed dishes, hung the curtains up like you asked, and made dinner. Yet no word from you.” 

You threw your arms up, your voice going up an octave. “I guess you know how I feel when I spend the whole night alone, having to watch your dinner get cold because I don’t know when you’ll be home. You thought I was dead because for once I took some time to myself? For the past three years I’ve wondered the same damn thing about you. You have no idea how many times I’ve almost put in a missing person’s report.” 

“Sorry to break it to you sweetheart, but sometimes I don’t want to come home. In fact, I dread walking in the door because immediately it’s, ‘Steve, take off your shoes. Steve, don’t forget to put the toilet seat down. Steve, put the curtains up.’” He tried to imitate you as best he could. “It’s always nagging from you.” 

“I wouldn’t have to nag you if you just did it!” 

The two of you were both shouting at one another. You were certain you had woken up the neighbors, practically seeing the outline of their ears against the wall. “It’s never ‘Steve, how was your day?’” He rummaged through the cabinets, trying to find the tupperware. 

She sighed, walking up to the other side of him, opening a cabinet and pulling one out, handing it to him. “You never ask me about my day, either!” 

He poured in the food that was never touched into the container. “I do ask you! But you always answer ‘fine.’ So, I stopped. Because what’s the point if you don’t want me to know. It’s like you stopped wanting me to know.” He paused for a moment, closing his eyes tightly, taking in what he had just said. “I never understood whenever I heard my parents arguing, and my mom would yell at my dad, ‘Conrad, I don’t know who you are anymore.’” He looked over at you. “I do now.”

Your face fell. It felt like it was the meanest thing he could ever say. “You really want to know me? For starters, I hate that green turtleneck you wear. You look like a giant booger.”

Steve furrowed his brows, clearly hurt. He loves that sweater. You had been too afraid to let him know that green was not his color. “I hate that new perfume you started to wear. It smells like my great-great grandmother.” 

The perfume in question was from a co-worker who sells Avon. You had forgotten the name, and you hated to agree it made you smell like an old lady. But now that he said that, you were going to buy ten more bottles of it. You would lather yourself in it. If you had a bathtub, you would bathe in it. “You know what I really really hate? When we have ramen for dinner, and you slurp so loud. Sometimes I sneak off to the bathroom to finish eating because the noise is so unbearable.” 

“That’s disgusting. You’re going to die of an infection if you keep doing that.” 

“Good then maybe if I’m dead I won’t be able to hear your noodle slurping!” Your voice had raised again. 

He chuckled, placing his hand on the counter, leaning in. He dropped his voice into a low growl. “Sweetheart, you’d be going to hell if you died. The devil would make you listen to noodle slurping for eternity.” 

Your nostrils flared. You were furious. It felt like steam was pouring out of your ears. “Before I die I’m going to pour that perfume inside your car.” You laughed maniacally. “Maybe it’ll cover the smell of french fries.”

He started to argue back, but stumbled, his eyes wide. “French fries? What do you mean french fries?”

You gave him a smug look, pushing his hand that was on the counter. He lost his balance holding himself up, his elbow hitting the surface. He clutched it in pain. Satisfied, you started to walk away. But he wasn’t finished. “You have terrible morning breath.” 

You gasped as if it was the worst thing he had ever said. “We broke up. Why does any of this matter? Why won’t you surrender and leave.” 

You had seen Steve shout before. Many times. But you had never seen him seething. His chest was rising up and down, and his jaw clenched tightly. He pointed aggressively. “There’s a difference between we and you. You broke up with me. You never gave me the chance to have my say. A relationship is two people. And we’ve been in this relationship far too long that I don’t think it’s fair you made the decision for the both of us.”

Your mouth fell open. The only other time he had made you speechless was when he had said I love you for the first time. Your mind buzzed with different responses and even some retaliations. You swallowed whatever words were on your tongue and just gaped at him. 

He took a breath of air, like everything he needed to say was out there. He took the food, opened the refrigerator, and placed it in there. He turned back around, facing you. “I’m sleeping in the bed tonight.” 

You think you nodded. He didn’t say another word, retreating into the bedroom. And unlike you did last night, the lock clicked softly. But it felt like the sound vibrated against the walls, bouncing all over the apartment, ringing in your ears. It felt like a sharp knife cutting into you. It felt like a three-course meal of regret and guilt was for dessert. 

But you agreed with him. He didn’t know you. And you weren’t entirely sure whose fault that was this time.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fic rec #fic rec

[buckys-black-dress]

listen. i already loved the song, so SUE me for LOVING this fic!!!! an absolute work of art for all of us pining/yearning/wishing so strongly for love from that one person girls🫠🫠

i can see you

♫︎ i can see you - taylor swift ♫︎

pairing(s): steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: The secret history of your long and arduous relationship with Steve Harrington.

aka: the 5 times you pined over each other, and the time you actually did something about it

words: 17.6k (we're NOT gonna talk about it lol)

cw: explicit, smut, piv sex, flirting, making out, heavy petting, slight exhibitionism, oral (f receiving), fingering, marking, biting, steve harrington has a big dick, themes of infidelity/cheating (sort of), skipping out on dates, bad dates, steve steal-your-girl harrington, almost-kisses, jealous!steve, jealous!reader, possessive behavior, smoking, alcohol consumption, allusions to marriage but it's never actually mentioned, canon compliant, reader and steve are the same age, 5+1 things, songfic, angst, fluff, humor, hurt/comfort, pining, mutual crush, slow burn one shot, mild twist ending, begins in season two (1984) and ends in the 90s, high school, scoops ahoy era, family video era, waiter!steve, steve harrington (the eras tour), vignette, one instance of billy hargrove slander, original characters created for plot, inspired by i can see you by taylor swift, other taylor song inspo throughout bc i'm insane like miss swift

a/n: hi and welcome to ✨rose's mental breakdown✨ yes this song will be my number one on spotify wrapped bc i listened to it on a loop for five days straight while writing this. idk. anyways this is So Much and i'm tired of looking at it so if there are any mistakes i apologize. anyways whoever can point out the most taylor song references aside from the obvious titular one gets a doubloon

ALL OF MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

You brush past me in the hallway, and you don’t think I can see you, do you? I’ve been watchin’ you for ages, and I spend my time trying not to feel it…

Hawkins High, September 1984

He’s so pretty sometimes that it’s disgusting.

That’s really the only thing you think when you watch Steve Harrington sneak up on his girlfriend, Nancy Wheeler, and swoop her off the ground in front of her locker. From across the hall, your locker hangs open, your body turned halfway toward them so that you can pretend that you’re not staring.

You stare a lot.

It’s not exactly the hair, you think- everyone shits a brick about his hair, for some reason that you don’t understand. Yeah, it’s nice… but you like everything else about him, too. You like how sweet he looks when he laughs. You like the way that he holds himself and the way that he looks when he puts his hands on his hips and stands around like he’s directing the traffic around him. You like how much of a prince charming he is, really. It would surprise you if he doesn’t win prom king at the end of the year. They already call him King Steve, it’s not too far of a stretch.

You close your locker just as Steve kisses Nancy, in front of god and everybody in the C Corridor hallway. Steve’s arms wrap around Nancy’s petite frame and he dips her, like they’re in some sort of George Peck and Audrey Hepburn movie. Not that the place is much of a cinematic setting, though. Down the hall, the science rooms are doing their dissection units, so the whole place smells like formaldehyde and disinfectant, and you sort of feel like curling up into one of those dissection pans and dying, yourself. 

That should be me, your brain screams. Me!!

It’s always been like this. You’ve had a crush on Steve since freshman year- the fact that he’s dating Nancy, who’s a year younger than him, doesn’t escape your jealous mind. You’ve been in classes with him for four years, you’ve admired him quietly, you’ve hoped and prayed that he somehow noticed you noticing him.

You don’t think he knows you exist. Four years- and now you’re both seniors, about to graduate, and he still doesn’t notice you. You should really stop caring, or stop trying, or stop… pining. Or something. 

You hike your bag up onto your shoulder and juggle your books in your arms. The bell rings, and quite suddenly the entire hallway erupts into pandemonium (predictable, sure, considering everyone loiters around instead of actually getting to class on time). Kids fly around you in all directions to get to their next classroom. Nancy Wheeler ducks away from Steve Harrington, avoiding yet another kiss.

God, you wish you could kiss him.

Someone slams into your shoulder from behind, muscling past you to get to science lab 5, rat central. Your binder slips out of the stack of books in your arms and clatters loudly to the ground, just as someone walks past and kicks it across the floor.

“Fuck,” you spit, chasing after it. The back of your neck feels hot. For the first time in four years, you hope to god that Steve Harrington doesn’t notice you. 

You duck around people’s legs, trying to grab at your binder, while not trying to drop any more of the books in your arms. Loose papers are starting to fall out of the binder as it skitters across the floor, and this is becoming more and more of a comedy of errors by the minute.

Your fingers just brush the corner of it before someone kicks it again. 

“Do you mind?” you snap as they walk away, not even looking in your direction. Crouched close to the floor, you don’t matter. Maybe you could count that as a blessing, considering you don’t want to be perceived right now.

You finally just throw away all dignity and crawl across the tile floor- disgusting and dirty and covered in sandy grit, as though it hasn’t been cleaned all year- to get to your binder. 

And you come face to face with a pair of white Nike’s. Ones that you know way too well, because you’ve stared at them every time they’ve passed you in the hallway. 

Nonononono- You clench your jaw and then look up, way up, to find Steve Harrington towering over you. 

He looks like he was about to just step around you, but then he notices you gazing up at him from all fours, and his hazel eyes lock on yours. You blink at each other for a second before he flushes, a pink blush breaking out on his cheeks and crawling up his neck, and he looks away quickly, but crouches down to grab your binder before your hand can land on it. 

“Sorry,” Steve says quietly, gathering up the couple papers that had started to slide out of the folders inside. You sit back on your heels, your blood rushing in your ears, mortified. His big hands gently poke the papers back into the folder as they should be before he hands it to you. “Looks like you’re gonna be late to class.”

You scoff. “Look who’s talking.”

Steve’s eyes find yours again, and he’s finally so close to you that you can admire the little bit of green in them. You’ve never been close enough to notice before.

He cracks a lopsided smile, one that he uses to charm people, you know- you’ve seen him use it on teachers and cute girls alike. “I’m always late to the party. But I get there, eventually.”

“I hope so.” He cocks his head at you. He doesn’t know the real meaning to your words- or, at least, you don’t think he does. 

I hope you don’t stay oblivious forever, Steve Harrington. I hope you get there, eventually.

You take your binder from him, but you pull your eyes away from his a bit later than you properly should. “Thanks, Steve.”

You get up and take off toward your next class, walking quickly so that you don’t come off like you’re lingering too long. But, halfway down the hall, you look over your shoulder at him.

Steve hasn’t moved, still crouched down close to the floor, with his head bent like he’s deep in thought. With his back to you, you can still see the pink flush on the back of his neck, peeking out above his collared shirt.

‘Cause I can see you, waiting down the hall from me, and I can see you up against the wall with me. What would you do? Baby, if you only knew that I can see you…

Hawkins High, April 1985

Prom season sucks. Always has, and always will. 

Maybe it was your fault for hoping that Logan Sawyer, popular prick extraordinaire, was serious about wanting to take you to prom. He seemed serious enough, stopping by your locker during passing period and leaning over you as he asked you, his mega-watt smile making you blush. You’d counted yourself lucky- you didn’t think anyone was going to ask you, and people aren’t allowed to go to prom stag.

It took Logan two weeks to find a prettier girl to go with, though. You don’t know why it hurts so much. Maybe it’s because you wanted to believe that you were someone’s first choice, but it never quite seems to turn out that way.

You wipe your tears in the mirror, scowling at your puffy, bloodshot eyes. The bathroom next to the girls’ locker room in the sports wing is completely deserted at this time- the boys’ gym class is in session now, and you’re cutting into your lunch time, but you really don’t want to have to go and cry at a lunch table, in front of a bunch of your bitchy peers, who will inevitably make fun of you for it.

Sniffling, but slightly more composed, you head out of the bathroom. The sports wing is ridiculously bigger than any other wing of the school (typical of American public schools, to prioritize sports over every other department). The wing boasts weight training rooms, dance rooms, three separate gymnasiums, and a door directly to the football field, with the locker rooms on the farthest end to allow for easy access to the field. Connecting all of these rooms is the longest corridor in the building, which seems to run for half a fucking mile.

You’ll have to walk that half mile, because in order to get to the cafeteria, you’re gonna have to traverse the entire building. You might not get to eat much today, but it was a sacrifice you were willing to make. Maybe Mrs. Marshall will be kind enough to let you snack on a granola bar in your next class period.

Halfway down the long hallway, you feel the angry sting of tears behind your eyes again, and your face screws up in frustration. You stop, turning halfway back toward the girls’ bathroom, wondering if you should just go back in and allow yourself to cry some more.

Suck it up, you think to yourself, smacking at your tear stained cheeks. He’s not the guy you really want to ask you to prom, anyways.

You press your fingertips into your eyes to relieve the sting of tears, taking a deep breath. Being in high school is driving you crazy. At this point in the year, the teachers have given up teaching, the students have given up learning, and you’re basically just biding your time in a glorified babysitting service until you can inevitably grab your diploma and get out of here. You can’t wait for that time to arrive. 

A door opens further down the hallway, in the direction of the cafeteria. You wipe your nose once and keep moving in the direction you were going, not wanting to draw attention to yourself, standing in the middle of the hallway having a breakdown.

Moving forwards, you keep your eyes on the ground. Once you hear the door that had been opened slam shut again, you figure that whoever it was has moved on down the hallway, and you lift your eyes again. 

They have not, in fact, moved on. And you suddenly have the urge to turn and fucking run back into the girls’ bathroom, because Steve Harrington is bent over at the drinking fountain, directly outside the boys’ weight room.

What the fuck, what the fuck. You suck on your teeth, trying not to falter in your stride. Maybe he hasn’t seen you, and you can just pass him up. It’s fine, he hasn’t seen you crying. 

Your mind backtracks to the beginning of the year, you fumbling your binder all the way across the hallway and ending up right in front of him, crawling toward him. Looking up at him and probably, most definitely, making him really uncomfortable.

You have English class together, where you sit at the desk closest to the door. He comes in late almost every day, so he passes by you every time. Some days he looks at your desk. On good days, he meets your eye. But he hasn’t spoken to you since that day in September, and you really shouldn’t hold out hope that he will. 

You definitely don’t want him to notice you when you’ve been crying, your face is a mess, your hair is limp and you look bedraggled. You just want to fade into the background of your next class with whatever snack you can get from the cafeteria snuck into your bag, so you can stress eat it without any guff from a teacher (like you aren’t 18 and capable of deciding when you are and aren’t allowed to eat).

You keep your eyes down. If you don’t look at him, he doesn’t exist.

Except, Steve Harrington always exists, in the back of your mind, and in your periphery. He is impossible not to notice, as per usual. He really just draws the eye like a magnet. Try as you might, your eyes keep flicking up to take stock of him. 

He’s wearing a uniform gray P.E. shirt and gym shorts that don’t leave a lot to the imagination, and you fixate on his thighs more than you should. He has sweat dripping down his neck, wetting his hair on the sides of his face and the seam of his shirt. It shouldn’t be attractive. He shouldn’t be attractive. With his face a mess. And his hair limp, and looking bedraggled. Truly, you make a priceless pair, being the only two people in the hallway.

We’re perfect for each other, a voice says in your head. And you manage, for the first time in an hour, to crack a smile down at your shoes.

He finishes getting his drink at the fountain, and you figure that he’ll just go back into the weight room and not see you. But, of course, luck is not on your side.

Steve Harrington looks at you. And you look away, quickly, acting like you hadn’t been staring at him. And in your periphery, again, you see him stretch his arms over his head, and then turn and lean against the cinderblock wall beside the door to the weight room, with his hands on his knees as though he’s catching his breath.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

He does it so casually, and with the way he’s sweating and his face is flushed, you’re sure that he probably does just want to take a break before going in and lifting more weights. But something in the back of your mind says that the maneuver was too purposeful, immediately after he laid eyes on you. 

It could just be wishful thinking on your part. You heard through the grapevine that Steve and Nancy Wheeler broke up in a nasty way just before winter break, and it doesn’t seem like he’s been interested in anyone since. He hasn’t dated anyone, hasn’t flirted with any girls or showed up at any parties. Nancy must have really broken his heart.

You know too well what that feels like, right now.

Nearing where he leans against the wall, you keep your head down and you plan on just passing by without any acknowledgement from him, same as it ever was. If he’s still carrying a torch for Nancy, you’re sure that he doesn’t want anything to do with you. You’ve nearly convinced yourself of it.

But then you hear your name called quietly, and it nearly makes you jump. You look over at him, thinking you’re just hearing things, but you look directly into a pair of hazel eyes again, and you feel yourself rocketing back in time to September.

You didn’t even think he knew your name.

You slow to a stop. It would be rude not to stop, right? “Uh… hi, Steve. You good?”

Steve Harrington looks you up and down, while he leans against the wall and breathes a bit heavily, like he’s out of breath. He peers at you through long eyelashes, looking impossibly inviting despite everything; the setting, your appearances, the way that you feel like dissolving into a puddle right in front of him. “Yeah, great. You?”

He’s scrutinizing your face now. You shrug, since he’s already seen you, and there’s no way to pretend you weren’t crying thirty seconds ago. “I’m fine. Just being dramatic, don’t worry about me.” 

“When people say not to worry about them, it usually means that you should,” Steve muses. He looks coy, like he’s speaking from experience. 

You sigh, stepping forward to get your own drink from the drinking fountain. “Logan Sawyer called off our date for prom.”

“Oh.” Steve pauses for a few seconds, watching as you bend down and take your drink, more silent than he usually is. “I mean… that really sucks. I’m sorry. But… Logan Sawyer?” 

“Yeah.” You wipe your mouth, and then wet the ends of your fingers and use the cool water to rub at your stinging eyes again. When you’re done, you lean up against the wall beside him, letting your back settle into the cinderblock.

“The guy’s a fucking douche.”

“Tell me about it.”

“No, I mean it, I think it’s a good thing you’re not going to prom with him. He’s really shitty to girls.” You look up at Steve, who’s watching you with his arms crossed, with the most serious expression you’ve ever seen him wear. “I mean, the only guy worse than Logan is probably… I dunno…”

“Billy Hargrove?” 

Steve laughs. Actually laughs. You’ve wanted to make him laugh like that for four years. His cheeks turn crimson and he grins down at his shoes, snickering like there’s way more to the joke he’s laughing at than you even know about. “Yeah. Yeah, he’s gotta be the worst.”

You chuckle, albeit with a sadder tone than he has. “Well, I’m not going to prom with either of them. So, I can count my blessings. I guess.”

Steve frowns, and he looks like he’s going to say something else, but you’re already turning away, not wanting to continue the depressing conversation about your lack of dates. Especially not from the one guy who you desperately want to go on a date with.

You get a few steps away before he takes a step after you, saying, “Wait. You, uh-”

You stop, and look back at him. He looks dumbfounded, his arm outstretched like he was going to try to grab you if you didn’t listen to him. When you frown, he steps back against the wall, bringing his hand up to run through his hair. 

Oh. That’s a nervous tick. You know it, because you’ve watched him do it more than once in English, in front of the class during a presentation.

Steve looks down at his shoes, his brow scrunched in thought. He looks like he’s really trying to find the right words to say. In your head, a hopeful part of you imagines what those words could be. ‘Will you go to prom with me?’

Finally, he looks up at you resolutely. “You’ll find someone to take you to prom. I’m sure of it.” He nods a little, like he’s reassuring himself that he said the right thing. 

You can’t help the smile that springs onto your face. It’s incredulous, of course, but he can’t know that. Keep trying, baby. You’ll get there, eventually.

“Thanks, Steve.” It’s the second time you thank him in the course of the year.

But what would you do if I went to touch you now? What would you do if they never found us out? What would you do if we never made a sound?

Prom Night, May 1985

The dress you’re wearing is sleek and a lot simpler than some of the more popular styles on the dance floor, but you like it more than you care to admit. You’d just grabbed it off the rack at Macy��s, and beyond that you didn’t want to go all-out for prom. It turns out that your lab partner, Gavin Connelly, needed a date, too. So, you’re here with him, because you knew that if you missed prom, you would probably regret it.

Except, well.

Gavin, stoned out of his fucking mind, is sitting at one of the tables, nursing a cup of punch, looking like he’s two seconds from falling asleep. You’ve taken to making the rounds and saying hi to anyone you can call a ‘friend,’ because you’re tired of just loitering next to him. Something tells you he didn’t want to even be here.

The speakers are playing ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart,’ and couples are swaying on the dance floor in a Bonnie Tyler-induced haze. At a loss for people to bother, you wander back over to your date to find his head plastered to the white table cloth. 

You glance to the guy sitting next to him, a kid with glasses who you don’t recognize but who seems to know your date, because he’s just patting Gavin’s back. “Is he okay?”

“Oh, no, he’s dying.” The kid shoots you a sarcastic smile. 

You nod, pressing your tongue hard to the roof of your mouth. “Well, if he wakes up, tell him I’m getting some air.”

Fuck this. Fuck prom. Fuck high school boys.

Your heels, which are killing your feet already, click loudly on the tile hallway floor as you exit the gym. The table where you can check your bag and coat are located at the other end of the hall, where everyone is supposed to enter through the door to the football field.

You can hear voices from the far end of the hall, and Bonnie Tyler’s voice fading out the further you get from the gym. You might never be able to hear that song again without thinking of your ruined slow dance opportunity.

As you pass by, someone coughs off to the left and you turn your head to see Steve Harrington, black tie and all, loitering in the shadows. You stop a few feet from him and squint into the dark.

You can’t believe it. He always seems to show up at the worst times. “What are you doing, skulking around?” 

“I’m not sulking.”

You snort, stepping into the shadows with him. “No, skulk- like, sneaking around?” 

“Well, I didn’t mean to sneak-” he looks over his shoulder at the gym entrance. “I’m just getting some air.”

“Funny,” you murmur. “I was just about to do the same thing.”

He eyes you, a lot like he did a few weeks ago in this same hallway, further up toward the other end of it. He takes in your hair, styled painstakingly to ‘perfection,’ or as close as you could approximate it, and your off-the-rack department store dress. You suddenly feel like you aren’t as pretty as you thought you were at the beginning of the night. 

But then he meets your eye, and all those insecurities fade into the back of your mind. He’s smiling at you, and that can only be a good thing.

“So, uh…” Steve leans back against the wall, his hands in his pockets, “You found someone to take you?”

You press your lips into a tight line. You don’t really want to think about your date right now, but- “Gavin Connelly.”

“Who?”

You laugh, kicking the heel of your shoe against the ground with a soft clack. “Yeah. God, I wish I didn’t know him right now.”

“Why, what’d he do?” Steve sounds perturbed. You look up to find him scowling already.

“Oh, he just ate a pot brownie before he picked me up and passed out at one of the tables.” You finish with a tired giggle, shrugging at Steve as he peers at you with an annoyed expression. “Who did you bring?”

“Kelly Palmer.” 

You know Kelly. She doesn’t say much, but she’s gotten a scholarship to a big art school. “Do you like her?”

“Yeah, she’s nice,” he says mildly. Unconvincingly.

You can understand the subtext. She’s not Nancy. When you look at his face, he seems tortured in the low light coming from down the hall.

“Guess I’m oh-for-two,” Steve adds after a pause. “Last year’s prom, Nance and I didn’t have such a good time, either.”

You nod. It seems like there’s more he wants to say, but he doesn’t. “I’m sorry,” you offer. You don’t know the ins-and-outs of Steve and Nancy’s relationship, aside from watching them suck face in the hallway five paces from you for a year and a half. “Prom sucks. High school sucks. These can’t be the best years of our lives, trust me.”

“Yeah, I hope not.” 

“I just can’t wait to get out of here, you know,” you grumble, allowing your sour mood to come out a little more than normal. It seems like Steve is just really good at getting you to let your guard down. “I’m planning to go to Chicago for college. This is all just… you know, it’s just the starting point. What about you, any big plans?”

“Dunno. I didn’t get accepted to any schools, so I’ll just be getting a job here in town until something better comes along.” Steve shifts, his heel hitting the wall behind him. He looks disappointed when he says, “I think I made too many mistakes.” 

You frown, chewing on your lip. “What do you mean?”

He gives you a heavy look, like he’s gearing up to say something important, something game changing- and then his gaze softens. 

“You’ve got an eyelash.” He gestures to his own eye, like it’ll make you understand exactly where the loose one is on your face.

“Oh.” You falter, lifting your manicured hands and wiping at your undereyes. “Did I get it?”

“No, uh- here, I can-” Steve tentatively reaches forward, and you step toward him to let him touch your face. 

Steve Harrington is touching your face. 

His fingertip brushes your cheekbone, so featherlight you would barely feel it if you weren’t hyper aware of everything that he said or did. His touch glides across your cheek and toward your temple, and then he seems to keep it there, his hand hovering just over your skin.

Reflexively, your hand comes up to rest on his shoulder. You’re inches from Steve’s face, your eyes falling to his lips.

You could kiss him. You could live your fantasy, right now.

Steve’s gaze lingers on your face for a moment, and then he says, “You’re so beautiful.”

Your heart lurches in your chest. He doesn’t say that you look beautiful. He doesn’t say it conditionally, like it’s just for tonight. You are beautiful. Even when you’re crawling on all fours after your binder. Even when you’re crying, and your hair is limp, and you look bedraggled.

“Steve…” you whisper, inching closer to him. 

“STEVE??!”

You jump away from him like he’s burned you, and peek around the hall corner to see Kelly Palmer standing outside the gym looking up and down the hall, searching for him. She looks lost, and sad, like he must have ditched.

She looks an awful lot like you just did, coming out of that gym.

You feel Steve’s hand where it had fallen to your wrist, dragging your attention gently back to him. You take his hand and squeeze it once, giving him a tight smile. 

“You brought her here for a good time,” you say with your bravest smile. “Just don’t pass out at one of the tables on her, okay?”

Don’t be a douche. Don’t be like Logan Sawyer. 

Steve swallows, and gives you a short nod. You think he finally got there.

You give a soft pat to the lapel of his suit jacket. “Go get ‘em, tiger.” 

He touches your arm one final time before he slips around the corner, just as Kelly turns to go back into the gym. You watch him walk away, and you think to yourself, That’s the last time I chase after Steve Harrington.

Wherever there is, it’s not with you.

Steve loops his arms around Kelly’s waist and lifts her, earning a thrilled squeal as the silver taffeta of her dress glints blue in the light from the gym. You wait until they’ve disappeared back into it before you turn and high-tail it toward the coat check table.

And we kept everything professional, but something’s changed, it’s something I like. They keep watchful eyes on us, so it’s best if we move fast and keep quiet…

Starcourt Mall, June 1985

“Come on, it’s ridiculously hot outside,” your best friend, Shelly, groans as she pulls you along by the wrist. “I can’t believe they only have one ice cream place here.”

“I’m sure they have slushies at the-”

“Ice. Cream.” You know better than to argue with her.

Scoops Ahoy has a novelty nautical theme that makes you want to both laugh and break down in tears when you see it. The PA is playing a cutesy rendition of Drunken Sailor on accordion, and you think that if you keep looking at the striped wallpaper behind the counter, you might get literally seasick. In the mall. In landlocked Indiana. 

Or… is it landlocked if it fronts Lake Michigan? It doesn’t matter. You’ll be in Chicago in two days, anyways.

You let Shelly drag you along until you look towards the front counter, and you see something that nearly makes you trip and face plant into Shelly’s fresh perm.

Even Shelly pauses. “Is that who I think it is?”

It’s something about the stupid little sailor’s cap and shorts, and that he’s so, so pretty in it, you think. It’s also something about how you have the perfect vantage point to watch him try and fail to flirt with the girl that approaches the counter to order. You’re enamored with him. There’s no other way to describe it. 

You have half a mind to run away, after what you promised yourself on prom night over a month ago. You’d done good, you didn’t search for him in the halls, you ignored him in your last couple of class periods with him. You’d even been in the bathroom when his name was called at graduation. 

But, here he is. Steve Harrington, absolutely obliterating his chances of getting a date with the girl ordering a sundae ahead of you. 

Honestly, you don’t know what you’re waiting for. Maybe an invitation? A sign from god that today’s the day that you’ll make a move? Or maybe this is just a test of will.

You stop resisting Shelly’s attempts to drag you along, and straighten your spine. You can do this. Four years’ worth of pining won’t make a difference in whether or not you order a strawberry ice cream cone.

He’s even prettier up close, his rosy cheeks framed by sunkissed, wavy hair. When he sees you he stalls, going a bit wide-eyed and then seeming to realize he’s supposed to do his job. He leans heavily against the counter. “Ahoy, ladies! Would you like to set sail on this ocean of flavor with me? I’ll be your captain, Steve Harrington.”

“Uh-huh.” You stare at each other for a long moment. “How much do they pay you to recite that script?”

“Absolutely nothing, I do this for pure enjoyment.” You’re almost sure that he doesn’t. He pauses, a hand poised on his hip. “Too much?”

“I’d dial it back just a smidge. Maybe keep the ahoy and the captain thing and toss the rest.” 

“Noted.” He nods slowly, his eyes fixed on you. “I thought you were going to Chicago?”

“I leave the day after tomorrow,” you shrug. “Still time for me to burn the place down, you know.”

“Well, I’m glad you stopped by,” Steve chuckles. “I could show you where the gas line is, then we’d all be in trouble.”

“Oookay.” Shelly gives you a curious side-eye, and then turns back to Steve. “Well, I’ll have a U.S.S. Butterscotch with a chocolate dipped waffle bowl, if you don’t mind.”

Steve tears his eyes away from you long enough to grin at Shelly. “Coming right up. And for you?”

You freeze, glancing up at the menu. It’s written in an infuriatingly cutesy code-language that you have to decipher. “Um. I’m still deciding.”

“All right, then. Just let me know, when you’re ready.” 

Steve slips away to make Shelly her sundae, a heaping pile of ice cream and butterscotch syrup that looks like the fast track to a heart attack. You alternate between trying to comprehend the menu and being distracted by Steve in that stupid sailor’s uniform.

The script on the menu may as well be written in a foreign language. Blackbeard’s Delight. Treasure Island Turtle. U.S.S. Sherbet. The sizes are even harder to understand. Fathom. League. Nautical Mile. You don’t have the capacity to decipher it- your eyes are seeing the words, but your mind is traveling back to prom night, and feeling Steve’s finger on your cheek as you gear up to kiss him.

“Are you ready?”

“Mhm…” It takes you a second to zone back into the present moment, where Steve is standing in front of you, on the other side of the counter, waiting to take your order. He waits, with a patient smile on his face, while you blink dumbly at him.

What did you say? What did he say?

“I… um.” You’re sure you look completely out of it. Your eyes flick nervously up at the menu, that you still can’t fucking read. Shelly’s already gone to sit down with her sundae, the traitor.

“It’s kind of hard to understand, isn’t it?” Steve says quietly after a moment, dropping the phony customer service charade. “I hate it. I think we should just be able to say what our favorite ice cream flavor is and be done with it.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, still squinting up at the menu. Blackbeard’s Delight: blackberry swirl with blueberry syrup and a gold doubloon. “The fuck is a doubloon?”

Steve snorts, and reaches under the counter before bringing back a handful of gold foil-covered chocolate coins, which he dumps into your outstretched hand. “You want more? We get them wholesale.”

“I’m good,” you giggle, juggling the chocolate coins before they go cascading to the floor. “I think… I don’t… I don’t understand a thing on that menu.”

“What’s your favorite flavor of ice cream?” He leans forward to ask you, like it's a secret. Just between the two of you. His head bent a little to peer at you closely, so close that you can count the freckles on his skin.

You glance over your shoulder. Shelly is seated by the far wall, under a painting of a kraken, giving you an indignant look. When she notices you looking, she mouths an emphatic, ‘LET’S GO!’

“Don’t tell anyone,” you whisper, and Steve affects his gravest expression as he nods. “Strawberry.” 

“A classic,” he grins. “Fan of sprinkles?” 

“I can dig a few sprinkles.”

“Perfect. I think we have something up your alley.” He grabs a scooper out of the bin and twirls it once, just to show off. “Sex on the Beach.” 

“What?” You don’t remember seeing anything about that on the menu.

He glances up to smirk at you before shrugging. “It’s strawberry ice cream with peach syrup. You’ll see.”

You keep an eye on his hands behind the glass partition, watching them put two scoops of strawberry into a medium sized carton. Completely unable to rein in your thoughts before they get away from you, you’re thinking about how good they would feel under your shirt. You follow a treasure map of freckles trailing up his arms, disappearing under the blue sailor’s shirt he wears. You want to kiss every single one of them.

You finally reply, “I guess I have to put my faith in your professional ice cream slinging abilities.” 

“Oh, haven’t you heard?” Steve mutters sardonically as he squirts peach syrup across the two scoops of ice cream, giving it a golden sheen. “I’m the king of cream.”

You purse your lips as it takes Steve a second to realize what he just said. When he does, he snaps his head up to meet your eye in horror. 

He opens his mouth to take it back, but you shake your head, holding back laughter. “Don’t ruin it.”

“I think it’s pretty much ruined already.” He turns crimson, blushing down at the half-made sundae as he rapidly shakes yellow sprinkles onto it. “I was doing so good, too.”

“Who says you aren’t still?” You give him a cute smile when he looks up through his lashes at you, still arranging toppings on the sundae. You’re not sure what happened between prom and now to change him so much, but it’s almost as if he’s… goofy. He’s less concerned with appearances, he’s more laid back and willing to make fun of himself. 

You like it a lot. 

You watch him plop two maraschinos onto one ice cream mound, and wedge a candied orange slice into the other, inverted, to look like a setting sun. As he passes it over the counter to you, he says, “Here you go, one Sex on the Beach. On the house.”

“What? No, I couldn’t-”

“I mean it. For overlooking my stupidity,” Steve insists. He gives you a meaningful look when he adds, “A million times over.”

“I’m not overlooking anything when it comes to you, Steve,” you tell him fondly, and drop one of the doubloons into the tip jar. It’s gaudy, gleaming artificially gold in the middle of the crumpled up dollar bills. “Hang onto that. You might be able to cash it in for a kiss someday.”

Steve blinks rapidly, leaning across the counter as you walk away. “After you come back from Chicago, right?”

You look over your shoulder, and you wink at him.

When you finally stop in front of Shelly, and you use your plastic spoon to dig into the adorable sundae that Steve crafted for you, you remember that you’d gone up to the counter with every intention of ignoring Steve and acting like you didn’t even know him.

You winked at Steve Harrington. You said you’d kiss him. You think back to the girl who was so afraid of Steve even noticing her, almost a year ago, and wonder where she went.

You look down at Shelly. She’d graduated a year before you, so she wasn’t there to witness every blunderous interaction you’d had with Steve in school. You never told her how in love you were with him.

Now, she looks up at you coyly. “So. Steve Harrington, huh?”

“Shut up,” you grunt, looking up and out at the food court outside of the Scoops Ahoy storefront. “As if you know everything.”

“Are you gonna try to make something out of that…” she gestures vaguely with her spoon toward the counter, “before school starts?” 

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” you say honestly, still poking at your sundae. “Anyways, I leave too soon for anything to really happen. What- I screw him tomorrow and then fuck off forever? It’s just wishful thinking, probably.” You finally take a bite of the ice cream, just to punctuate your sentence.

“Hm. Probably. How is that?” Shelly nods at the ice cream in your hand. “Looks pretty.”

“It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.” You’re being honest. Something about the peach syrup with the strawberry base literally evokes the flavor of a sunset. “They should give him a raise.”

Humming, Shelly stands and takes her half-eaten sundae. She nudges you in the direction of the door. “C’mon. We’ve gotta eat these before the next showing of The Breakfast Club.”

Steve watches you and your friend leave, with the wistful gaze of someone who just watched their greatest opportunity walk away from them. He never knew that it was possible to hate an entire geographic location, but he really wishes Chicago would get blown off the map in the next 24 hours. 

The wooden partition doors slam open, and Robin’s head appears in the window to the kitchen. “The cream king? Do you want me to actually hurl?”

“I said, ‘the king of cream,’” he groans, digging his knuckles into his eye sockets. “Kill me, Robin. Load me into the freezer. Bury me at the fairground.”

“You think you’re valuable enough to displace that much ice cream?” Robin rolls her eyes, and with another loud thwack, her white board appears in the space behind her. “We don’t make anything called Sex on the Beach. This is a family establishment.”

“I made it up.” 

Robin coos, “Aww. Be still my heart. You love her to the point of invention.” 

Steve whirls around. “Love? Who said anything about love?” 

“I did.” Robin uncaps her dry-erase marker and draws a tally mark under the side that reads, you rule.

“Uh, Robin,” Steve snaps, pointing at the board condescendingly. “I think you put that on the wrong side. I fucked it up.”

“Dingus. Please. As much as it makes me gag- and you know I gain immense pleasure from counting how often you screw up- I could practically hear her heart eyes.” She sets the white board down, begrudgingly. “I think you found the only girl alive who’ll find all this-” she waves her hand at him, “endearing. Who was she? Some ex of yours?” 

“If only,” Steve sighs, shaking his head. When he turns back to the counter, his eyes land on the single chocolate coin glinting in the tip jar.

He scoops it up with two fingers and pockets it.

You won’t believe half the things I see inside my head. Wait ‘til you see half the things that haven’t happened yet…

Family Video, March 1986

The air conditioning nearly blasts you backwards into the parking lot. You don’t know why they need it blasting so hard at 7pm, in the middle of March. It’s not like it’s the height of summer- your spring break takes place earlier than the local school’s, but it just means that you get to beat the crowds when you come home to visit your family.

Of course, they love to send you to run errands. You end up picking up the groceries, and the housewares, and, on this occasion, the choices for family movie night. 

This Family Video’s selection isn’t necessarily as extensive as the ones in Chicago, but it’s good enough. You enter the store, and it dumps you directly in front of a cardboard cutout of Phoebe Cates about to flash you. Family friendly entertainment, and all.

The TV in the corner is running the final scene of The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly- Ennio Morricone’s score plays dramatically into the empty store. There’s no one behind the counter currently, so you pull the list of videos your extended family members had all requested. The Breakfast Club. Camelot. The Birds. Pretty general selections for your family, but it seems like you’ll have to hunt them up on your own. 

You’re wandering down the romance aisle, since The Breakfast Club was nowhere on the new releases or comedy shelves, when someone finally emerges from the back room. You see a flash of a head moving toward the front counter from over the top of a rack, and you take it as your chance to ask for help.

“Excuse me? Do you guys have any copies of The Breakfast Club, or-”

You stop short, choking on your words. Steve Harrington turns around to look at you, carrying a stack of VHS tapes perched under his chin, and holding a folded up piece of paper between his teeth.

You stare each other down for a second, before Steve gracefully spits the paper over his shoulder and onto the counter. “Hey, um… long time, no see?”

“I’d say.” You tilt your head. Funny how quickly your eyes will hone in on his lips, like searching for a target every time. “We always seem to run into each other like this. What happened to the ice cream gig?”

“Starcourt burned down,” Steve says, plopping the stack of VHS tapes down on the counter beside the paper he spit out. “Right around the Fourth of July, last summer.”

“So, right after I last saw you?”

Steve smirks to himself before he turns back to you. “Yeah. Like, a week or so after. Did you manage to burn the place down, after all?” 

“I wish.” 

You pause, taking the time to size him up. It’s amazing what the better part of a year will do to someone, inside and out. With a striped shirt and green vest, he looks much more relaxed and casual than he had at Scoops Ahoy. His hair’s a little longer, his eyes a little darker as they rake over you, in return. 

You’re a little bit desperate to see what’s going on in his head, if it’s anything like what’s happening in yours.

You wish you could say that you tried to seek him out when you got back to town- a year ago, maybe you would have. But you’d pretty much given up on the idea of him, moving up to dating college boys who don’t string you along, who don’t wait until the last minute to finally try their hand at flirting with you. If he ever passed through your mind, it was with the attached hope that he’d found greener pastures than Hawkins, Indiana. Foolishly, you hoped that as long as you told yourself that he’d moved on, it would be true. And then maybe what could have been wouldn’t matter anymore.

You’d stepped back into Hawkins after half a year of college, the graveyard of all hope in your happily ever after, and you hadn’t even thought of Steve Harrington. Except, seeing him now, everything comes flooding back. All the days spent pining over him. All the close brushes you’d had with finally getting the ending you wanted. 

You have to be honest. “You look good, Steve. You always do.”

Steve chuckles, tilting his chin down as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his light wash jeans. “Better without the sailor costume, right?”

“Aww, I liked the sailor costume.” You step closer so you can whisper, “I thought it was sexy.”

Steve peers down his nose at you, drawing himself up to tower above you at his full height. He tries to look unaffected, but you can see his ears glowing pink beneath wisps of golden highlights. “Watch it. You’re gonna give me an ego.”

“We don’t want that, do we?” You unfold the list of movies you’re here to collect, holding it up to him between two fingers. “Got any of these movies?” 

Steve reads the short list, and nods to himself. “I know we have Camelot, but I’m not sure about The Breakfast Club. Let me check in the back?” 

“I’ll be here.”

“All right- don’t get up to any trouble, though. I’ve got my eye on you.” He points at you coolly, feigning an authoritative expression. He tries to hide his smile, but the creases around his eyes give him away. 

“I hope you do.” You try to appear casual as you breeze past him, but you have to fiddle with your jacket collar to hide their shaking. Still, you feel the sweep of his gaze on you like rays of sun on your skin. It frightens you how easily you can fall back into the old back-and-forth routine you established in high school- how he gets you to say things you never meant to voice, but that live in your head effortlessly. 

Steve watches you disappear down the drama aisle before he takes in a huge breath of air and bolts toward the back room. Any and all coolness he was performing disappears like so much smoke. Slamming open the door, he nearly shouts, “Do you have a doubloon?!” 

Robin startles, swinging around in her seat, looking away from her computer screen. “A what? Why are you yelling?”

“A doubloon, a f-fucking-” Steve looks quickly over his shoulder, out the door, and starts hunching over as he whispers, “a chocolate coin. Like one of those ones we had at Scoops, remember?”

“Why do you want a chocolate coin?” Robin squints at him. “Stop crouching like that, you look like Nosferatu.”

Steve hisses through his teeth, and he’s got a frantic edge to his expression that Robin doesn’t like. “Okay- remember that girl, the one who showed up at Scoops that time, and you gave me my one and only ‘You Rule’ tally?” 

“No.”

“Great. Well, she’s here, and she told me if I gave her one of those chocolate coins she’d kiss me.” Steve shoves his hands through his hair, mussing up the already disheveled style. “Please, Rob, I can’t let her get away again. I’ve done it, like, a thousand times already.” 

“Okay, Romeo,” Robin humors him, turning around in her seat. “So you’re saying this babe, who I very much don’t remember because you always struck out while we worked at Scoops, told you that if you bribed her with chocolate she’d kiss you?”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t think she was maybe joking?” 

Steve opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water. Truthfully, he hadn’t. He’d overlooked the idea that, after everything that had happened between you, you might just be joking about kissing him. 

“You know you could use your actual charm to get a girl to kiss you?” Robin dips her chin, shaking her head like it’s obvious.

Steve frowns. As if he hasn’t already tried that. “Do you have any chocolate coins or not?”

Robin sighs exasperatedly. “I don’t think I’ve seen one of those things since we worked at Scoops. Sorry, bud. You’re out of luck.” 

“FUCK!” Steve’s hand smacks the door as he heads out of the back room, making Robin scowl after him. She shakes her head as she turns back to her work.

Back out on the sales floor, the credits to The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly have finished, and white noise fills the empty space. Steve turns in a circle by the checkout counter, searching for you among the aisles.

Where did you disappear to, this time? A part of him dreads the answer. He was the one who fucked everything up- he shouldn’t have chickened out when he had the chance. He should have asked you to that fucking prom, but he was too scared to commit after what happened with Nancy. 

If this is his last chance, he needs to make it count. 

He coughs into the dead air, and says, “Looks like we’re all out of The Breakfast Club.” There’s a disconcerting amount of silence that leaves him cold, almost certain that you’ve left already, for the last time.

Then, you appear from behind the red curtain to the adult videos section.

Oh. 

“Everything okay?” you ask sweetly as you approach, holding a couple tapes that you must have picked up while you shopped around. “I heard some yelling back there.” 

“Oh, yeah. Just, uh… shelving issues.” Steve backs his way behind the counter. He repeats, “Sorry, I couldn’t find the movie for you.”

“I heard. I’m not worried about it.” You plop the tapes that you did find on the counter. “It was nice of you to look for me. Thanks, Steve.”

“Always.” Steve starts scanning your tapes; it looks like you managed to find the other films on your list, along with one for yourself. From the adult section. 

You watch in amusement as you can see the cogs visibly turning in Steve’s head, while he stares at the front of the porn video you picked. Spring Break Sex Party II. Not that you’d ever seen the first one, but the cover of this one was suggestive enough- a bunch of drunk people naked on a beach, lying in a great big pile. Looks like fun, in your opinion.

You always love seeing Steve blush. The prettiest shade of pink colors his cheeks before he glances up at you. “Should I ask…?”

“It’s the closest thing to getting a Sex on the Beach, here.” 

Steve chokes, and he scrambles for a response to that. “I- I was gonna ask for an I.D.”

“You know we’re the same age,” you deadpan.

“Y-yeah. I, uh- I know… I know that.” He hangs his head and pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes tightly shut.

You wonder if this is what you looked like to him, that time in the hallway when he loitered by the fountain to talk to you. “Breathe, Steve.”

A blast of laughter leaves his mouth before he can swallow it. If only you knew how hard it actually is, to act like he’s not just fucking melting right in front of you. When he hangs on every word you say, and every other thought he has is about how badly he wants to tell Robin to get lost and take you in the back room. You don’t know how much he’s fixating on your curves and how they’d feel against him, how much he wants to taste every inch of your body. He’s practically vibrating in place with all his pent up frustration, and you’re here buying porn, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Steve clears his throat, shakes his head. Christ. “Okay, well. You know that this is a sale item, it’s not for rent. You can return it within 10 days as long as the packaging hasn’t been opened.”

“I know.”

“Okay.” He’s still nodding as he puts it into the bag with the rest of your rentals. 

“Are you always this affected by people buying from the adult section?” you ask mildly. 

“Nah, usually I don’t care,” he replies without thinking. 

“Good to know that you care about my taste in pornography,” you tell him with the most shit eating grin on your face, taking the bag from him. “I’m flattered.”

He makes a clumsy noise in the back of his throat, somewhere between a laugh and a grunt. He’s right back to working at Scoops Ahoy, fumbling every attempt at flirting, losing his cool at the sight of a pretty girl. It’s… humbling.

He’s sure Robin would say that he can always use more humility.

“It was good to see you again, Steve.” And just like that, you’re sand slipping through the cracks in his fingers. 

Desperately, he tries to block the flow, closing his fingers around you in an attempt to keep you in his grasp. “Do you- uh-” He lurches forward, white-knuckling the counter like his life depends on it. You turn back towards him, an eyebrow raised at his sudden outburst. 

You’re back in the school hallway, senior year. Crying over Logan Sawyer. Harrington is up against the wall by the drinking fountain. You want him to just say the words and ask you to prom.

“I mean… if you have the time, while you’re in town… do you want to go for a cup of coffee? With me?”

“Oh, Steve.” You sigh, and it’s the most heartbreaking noise he’s ever heard in his life. Soft sand, falling through his fingers, disappearing back the way you came. He already dreads your answer before it comes. “I wish… you know, if I had come in here and met you about a week ago, I would have said yes in a heartbeat. But I have to catch the train back to Chicago tomorrow. My break’s almost up.” You offer him a reassuring smile. “I’m just glad that you didn’t completely miss me, at least.”

“Right, of course.” Steve smiles back at you, feeling more like an idiot the longer this drags on. He’s like Sisyphus rolling that rock up the fucking hill. “I… I’m glad I got to see you, too. Maybe next time.” 

Oh, it hurts. It hurts way more than you thought it would, to have to turn Steve down- after all the years pining for him through high school, after the time you turned him away when he would have kissed you. You think about kissing him, now. He would let you do it- he’s asking you out, and he looks so sad that you’re saying no.

You could. But wouldn’t it make saying goodbye this time even harder than it already is?

“Yeah. Maybe next time,” you tell him. You don’t want this to hurt more than it does. You truly hope there’s a next time, another year down the line when you run into him over winter break. Maybe you’ll find him at the Radio Shack. 

Steve watches you leave, once again. Fumbling his chance, again. When the door swings shut behind you, Steve bends at the waist and drops his head against the countertop. 

Typical Harrington. Late to the party, miss the girl.

“Well. That was… really painful to listen to.” Robin emerges from behind one of the shelves, crossing her arms. Gently, she adds, “On the bright side, I don’t think the chocolate coin would have mattered.”

Steve picks his head up, and he thwacks his forehead back down onto the counter.

And again.

And again.

And I can see you being my addiction, you can see me as a secret mission. Hide away, and I will start behaving myself…

Sur La Table Restaurant, Chicago, April 1991

You shake your umbrella out as you step into the warm foyer of, quite possibly, the most upscale restaurant you’ve ever set foot in. The carpet is deep, blood red, the walls a dark chestnut wood. The white covered tables are each spotlit within the otherwise dark dining room, and the atmosphere is flavored by soft piano and the quiet din of hushed voices. 

You had been hesitant to accept Theo’s invitation to dinner- he seemed too stuck up for your taste, but when Shelly introduced you to him, you had to admit that the name of the restaurant piqued your interest. Sur La Table. Chicago’s premiere Michelin Star restaurant. 

As you hand your umbrella over to the coat check clerk, you’re greeted by a smiling hostess. “What’s the name for the reservation?”

“Um… Theo Bowman. I believe he’s already here?”

“Yes, ma’am. Right this way.” 

Theo stands as you’re shown to the table. Tall, with dark hair and a wide smile, he reminds you of someone you knew once, but you just can’t seem to place it. Then, when he towers over you to shake your hand, standing far closer than necessary, you’re able to pick it out from the recesses of your mind.

Logan Sawyer. 

“You look nice,” Theo says pleasantly, and you chalk up your initial comparison to nerves, on your part. You don’t often let friends set you up on dates, so you’re a little bit out of your element as it is.

As you go to sit down, you admit, “I was so glad when you picked this place, I’ve always wanted to eat here, since I moved to Chicago.” 

“It’s not the nicest place I’ve been,” Theo shrugs, taking the seat across from you.

Your smile falters, for a second. “Oh, no?” The water has already been brought to the table, you guess while he was waiting for you. You take a long drink.

“Nah, I’ve been to Le Bernardin, in New York. That’s fine dining.” Theo waves his hand at the upscale dining room. “This is… okay.”

“I see.” You lift your menu, hoping that he’ll do the same.

“Yeah, New York is so much nicer than Chicago, in my opinion,” Theo continues, fiddling with his napkin as he talks. “There’s a lot more to do. Have you ever been?”

You hope this is just his nerves talking. “No.” 

Theo keeps talking as you stare at the menu in front of you, at a loss. It’s an a la carte menu, clearly, but extensive and all in french. Salade de poires pochées. Coquilles Saint-Jacques Gratineés. Filet au poivre vert. You’re scrutinizing the fine print of what all the dishes include when your waiter steps up to the table. You know when it happens, because Theo finally stops blathering about New York. 

You break your eyes away from the menu to glance at the server’s waistline, at eye level with you. He wears a crisply pressed suit and tie, his hands clasped in front of his belt. 

“Good evening sir, ma’am,” the server says in a hushed tone, to keep the volume of the dining room down. “Welcome to Sur La Table. I’m Steven, I’ll be serving you this evening. Before we begin, are there any questions about the menu?”

You peer up into the darkness to try to see Steven’s face. He’s standing just outside of the spotlight over the table, only able to be dimly lit from the indirect light reflecting from the tablecloth. Once your eyes adjust, they lock onto a pair of familiar hazel ones.

Oh my fucking god.

It’s got to be fate, or kismet, or some force of nature that keeps bringing you together like this. Steve Harrington’s face hasn’t changed in five years. Maybe he looks just slightly older, a little more filled out in his suit and tie. His hair is a bit shorter at the back but still that same shade of golden brown, neatly groomed and tidy for the formal atmosphere- but you can see it being tousled on his off days, still flopping across his eyes in waves. And those are the same lips you dreamt about kissing, the same eyes you admired in the school hallway, the same nose that you always wanted to grind o-

“No, I think we’re ready to order,” Theo announces, louder than necessary. You throw your gaze at him, your eyebrows raising despite your best efforts to remain calm. 

Is he really going to order for you? Just like that?

“Well, I was going to ask-” you begin, wanting to get a little more specification on how the filet is made, when Theo cuts you off.

“It’s okay, I speak French,” he insists. Not that it makes a difference to what your question was.

You press your lips together in irritation and glance at Steve, who looks back at you stoically. You wonder if he recognizes you like you do him- it’s been long enough, and you’re sure that you look a bit different than you did the last time you saw him. And then you notice the creases around his eyes.

He’s playing it off well enough, sure. But Steve is doing that same look that he did there in the Family Video five years ago, trying to pretend that he’s not affected by you, swallowing back his smile. He sends you a knowing look that says, What a fucking douchebag, am I right?

Suddenly, this date just got way more entertaining. You give Steve a minute roll of your eyes, only enough for him to notice. Tell me about it.

“We’ll start with the Bordeaux,” Theo is already reciting to Steve as you settle back in your seat. Steve pulls a little notepad out of his jacket pocket and begins writing. “For an appetizer, the coquilles. Then for the main, I’ll have the canard montmorency, and she’ll have the mignons de veau.” 

You watch Steve’s hand pause as he’s writing, and he looks to you. He raises his eyebrow, saying everything he needs to with the one gesture. Is that what you really want? “The veal?”

“No,” you say, digging your thumbnail into your palm, where it rests on your lap. “Actually, I wanted to ask about the filet. What brandy is the sauce made with?” 

Steve smiles, leaning a little bit closer to you. “We use Courvoisier.”

“Great. I’ll have that, please.” 

Steve nods encouragingly at you. As he jots down the order, he says, “Wonderful. I’ll get this to the kitchen for you, but before I can bring you the wine, I’ll just need to see the lady’s I.D.”

“Are you serious?” Theo snaps. 

“It’s all right,” you murmur, hiding your face as you dip your head to fish your I.D. out of your clutch. “He’s just doing his job. Right, Steven?”

Steve meets your eye as he takes the card from your hand. “You can never be too careful.” You watch him smirk as he looks over your I.D., his eyes lingering on your name for a second before he hands it back to you. If there was any doubt in his mind that you are who he thought, it’s gone now. “Interesting. We’re the same age.”

You laugh. Probably a little louder than is respectable, but you can’t help it. Leave it to Steve Harrington to remind you of the time you bought porn from him, while you’re on a date. 

You watch Steve write something else on his notepad, and rip the page out before folding it up. He tucks his notepad into his pocket as he says, “I’ll get this started for you. I hope you enjoy your evening.”

“Thank you, Steven,” you offer just as he starts to walk away. 

Steve shoots you a sideways glance. “Always.”

Your heartbeat pounds in your chest as you turn back to your date. Theo looks disgruntled, but he just lifts his water to his lips.

“So,” you begin, “what do you do?”

“Marketing manager,” Theo says, with a click of his tongue. “For Bowman Wine & Spirits.”

“Oh,” you nod. “No relation, I suppose?”

“My father owns the company.”

“Right.” God, help me. 

Across the dining room, Steve watches you over his shoulder. His jaw sets as he sees you, the girl of his literal dreams, sitting across from some idiot who doesn’t even know that you don’t order for your date without asking her what she wants first, you fucking weasel. 

That’s all right. You seem to have the situation under control, for now. Steve watches you calmly sip your water, staring at your date but not listening to a thing he’s saying. 

Steve sighs. He’s never been much of a schemer, but he’ll just make sure that you won’t leave with this guy if you don’t want to.

His fingers brush the note in his pocket, and he pinches it just as he passes the front of house manager, Taryn. Without breaking stride, he slips the note into her hand, heading toward the back hallway and down to the wine cellar.

As Steve passes by, Taryn unfolds the note he slips her, and raises one eyebrow at the request he’s written.

I can see you in your suit and your necktie, pass me a note saying, “Meet me tonight.” Then we kissed and you know I won’t ever tell…

Overall, you enjoy Sur La Table immensely. The restaurant itself, anyways. The wine is wonderful. The atmosphere is great. The food is exquisite. 

You’re about to jump the waiter’s bones. 

Theo got his second wind sometime after the scallops arrived, and you think he hasn’t paused for breath since. You’ve been calmly eating your food, while Theo tells you literally everything about himself. It’s the best case scenario you can see happening on this date. You enjoy the food, mumble a non-committal acknowledgement now and then, and Theo entertains himself with his own voice the rest of the time. 

You’re gonna kill Shelly for setting you up with him, but that’s tomorrow’s problem. 

Right now, you’re focused on finishing your glass of wine while he talks about camping, of all things. 

“So we got up into the Rockies,” he’s telling you, gesturing with his hands like it’ll make you more engaged. “We ended up freezing our keisters off. No joke, I have frostbite scars.”

“That’s, um… that sounds like fun.”

“No, are you listening? I mean, it was terrible. We couldn’t move for, like, two days. And when the snow stopped we were so tired and cold, we almost died.” 

You knock back the rest of your wine with one gulp, and say with a sticky voice, “Wow. A near death experience must have been really scary, I’m sorry.”

Theo frowns. “No- I mean… It wasn’t… it wasn’t near death-”

“You just said-”

“It was more like a serious inconvenience, you know. But we pulled through. I wasn’t scared. A little snow isn’t gonna kill me,” he laughs incredulously. “It was just-”

Theo stops as Steve approaches the table. You catch him giving the back of Theo’s head the most murderous look imaginable before slowing to a stop and plastering an easy customer service smile in its place. “How did you find everything this evening?”

“It was fine.”

“The food was wonderful,” you tell Steve reassuringly. Your date, on the other hand…

“Yeeeah, could we get the check, please?” Theo asks, finally looking up at Steve. 

You watch Steve’s brow twitch, such a small movement you could have imagined it. “Certainly. But first-” from behind his back, he reveals two white gift boxes and places them on the table in front of you and your date, respectively. “We like to give each of our customers a signature chocolate truffle, as a token of our appreciation.”

Everything in you aches. “Oh, that’s nice. Thank you so much.” You look down at the box in adoration, thinking for a second that it might be the only time in your life that Steve Harrington gives you something similar to a ring box. 

“I’ll be sure to have our hostess come through with the check,” Steve adds delicately, making a gracious exit. His finger just slightly brushes your arm as he passes by- a dangerous move, but one that nearly electrifies your entire body at the single touch. You shiver as he says, “Have a lovely night.”

You watch Steve walk away from you, and your heart sinks into your stomach. You want to chase after him. The 18 year old you, who almost kissed him on prom night, is trying to claw its way out of your skin and bolt after him. 

When Steve disappears from view, you have nowhere to look but at your date. Theo opens the white box in front of him and pops a neapolitan colored truffle into his mouth. “Well, that was underwhelming.”

You don’t want to watch him chewing anymore, like a cow gnawing on grass. You sigh, running a frustrated hand across your forehead, and flip open the box in front of you. The top of it rears up like a clam shell, and you freeze, your fingertips suddenly sticking to the sweat beading on your brow.

You don’t have a neapolitan truffle- you have a single golden chocolate coin. You stare at it in shock for a second before you even notice the note pasted to the lid of the box. 

Meet me outside- the door past the bathrooms. 

“Aren’t you gonna eat yours?” Theo asks suddenly, as the hostess approaches holding the check. 

Your eyes snap up just as your heart shoots back up into your chest. “I think I’m gonna save it for later.” You flash him a smile as you close the box swiftly and shove it into your clutch. “Do you mind if I hit the bathroom real quick?”

“No, go ahead. I’ve got it.” Honestly, it’s the kindest thing he’s done for you all night. You might have to thank him some day. 

Once you’re out of your seat, you chase after Steve like a shot. Around a block of tables and into a tiled corridor, you walk past the kitchen doorway just as another server comes backing out, carrying a tray of dishes. 

There’s a door at the end of the hall, labeled exit. You never actually thought you’d be escaping a bad date through the back door; the notion was too clichéed, you thought that sort of thing only happened in movies. But you find yourself nearly running past the men’s and women’s bathrooms, until your hands slam down on the bar of the back door and thrust it open into the wind. 

The rain has picked up, more of a downpour than a light drizzle now. In your haste, you’d left your umbrella and coat with the coat check. Not that it would have been at all discrete if you’d gone to collect it before running towards the bathrooms. 

The door clicks shut behind you, and you gaze around in the dark. The alley behind the restaurant is only partially lit by a yellow street lamp, making it even more difficult to find him than it was in the dining room. “Steve?” 

You catch movement in the corner of your eye, and turn in the direction of the street lamp. Steve stands up from where he’d been sitting on an overturned crate- apparently the only accommodations the restaurant staff gets during a smoke break. The rain has already soaked into his hair, messing up the tidy style and turning it stringy, falling across his forehead, shining gold in the yellow light. He takes one last puff of the cigarette in his mouth before tossing it into the gutter, and he looks at you. 

He sees you. And it’s all you’ve wanted since the day he first walked into your geography class, freshman year of high school. There’s been some kind of a magnetic pull between you two for years. Something keeps bringing you together, it’s just never been the right time. Until now. 

Finally, you’re running towards him, and Steve’s arms finally come around you, pulling you against his body. Your hands find the back of his neck just in time for his lips to crash against yours. 

You had lost count of the amount of times you watched him kiss other girls in the hallway in high school- not just Nancy, but any and every girl he attached himself to (for a while, it seemed like he couldn’t make up his mind who he was dating at any given moment). All you knew was that it was never you, and you wanted it to be so desperately that it consumed your mind half the time. He looked like a good kisser, and you fantasized about going up to him and testing that theory for yourself.

But you never expected that his lips would slide over yours with an urgency that you could feel through to your very core, probably even more desperate for your kiss than you are for his. Steve’s fingertips press into your body through the thin fabric of your dress, holding you firmly to him like he’s afraid you might disappear on him again if he doesn’t absorb you completely. Your mouth opens with a soft gasp, and Steve’s tongue against yours tastes like tobacco. 

It happens so fast that you can’t even think- and you don’t really want to. You’re tired of thinking everything through, finding reasons upon reasons why it’s not a good time, why it’s a bad idea, why it won’t work. He moans into you, grabbing the side of your face as he stumbles with you to the wall, pressing you up against the side of the brick building. 

You meet his moan with a whimper of your own as his hand slides down over the curve of your ass, and he hikes up the skirt of your dress to grab at your skin with abandon. There’s a ferocity in Steve’s kiss that you don’t know what to do with, like he’s trying to stake a claim to you right there in the rain, with no one around to see it happen but the moths in the street light overhead. Not that he needs to- he’s already got you. You already chose him. 

Steve gives you room to breathe with a soft sigh, his forehead resting against yours. “Been wanting to do that since high school,” he admits, just loud enough for you to hear, before pressing a featherlight kiss just beside your mouth, and again to your cheek.

“Y-you fffucking-?” you gasp when he latches his lips around a sweet spot on your neck and sucks. “I had such a huge crush on you, Steve.”

“I know. I- I should have- I should…” Steve drops his head against your shoulder and groans when your nails rake against his scalp. “Fuck.” 

He grinds his hips up against yours, biting your lip as the hard length of his cock presses up against your core. “Gonna fuck me in this alleyway, Harrington?” 

“I’m seriously considering it,” he growls into your ear. His lips find yours again with a passion, his hand holding your jaw still. A hot breath escapes him, pouring over your skin and making you shiver. You’re lightheaded, so close to just letting him do it, too, when the back door of the restaurant swings open. 

Steve still takes a second to pull away, a little too absorbed in kissing you to really care who sees him do it. If he had his way, he’d have everyone see that you’re his- that you belong with him, and have for a long time. He finally glances over his shoulder to see one of the cooks, Liam, walking off in the direction of the employee parking lot.

“Where did you get the fucking doubloon?” you whisper into his ear, sounding so fucking adorable that Steve can’t help the lovesick look he gives you. 

He brushes his nose against yours. “I sent my manager on a treasure hunt.” You giggle, pressing your forehead up against his, and he can’t help but chuckle along with you. “I wanted to give you one at Family Video, that time.”

“I know,” you say, and he pulls back to look at your face. “I heard you yelling at your coworker in the back room.” 

Steve snickers and turns red with embarrassment, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. You run your fingers through his rain-soaked hair, a content smile on your face as you feel him grin against your skin and shake with laughter. “Take me home, Steve.”

You don’t have to ask him twice.

What would you do, baby, if you only knew? That I can see you throw your jacket on the floor, I can see you make me want you even more…

The drive to Steve’s apartment downtown is made with light conversation and the heavy, heavy weight of his hand on your thigh, creeping up further with each mile. But aside from the implication of sex hanging in the air, it’s as easy as breathing, chatting about the night with him. Shitting on Theo.

“Did you notice the way he said coquilles,” Steve murmurs to you at a red light. “I thought he was gagging on something. He was just trying to impress you, you know.”

You grunt. Could’ve tried a little harder. “He didn’t even like them. He said he didn’t like shellfish,” you laugh in return as you lace your fingers through Steve’s. “Why the fuck would you order scallops, then?”

“The price.”

“The price.” 

It’s sweet, talking to him all the way to his apartment building, just catching up like old friends. He tells you that he’s going to culinary school now, and he’s been working at the restaurant for a little over a year, just to pay the bills.

“Culinary school? Really?” you say, with a note of awe in your voice. 

“Turns out I’m really fucking good at cooking,” Steve chuckles. “Who’d have thought? Maybe someday I’ll stop waiting tables and work back there in the kitchen.”

“I can see it,” you tell him softly. “I can see you being the world’s best chef. Three stars and everything.”

He scoffs, but a pink blush creeps up the back of his neck. “You have too much faith in me.” 

“Those are fighting words, Harrington.” You wag your finger at him. “Throwing down the gauntlet?”

“You just want me to cook you something,” Steve tuts.

“Absolutely, I do.” You consider him for a moment, in the passing light of a streetlamp. “Am I that transparent?”

Steve tilts his head to eye you meaningfully, and he smirks. “Always have been, honey.” His thumb rubs a little circle on your thigh that has you squirming in your seat.

The first thing you see of Steve’s apartment is the kitchen, and beyond that the dormant living room, but you don’t get that far before you’re sidetracked. Steve throws his keys onto a drop station by the door, and pins you up against the refrigerator before you can even think to ask where to put your shoes.

Your clothes are still damp, your hair still pasted to your clammy skin. Steve’s lips are attacking yours and his hands are grabbing at everything he can touch, but it’s still not enough. He’s not able to feel all of you at once, and it’s driving him insane with every passing moment.

Steve roughly yanks his suit jacket off, throwing it onto the tile floor beside the kitchen island. “Lay down.” 

“What?” you whisper to him as he kisses your neck, guiding you away from the side of the fridge. “Here?” 

“Right here,” Steve states, not joking in the slightest. You wobble on your feet as you kick off your heels, but his hands on your hips keep you steady. “Been waiting too long for this- can’t wait anymore.”

“I- wwhuh-?” you gasp as Steve kneels in front of you, and your knees buckle involuntarily as he lays you down across his discarded jacket. Your hands grab his shoulders as you tumble backward, taking him with you. 

He face-plants into your stomach with a noisy, “Oof.” Cackling, you run your fingers through his damp hair, as he laughs and shoves his blushing face further against your torso. Steve litters your stomach with kisses, giggling against you with a note of nervous energy. He’s adorable.

You pet your fingers down the side of his face and he leans into the touch. “Can’t even wait long enough to take me to the bedroom?”

“Well, I would have fucked you in the alley,” Steve points out as his fingers breach the hem of your skirt and find your panties. He tugs as he says, “Be thankful I even got you home.” 

Your cheeks burn hot. You fidget, trying to press your thighs together to abate the throbbing ache between them. “Careful, baby. You’re starting to sound desperate.”

Steve pauses, his hazel eyes lighting up when they lock on yours. “Call me that again,” he requests, pressing a kiss to your ankle as he pulls your panties off your feet. He tosses them over his shoulder, but you don’t see where they land as he continues peppering kisses down your calf.

You hold his gaze. “Baby?” His eyes flutter, his lips parting as they drag up toward your knee. “You like when I call you that?”

“I like when you call me anything,” Steve admits. “But as long as you call me that, it means I’m yours.”

Your breath stutters in your chest. Steve Harrington is yours. It doesn’t matter if it’s just for tonight- what matters is that you have him now, and he wants you just as badly.

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” he murmurs quietly against your skin, his voice crackling with brimming need. He’s flushed, his cheeks pink and his hair drying in tousled waves over his forehead the longer he drags this out. 

Nodding your head, you reach down to lace your fingers through his, where they’re bunching your skirt up around your hips. “Yes, Steve.” Always have been.  

He turns his head and sucks a spot on your calf, just below your knee, resting your ankle over his shoulder. Still, despite your desperation, you nervously keep your thighs pinched together.

Steve tuts, “C’mon, baby, you’ve gotta spread your legs for me. You wanna let me see that pretty pussy, right?” 

Still clammy and cold with rain, the air on your exposed skin makes you shiver almost as much as his sweeping hands do when they gently part your thighs. You let go, let him take control as you still and keep your eyes focused on his face, because looking anywhere else would remind you that this is real, and not a dream.

Steve sighs, “There she is. Y’gonna let me taste you, sweetheart?” He bats his pretty eyes at you in a way that makes your heart stop dead in your chest. He can’t keep his mouth off of you, even for a moment, his lips and slight stubble dragging across your skin as he says, “Been wanting to forever, you won’t even believe-”

“Please, Steve,” you start to beg before he even finishes his sentence. “Please, my god, I- I just- I just want you so much-”

“Sh-sh-sh-shh.” His tongue licks wet and hot against your inner thigh before he whispers, “I’ve got you, baby. M’not going anywhere, I’m staying right here ‘til you cum.”

You’re instantly hot all over, your blood fucking boiling beneath your skin and your wet dinner dress. Steve’s fingers dig into the meat of your thighs as he yanks you toward his face, the fabric of his jacket beneath you audibly zipping along the kitchen floor. 

Steve dips his head, and his mouth closes over your cunt right at the same moment that yours falls open with a moan that won’t come out, because you’ve suddenly forgotten how to breathe. The noise stalls right at the beginning- your lungs stop working and you can’t seem to get them to start again, because Steve’s tongue is everywhere, dripping wet and gentle on skin that’s way too sensitive to handle it right now. Your hips try to jerk away from him in resistance, but he slams his hand down on them, holding you hard and still against the tile floor, his shoulders pushed up against the backs of your thighs to keep them open. 

Steve takes a break just long enough to grin evilly up at you, because he’s been waiting for five years to tell you to, “Breathe, sweetheart.”

“Fffffuck,” you manage to spit out finally, your voice cracking on the word like it didn’t even really want to put in the work to make it happen. Your breath comes back into your lungs all at once, rapid firing with a dozen moans for punctuation. Steve’s lips quirk against you, and he rumbles a noise of satisfaction against your pussy that makes you jolt in his hold again. “Steve…”

He pulls off of you with a slow, slow stroke of his tongue over your clit, making you whimper high and tight in your throat. “That’s it, baby,” Steve whispers, his breath fanning across your slick cunt, his left hand leaving your hip so that he can drag his knuckles teasingly through your swollen folds. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Feels so right.”

Two long fingers sink into you with ease, stirring the need in you to have him just simply destroy you. You moan loud, your hand shooting out and wrapping around the leg of a bar stool for the kitchen island beside you. 

“Poor thing’s just so sensitive, huh?” Your head arches backwards against the floor, your pussy clenching tight around his fingers as he curves them with practiced accuracy. Steve’s voice is a deep murmur, distant thunder rolling over your nerves, “Relax for me, honey. You’ve waited long enough, just let it happen. Let me give you what you want.”

His lips shine when you look down at him, your hand reaching to run through his hair. Stifling a whine that threatens to come out when he kisses your clit and bends his fingers within you, you stutter out, “J-just want… I- ha-ah! Just want you.” 

Steve purrs. “I know.” The crisp white fabric of his shirt scrapes against your thighs, almost rough in comparison to his tongue flat on your pussy. You can hear the wet, salacious sound of his fingers pumping into you, pulling you toward the edge of oblivion. He hisses through his teeth, shaking his head slightly. “God, I’m so fuckin’ lucky.”

“Y-you-?” you manage a laugh, scraping your nails along his scalp lightly. “You’re lucky? You have n-no… fffucking idea-” You cut off with a sob when Steve wraps his lips around your clit, sucking long and hard enough that your leg twitches, your heel dragging up the back of his pristine white blouse. Your breathing picks up just as all your muscles lock down tight. “Jesus Christ-” 

“There you go,” Steve praises as your orgasm shakes your body, your hand gripping his hair so hard that he groans softly into your damp skin. He doesn’t stop moving his fingers, lewd wet noises picking up and echoing through the quiet kitchen. “That’s a good girl. Mmm, felt so nice to let go, didn’t it?”

You don’t know if he really wants you to answer that- you’re still twitching, coming down from your high as he pulls his fingers from your spasming cunt and sucks them into his mouth. The pause gives you a gentle reprieve, sinking back onto his suit jacket beneath you. Then, his mouth finds your pussy again, his tongue delving deep into your entrance and laving up to your sensitive clit. 

You gasp, throwing your hands down into his hair. “Steve-?!”

He moans in response. “Just needed to taste you some more, honey. Taste so fuckin’ sweet, I can’t get enough.” Steve relents, crawling up your body to hover his face over yours. “Still wanna see the bedroom?”

You nod excitedly, your hands finding his smiling face and stroking the hair away from his eyes. With a gentle kiss of his wet lips to yours, Steve gathers your still-wrecked body into his arms and carries you into his bedroom. 

He’s struck by how blissful you are as he sets you down on his bed, so soft and inviting. He encourages your arms up, his hands finding the zipper of your wet dress and finally, finally, pulling it over your head so that he can see you. All your curves and edges on display for him, after all this time imagining what he couldn’t see with the naked eye. 

“You’re so beautiful.” Steve repeats what he told you all those years ago at prom- he meant it then, and he means it now. Maybe even more this time, now that he’s not a stupid teenager, now that he finally has his head on his shoulders. 

You shiver against him when he unclips your bra- black lace that matches the underwear sitting in his entryway. A possessive part of him rears up, knowing that you’d worn them to a date with some asshole who couldn’t treat you right, even for one hour of the guy’s miserable life. Steve dips his head and kisses your breast, so much softer now than he was before, feeling your heartbeat against his lips.

“Hey.” You gently tug him by his tie, loosening it and his collar. You look into his eyes, and his heart melts. “Where’d you go just now, sailor?”

Steve blushes, his eyes flicking down as you remove his tie and start unbuttoning his blouse. “Just thinking...” he trails off, eyeing you thoughtfully. “Just thinking I could have missed you again if I wasn’t careful.”

“Mmm,” you hum, your hands smoothing up his chest and over his shoulders to get his shirt off of him. It drops to the floor with a whisper. “I don’t think so. I think this was meant to happen, eventually.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You scrunch your nose cutely, in a way that makes Steve’s pants tighten even more uncomfortably across his hips. “We’ve run into each other too many fuckin’ times, baby. Karma’s on our side.”

He laughs. “Karma.” He shakes his head as he undoes his belt.

You quirk your brow at him as your hands fiddle with the fly of his suit pants. “Don’t believe me?” 

Steve grunts, shifting to lean over you. “I’ll believe anything you say when you’re taking my pants off, honey. I’m easy that way.”

Your nails rake through the hair on his chest- you can’t keep your hands off of him now that they’ve got him. You trace over two blotchy scars, one on either side of his torso that mirror each other. “What happened here?”

He blows a puff of air out of his mouth, rounding his cheeks as he shrugs. “Some… animals decided I looked really tasty, at one point. I know, they aren’t very pretty.”

Steve’s brushing over it like it’s nothing. You search his face, and you decide to do the same. “Actually, I think it’s kind of hot.” You drag your hand up to lay flat over his chest. You whisper conspiratorially, “Plus, I think you look really tasty, too.”

Steve quirks an eyebrow. “Y’gonna bite me about it?”

“Probably.” You wink. “Most likely.”

Your gaze falls indiscreetly to his cock, hard and flushed, glistening with precum and curving up toward his stomach. Girls talk, especially when they’re all trying to one-up each other; you knew that he was big. You’d heard the rumors. You’d seen him wearing those tight fucking jeans all the time, and you didn’t have to have much of an imagination to figure it out.

Still. It’s… a little overwhelming. You reach out a tentative hand, lightly wrapping your fingers around his base. They barely meet. Jesus Christ.

He groans, and kisses you until you can’t speak, resting his weight on top of you until you sink gleefully into the mattress. There’s a smile on your lips that transfers onto his, happiness and ease still flowing between you even as he grinds his hips up against yours. 

“Ready?” Steve murmurs softly into your mouth, stealing your breath when you feel his cock slide through your folds, hot and fat. 

“Dunno,” you tell him teasingly, but there’s an edge of reason to your words. Your hips squirm and you feel him even worse, slippery with your arousal. You whine. “I think you might kill me with that thing, Harrington.”

“I’ll go slow,” he whispers, hoarse in the back of his throat, his voice already shaking. “I’ll make sure you feel every bit of it, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you agree as you reach to line him up properly. “I’m all yours.”

Steve gives a relieved sigh as he slides into you, his head falling heavily to your shoulder. His cock aches, his torso shaking as he tries to steady himself. “Oh my god.”

“Baby,” you coo, choking on a moan when he bottoms out. He’s so thick- your nails dig into his shoulder blades as you try to remember how to breathe. It’s certainly a big stretch to try to fit him, but you can’t help wanting more just as soon as he comes to a stop. You can feel him trying to hold steady, holding himself back as though it’s the hardest thing in the world for him to do. 

Because it is. You can’t see it, the way that his brow is furrowed in concentration, his eyes screwed shut. He didn’t know it would be like this- that he’d be in danger of blowing it just as soon as he started. 

Your heel digs into his ass, and he doesn’t know if you do it purposefully, but he almost whimpers. 

You take a shuddering breath. “Please- please move, Steve, I can’t take it.”

Oh, you can’t take it? “You know what,” Steve says with a hint of strain in his voice, picking his head up to nuzzle his nose with yours, “I think you like me.”

You snort, and kiss him lightly. “What gave you that impression?”

“Y’so fucking cute.” Steve hums and sloooowly pulls his hips back, dragging his cock through your walls so deliciously that your toes curl. “Could be all those times you stared at me in class-” He watches your face as he pushes forward, until his hips are flush with yours and your head arches backwards against his sheets. “Could be when you nearly let me kiss you at prom-” Out. In. Steve runs his tongue up the length of your throat, and bites at your earlobe. He whispers, “Could be that you came on my tongue ten minutes ago.”

He picks up his pace, just a bit. Just enough to have the bed creaking under you with the rhythm, to have you moaning in tandem with him- needy and high pitched, leaping from your throat into the hot, sex-charged air.  

Steve’s lips latch onto your neck, and he sucks hard. He eases up after just a couple seconds, dragging his tongue over the sensitive spot, but you know what he’s just done- he’s marked you, right where you won’t be able to hide it in the morning. 

You want him to do it all over your body.

Your jaw goes slack and you’re losing all integrity. He’s even better than you imagined- sleepless nights wanting, hoping endlessly that you’d find yourself here, under him, couldn’t have prepared you for how perfect it feels. His hand finds yours and laces your fingers together, pinning it to the mattress beside your head, squeezing with every slow and purposeful thrust of his hips. 

Steve’s cock finds your g-spot like it’s nothing, like he’s known your body for ages. He barely even has to try before you’re whimpering, raking your nails up his back and leaving long red trails behind. 

Your teeth latch onto his shoulder and you bite, probably harder than you should, but you just can’t refuse the urge to mark him the way that he’s left his mark on you. He moans, a deep and boyish sound in your ear, as you drag your tongue along his shoulder, soothing the bite, tasting his sweat. The salt and the sweetness of his skin, mixed with the heady smell of sex in the room, have you losing yourself in him.

“Biter.” You hear him chuckle dangerously, rumbling along your skin while his nose skirts your jawline. 

“You’re so good, Stevie-” you whine, hot pleasure rearing up in you like a tidal wave. “Oh, you feel so fucking good, I love- love how you feel inside me.”

Steve groans loudly into your shoulder, his teeth grazing your collarbone. You think he has a mind to bite you back- maybe he’d do it harder. You can see Steve drawing blood, when the mood suits him. 

But his hand squeezes yours, his other sweeping broadly up your thigh and hitching your leg up further over his hip. “Yeah?” His voice is rough, bordering on a growl, “What’d’ya say we stay like this forever, huh? Just like this?” 

His pelvis grinds up against yours, his pubes crushing against your clit making you gasp. Everything’s wet- your skin, his skin, the sheets. Sweaty bodies sticking and sliding against each other, your hips meeting his in the middle.

“Like this?” you gasp, your head reeling. His forehead presses against yours, and it’s just about the only thing bringing you back into focus. Steve doesn’t falter, keeping the same pace and rhythm while he watches you try to form a coherent reply. “Mm- I- I, hhuh-”

“C’mon, babygirl,” he breathes against your damp skin, “you can do better than that. You love my cock so much, you wanna keep it warm all the time? Wanna stay in bed with me forever, is that it?”

You nod fervently, your hands grabbing at his neck, his hair, his shoulder- anywhere you can touch. “Yes, yes. God, Steve, I- you’re gonna make me cum, shit-” 

“I know it,” Steve murmurs, tugging your lip between his teeth and making you whine again. Your cunt pulses around him, and he hisses, his hand slipping on your thigh. “Love seein’ you all drunk on my cock- shit, you’re so gorgeous like this.” He pauses to kiss you, making you lightheaded, making you tug at his hair. “Y’look so pretty under me, baby. Pussy feels so good, I wanna stay here, too. I can see us doin’ this for the rest of our lives, huh? How’s that sound?” 

How does it sound? You and Steve Harrington, together forever? Intertwined, knotted up with no way to lose each other, no disappearing and then reappearing years down the line?

“S’that a challenge?” you whimper shakily at him. “Throwing down the gauntlet?” 

“I don’t think I could let you go, now,” Steve tells you firmly, his hand leaving your thigh so that he can grab your jaw possessively, his tongue darting out to trace gently across your bottom lip. “I’m never gonna let you go, baby.”

You wrap your legs around his waist. “I don’t want you to.”

“I hope so,” he whispers, his breath mingling with yours.

Steve kisses you long and slow when you cum. You swallow his moans when he does.

What would you do? Baby, if you only knew that I can see you, oh, I can see you…

You almost think it’s a dream. When you rouse in the morning, you feel like you imagined it. But you’re surrounded by the scent of Steve, of musky cologne and sweat and sex, and maybe just a little bit of hair gel stuck to his pillows. 

You flop over and stare at the ceiling. You’re alone in a king size bed, fitted with gray sheets and a few too many pillows. The other side of the bed is still warm, but your paramour is nowhere to be found. His bedroom is fairly stark, with a few little things arranged on the dresser top and clothes thrown around the floor. It doesn’t feel like a room he spends much time in, aside from sleeping and dressing in the morning. 

You immediately think about what this all means for you. Whether he really meant what he said in the heat of the moment, if he really wants this to be a long-term thing or if it was just pillow talk. It doesn’t take you long to determine which one you want it to be.

There’s commotion on the other side of the closed door. You lean over the side of the bed, searching for something to put on before you just waltz out there naked. Ultimately, you pull on his blouse from last night.

You emerge from the bedroom squinting against the light in the room. The blinds in the living room are open, casting bright sunlight across the room and into the kitchen. You find Steve in front of the stove.

“Hey, there she is!” he announces happily. “Just in time for breakfast.”

Steve looks so comfortable in the kitchen, moving around quickly and efficiently, whereas you tend to blunder about. When you wander over to the island, you notice he’s already picked up his suit jacket, and laid it across the bar stool next to the one you choose. 

Your underwear is nowhere to be seen.

You grin at his back, plopping down onto the bar stool. The metal is cold against your bare ass, nearly making you squeal and jump back up. “Is it a Sex on the Beach?”

He laughs gleefully. “Nah, if only. How was that, by the way?” 

“The ice cream, or the porn?”

He turns to grin at you over his shoulder. “Both.”

He’s wearing glasses. Round wire frames that complement his face perfectly, making him look distinguished in his gray sweats and black t-shirt. Just like that, you're spiralling. Suddenly, you’re picturing yourself being here, with him cooking breakfast in his glasses and PJ’s every morning, on and on into the future. Doing domestic shit, grocery shopping, dancing around in the kitchen at 3 am, kissing in the rain- well, you’ve already done that one. 

But you can see it. That future, with him by your side, it’s right there. You just don’t know if it’s the one that he wants. You don’t really know how deep this runs for him.

Funny what just an accessory can do to your train of thought.

“Um.” You swallow. What was the question? “The ice cream was great. Still the best sundae I’ve ever had, by the way. The porn was bullshit, I didn’t get through twenty minutes. I just wanted to make you blush.”

“Brat.” He spins around, and plates an omelet right in front of you. You watch his face, tracing the easy smile he wears. “I hope you like it- but if you don’t, you better not say anything. I don’t think I could handle the pain of your rejection.” He looks up at you, hazel eyes shining gold in the sunlight. “You’re staring.”

“I-” you blink at him. You don’t fucking say. You open your mouth to ask- you want to ask what this is, what he feels, did he mean it. Do you want to do this again? Is this serious for you? Because it is for me, if you want it. You just don’t get that far.

“You’ve been staring since we were fourteen,” he chuckles, sliding you a fork. 

That startles you. “Well,” you click your tongue. “I didn’t realize you were looking so closely.”

“Oh,” Steve shrugs, turning to place the pan in the sink with a nonchalant hum. “Just since freshman year. When you read Juliet’s monologue in English class. Remember?”

You tilt your head. Vaguely. It was just a class project, where each person had to choose a Shakespearean monologue to recite in front of the class. You thought he only even became aware of you senior year.

Romeo, doff thy name, And for that name which is no part of thee, Take all myself. 

“Are you telling me,” you say, palms flat on the counter as you peer at him incredulously, “you’ve liked me just as long as I’ve liked you?”

“Told you I’d get there, eventually.”

Your brain refuses to compute. You stare at his back, his tousled hair, and want to yank him toward you and squeeze him like one of those fucking squeaky toys that you get at the pet store. The ones the eyes pop out of.

Steve turns to you with a smirk, leaning across the counter to mirror you. He reaches forward to trace the mark he made on your neck, still tender, while mocking your pout back at you. His eyes crease at the corners, like they always do when he's trying to be coy.

“Eat your breakfast, baby. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fanfiction #fic rec #steve harrington fic rec

[buckys-black-dress]

just a general PSA!

from here on out as i continue my writing on this blog, i’m going to mostly focus on finishing out the series’ that i’ve begun. i want to give you guys a full story because i sure know how much it sucks to have a series discontinued right in the middle! so expect some more chapters coming soon :)

below are the two series’ that i am currently writing!

a fine line (college prof au)

play the game (fratboy!bucky)

[buckys-black-dress]

heaven won't be the same

a/n: hello!!!!! i know it's been, like, a really really long time since i've written for you guys. depression + nursing school = even worse depression. anyways, here's something that i wrote to just kinda get me back into the groove of writing. enjoy!

wc: 5.7k words

warnings: NONE. she's chill today.

[ bucky barnes x nurse!fem!reader ]

-

Is this is the right place?

Looks like it. Just knock. What's the worst that could happen?

Your hand lifts, albeit hesitantly, and raps against the wooden door.

You wait a moment before you hear shuffling on the other side, and then the lock turning and the door opens.

The blond who opens it stares at you, searching for some sort of recognition in your eyes, but comes up a bit short.

"Can I help you?" He asks slowly, clearly confused.

"Hi, I'm Y/N. I can't remember which one of you I spoke with, I think his name was Sam. But I'm here to look at the room you guys are renting?" You ask gently, maybe you were in the wrong place.

"Oh! You're Y/N! Yes, yeah, I know who you are, come in." Recognition dawns on the blue-eyed boy's face. "By the way, I'm Steve. I don't know how much Sam has told you about us but I wasn't expecting a girl to want to live with three guys." He chuckles and you return the laugh.

"Yeah, I mean I was a bit hesitant at first because I thought I'd get murdered by you guys or something, but Sam made it very clear that you're all very nice people and won't watch me while I sleep." You reply with a small smile.

Steve looks at you in silence.

"Just kidding!" You let out a laugh. "But my mom was a bit worried about me living with three men, but I convinced her nothing bad was going to happen. I hope."

"Hey, seriously though, we wouldn't want to make you feel unsafe. I know being a woman in this day and age in New York can be... less than pleasant. We're big on respect here at 6A." He flashes you a smile that for sure has made a girl weak in the knees before.

"Thanks, Steve. I appreciate that. I mean I know you guys probably weren't expecting a girl as your fourth roommate, so I'm just happy to find space where I can."

"I mean, hey, it's not what we were expecting, but we're not picky people." Steve shrugs. "Wanna take a look at your room? Then we can go from there and get your stuff moved in."

"Sure, sounds great!"

He leads you down the hallway and opens a door, revealing the room you saw on the listing.

After chattering about the room and how they were excited to have you live with them, he takes you back to main living area to wrap up any other loose ends.

"Alright, so like I said we do have two bathrooms so you might have to share with Bucky, since his room is also on that side of the apartment but that shouldn't be a problem. And also, I can help move in your things if you don't wanna go through the hassle of getting moving guys and all that."

"Oh, you don't have to do that for me, I don't mind at all-"

"Hey, no worries, I'm happy to help." Steve smiles and you nod in response.

"Thanks. I didn't know I'd be getting such a deal moving in with you guys." You laugh.

"I'm just happy to help. I'm sure Sam and Buck can also help since they'll be around later tonight."

-

And so it began.

All of your boxes were in the rented U-Haul at the front of your new home. You text Steve to let him know you're downstairs, and a feeling sits in your gut.

You were nervous to live with three random stranger men. Granted, Sam and Steve were both so nice, and you really are getting a great deal with this apartment, being so close to your work and all.

"Hey Y/N! Let's get this show on the road." Steve comes outside, guns blazing, (literally, have you seen his biceps?), and ready to work.

It only takes an hour or so to get all your things inside, and Sam was waiting inside to take things directly to your new room. Although you still haven't met Bucky, you knew it couldn't be too bad. Steve and Sam were angels.

-

The first time you met Bucky was when he returned from his shift. He worked as a bartender. He had odd hours and often didn't come back until 3 AM most nights that he worked.

Hence, the reason why he was confused when he saw you in the kitchen in the middle of the night.

"Hey... who are you?" He asked, dropping his keys into the bowl next to the door.

"Oh!" Your head whipped around at the sound of the door shutting "Steve mentioned that you worked weird hours. I'm Y/N." You extend your hand to him. "I'm the new roommate. I hope they told you about me." You huff out a laugh, hoping he wouldn't be completely weirded out by you.

"Oh, yeah. Sorry, I totally missed that you were moving in today. Don't worry, they did mention you." He returned your smile while shaking your hand.

His large, callused hand engulfing yours made your heart pound in your chest. Jesus. Are all the guys who live here male models? What the hell?

"Well, it was really nice meeting you, Y/N. I'm gonna head to bed, work totally got me shot. I'll see you in the morning?"

"Yeah, yes. I'm usually out the door by 6:30 by the latest, so I'll catch you if you're up." You smile.

"6:30 in the morning? Yeah, no chance I'll see you then but you'll catch me before my shift. I forgot, Sam did mention you were a nurse."

"For sure, I also have the next day off so that'll probably be a bit more realistic."

"How about we go get breakfast that day? On me, consider it a welcome-to-the-apartment gift from me." Bucky's grin spreads across his face, and you can't help notice just how handsome he is.

"Deal, Bucky. Good night."

-

After you both got over the initial awkwardness, you and Bucky became the most unlikely pair. Sharing a bathroom was breeze, your schedules aligned perfectly some days, meaning that the two of you spent most of your free time together.

It was a strange feeling. You loved becoming friends with Bucky. He was so easy to talk to, and understood you better than most others. It was so natural and easy with him, like you'd known him forever.

But another part of you was falling for him, and you knew it. You chose to ignore it, deciding that it was silly and that you just liked him as a friend. A best friend, perhaps.

At times, he did little things that made you think otherwise, though.

The cuddling during movie nights. The 'I got this for you because it made me think of you's. It was something that ate at you daily.

You two practically did everything together. In a way, it was like being in a relationship, but with no pressure. No expectations. Just two people, hanging out and being there for the other. It meant nothing (but everything, at the same time.)

He was always there for you. After a hard shift, you came home and sat quietly while you talked about whatever it was that bothered you. And after his shifts at the bar, he did the same.

It was almost too easy, the way you two could fall into a rhythms so easily. It was so nice to have someone to have around after moving into a new place. You two clicked effortlessly, it seemed.

And of course, they don't call it falling in love for nothing.

-

Tonight, you had a night shift, which meant you went to bed all day until about 4 PM and then proceeded to get ready for your evening at the hospital.

You were in the bathroom washing your face and braiding your hair back, then pulling on your under-scrub top.

The door creaks open, revealing a smiling Bucky.

He's dressed head to toe in black; a tight t-shirt that looks like it's a size too small, black jeans, black leather boots, and finally, a leather jacket thrown over his arm.

"I hate when you have the night shift. I'm so lonely during the day, and of course you have it on my one night off." He whines, and you shoot him a look through the mirror.

"Well, I wouldn't have taken the night shift but they were offering extra pay since no one wanted to cover. Sorry, honey." You turn around and pat his chest to move him out of the doorway, an exaggerated pout on your face.

Fuck me, those eyes, Bucky thinks to himself at the gesture.

Your touch sent a flutter of butterflies against his stomach, making him move out of your way so you could pull on your socks and gather your things into your bag.

"Where are you all dressed up for on your night off then?" You ask out loud while stuffing your arms through your fleece jacket.

"I- uh, funny story, actually." He laughs out a cough, "I have a date." He presses his lips together.

"Oh. A date." You stop what you were doing, back turned to him.

You can feel his eyes burning through the back of your head, but you can't turn to face him right now. Snapping out your thoughts, you continue gathering your things.

"Yeah, this girl at the bar, she works as a waitress actually. She asked for my number, and well one thing led to another and-"

"You don't have to explain yourself to me, Buck. I'm happy for you. Have a great date, I have to run. Good luck." You muster the best smile you can in that moment and practically run out of your room.

"Wait, are you okay?" He asks in a rush, following close behind you.

"Of course I'm okay, why wouldn't I be? I have to get to work." You were almost an hour early. You stop to fill your water bottle from the fridge and make your escape. "I'll see you tomorrow!" You yell from the hallway before the door shuts, the slam resounding through the emptiness.

The moment of silence in the elevator gets you lost in your thoughts for a minute.

A date.

With a girl who works at the bar.

You don't know why this is hurting your chest so terribly. The thought of Bucky, your closest friend, going on a date, tugs at something.

Whatever happens, you know you can't say anything. It's not your place. You just have to let it run its course, whether it goes in a good direction or not. You have to just do your best to be happy for Bucky.

-

Meanwhile, back at the apartment;

"Did Y/N leave for work already?" Steve asks, coming out of his room.

"Yeah, she basically ran out even though her shift isn't til seven." Bucky's brows are furrowed, still standing in the middle of the kitchen thinking about how you practically raced to get away from him.

"Why'd she leave so early?" Steve asks in confusion, eyes flashing to the oven, seeing the digital clock flashing 5:56 PM. "It only takes her like 20 minutes to get there."

While discussing, Sam pops out of his own bedroom, listening in on the conversation between the two.

"I don't know, we were just talking about plans tonight and she got really weird, all of a sudden. She grabbed all her stuff for her shift and just bolted." Bucky was incredibly confused, and it was clear in his tone and facial expression.

He looked like a lost puppy.

"So what are you doing tonight?" Sam asks, wondering what was bothering you. Maybe it was something Bucky said?

"I was just hanging out in her room while she was getting ready, and then she asked what I was dressed for and I told her about that girl, Christina, the one from the bar that asked for my number and asked to go on a date. Then she basically ran." Bucky shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know what even happened, she even said I 'don't have to explain myself to her,' and that she had to leave."

Steve and Sam shoot a look between each other, the latter breathing out a deep sigh.

"What? What's that sigh?" Bucky asks.

"Nothing, Buck. Have you thought that maybe the date was what was bothering her? You two spend a lot of time together, and maybe she feels a little... blindsided by this date." Steve reasons.

"What? Why would she feel blindsided? I tell her everything. She tells me everything. That's just how we are." Bucky responds with a shake of the head, hands flailing in the air.

"But what about her? Does she tell you about the dates she goes on?" Sam asks, and Bucky's brows furrow.

"What dates? She goes on dates? With who?"

Another look shared between Steve and Sam.

"See, maybe she doesn't go on dates. I really don't know. But that reaction is why she felt hurt by you telling her about you going on a date." Steve explains.

Bucky's lost.

"She has feelings for you, Buck. She has feelings and she's hurt that you're going on a date because she never goes on dates, and now she's realizing that she's going to get left behind in the dust when you meet another girl." Sam supplies.

Now Bucky's even more lost.

"But... why wouldn't she tell me she has feelings for me? She's never even indicated that there was anything she felt for me more than friends do." He explains, now wracking his brain for every single interaction you two have had.

"Listen... we don't know what goes on when you guys are alone. But what I do know is that you guys spend a lot of time together, and I think you guys both have some... unspoken feelings for each other."

Bucky stands there, contemplating what this meant. What was he saying? That he should come clean to you about his feelings for you? That going on this date tonight would be a mistake?

Fuck, the date.

"Listen, I gotta go. My date's expecting me." Bucky quickly dismisses the entire conversation, putting him arms through the arms of his leather jacket before heading out the door.

Another sigh was shared between the two men left behind in the apartment.

-

There were pros and cons to working the night shift.

Pros included that it was calm, most of the time. Nights meant time to catch up on charting and paperwork while patients slept, checking in on them when needed.

Cons included the fact that one of the major thoughts blaring in your mind was 'WHILE YOU'RE SITTING HERE MEASURING THIS PATIENT'S OUTPUT, BUCKY IS ON A DATE WITH A SUPER HOT GIRL FROM HIS WORK!!!'

It sucked.

You wished you could shut it off. Of course, you always had to make sure you were giving your patients the best care possible, but your mind was plagued.

Would you ever tell him how you felt? Could you ever take that risk? The thought of even telling him, let alone being rejected, makes you sick to your stomach.

He would never speak to you again. It would be weird between you two, and then it would be weird between everyone in the apartment, and you would never be able to show your face again and would have to move out. There’s no other feasible option.

Unless…

Unless Bucky liked you back.

But you don’t even let your mind wander there, because you couldn’t even stomach the thought of not being around them. They were your family, the people you spent the most time with, the ones you could always count on when you had a rough day or needed a shoulder to lean on. Especially Bucky.

You simply couldn’t lose them.

And so, your night shift went on and the world still spun, even with your feelings buried deep in your chest.

-

When you walked into your apartment at 7:30 AM, there were some things you noticed that weren’t there when you had left.

First, it was the pretty black kitten heels by the door that certainly weren’t yours.

Then, for example, a cute leather purse hanging from a barstool by the kitchen island that wasn’t yours.

You put two and two together, and despite the harsh clench of your chest, you decided you were too tired to even think about all this right now. You just needed to take a shower and go straight to bed.

After staying true to your words, you had just shut the door to the bathroom when you heard it open again. Then, the water running from the tap, and then you see the handle of your door turning.

Immediately, you throw yourself under your covers and act like you had already been asleep. You simply couldn’t face Bucky right now. Not after knowing that he brought that girl home, and not after she was probably still in his bed. That was just too far for you.

With your face away from the door, you try and make your breaths as even as possible, hearing the door click open.

You could feel Bucky’s eyes burning into you, but you weren’t giving yourself away. You needed sleep before dealing with this.

Once you hear the door shut, you let out a big breath, your heart practically leaping out of your chest. And with that breath, you allow your eyes to only well with tears, but not letting them fall.

-

You woke again at 3 PM, but with knowing you had the next day off you weren’t in any rush to start your day. You didn't even want to move. You felt as though you got hit by a bus, between the racing thoughts about... well you know who they were about; and then piled on with the unexpected code in the middle of your shift, it was not a peaceful night.

You got your much needed rest, but you were in no mood to face Bucky right now.

But alas, your stomach spoke (rather growled violently), and you had to eat something before your stomach folded in on itself.

As you crack the door open to inspect the hall, you see that Bucky's door is closed but you hear noises from the direction of the living room.

You weigh your options.

Go out and make yourself something to eat and possibly face Bucky.

Starve.

Although the latter was looking like a great option, another whoosh from your stomach made you man up and step out of the room.

You couldn't even bring yourself to look at who was in the apartment, eyes dead-set on the pasta sauce you knew was in the fridge.

"Hey, Y/N! How was the night shift?" Sam's chirpy question came from the couch.

"It was alright, had a code but he pulled through. What did you two get up to last night?" You ask, seeing that Steve and Bucky were sitting on the couch opposite to Sam.

You couldn't even look him in the eye, while you knew he was watching you.

"Not much, just had a few beers and chilled til Buck got back, caused quite the ruckus." Sam lets out a laugh, but the words pierced through your heart as you pour the pasta into the boiling pot of water you'd set on the stove.

"Oh, nice." You reply, albeit shortly. You didn't know what to say. But of course, your mouth runs farther ahead than your brain. "How was that date, Bucky?"

You didn't care how the date was. You know she came back here, and you had absolutely zero interest in finding out what they did together. You couldn't handle hearing him tell you about it.

"It was... it was good. She came back here after." Was all he said. He looked at you with those wide, crazy eyes. You wanted to crumble under his gaze, but instead you just turned around to focus on your food.

"Nice. Great. I'm glad it went well for you." You said, not facing him.

The three boys give each other a look, and the tension could be cut with a knife.

Another loud growl from your stomach.

Fuck.

You check and the pasta is cooked. You drain it, pour your sauce and cheese, and practically sprint back to your room with a resounding click of your door through the apartment. Dishes be damned.

-

Outside, breaths were still held.

"Jesus, Sam. Could you have made it sound worse than it was?" Bucky grits through his teeth, pushing his shoulder aggressively.

"Well, you did bring her back here. Did I misspeak?" He responds.

"No, but we just hung out! Nothing even happened! Why is this even so awkward between us? It's not a crime if I did sleep with her." Bucky defends, but is confused about this situation.

"Well, it wouldn't be a crime, but it sure wouldn't be a good thing that you slept with someone else when you clearly have feelings for her!" Steve chimes in as quietly as possible.

-

You feel so stupid.

The urge hits you like a truck.

Should you also be going on dates? What was it that was so deeply holding you back from doing what Bucky's doing?

You could make all the excuses you want; busy with work, too tired, and that you were happy with your friendships and current relationships, even if they were all platonic.

But that was all before, when you thought Bucky felt the same.

You thought that he was also happy with the way you two were. Doing all the things people in relationships do, but not speaking out about those deeply-buried feelings. And that was enough. You didn't need someone to tell you they loved you as more than a friend, you didn't need that yearning feeling to be filled.

It was all bullshit, anyways. Right?

Right?

Right.

He could date people and have a girlfriend that he could do all those things with.

It didn't matter.

Because apparently, you weren't that person to him.

So you would just have to accept that and move on with your life.

Alone.

Again.

-

"Again with these damn feelings! You two don't even know your heads from your asses, and you wanna tell me about how my feelings!" Bucky scrambles for words. He feels hot and uncomfortable all over, all the while trying to not raise his voice.

"Bucky! You felt that tension in here? Right? That was because she had a problem! And it could all easily fixed if you just said, 'Hey, I know this is crazy, but I like you! And I didn't sleep with anyone else because of that!' Huh? How 'bout that?" Sam suggests, like it was the easiest thing to do in the world.

"Yeah, and what if she laughs in my face? What if that's totally not the case?!" Bucky responds.

"Buck, I think you just need to trust us on this one. She likes you and you like her. I don't know what else to tell you to make you understand." Steve finally sighs and drops his shoulders, over this whole conversation.

"Listen, she has tomorrow off. If you two end up hanging out, you need to say something. The tension is just too much." Sam just sighs and turns the TV on, preemptively ending the conversation.

Bucky just went into his room, placed his headphones over his head, and spent some time alone to think.

Let's think rationally.

You went on a date, and you didn't sleep with her.

What Bucky was coming to realize, is that there was a reason he didn't sleep with her.

He just couldn't.

It felt wrong, like he knew that there was a reason why he couldn't do it, subconsciously.

And he fully went into the date wanting to sleep with her. That was his goal. But he knew that if he did, it would be the point of no return. For some reason, he just felt it in his gut.

Realistically, even if I slept with her, I probably would've been sick with myself. I couldn't even face her after that.

But why?

Because you like her, you absolute moron.

He thinks of all the moments shared between you two. The stares, the cuddling, the innocent touches that drove him insane. All of those things added up in his mind to become one big jumble of feelings and now his brain felt like it was going to burst from how much this was all hitting him at once.

He springs off his bed.

Before he even turns the corner into the living room, words are spilling out of his mouth.

"You know what, maybe subconsciously even my body knew not to sleep with her, but even then how could I know for sure she likes me?-"

But there you are, sitting between Steve and Sam, tears leaking out of the corners of your eyes, gazing up at him in shock.

Clearly, you three were in the middle of something.

"You didn't sleep with her?" Your voice is meek at the question.

"No. I couldn't do it." He says, like it was obvious.

"Why not?" You fire back.

"I- I just... can we not do this out here? Please?" Bucky practically begs. He can't confess his deep and utter devotion to you in front of his two best friends. They'd never let him live it down.

"Come with me." Bucky runs into his room, throwing you a hoodie of his that he knew you were partial to, and then slid on his own jacket. Shoes are stuffed onto his feet, and he sees you doing the same, but your eyes never leave his figure in confusion.

The keys are grabbed from the bowl, and the door swings open while he holds it open for you.

Before Bucky lets the door shut, he gives Sam and Steve a final look; meanwhile the two are jumping up and down and pumping their fists in the air silently. It was almost comical.

"Where are we going?" Your voice from behind him startles him a bit, forgetting what he was even supposed to be doing.

"Just- put this on, honey." He hands you his spare motorcycle helmet, and you almost want to protest, but you wanted to see where this was going.

So you comply and hold onto him for dear life while he weaves in and out of traffic.

He stops, finally, in front of the place you know Bucky always comes to when he has too much on his mind.

It's a wide expanse of the city, a rooftop that he somehow had access to; and you weren't sure what you were doing here.

"What are we doing here?" You don't even let your mind think about what he was here to tell you.

Was he here to break the news to you that he was seeing this girl?

But you still couldn't figure out why he would bring you here to tell you that, and why he hadn't slept with her last night. Did she mean more to him than he let on? Is that why he wanted to wait to sleep with her?

The thought sends you heart sinking into your stomach.

"I have something I need to tell you." Bucky pauses and gazes so deeply into your eyes, something swimming in his blue irises, but you couldn't tell what. That was what scared you the most.

"I... I haven't been completely honest with you about how I've been feeling as of late. And I can't keep... keep being dishonest to myself and you, Y/N."

Tears were welling against your lashline, begging to be released at his words.

This was it. It’s all about to be over for good.

He approaches closer, hands coming to your jawline; his hold so delicate and soft that it makes you even more upset.

"Y/N... You are the most important person in my life. I can't imagine sharing any part of my life without you. You're the only person I want to see when I have something on my mind, I yearn for your touch when you aren't there, and lately, I've been confused as hell trying to understand why." His soft voice makes you weak in the knees.

Cue more tears.

"I just... I'm sorry I waited so long to tell you. And I'm sorry I went on that date... I'm sorry for a lot of things."

"Can I ask you something?" You ask quietly.

"Of course, honey."

"Why didn't you sleep with her?"

The weight of the question sits heavily in the air, and Bucky's features soften a smidge.

"I couldn't do it. I tried to get myself into it, into her. Both figuratively and literally." He laughs at his own joke, "but no part of me wanted to spend time with her over you. All I could think about was you. The entire date, I was thinking about what you were doing. What you were thinking about. You're all that takes up my mind these days. It kills me, not being around you when you're gone. I wish I could express to you how much I love you, but there aren't any words that could explain the extent of my feelings for you, Y/N. All I can really say is that I love you. You're my best friend. I can't think of anyone else who has the same effect on me that you have."

All you can think of you when you hear those words is the pounding in your chest and the fluttering in your lungs.

A wet, snotty smile crosses your face and you let out a garbled laugh.

"You love me?" Your hands slide up his chest to his shoulders, fingers grasping onto them.

"For as long as I can remember, honey. You're everything to me. The stars, the moon, the sky. It's all you." He returns the same smile, large thumbs caressing under your eyes to swipe at the fallen tears at his admission. "Do you love me?"

The way he asks you the question makes it sound so minuscule, so minute and almost childish, because you think he knows the answer.

"I do. I love you so much that I can't even think properly when I'm around you, Bucky. You take up every inch of my heart and my mind. I love you." You confess, the words spilling out of you like they belonged to him.

The grin that stretches across his cheeks is almost unreal, like a cartoon character. You could practically see the hearts in his eyes at your words.

The kiss that he molds upon your lips with his own steals all the air out of your lungs, and while one of your hands threads through his soft locks at the nape of his neck and your eyes fall shut, the other slides down to his chest, resting right over his heart.

You feel it against your palm and fingers, the pounding of the organ at the feeling of finally kissing you.

You wish he could feel yours, equally as loud and obvious.

His own hands are cradling your cheeks ever so gently, but the way he's kissing you is anything but. It was full of want, need, yearning. Everything you’ve been waiting for for months, finally being released in this moment.

When he finally pulls away for air, your eyes remain closed. You never wanted this moment to end, and if you opened your eyes now, you're afraid you'll wake and this will all be a cruel dream.

"Let me see those eyes, sweetheart." He mumbles and you can almost feel the words against your lips.

When your eyes peel open again almost drowsily, Bucky's smile is all you see. His nose is still brushing against yours, and you feel weak in the knees all over again at the proximity.

"I love you. And you love me. You know what that means?" He says.

"What?" Is all you can muster to reply at the moment.

"It means I owe those two bozos at home an apology and a beer, probably."

The laugh that escapes you lights him up inside, the sound being his favorite thing in the world. If he could make you laugh forever, he'd die a happy man.

"They knew this whole time, y'know? They actually confronted me about it. I didn't even tell them first. I guess I was just that obvious." You laugh at the memory, Bucky fondly smiling.

"I expect nothing less from them. You should've seen Sam before I left last night. Acting like he was your dad or something." Bucky's large arms come to wrap around you, holding you against his body.

"Oh, I wouldn't wanna be on side of Sam's attitude. I'm glad you made it out alive." You giggle once more, arms looping around his neck.

"Now when we go back I'm gonna have to face the 'I told you so's' from them. Kill me now." He rolls his eyes at the thought.

"Well, if they kill you now, you wouldn't be able to take me out to dinner tomorrow night." You tell him coyly, like the idea was already put in place.

"Huh, seems like you're right, honey. Couldn't leave my one and only girl hanging."

Bucky finally releases you from his hold- not that you wanted to be released of it- and walks towards the stairwell to head back down.

"C'mon. We've got a movie and ice cream waiting for us at home, sweetheart." He holds out his hand, and you don't hesitate to leap forward and grab it in your own.

"Let's go, Buck. I have lots to tell you about my shift last night."

"Oh, I'm sure the night shift was just riveting." He laughs as he leads you down the steps.

"Yeah, well all I could really think about was you being on a date with that girl, so yeah, maybe not the most pleasant time to have all night to yourself." You scoff.

"Well, you're never gonna have to worry about that again, will you?" He steals another peck from your lips, the blush creeping across your face at the gesture.

"I suppose not, no."

-

fin.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky imagine #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes one shot #mimimi hey guys sorry it's been literally like a decade since i've posted real content but HERE SHE IS !!!

[buckys-black-dress]

hi yes i’m alive yes i’m working on some things for you guys and NO i am not giving up on writing i’m just BURNT OUT!!!

[buckys-black-dress]

GOD ARE YOU KIDDING ME? THIS IS SO FUCKING GOOD!!!! I AM SOBBING!!!🥹🥹🥹

It’s Just a Question

A/N: Back on my bullshit. I’ve had some really hard times with my normal writing while also finding myself in some shitty circumstances. So this is how this came about. Just a lot of feelings. Technically plus sized reader but you can do whatever you want.

18+ NSFW No Minors

“Am I pretty?”

“What?” Eddie sprays toothpaste on the mirror, he’s so quick to ask.

“Am I pretty?” You scrunch your face up over and over, drawing your eyebrows down and crinkling your eyes. Purse your lips and frown deep and finally look over at him staring at you, toothbrush hanging from his mouth and arms braced on the countertop.

“Are you pretty?” He reiterates with a deep sigh. “Of course you are, you’re gorgeous. Especially right now when your hair matches mine and we look like two electrocuted cotton balls.” He’s not flippant but he’s definitely brushing you off.

You aren’t done though. “I’m serious, and I’m not asking if you think I’m pretty. Am I pretty like…Anne Hathaway.” You pull down on your cheek and watch it bounce back, albeit slower than it did when you were 20.

“Well…you don’t even look-no.” He stops quickly and spits in the sink and rinses his toothbrush, viciously shaking his head the whole time. “This is a trap and I refuse.” He says as he leaves you in the bathroom.

“Eddie it’s not a trap it’s an honest question!”

“This is like the worm thing and I’m not doing that again!” He yells over his shoulder before closing himself in the bedroom to get dressed for work. You sigh and turn to look at your tired reflection. Your perpetual eyebags answer your question for you, and your dusting of sun damage yells it louder from the mirror.

Not pretty, subliminally average.

Standing in line at the grocery store, Eddie slumped over the handle and picking at stray grapes, you ask again only this time with a visual aid.

“Okay, I mean like this.” You shove a copy of Rolling Stone under his nose, a new pop star gracing their cover in something sheer and tight. “I meant pretty like this.” You say quietly next to him. He chews on another free grape slowly, staring at the cover and tilting his head. He doesn’t move, just slides his eyes way over to give you the look.

“You’re prettier than her.”

“What about Juno Temple?” You quip back.

“She’s shorter than you. And British, doesn’t count.” He quips right back. You huff and shove the magazine back in its slot.

“You’re not understanding me.”

“No, I am. You’re just not listening to me.” He pushes the cart up a spot and continues his easy lean. “You’re pretty like…that.” He searches the newsstand by the register and points at a baking magazine, perfectly circled apple tart dusted with sugared cinnamon and you bark a loud laugh.

“A tart Edward?”

“Don’t twist my words. I said you’re pretty like that.” He smiles, pops another grape in his mouth and starts tossing things on the conveyer belt.

Pretty like a baked good.

He’s elbow deep in the shelf of succulents, looking for something called a ‘Black Rose’.

“I know it’s in here, there’s four dead ones up top.” He’s pushing little green teardrops to the side to find his prize, a loud ‘Ha!’ when he whips his hand out, holding the little plant by its little container.

“It’s so tiny.”

“Yeah and in like six months it might not be.” He gives you a cheesy smile and sets in the cart with your other potential house plant failures. Somehow he’s managed to keep a giant flat pot of succulents alive for almost a year and every time you go to the plant store, he adds another.

“Okay, what’s its name.”

You hum at him, tapping your finger along the cart when you get distracted. A willow of a woman walks in, hair shiny like water and flowing over her thin, petite shoulders. She looks like she’s on a mission, perfectly manicured hand pointing her in the right direction when she heads for a batch of bright zinnias. Her smile painted a bright coral like the plant she picks up and places in her cart, three more following and off she billows to the next aisle full of ivy. Eddie saw it the moment you stopped listening to him listing off names. The swivel of your head and then the tapping of your finger ceasing, knuckles going white around the cart handle. He watches you watch her and he knows the question is coming before you turn back around with that frown hewn into your forehead.

“Like this.” He holds up the small succulent, barely formed petals burnished a deep purple in the afternoon sun.

“What.”

“Pretty like this.”

“You don’t even-“ You scoff and cut yourself off, heavy eye roll directed at no one while you turn away and sulk by the snake plants.

He doesn’t tell you, but he names it after you.

The Big One happens during the summer. Chrissy is engaged, and her new belle and her decide to have a joint bachelorette party, everyone invited. You know Eddie’s people, all these random characters drawn together through something you don’t quite understand. You meet Chrissy fiancé and she’s just as bubbly and sweet as Chrissy herself. Eddie gives them your gift and drops a kiss on Chrissy’s cheek and it barely bothers you.

They’d dated just out of high school. 15 years ago and before Chrissy had realized why men just never hit the spot. She floats around her party and you hang around behind Eddie while he walks the two of you around in conversation. At some point you’d gone past your standard three (3) drinks and the mango seltzers are starting to make you a little resentful.

Thankfully you catch it, excuse yourself to the bathroom and give yourself a stern stare in the mirror.

It’s not your party.

They’re just friends.

It’s not about you.

…Is it ever?

There’s a reason you stop at 3 lately, that rolling black pit of self loathing feeds on bubbly things and it’s feeding on a blonde tonight.

So when you come back you sit at a table by yourself. You tuck your hands under your thighs and admonish yourself for how wide they are. There’s a tug of war happening between your self pity and your self depreciation, a tear balancing on your lashes while you roll the wet eyes under them. Eddie finds you bent over your phone and all you can think about is how wide your shoulders must have looked from that far away.

“Hey, where’d you go?”

“I had to uh, go to the bathroom.” Your pause gives you away, just south of tipsy, and Eddie smiles, his big hand sliding under your chin to hold it between his fingers. A move that usually has you melting into his palm, but tonight?

You tug your head away and he frowns. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t think I need to be here anymore.”

“You feeling okay?”

“I’m just fine. I’m gonna get an Uber home, you stay.” You stand up and hate the feel of your clothes on you. Your hair feels too heavy and the makeup you spent an hour on is suddenly sticky and tacky and wasted on you.

“No, we’ll leave together.” Eddie has concern all over his face. He tries to give you a hand when you obviously stumble and you slap it away.

The fight only starts when you start crying, unable to control your emotions anymore. You spend the whole ride home feeling sorry for yourself, saying the most inane shit Eddie’s ever heard.

“You can’t ask me to compare you to Chrissy. That’s not fair!” He laughs humorlessly when you ask him who’s prettier. “One, it was 15 years ago! Two, I’m not doing this anymore!” He yells and it shuts you up. He can hear the click of your jaw with how quick you stop yammering on drunkenly about your thighs.

“If you want to play that game, let’s look at your past relationships, huh?”

“What relationships Eddie?!” You scream back at him. There’s a part of his being that can feel the backslide into the terrible habit of yelling to get his point across. Picked up from his father and quelled at every turn, but today you drag it out of him.

“Oh don’t start with that shit again.”

“You mean all the guys that fucked me in the dark?! Or do you mean the ones that pretended not to know me in public?”

He gets to your apartment in record time, slamming the car in park and scrambling to hold your seatbelt buckled before you can run out.

“Let me out.” Your face is red from crying and from hatred and from loathing.

“No.” He says quieter but with finality. You stare at him, waiting for him to move his hand but he won’t, keeps his fingers locked around yours.

“You’re drunk, and you’ve been in a bad mood lately.” He knows he knows he knows that was the wrong thing to say. It spilled out of his mouth before he could throw the net out for those errant words and you give him the meanest smile he’s ever seen on your face.

“A bad mood?” You nod your head like you’re agreeing but he’s bracing for impact. “A bad mood. Tell you what, when I have a fucking roster of groupies and easy boys behind me, then we can talk about my bad mood.”

“You’re mad because of people I’ve slept with?”

“Look at me Eddie!” You scream and it breaks on his name, the sob you’d been swallowing for an hour finally surfacing. “I don’t fucking look like Chrissy and I sure as fuck don’t look like Steve! You still have that picture of that stand in drummer on your profile you fucked around with! Every single one of them is-fuck! Stunning!” You finally wrench the seatbelt out of his hand and free yourself. “I look like a fucking joke when you take me places. You think I don’t see people staring?” Another mirthless laugh before you kick the door open and wobble your way out. “Make someone else laugh, Eddie.”

He watches you stomp off inside and slap the button for the elevator. There’s enough time he could get out and follow you in and upstairs and finish the yelling match and maybe get you to see straight.

But he doesn’t. His grip tightens on the steering wheel so much it creaks. He feels on the verge of tears and when you disappear behind the closing doors he punches his door and drives home too fast.

The doorbell rings and Eddie answers it without thinking. You look small in your hoodie, your hair damp and braided over your shoulder. He’s so used to you standing tall with him, a sturdy pillar he can lean on instead of always having to be the support. To see your shoulders pulled in tight makes his chest ache.

“I’m sorry I haven’t answered your texts.” You say quietly.

“I shouldn’t have yelled like that.”

“God don’t-“ you wipe at your eyes and stare at your feet. “Don’t apologize to me. I shouldn’t have gone off the fucking handle like that.”

“Maybe, but you’re obviously feeling some kind of way that you aren’t telling me about.”

“It’s the normal shit, Eddie. I just let it get to me.”

He holds the door open wider and nods his head over to the couch. “You wanna tell me about it?”

You don’t, not really. It’s going to go the way it always does with you explaining a life long loathing and the few times you see daylight out of the pit it holds you in.

“I shouldn’t have started that pretty shit.” You shake your head and clutch the pillow tighter around your middle. Eddie sits on the other side of the couch, long legs tucked up under his chin and you wish you could fold in on yourself like that. There must be a twist to your mouth or a shift of your body because Eddie sighs deeply.

“You know you don’t have to ask me that.”

“I know, but that’s not what I was asking anyways.”

“What does it matter?”

You shoot him a puzzled look. “I mean, I just want-I’d like to know if-“ you start and stop and Eddie just waits until you stop floundering.

“If I think you’re pretty, what does the rest matter?”

“It just does.” Your bottom lip wobbles and you hide it behind your fist. Eddie catches it, of course, and crawls over to you, grabbing your quivering chin and making you look up.

“I can’t undo a lifetime of self loathing in one afternoon, but I can definitely help cut through that shit one compliment at a time.” He gives you a gentle kiss and feels the smattering of tears hit your face, his thumb coming up to wipe them away. He cradles your face till you bury it in his neck and quietly cry for a while.

You loose count of how many sorry’s you give him and he finally tells you enough with a smile. He gives you his phone and tells you to order dinner and he disappears for a few minutes in his room.

Later, after food and more talking and a quiet nap spent curled up against Eddie’s side he asks if he can take you to bed.

“Sure grampa.” He smiles at your humor, an improvement to the tears earlier. He gets you out of your Sad Clothes and you quickly get under the blankets. He wants to say something but he knows to start small.

Starts with the lights off and sheds his clothes before crawling under the blankets from the foot of the bed. It makes you laugh and wind your legs around him, a win in his book. He kisses up your legs leaving a wet trail from your ankles to your thighs before you feel your face growing hot the closer he gets to your center. When you think he might pull your underwear off he doesn’t, instead kissing up your soft stomach to your breast and it isn’t until his curls spill out from under the blanket that you can hear him murmuring against your skin. Chanting “beautiful beautiful beautiful” and laying down “I love you’s”. His nose runs along under your chin while he kisses up to your ear “so pretty so perfect”. He runs his hands up into your hair and hold you in place while he hovers, warm brown eyes staring lovingly into yours.

“You have no idea how lucky I am.”

“Eddie…”

“No, don’t start.” He kisses you long and slow and it makes you tear up in a good way. He notices them hanging in the corners of your eyes and kisses those away while you laugh at him, watery and light and he knows he’s winning. It isn’t long before he’s got you trapped under him, legs tugged up around his hips so he can fuck into you slow and deep, his fingers still carding through your hair and keeping your eyes on him.

“So good for me.”

“Keep your eyes on me baby.”

“Just me and you.”

You couldn’t close your eyes if you wanted to, anchored to his stare and his touch and the way he whispers at you such sweet things. He kisses you deep when he feels you tightening around him. Thighs pulled tight around his hips, hands grasping for his shoulders to hold him tight to you while you spasm and gasp around him. He follows soon after, dropping his head down to nuzzle into your neck.

“Sweet girl.”

“Always so good to me.”

“Love you so much.”

Eddie lets you unwind from him before he lays on his back beside you.

“Can I show you something?” He pulls you in next to him so you have to drape over his chest, tattoos swelling under his deep breath. He holds his phone over your heads and finds the photo album he was looking for. You catch a glimpse of one of you and start to turn your head into his chest before he tuts at you.

“What did we just talk about?”

Instead you give him the benefit of doubt and let him scroll through. He talks about all the photos he has of you and why he kept them. Why he took them or got them from Robin or Nancy or one of the kids on one of the many outings. He’s got pictures of sunsets and really good food and flowers and his succulent pot. There’s a skyline in the rain from a green room he was in that he tells you reminds him so much of you. Says something about composition and the rain and how it comforts him like you do and if you weren’t wrung out you’d start crying again. He scrolls for a half hour explaining every photo and why they’re all you or remind him of you and how he finds you in the things he finds beautiful.

“So yes, I do.” He grabs your chin and you melt into his touch as he pulls you in for a soft kiss. “I think you’re pretty and beautiful and stunning and I will remind you every day.” Another peck before he cradles your head against his chest.

One day, maybe, you won’t have to remind yourself that it doesn’t matter. That Eddie thinks you’re pretty and that’s all you need, but today you know it for sure and feel it for sure and it’s enough.

(Sacrifice for the read more)

#eddie munson fic #eddie munson x reader #fic rec #eddie munson x reader fic rec

[buckys-black-dress]

being in yr 20s is like every day is a Try Not To Spend 40$ Challenge and i keep losing

[buckys-black-dress]

i’ll cry right now don’t do this to me

𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐚 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

When Eddie asks you on a date, you don’t believe it. He probably meant as friends, right? Spoiler alert — Eddie wants to be more than friends, and he’s willing to prove it. [4k]

fluff, slight hurt/comfort, fem!reader, plus-sized!reader, reader feels undesirable, kissing, obligatory ‘don’t be cruel’ scene, eddie calls you pretty like ten times, requested here

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Eddie has one of those smiles that screams trouble. Every time he looks at you with that smile he might as well have "I'm gonna break your heart," written across his forehead in tandem. 

You sneak a glance at him across the atrium. Eddie’s paused bussing tables to talk to a patron, his customer service voice in play with a matching smile. It isn't the one you mean, but it's bad enough to make you flush red-hot. You cross your arms over the bar, regret it for its stickiness, and let your head rest against the crook of your elbow. 

You've been working together for a long time now, almost six months, and he's your favourite coworker hands down. He cleans up after himself, he brings snacks that you never accept (lest you look like the greedy chubby girl you worry everyone expects you to be), and he talks to you like a real person.

It's horrifying and it's not fair, but being fat means that sometimes guys don’t want to look at you. They don't want to be in the same room with you, and you can tell; they avert their eyes, or simply don't talk to you directly.

You've never had that feeling with Eddie. He meets your eyes, unflinching, and he sends you one of those pretty smiles and you think Fuck, because he should've been a movie star, he has the cheekbones for it, or a rockstar like that band he's always raving about. He'd have a slim LA girl on both arms, no doubt about it. 

He likely wouldn't waste his time with you. 

Not someone pretty as he is. Sometimes he'll lean over and expose the flat stretch of his stomach, his v-lines and the dark trail of hair peeking above his jeans, and you feel acutely miserable 'cause you know you'll never get to touch him. Workplace crushes suck. 

"Hey, are you okay?" a voice asks, a hand dropping against your shoulder. 

You pull yourself up quickly. Speak of the devil, Eddie stands beside you with his hair tied away from his face. He looks more entertained than concerned, his smile unfortunately genuine. 

"I'm fine," you say, stepping back. His hand falls away from your shoulder. "Sorry, just tired." 

Eddie leans into your space, squinting. You freeze up, but he's only checking the time on the clock behind you. "Gotta tough it out. Still an hour and a half 'til closing." 

Which means there's more than two hours of your shift left. Your face must show how unexciting that is —Eddie laughs, warm and quiet, and gives your hand a squeeze. 

"You'll live," he promises. "Are you busy tonight? Maybe we could go get pizza or something." 

"What, nobody else is available?" you ask. 

His head juts back a touch, put upon shock. "And why can't I ask you? I like you and I like pizza, that's a good combination. And even if you don't like me that much, you like pizza, right?" 

You know —you know, you do— that Eddie doesn't mean it as a slight. This isn't some thinly veiled insult on how you look. Why wouldn't you like pizza? Most people do, but his comment twists itself into an evil inky ball in your chest anyways, thick and hot as tar. 

You shake it off. 

"Who says I don't like you?" you ask, steering the conversation away from food altogether. 

His smile gets somehow better, which is to say worse. You're being punished for something, a childhood wrongdoing or a future crime, perhaps. Nothing else could warrant the mental torture that is being so close to him while he looks the way he does. 

"Good. Good, then we should get pizza. It's a date," he says, nodding. 

Morgan the shift manager calls for him to stop distracting you, though the Hideout is abandoned tonight, and there's nothing to distract you from. Eddie stands at full height, with a soldier's salute. "Yes, sir. No more lollygagging." He turns to you when you laugh, and you share a secret smile. 

He and Morgan disappear into the back of house. If you strain your ears, you can hear Eddie complaining about having to keep his hair in a bun, as it's totally against what he stands for, dude, it's stifling his self expression. 

"Count yourself lucky I don't make you wear a hair net, kid," Morgan says.

You turn back to your sticky bar, numb. It's a date? Did he mean, like, an actual date? A romantic date? 

Not a chance in hell. It's a colloquialism. Nothing more. 

Despite yourself, you stare into the silver reflection of a beer tap and try to liven up. You fix your hair, check your teeth, dig a lip balm out of your apron pocket and scratch the corners of your mouth just in case. The entire time you're heckling yourself about delusions. Eddie Munson doesn't like you. He's had a girl come around once or twice, and she'd been everything you're not: slender, confident. You'd wanted to dislike her, but she hadn't done anything wrong. There's no crime in being desirable. 

For the remainder of the night, you man the bar and serve the occasional patron. It's a Sunday night, so most stick to light beer or soft drinks. The live entertainment says goodnight and the Hideout empties like an opened floodgate. You clean the bar, Eddie buses the tables, and the kitchen staff turn on the radio and get to work cleaning. Soon, you can smell cigarette smoke and reheated mozzarella sticks. 

You wander into the kitchen to help. 

"Hi beautiful," Leon says, one of the cooks, "you want something to eat?" 

"No she does not!" Eddie says, helping the dishwasher Marcie with her last round of plates. Suds drip down to his rolled sleeves as he waves his hands around. "We're going to get pizza." 

"Yes!" Marcie says, delighted. 

"Where are we going?" Paul asks, another cook. 

"We," Eddie says, pointing at you and then himself, "are going to Marletto's. Yeah?" 

You startle when you realise he's asking you. "Oh, sure. Anywhere you want." 

His head bobs up and down, pleased. He goes back to his dishes. "Anywhere I want," he murmurs to Marcie, though he's saying it for everybody to hear, "hear that, Marc? I'm spoiled." 

You wipe down a few counters, label some leftover iceberg lettuce and put it back in the fridge. It's easy work, made better by the camaraderie of your coworkers, but you can't settle down. Your heart races at what's to come. "It's a date," is starting to feel less colloquial now Eddie's dissuading the other from joining you. That's how that works, right? He wants to be alone with you.

It might not mean anything. Maybe Eddie needs something from you he doesn't want the others to know about, like money. Maybe he wants girl advice, finally chasing that pretty girl who drops by sometimes. Or boy advice —there's a guy who comes around too, tall and blond and handsome. 

There's a logical solution. Any other girl would hear the word date and take it at face value, but you aren't them. You're you. You can't remember the last time somebody looked at you with desire in their eyes, if they ever have. High school was a shit show and work isn't exactly a hub for romance. Eddie joining the team here is the most excitement you've ever had in your life, for all his gentle squeezes and teasing elbows, his inside jokes and his tendency to burst into an air guitar solo at any given moment. He's a cheeseball, and you like him. It sucks. 

"Hi, are you ready?" he asks, coming out of nowhere. You're kneeling down near the lockers tying your shoelaces. 

It is a horrible position for him to see you in. You can't imagine what you look like, but you know it won't be pretty. You spring up with your shoelace untied still and smile weakly. "Yeah, I'm ready." 

"You need help with that?" he asks, eyes on your shoe. 

You burn with embarrassment. "I– no, I–" 

Eddie kneels down on the floor and reaches for your shoe. He ties it quickly in a double-knotted bunny-loop and pats the side of your ankle when he's done. When he looks up at you, you're in the middle of hoping a natural disaster will occur and put you out of your misery. 

He smiles at you from his position. Does he ever stop? 

"Cool," he says, standing up. He grabs his coat from his locker and doesn't bother closing it. "Let's go! I'm starving, man, Leon needs to mess up more often so I can steal the rejects." 

You follow him in a daze. Through the lockers and out of the kitchen, waving goodbye to the lingering closers and a grimacing Morgan. You aren't looking forward to seeing him again tomorrow. You're more than sure he'll have something to say about workplace fraternising and general dawdling. 

"You okay for us to take the van?" he asks. 

Eddie's given you rides home before, and what felt awkward before has lended itself to a familiarity. You nod your agreement and cross the small parking lot out back, your breath rising in the cold night air. 

Eddie pulls open the passenger door of his van with a strong-armed tug. 

"Been meaning to get the latch looked at. I'd rather it have trouble opening than trouble closing, though, so that's a plus." 

He waits for you to climb the short step and sit before he closes the door. 

“All limbs inside the ride?" he asks. 

You laugh. It comes out weird. You kind of sound like you're being held at gunpoint. 

Eddie gets in the van and makes small talk as he starts the engine and pulls her out of the lot. Your mind isn't there, exactly, or rather it's too close. You want to think about your answers but instead you're worrying about how you look while you say them. You're worried about the seat belt around your stomach, and the way you look from the side. Being around Eddie makes you more self-conscious than usual. 

Marletto's isn't the best pizza place in Hawkins but it's open until three AM. You and Eddie take the first empty booth you come across, and the agony of ordering in front of someone else begins. 

"Meat feast for me, obviously," he says, pulling off his jacket. 

The cracked vinyl seat beneath him crunches with his movement. You dedicate yourself to staying still. 

"I'll get a margarita," you say, glancing between him and the menu for his reaction.  

"Didn't take you for such a bore," he teases. "Drinks? Sides?" 

"Just water will be fine." 

"Are you sure? I'm paying. If you wanna take advantage of me, now's the time."

You shake your head, pushing your cold hands under your thighs. 

Eddie frowns. "If you're sure…" 

He gets up to track down the register. You sit there, wondering why you agreed to this, what possessed you, why you could ever think this was a good idea. You don't wanna eat in front of him, you don't know what to say, he's looking at you like everything's normal but this is so not normal, this is the opposite side of the spectrum. 

Eddie returns with your water and a coke, all smiles despite your clear nerves. 

He puts the drinks down and clambers into the seat with a leg folded underneath himself, his elbows halfway across the table. He looks you straight in the face. 

"That guy just looked at me like I was crazy. I'm hungry, sue me. Three orders of mozzarella sticks is a normal human thing to get, right?" 

"Three?" you ask. 

His hand reaches toward you. If your hand were there, he'd likely squeeze it roughly as he sometimes does, like a playful scolding. "I'm hungry," he repeats. "I didn't get any lunch on my lunch break. What's the point in that? Just sat down in the locker room thinking about it. It was actually worse than working." 

"You should've had Leon make you a burger. He's always offering." 

"Always offering you, maybe. The rest of us gotta fend for ourselves." 

"That's not true. He asks Marcie, too." 

"Yeah, well, Leon's a sucker for pretty girls." 

You look down at the table. 

"I got enough fries for both of us, I know you didn't want any sides but everyone wants fries. I won't be sharing the mozzarella sticks, so if you want some you better speak now." He raps the table with his knuckles. When you look up, his face softens. "Well, alright. Maybe I'll share them with you. I'm a sucker, too." 

"What's that mean?" 

"What?" 

"You know what," you say. 

Eddie crosses his arms across the table. His hands and arms are pale, the ink of his black tattoos stark. You could draw them without prompting, that's how often you've fallen into his trap. When he crosses his arms like this, his biceps bulge up a little bit, emphasising the pretty curves and ridges of his arms and the hints of greeny-blue veins hiding under his skin. He tilts his head toward his shoulder, his limp curls dragging against the table. 

"It means…" he says, holding your eyes, a gentle smile playing on his lips, "that you're pretty. You're so pretty, I'd do anything you asked me to." 

You flinch. You pull your numb hands from under your thighs and cover your stomach with your forearms, glaring at the table between you thoughtlessly. 

"That's cruel." 

"What?" 

"That's cruel, Eddie. You're being mean," you mutter.

"I–" Eddie stammers. "What? I'm just trying to tell you how I think about you– how I feel. I'm sorry if you don't wanna hear it, I'm not trying to be mean." 

Hurt creeps into the lines of your face, your eyebrows pulled down and the starts pulled up, your lips pursed. Heat bursts in your throat as a molten lump takes shape there. You don't trust yourself to speak, but you have to. 

"I thought you were my friend," you say quietly. 

"I want to be more than that." 

"You're making fun of me." 

"No." 

Eddie reaches across the table again. There's nothing for him to grab so he spreads his fingers and presses his palm flat. He ducks his head to meet your gaze. His eyes are ridiculously big, the black of his pupils blown and leaching into his dark irises until they're almost indistinguishable in the fuzzy lighting of the restaurant. 

"Come on," he says quietly, "when have I ever done that to you? I mess around, but I wouldn't say shit like that unless I meant it." His fingers lift off of the table. "I mean it. I think you're beautiful." His voice takes on a raw quality. 

You bite the tip of your tongue, fully frowning now. "I don't believe you," you say. 

"Why not?" he asks, frowning back. 

"Because I'm– I'm– I'm fat." You hate yourself for saying it out loud. 

People hate that word. Usually, if you admit to it, there's a rushed response. No, you're not. Pretty friends talk you down, loved ones wrap an arm around your shoulder and harp about puppy fat or big bones. 

Eddie doesn't do either. He sits back in his seat and smiles hesitantly. 

"Why's that a bad thing?" he asks. He shakes his head at himself. "I mean– I'm sorry, I should've said you aren't, you aren't–" 

"No, I am," you say. 

"You're so pretty," he says again, in a rush. "I don't care what size you are, I really don't. I just think you're beautiful and I wanted to ask you on a real date but I saw you and I couldn't wait anymore." He wraps his hand around the neck of his coke bottles and pulls it towards his chest. "Shit, I've made a huge fucking mess of it." 

You lean forward. Your body doesn't know what to do, the whiplash of hurt smothered by his enthusiastic, sincere compliments.

Why's that a bad thing? means more than anything else he said to you. 

"You really think I'm pretty?" you ask timidly. 

"Drop dead," he says. Hope flickers behind his eyes. "Morgan pulled me aside on my second week, you know that? Said if I didn't stop staring at you he'd put me in the back for the week." 

"He did put you in the back," you say, confused. 

"Exactly." 

Oh. You raise your head properly. Eddie's watching you, just you, obviously waiting for you to speak. The hope on his face is clear as day now, his lips parted, the tiniest peek of his tongue on display. 

"You promise you aren't messing with me?" you ask finally. 

"I promise." He holds his hand out, palm up. "I swear." 

Your heart a hummingbird, you take your hand from your waist and put it carefully in his. His fingers curl around yours like a prince, the tip of his thumb rubbing over your knuckles slowly, half an inch at a time. You exhale out of your nose as goosebumps race up your arm. 

He looks like he has more to say, but the pizza and all his sides arrive. You spring apart like teenagers, blood rushing in your ears. The server unloads his tray.

"Alright guys," he says, looking down at you both with a knowing smile. "Anything else I can get you while I'm here?" 

Eddie sneaks a look at you that holds way too much meaning. "No, I think we're alright." 

There's a tiny, awkward silence. You busy yourself with unfolding a napkin over your lap, not sure what to say to bridge the gap. 

Eddie takes the plunge. 

He slides a basket of mozzarella sticks at you. "Pretty girl privileges," he says.

You feel insecure eating in front of him, but the sheer ferocity of his compliments discourages any shame. He thinks you're pretty. He held your hand like it was made of glass and he got put in Hideout jail for staring. 

"I think you're handsome, too," you say. 

Eddie almost chokes on a handful of fries. "Shit," he says, swallowing roughly, hand thumping at his chest. "Thank god for that. I mean, of course you do. My devilish good looks are hard to resist." 

He's not wrong. 

—

Getting put on kitchen duty isn't half as bad as Morgan seems to think it is. Eddie kind of likes it, the noise, the chaos, the heat. Plus, he can steal fries hot and fresh out of the basket. He's only burned himself once. 

"What're you in for?" Leon asks him.

"Staring." 

"You're a freak, Munson, you know that?" 

Eddie shrugs. "If your girlfriend looked like mine, you'd stare too." 

"Uh-huh." Leon grabs up a spatula to flip a burger, pink meat down and brown side up. Fat sizzles dangerously. Neither man flinches. "She ain't going nowhere." 

"You don't know that. Some rockstar might blaze through here and snap her up. Who would I be to stop her? She should be a trophy wife, she's a stunner." 

"Christ," Marcie says from across the room. 

"How the fuck can you hear us?" Eddie asks. Over the sound of the overhead spray and the sizzle of the burners, Marcie must have superpowers or something. 

"Uh, 'cause you're fucking yelling," she says. 

Eddie looks to Leon for some defence, but Leon agrees. "You are super loud." 

"You would be too–"

"If I had a girlfriend as pretty as yours," Leon says, audibly grouchy. "I know." 

"Don't be jealous that I got there first." 

"How is this fair? You get in trouble and I'm the one punished." 

Eddie blows a big breath out of the corner of his mouth, one of his shorter curls dancing away from his warm face. Ridiculous. They're all awful, and jealous, and nobody wants him to be happy. "Losers," he mumbles. 

He's kidding, mostly. He knows that everyone is actually very happy for the both of you. How could they not be? Eddie's happier than ever and you've turned to mush. It's his favourite thing in the world. 

He thought you were pretty before. These days, you're gold dust incarnate. You see him and smile like you've been waiting for him, no more nervousness (which, he found out, was down to a raging crush on him) (he walked on air for days), no more shying away from his touch. Eddie puts a hand on your shoulder and you don't tense; you melt. Butter in the sun. 

It's glorious. 

And sure, Eddie ends up in the brig a lot. He 'hovers' apparently. So what? He'll say it again, if any of these guys were in his shoes, they'd fall victim to the same compulsion. 

He waits for an opportunity to arise, four dinner tickets and a dishwasher disaster, and sneaks away as silently as he can manage, creeping out of the kitchen and to the bar. You're busy pouring a beer and don't notice him until the customer's left and he's wrapping an arm around your waist. 

"Eddie," you scold lightly, leaning forward to accommodate his weight against your back, "come on. You might actually lose your job." 

"They can't fire me. I'm the best bus boy ever." 

You turn your face to look at him. Eddie wants to put you on TV, you look that sweet. 

"No, you're awful, you," —Eddie interrupts you, leaning down for a quick chaste kiss— "distract me, and you," —he steals a second— "don't actually bus tables when you should," you finish, disjointed. 

He brings his hand to your soft cheek, stroking a badly behaved baby hair back into place. You go lax like he's some kind of quick fix drug, and your eyes contain a tenderness that makes his chest ache. He covers his heart with his hand. 

"You're awful," you murmur. 

He takes your face into both hands slowly. One cups your cheek, and the other slides behind your ear. He pulls your face forward and down toward his chin, his lips by your ear. You smell amazing. His eyes close on instinct.

"A little. It's not my fault. You're just–" 

"So pretty?" you ask. "Yeah, you've told me." 

"I have, have I? Have to let me tell you again." He kisses the skin before your ear, more a press of his lips than anything. "You're beautiful," he mouths. 

You shiver, but ultimately end up planting your hands against his chest and ushering him away from you. 

"Stop it. I mean it! We're in public, at work, and you're gonna mess me up." 

"I want to mess you up," he says easily. 

"I know you do." 

Eddie sighs, agonised, but heeds your warning. "Alright," he says, squeezing your shoulder in goodbye. You smile and squeeze his elbow in return. It's your new thing, silent conversation in fond touches. 

He's a couple of feet away when the urge to turn back is too much. He jogs back to your side, gets his hand behind your neck, and kisses you with enough pressure that your lips part underneath his in shock. He adores the side of your neck with his thumb one sweeping stroke at a time, his nose digging sliding against yours as he inches in further, and further. The dizzy pleasure of your lips can't be understated. Eddie fights back a kiss-ruining smile with all he's worth. 

"Sorry," he says, pulling back. Your lips shine and you blink, dazed. "Sorry," he says again, leaning in to kiss them dry. 

You laugh quietly, a breath against his cheek, and he's a goner, dropping pecks all over your pretty face until you're giggling and sinking into his arms. 

"I really am sorry." He punctuates with a kiss under your jaw. 

"No," you say breathlessly. Your hand twines loosely in his hair. "You're not." 

No, he isn't. He's never felt less sorry for anything in his life. 

𓆩❤︎𓆪

thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed! If you did, please consider reblogging, it helps more than you know!! <3 

#fic rec #eddie munson x reader

[buckys-black-dress]

so in conclusion, i need this right now. the TENSION. are you kidding??

twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)

in which eddie munson and you absolutely hate each other's guts. what happens when your friends make a bet that you can't spend more than twenty four hours consecutively together?

→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn

→ warnings: strong language, eventual smut, upside down does not exist, minors dni

→ pairings: modern!college!eddie x college!fem!reader

masterlist.

spotify playlist.

next part▷

0:00 ㅇ────────────────── 24:00

PROLOGUE: A BET (wc: 557)

“I hate you, I mean it. I hate your fucking guts, Edward Munson.” 

The room is hazy, clouds of smoke filling the crowded basement as the movie the friend group had originally been watching is left forgotten and playing out on the buzzing TV screen. Half full bottles of beer are scattered across the coffee table. 

“Oh, we’re using government names now, are we? Don’t tempt me with a good time, sweetheart.” 

It’s the way he says the nickname, sweetheart, that alights fresh hatred that pumps through your veins. He knows the way the pet name gets beneath your skin, the way it irritates you to no end. He’s saying it on purpose. 

“Don’t call me that,” you spit venomously, going red in the face from your rage now rather than the alcohol. 

He’s sitting in the chair across the table from you, reveling in the way you get riled up, smirking as he spreads his knees out and leans back in his chair comfortably. 

You nearly grab your own beer bottle in front of you and chuck it at his head. For a moment, you imagine the joy that would replace the vexation in your chest in seeing the glass shatter against his inflated ego. 

“Why? It’s just a friendly nickname, sweethe-” he starts to egg you on, but this time, someone else in the room has half the mind to interrupt. 

“Eddie, stop fucking with her,” Steve sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as he stands, “God, you two always do this.” 

“He started it!” 

“She pissed me off first!” 

You both shout at the same time, heads snapping in Steve’s direction. Eddie’s cool exterior has finally begun to crack, his frustration for you seeping out. 

It’s palpable. Flaming ire fills the air, equal parts yours and his, meeting somewhere in the middle and nearly causing a catastrophic implosion that Steve barely manages to avoid. 

“You two sound like children!” he yells, matching the hysteria. Robin and Nancy share a look behind his shoulders. 

“That’s because he acts like one,” you retort. Your arms cross against your chest painfully tight, and you ironically are the one who now resembles a toddler mid-tantrum. 

Eddie’s eyes widen as he glances at you, sneering as he says, “Me? Jesus, get off your fucking high horse.” 

“I’m not on a high horse. I’m just stating a fact.” 

“Fact? I’m not the one who’s pouting like a petulant child.” 

“Can you go ten seconds without insulting me?”

“Can you?” 

“I’ll show you a fucking insul-”

“Enough,” Johnathan groans this time, leaning his head back on the loveseat he occupies with Argyle. Most of the clouds of smoke have come from their side of the room, the joint they’d been passing back and forth still lit as it hangs between Johnathan’s fingers delicately, “You know what? I bet you two couldn’t go twenty four hours without insulting each other. And I’m willing to put my money where my mouth is.” 

“I can do you one better,” Robin quips, sitting up as she sits cross-legged beside you, “I bet they couldn’t last twenty four hours straight being around each other without killing each other.” 

“How much?” Eddie suddenly asks.

“What?”

“How much do you bet?”

And that’s how it starts. 

The beginning of the worst twenty four hours of your life.