halloweenhoneylover - Tumblr blog

halloweenhoneylover · 2 years

Text

dark and stormy

summary: steve's enamored with the guitarist in eddie's band who is much cooler than him (steve harrington x fem!reader)

word count: 5.4k

warnings: almost entirely fluff, steve and his parents

author's note: indiana underground music scene my beloved

Gravel crunches under the tires of Steve’s car as he pulls into the parking lot of the Red Key Tavern, a dingy bar in Indianapolis. After an hour and a half of being crammed into the backseat, his slew of kids wasted no time in pouring out of the car, moaning and groaning and lamenting limbs that had fallen asleep. Ducking out of the driver’s seat, Steve props an elbow on the roof and surveys the joint bathed in red neon. “Dude, are you even old enough to get in here?”

“No, but Eddie said he could get us in anyway.” Dustin readjusts the hat on his head, his nearly unshakeable confidence thrown just a little at the thought of being in a real bar with real adults. (The ones he hung out with didn’t really count.)

A few days prior, Hellfire Club had been ablaze with the news that Corroded Coffin had finally booked a gig in a real venue in the big city, and as soon as he’d heard, Dustin had begged Steve to drive them up to see the performance. After some minor debate, he had agreed to shuttle the kids there, but upon seeing the building, Steve was beginning to doubt whether or not this was a good idea. “I’m sure we could find somewhere to get dinner that’s a little more…family friendly.”

“No way are you backing out on us, dude, you promised!”

“I know, dipshit, but I’m just not sure—”

“My disciples!” From the alley beside the bar emerges Eddie Munson in all his glory, peacockish tendencies peeking through as he greets the group with wide arms and a gleaming smile. “Glad you could make it.” Crooking his finger, he motions while stepping back into the alley. “Follow me.” The boys flock towards him, Max drifting behind them all unimpressed, while Steve rolls his eyes at Eddie’s antics. He locks the car and saunters behind the group.

Reaching the back door, Eddie corralls the herd of teens through the maze that made up the backstage while Steve strolls behind, sizing up the place. Sharpie stains the crumbling red brick walls with the signatures of performers long forgotten. The hallway is illuminated by a flickering fluorescent on its last leg, and it smells like someone had been spraying cologne indiscriminately.

Suddenly, the group comes up on a door which Eddie opens with exaggerated chivalry, ushering them into the bar itself and then excusing himself to make final preparations for the performance. In the densely populated hall, Steve isn’t worried about the kids being seen and kicked out, but upon further inspection, an unfamiliar itch of anxiety creeps up his neck as he sees a mass of people his age who all don black and leather and look like rejected members of Depeche Mode, and he begins to feel sorely out of place with his light-wash jeans and boy-next-door sweater. Where was Robin when you needed her. The one time she wasn’t glued to his side, and he was immersed in a crowd much more her speed without a crutch.

He is drawn from his thoughts when he sees his own crew nervously eyeing the sea of people and sets aside his own fears to put them at ease. “Hey, why don’t we stake out spots close to the stage?”

He’s met with a chorus of nods. Up at the front of the group, Max grabs Lucas’s hand and begins leading them towards the stage, which sits empty aside from the drum kit, a keyboard, a couple mic stands, and a labyrinth of cables connected to imposing amplifiers. Laying a protective hand on Dustin’s shoulder, Steve holds up the back of the pack and makes sure no one gets lost in the crowd.

Once they reached the stage, the nerves ebb, replaced by the excitement of doing something very grown-up and a little rebellious. Mike nudges Dustin with a knobby elbow. “Do you think they’ll open with Starcrusher or Valley of the Beast?”

Dustin scoffs. “Dude, there is no way they wrote the utter masterpiece that is Steel & Iron, and they’re not gonna open with it?”

This comment opens the floodgates for an intense but familiar round of bickering that leaves any nervousness long forgotten.

Without any warning, the stage is bathed in a molten red light, and behind them, chatter subsides, everyone’s attention directed at the stage. From the speaker mounted right beside Steve’s head, feedback squeals, and he cringes, rubbing a hand over his ringing ear. “Ladieeeees and gentlemen,” a deep, theatrical voice booms out of the soundsystem. The boys in Hellfire immediately recognize their DM’s voice, the put-on low sound a staple in many of their campaigns, and they batted at each other’s arms excitedly. Max watches unamused. “We know you’ve been dying to hear some real music tonight, so be prepared to be laid to rest by Corroded Coffin!!!!”

From an open doorway at the back of the stage, Eddie emerges to the applause with all of the pomp and circumstance of a real James Hetfield, stomping in a pair of black boots and his trusty guitar slung at his side. With significantly less practiced showmanship, the other members of the band trail out in Eddie’s wake. Steve recognizes the other guys from times he’s picked up Dustin from Hellfire: Gareth twirling a drumstick in his fingers, Jeff fiddling with the buttons on the keyboard, and Grant fumbling with a quarter-inch cable connected to a massive bass amp. Eddie is adjusting the mic stand to his height and working the crowd when movement at the stage door caught Steve’s eye. Out from the darkness comes a fifth member of the band he’d never seen before.

She’s cool, that’s indisputable. Doused mostly in black, she sports dark liner smudged effortlessly around her attentive, watchful eyes, and her lips are curled in a supremely confident half-smirk like she knows she’s blowing all the other dorks on stage out of the water. All aloof and beautiful, she reminds Steve of Debbie Harry (whom he was deeply familiar with after being shown a whole magazine spread about her by an obsessive Robin). Guitar in hand, she waltzes up to the mic stand slightly behind Eddie and pulls the strap over her head, grabbing a nearby cable to plug into her guitar’s jack. Nudging Dustin with his elbow, Steve jerks his chin in her direction. “Who’s that?”

A knowing grin on his face when he sees who Steve is motioning to, he says, “That’s [Y/N].”

Steve nods, trying to seem uninterested and removed.

“She’s too cool for you.”

Steve gives him a betrayed look. “Dude.”

“I’m just saying!”

And before Steve has a chance to retort, Eddie is slashing a huge, resonant chord that riles the crowd. Gareth hits his sticks together in a four-count above his head, and the band is off to the races. With a sick sneer, Eddie is spitting a quick riff on the upper frets, and the kids seem to recognize it because Mike hits Dustin with a triumphant I told you!

While Steve was never a big fan of the heavier rock stuff, he had to admit the band was pretty good. Eddie is scream-singing into the microphone in that distinctly metal way, something about treading carefully in the valley of the beast, and Steve watches as you grin at your frontman and strum rhythmic power chords to back up his frilly licks. Shouting into the mic as backup, you echo Eddie’s lyrics in the gaps between phrases, and at the chorus, you both sing in unison, playing off each other with shared glances and mirrored smiles.

Another verse and chorus go by, and Steve finds himself enjoying the show more than he ever thought he would. He supposes it doesn’t hurt that there is a hot girl shredding the guitar four feet in front of him. Soon, you’re stepping out from behind the mic stand to face Eddie who turns to you. Underscored by the consistency of the keys and bass, you launch into a melodic solo with your fingers flying over the fretboard, and soon, Eddie offers a twin harmony. All together, it can only really be described as face-melting, and the kids next to Steve are reaching out towards you and Eddie with wiggling fingers. You let the final note ring, and while Eddie turns to finish out the last chorus, you drop to your knees at the edge of the stage to spit out a couple more accenting licks. The kids are simply losing their minds, and Steve is a little breathless with you having landed right in front of him, close enough to reach out and touch you. After a few more hammer-ons and bended strings, you strike one final chord to end the song.

Focus finally pulled from your guitar, you look up only to meet Steve’s eyes where he’s already staring, but he can’t find it in him to pull away. You squint at him bewildered for the slightest second before you recover your rockstar coolness to send him a wink that leaves him reeling.

—

People are filtering out after the set, and Steve’s at the bar, ordering a drink. After the show, Eddie had invited the kids backstage to see the dressing room and experience the “real rockstar lifestyle,” and while Steve liked Eddie enough now, he was content to have a breather from his babysitting duties. Leaning on the countertop, he silently nurses his drink and gazes around at the illuminated wall of liquor, at the few stragglers sitting in booths having vivacious conversation.

“Hey, can I get a Dark and Stormy?”

He looks to the patron who had appeared on his left and is surprised to see his favorite Allison Reynolds knockoff. Feeling eyes on you, you meet his gaze and offer a subdued smile. Your untouchable on-stage character has faded, but Steve still finds himself a little starstruck. There is an undeniable self-assurance and maybe that’s why he thinks you’re so cool; he doesn’t think you would ever let anyone give you shit. Maybe it’s why he’s nervous to talk to you: he’d been accused before of being full of shit, and if that was true, you’d see it in a second.

Despite it all, he pulls back his shoulders and clears his throat. “You did really great up there.”

You’re surprised he decides to talk to you, but you hide it well. You look him up and down, sizing him up, and he feels bare under your gaze. “Thanks, man.”

It starts to look like that might be where your conversation starts and promptly ends, but you’re intrigued by him, so you press on. “This doesn’t really look like your crowd.”

He laughs at your astute observation. “What gave me away?”

Trying to suppress a teasing smile, you look at his teal sweater and white sneakers and shrug. “Lucky guess.”

He shakes his head and looks into his drink. “Yeah, I had a couple friends who wanted to come see you guys, and I offered to give ‘em a ride.”

“Oh, so you’re with the group of kids backstage?”

Having failed to avoid being pegged as the babysitter, he lets out a rueful laugh. Already in this short conversation, he knows he’s paling in comparison to the beautiful musician next to him. Any chance he has at impressing you seems lost. His tone grows sullen. “Yeah, those are my kids.”

The bartender sets your drink on the countertop next to you, and you slip him a five with a soft thanks. Taking a sip of your drink, you eye his cup suspiciously. “That’s not very responsible of you as a chaperone.”

He winces a little. “It’s a Shirley Temple.”

Your laugh is a little surprised but mostly really pleased, and he can’t help staring at the way the corner of your eyes crinkled with good humor. “Point taken, Harrington.”

His eyebrows furrow in confusion, and he tilts his head to the side. “How do you know my name?”

You wish you hadn’t shown your hand so quickly, but it is rather amusing to watch him as you pull the rug from under him. You sip your drink again. “You don’t remember me, Steve?”

“From the stage, yeah, but—”

“No, from high school.”

The words die in his throat, and he looks at you with a new set of eyes as he tries to place you in his memory but comes up short. He feels a little guilty as he shuffles through the yearbook in his brain to no avail. “No, I don’t, I’m sorry.”

You find yourself surprised by him again because you think he really is sorry, so you let him off the hook.

“Don’t sweat it. You didn’t come to many jazz club performances, I didn’t go to many basketball games, we’re even.”

His eyebrows are still pinched as he continues to survey you, turn you over in his mind and hope to find you in a lost memory. “Still sorry, though. Thought I’d remember someone like you in high school.”

You don’t really know how to process that statement, so instead you push the focus back onto him. “You were a little…preoccupied back then.”

His cheeks flush with embarrassment at the reminder that news of his relationships were public knowledge in high school, but you don’t seem cruel in your discrete mention of his King Steve era, only honest. “Yeah, uh—needed to get my priorities straight.”

Something in your eye glitters at this seeming character growth, and he claims it as a victory, wanting to be just as fascinating to you as you were to him. And when the playing field finally feels even, you down the rest of your drink in a gulp without blinking and give him that cheeky grin that is entirely too disorienting. “I gotta go finish packing up, but it was nice talking to ya, Steve.” The newly familiar name feels foreign on your tongue, and he decides he liked the way you say it.

Before he can get a handle on his eagerness, it rears its head, and he’s watching your retreating form and calling out to you much too loudly. “Maybe I’ll see you around?”

Looking at him over your shoulder, your grin stretches, and you shrug.

“Maybe.”

—

Steve isn’t excited for dinner. Sitting in the back of his dad’s car, he looks as stiff as he feels in nice black slacks and a stuffy white button-up. He feels like a kid, sitting in the backseat fiddling with his cufflinks while his parents chat about everything and nothing in the front. His head lolls back as he stares out the window at the lights of Hawkins’ main drag passing by.

His dad has a client in town and had invited him out to dinner at the town’s finest dining establishment, Enzo’s, and Steve is being dragged along to complete the manufactured image of the Harrington nuclear family. So he ventures into the depths of his closet to find the nice suit his mother had bought him at Christmas for ‘special occasions or maybe a job interview.’ (Subtlety was not always Mrs. Harrington’s forte.) Unable to stomach a moment of full rebellion, he had left off the suit jacket and tie to silently protest the dinner, and while he was met with a disapproving eye from his father, he was not told off, which he deemed a success.

In the back of the car, tired of fussing with uncooperative cufflinks, he ditches them entirely and rolls the sleeves up to his elbows. He jolts a bit as the car parks, unaware that they’d reached their destination. Without acknowledging him, his parents exit the vehicle, and Steve lets out a sigh before summoning the strength to follow them into the restaurant.

Despite being the only semi-fancy restaurant in a small town, the place is really rather nice on the inside, dim and candlelit with soft jazz from a live band in the corner. His dad catches sight of his client, and they greet each other jovially while Steve becomes increasingly fascinated by a scuff on the ground which he toes with a loafer. They’re clapping each other on the back in the familiar way that middle-aged men do, and the man shakes his mom’s hand oh-so-politely when all of the sudden Steve is getting clapped on the shoulder and introduced by his father to this strange balding man. “And this is our son, Steven!”

The man offers a handshake which Steve takes half-heartedly with a weak smile. “I’m your dad’s pal Phil, it’s nice to meet ya.”

“Likewise.”

Much to Steve’s pleasure, the conversation shifts away from him to business or golf or politics or some other thing he didn’t care about. A host ushered the group to a table where Steve sits with a straight back next to his mother who’s politely smiling and nodding. He watches her sadly for a moment as she observes her husband’s conversation, beautiful and put-together and never speaking. Steve thinks she’s actually a pretty smart lady, interesting too, but his dad never listened to her long enough to know.

Steering his thoughts from something too melancholic, he shifts his gaze to the rest of the restaurant where other tables are chatting and eating. His eyes wander from the main floor to the corner where the jazz trio was set up: a guitar, a stand up bass, and a piano. The piano and bass are played by older men, but the younger girl on guitar seems oddly familiar. He cocks his head as he runs through his memory to place her when he realizes he met her 80 miles away in Indianapolis.

Your mane of hair has been tamed back away from your face cleanly, and you have ditched the black for a white turtleneck and white slacks. The dark shadow on your lids he had come to admire is nowhere to be found, and he’s surprised by how easily you could tuck away your rock persona to be some plain restaurant musician, not meant to attract any attention. Your attention is focused on a stand of music in front of you. Steve watches enraptured as your delicate fingers expertly navigate the fretboard, picking chromatic scales and diminished sevenths. He had wondered before if he was just awed by you before because of your avant garde fashion and too-cool persona, but now, he realizes something about you is inherently magnetic as he stares and stares and st—

“Steve.”

His father’s stern tone yanks him from his reverie, and he blinks, trying to orient himself in the conversation.

“Darling.” His mother gently placates him with a manicured hand on his shoulder. “Phil was asking about school.”

Steeling his jaw, Steve offers Phil a forced smile. “Oh, uh, I don’t—I don’t go to school.”

“Really? You seem like a total college man to me.”

Hot under the collar, Steve grimaces before responding, “Yeah, just didn’t work out for me like that. But I do have a job. I work at the Family Video down the street.”

His father’s stare sharpens at the mention of Family Video, but Phil remains ignorant to his displeasure. “Always good bring home some bread, but lemme tell ya, if you ever wanna get back into the college game, I know a guy at Wabash and—”

Phil continues monologuing as Steve nods and feigns interest in whatever the hell he’s saying, but all he can think about is somehow finding a way to escape this godforsaken dinner. Eventually, the conversation leaves the topic of Steve’s future, and during a lull, he excuses himself to the bathroom. He files past tables to the back of the restaurant and once he reaches the restroom, he sees a door labeled ‘exit,’ so he pushes out into the night instead. A rush of cold air greets him as soon as he steps out, and with eyes closed, he heaves a sigh and leans against the brick exterior, relieved to have found a moment of refuge from his parents and their grilling and fucking Phil.

“You look tired.”

A familiar voice startles him out of his reprieve, and he looks to his side to see his favorite musician slouched against the wall with a cigarette between your two fingers. Your eyebrows are quirked in an amused but sympathetic manner, and you take a drag off the cig before offering him a hit wordlessly. He watches the smoke curl out of your pretty pursed lips, and when you look up at him from under your lashes, eyes shining in the harsh fluorescence, he wants to beg like a dog begs for table scraps. When he can finally pull his gaze away, his eyes shift to the cig in your fingers and then back up to yours with a guilty expression.

“I told Dustin I quit smoking.”

You shrug, and somehow with your nonchalant approval, Steve doesn’t feel guilty taking a long drag, feeling that familiar burning sensation in his lungs. He lets the smoke go on a slow exhale, savoring the forbidden pleasure. He hands the cig back and mumbles a soft thanks, which you accept with a small nod.

Crossing your arms over your chest, you survey the dirty parking lot behind Enzo’s before taking another drag, and your preoccupation with the dimly lit asphalt allows him to stare. He liked your other look a lot, but he likes this one too, the neat hairstyle pulling it all out of your face, so he can see it all clearly: the slope of your nose, the curve of your cheek, the crinkling corners of your eyes. You’re statuesque and divine, the way you lean against the wall and glow under the light. Angelic in all white.

“Do you prefer this look?”

Your words are spoken into the encroaching night, and Steve wonders why you won’t look at him. He turns to lean on his left shoulder and face you better.

“What do you mean?”

Your lips pull into a tight smile, and you continue to watch the dark. “Just that you always seemed like a more clean-cut guy in high school, dating preppy girls and wearing polos.” He chuckles at your description of his archetype, and your smile is tight in an effort to be contained. “Thought I might’ve scared you before.” It’s kind of a joke, but it also gives voice to an insecurity that bubbled up in the time since you’d last spoken.

“I’m not easily spooked.” He’s smirking, and it looks good on his face, but it doesn’t really settle your stomach the way you wanted it too, and somehow, he realizes that and makes an effort to reassure you.

“I like your other look. I really do. The makeup, the hair—it’s cool. It’s very…alternative.”

It’s your turn to laugh. “It is. Feels more like me, though.”

“Not to say that I don’t like this get up,” he says, gesturing to your outfit. “Can finally see your whole face.”

You can’t help it when the heat rushes to your cheeks, and your eyes swing to his to see what he meant by it, but he’s indecipherable. Why does Steve Harrington want to see your whole face???

You clear your throat and try to divert attention from whatever weird tension was weaving its way between you. “Yeah, they want us to look all nice and clean and polished for the guests here, so they told me to put the hair away.”

He’s laughing again, and you can’t understand why pride swells at your ability to make him laugh. He looks beautiful beside you. Shadows gathered under his cheekbones and his jaw, under his eyes. His Adam’s apple jumps with laughter, and you want to tear your eyes from his neck but are failing miserably. Sure, he was handsome in high school, but he was far away on an untouchable pedestal back then, and now he’s real and right next to you and too tangible. Your gaze searches the night again, your smile small like a hand of cards tucked against your chest as his laugh finally fades.

The quiet that settled is not uncomfortable but the balmy feeling of possibility. You risk a sweep of your eyes up his figure to his face, and that sadness he’d come out with once again rests on his forehead, and you aren’t quite sure when you became bold, but you break the silence. “Why’d you come out here?”

His smile is rueful but not unkind, eyes looking down at a crumbling parking space barrier. He picks his words carefully. “Shitty parents talking about wasted potential.”

You hadn’t really known Steve in high school aside from peripheral knowledge, but you had enough context clues to understand. You nod slowly. “I get what that’s like.”

His eyes raise to yours in silent question. You continue, “My parents aren’t exactly stoked that their daughter is trying to be a musician. Unstable career path, starving artist bullshit.”

“But you’re, like, really good.”

When you meet his eyes again, he’s all earnestness. Normally, you would have protested and shivered under the compliment, but something about him and the way he’s looking at you makes you believe it.

“Thanks, Steve,” you whisper.

“I’m serious, dude. You could move to Nashville, do the whole nine yards.”

His blind belief in you makes you chuckle lowly, and you tap out the ashes before taking a drag of your nearly forgotten cigarette to settle the uproar of something soft and fluttery in your stomach. Something about the sight of the cig reminds him of the smoking warzone left in the restaurant that he had to return to. Jerking a thumb in the direction of the door, he says, “I should probably head back in, but uh, it was good to talk to you. Again.”

Your lips curl in that otherworldly smile of yours as he reaches for the door handle, and it takes all the strength he has to resist the pull to your side. He sends a tight-lipped smile as he pulls the door open, and he’s about to leave when you call out.

“The band is playing the Hideout on Tuesday!” Your cool exterior has cracked in your desperate attempt to keep him near, but you recover yourself. “You should come.”

He returns your toothy grin.

“I’ll check my schedule.”

—

Once again, Steve feels out of place. It’s not as bad as Indianapolis, but he doesn’t feel exactly comfortable. He’s been to the Hideout before, but it was when he was in high school with a group of rowdy basketball jocks with fake IDs. Now, he feels like he sticks out like a sore thumb against the smattering of metalheads that have gathered in Hawkins’ dingiest dive bar on this random Tuesday, and he surveys them nervously.

With a rough hand on his tensed shoulder pulling down, Robin scoffs. “Will you chill out? You’re looking around like you’re about to commit a crime.”

Grimacing, he pulls his shoulders back and takes his hands out of his pockets to look less sketchy, but then he looks even more awkward, not knowing what to do with his hands. Robin’s face assumes one of disgust. “Nevermind, that’s even worse.”

“God.” He flexes his hands and then smooths his hair back before crossing his arms on the bar. “I’m acting like a fucking freak. Why am I so nervous?”

“Because you’re crushing on a girl who’s way out of your league.”

“Not helpful.”

“Just—order a drink or something, you’ll be fine,” she mollifies while signaling the bartender.

He shakes his head. “I used to be good at this, Robin.”

The bartender arrives, and Steve orders a beer and a vodka soda for Robin.

“You were good at this. With a very different target audience. But just ‘cuz you’re dealing with a new demographic doesn’t mean the whole game has changed. Just be nice, tell her her band is good, and ask her on a date.”

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. He rubs a thumb on the space between his brows which has grown sore from the constant concerned furrowing. Finally giving up on the tough love act, Robin pushes the beer toward him and sighs.

“You’re gonna be fine.”

“You’re right,” he conceded. “You’re right. I’ve been rejected on a nearly daily basis for almost a year now, so one more shouldn’t hurt.”

She flicks him on the forehead.

“Ouch, dude!”

“Not the right attitude,” she chastises.

Before he can properly retaliate, the lights dim, and the sound of Eddie’s spoken intro booms from the speakers. The band members begin to filter on stage to mild applause from the rest of the patrons. Steve views the lackluster greeting with disdain before amping up his own clapping and adding a few cheers for good measure. Last one out on stage, you smile lightly, decked out once again in your black and your eyeshadow and your hair, but the sound of a boisterous audience gives you pause. Squinting into the stage lights, you try to identify the source, and your eyes land on Steve, who gives you a big smile because he can’t help himself, can’t stay cool and reserved. You grin to yourself as you plug in your guitar.

At his side, Robin bats Steve’s arm and mouths to him, That’s a good sign!!

He agrees.

“We are Corroded Coffin!” Eddie wails into the mic, and the music begins thunderously.

The band plays some of the same songs and some new ones, and Steve should probably pay more attention to the music, but he’s staring at you with hearts in his eyes instead. He catches your eye a couple times offstage, and it feels like a secret he’s begging to share. He wants to grab the old drunkard next to him by the lapels and shake him and yell, She’s looking at me!!! The guitarist is smiling at me!!! because you’re a star up there, and he’s happy to just be in your orbit.

The set lasts for their hour slot, and it closes with a galloping original song with lots of crashing symbols and dirty driving guitar. Again, Steve finds himself clapping and cheering the loudest, so he elbows Robin, so she hoots and hollers alongside him. On stage, you give a small salute in gratitude to the audience and dip into the darkness of backstage.

“Yeah, she’s definitely too cool for you,” Robin says plainly.

“Dustin first and now you,” he laments, shaking his head. “I know it’s true, but you don’t have to say it out loud.”

“Hey.”

It comes from behind him, and he turns to find you rocking back on your heels and staring up at him meekly. His breath catches at your nearness, and he’s smiling. “Hey.”

Robin witnesses this greeting with baited breath and wide eyes before spewing words, “Such a great show, [Y/N], I’m gonna go talk to Eddie, okay, bye!” She speeds away, giving Steve a very pointed look that he doesn’t miss.

Attention back on you, he inhales quickly, brain scrambling to come up with conversation. “Yeah, you were really great.”

“Thanks. It was pretty fun tonight, most of the time the audience is a bunch of drunk dudes who couldn’t give less of shit, but for some reason, they were really responsive tonight.”

Steve feels a blush creep up the back of his neck at your teasing, and his eyes are trained on the ceiling with a dopey smile on his lips. “Yeah, I don’t know, maybe something special in the air tonight.”

“Maybe.” You chew your lip, the corners of your mouth turned up. The conversation comes to a standstill, and your skin itches until you blurt out, “Thanks for coming.”

“‘Course. Gotta see all your shows before you get famous, and I can say I saw you before you were big.” You’re laughing, and he’s kinda joking, but he really does think you could go all the way if you wanted.

Your face feels hot, staring at his shoes because his eyes are too much. “God, you’re really yanking my chain now, huh?”

“You need to stop selling yourself short. You gotta believe in yourself more, you’re incredible.”

Rolling your shoulder back, you realize the dam has broken, and some courage that you didn’t know you had is unearthed in the pit of your stomach. Your eyes meet his, and you smile proudly. “D’you wanna get a drink with me, Steve?”

He nods before he can even really process what you’re saying, his grin stretching wide once he does fully realize.

“I’d like that a lot.”

—

pls consider leaving a comment or reblogging if you enjoyed!!! :)

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington #corroded coffin!reader #the end is rushed but it's fine

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halloweenhoneylover · 2 years

Note

this is the best compliment tysm !!

Can you do a fluff Steve Harrington request set before season 3 where his girlfriend works at a summer day camp while he works at Scoops and he basically get jealous of a 5-year-old who calls her his wife when he picks her up from work one day? Because I do in fact think he’s fight with a child for his love

1.1k for u anon! it's short and i don't really like it but i was tired of it sitting in google docs

—

Steve was sweaty.

A heat wave had struck Hawkins, and the mall had basically been bum-rushed by the town’s entire population because it was one of the few places guaranteed to have cold air pumping out of the ventilation system. But somehow the overflow of bodies condensed into one neon-lit sanctuary seemed to counteract any air conditioning, so it was humid and gross in the mall, and he’d been scooping ice cream for hours, so he was vaguely damp all over when he got into his car after his shift. With his car’s A/C cranked and his head rested back on the seat, he closed his eyes and sighed, feeling like he could finally exhale for the first time in hours.

In the midst of his decompression, a thought poked at his brain, and his eyes shot open to look at the time. 4:27. You got off work at 5:00, and it was about a twenty minute ride to the public pool across town, but he didn’t mind waiting those last ten minutes. So, he put the car in gear and set off.

By the time he was pulling up to the parking lot by the pool, so was the parent of every one of your campers. He surveyed the lot from afar and saw no empty spots, so he found street parking and knowing you couldn’t see his car from where you usually stood, decided to get out to meet you at the gate.

Sauntering past the droves of parents and their dizzy, sunburnt children in the lot, he finally spotted you at a picnic table by the pool with a couple of unaccompanied kids who had yet to be picked up. You looked magical from afar, playfully chatting with the gaggle of children. Your skin sheeny with sunscreen and your red lifeguard swimsuit reminding him of a hot yet professional Phoebe Cates. You were the image of summertime, and he took a second to compose himself before he looked at you too lecherously with so many kids around. Slipping past the gate, he maneuvered the chaos of camp pick up to sidle up next to you, where he brought a hand up to tug ever so gently on a lock of your hair.

Surprised, you turned in your seat to identify the culprit, but your shock melted into a toothy grin at the sight of your boyfriend. You opened your mouth to greet him when the boy next to you beat you to the punch.

“Hey! We’re not supposed to pull people’s hair.”

Bewildered by the interruption, Steve looked to find a little boy glaring up at him. Cheeks smattered with freckles and a little gap between his two front teeth, the kid would probably have been pretty cute if he wasn’t also staring daggers at Steve, so he stepped back with his hands up in surrender.

“Sorry, buddy,” he apologized, trying to get himself off the hook with his typical charming smile, but the kid’s brows just turned downward as his gaze swept up and down Steve’s height, surveying his competition.

In an attempt to de-escalate, you placed a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Thanks for looking out for me, Sammy, but you don’t have to worry. This is my boyfriend Steve, and he’s very nice to me.” Your tone was seeping with warm patience, and you offered Sam a comforting smile, but his face grew positively dismal.

“Your boyfriend?” he lamented. “What about our wedding?”

“Wedding?”

Steve had been content to let you handle this little boy (he does better with older age groups), but this mention of a wedding dragged him right back into the conversation. He didn’t like it, but he felt his cheeks burn pink with something in his stomach turning green and sour.

Despite his visible disdain, you missed any signs of Steve’s discomfort, only laughing heartily at the poor young boy’s earnestness. “Aw, Sam, I’m sorry I forgot. I’m still getting used to being a married woman!” you joked, successfully cajoling the kid into reassuming a sweet disposition.

“Married?” Steve restated his question, imploring you for context.

As soon as your gaze shifted back to him, he felt the weird stick in his chest ease a little, melting under your eyes as he always did. “Steve,” you started with the gleeful gleam in your eye that always shone when you were teasing. “I’m so sorry you had to find out like this, but Sam and I got married earlier. We exchanged friendship bracelets.” You held up your wrist with the evidence, a collection of colorful strings knotted messily with sporadic acrylic beads, and you gingerly placed your fingertips on Sam’s elbow, urging him to hold up his respective bracelet. With his skewed teeth on full display, Sam beamed as he showed Steve.

Steve squatted a little, placing his hands on his knees to view it close up. Sam’s bracelet was weaved nicely together in a fishbone pattern with an assortment of blues and greens, and he pictured you knotting it all together with nimble fingers. “Sam, I gotta admit: even though I’m not stoked that you stole my girl, these bracelets are pretty radical.”

Sam glowed with the praise, “Thanks!”

“Sam!” From behind Steve, Sam’s mom was waving and calling his name. “Sammy, we gotta go!”

Before you knew it, Sam was standing on the table’s bench to kiss your cheek and then running off to his mom. “Bye, [Y/N]!”

Your eyebrows were raised in mild surprise and amusement as you waved him off, and Steve was blinking profusely, stunned and unsure how to proceed.

“I can’t believe I just let another man make moves on you right in front of me, [Y/N/N].”

You laughed at that.

“Competition for my hand is fierce, Steve Harrington.”

He shook his head and scratched his neck. “I guess,” he marveled. “Man, I thought I’d had you locked down.”

Standing, you grinned up at him and slid your hands around his waist, and his hands reflexively grabbed your wrists, rubbing a thumb over your pulse. “I may have been unofficially married under that tree over there—” You jerked your head towards a nearby maple with streams of toilet paper hanging from the branches, the remnants of a really nice ceremony. “But you’ll always be my number one, pretty boy.”

His eyes were soft as the breeze as he gazed down at you, awed at his luck in snagging you. You reached up a hand to push an errant strand of hair out of his eyes, but he caught your wrist and fingered the poor excuse for a bracelet between his thumb and forefinger. “Hey, will you make me one of these? Can’t let some random kid be the only one to have a sick ass bracelet made by my hot girlfriend.”

#guys im cheesin

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