#modern!steve

[jen-with-a-pen]

Dancing in the Kitchen

summary: After the worst night imaginable, your best friend helps you when you need him most. What you don't realize is just how much you've always needed him. or: Tony Dumps you. Steve picks you up and puts you back together.

parings: protective!best friend!Steve Rogers x best friend!f!Reader

word count: 4.9k

warnings: fluff, angst, self-doubt and insecurity, verbally abusive relationship elements, insults + language/name calling, reader cusses and so does Steve bc he can, no smut!, wearing Steve's clothes (very little to no description about reader's body so do with that what you will), intense feelings, confessions, crying, anxiety, best friends to lovers, intimate touch, VERY SLIGHT possessiveness, protectiveness, not Tony Stark friendly, cap quartet mention

a/n: these characters are out of college! It's set in their early-mid 20s following graduating and I thought it'd be a little more relatable (also since I'm not in college anymore I wanted this specific fic concept to be more relatable. self-indulgence and stuff). the cap quartet rent a house together. there might be more shenanigans in the future involving them. maybe. who knows? enjoy <3

If I've missed any tags, please let me know!

gif by @annislittleshopofhorrors | dividers by @saradika-graphics | warning banner by me ♥

my ao3 | my masterlist Read this fic HERE on ao3! ♥Reblogs and comments are highly appreciated as always♥

Everything was cold. 

Everything was ruined.

Everything was a fucking nightmare.

Dark clouds shrouded the night sky, hiding helpful moonlight. Rain pelted at you from above, mixing with fresh tears, drenching you to the bone as cold water collected on your skin and soaked through your dress. Your hands morphed into balled fists at your sides as you shook with rage, heartbreak, and the innate need to punch something.

You couldn’t wrap your pounding head around the events of the night; everything blurred together after ten o’clock. It was like a cruel joke, one where you waited an eternity for the punchline, begging for it not to be real no matter how hard you screwed your eyes shut and prayed. 

You didn’t want to believe it, yet there you were.

It sure as hell wasn’t the first time you found yourself standing at the backdoor of Steve Roger’s house on the cusp of a breakdown– and a breakup– warring with your own body to simply knock on the fucking door. Hell, Steve was already expecting you. He knew something was wrong the second you called; there wasn’t a warning text, just you, asking in a choked-up whisper if he was home. His response spilled out in a rushed ‘yes’ before you could explain further. A ‘no questions asked’ request, something not uncommon in your friendship. Steve, since day one, was one of your main sources of comfort within a thousand mile radius. 

Now, he was your only source of comfort within a thousand mile radius. 

Remnants of the phone call from Tony only minutes earlier echoed in your eardrums like a bad case of tinnitus. Annoying, repetitive. His hoarse, drunken slurry of vicious words clawed at the inside of your skull. Another fight. Another screaming match. Another forgotten birthday– this time, it included meeting your family. You’d planned it for months prior, making sure Tony knew not to forget it.

Your insides were twisting in knots as you waited at the restaurant awkwardly with your parents, brother, and an empty seat next to you. After an hour, eight failed calls and fifteen texts later, Tony finally picked up. Delight revived the few butterflies left in your stomach, only to be crushed, turning them into weighted dread as loud club music obliterated your ear drum as he shouted at you. 

“You bitch!” he spat. “Why the ever-loving f-fuck are y’blowin’ up my phone for?!”

You didn’t have time to process what he was saying before he’d already reloaded and shot you with more.

“What the hell is sooooo important? Huh? Y-you stupid bitch! You fuckin’ knew I’m busy t’night!”

You tore the phone away. Even at arm’s length, you, and the rest of your family, could hear every single thing he spewed at you. A couple from the table next to yours stopped mid-bite to turn and throw rude looks at you and your family.

“Tony, please, I–” 

“‘Tony please’– just shut up!” he mocked. “Just shut the fuck up! I don’t fuckin’ care what you gotta– what you have t’say! I can’t f–fuckin’ stand you anymore!”

Hurt and hunger morphed into churning waves of anxiety and embarrassment. Your throat was closing. Tears began stinging your eyes. You looked between your parents in shame, meeting their stunned looks filled with pity and disappointment. Your brother refused to look anywhere but the spot on his plate where he played with his food, sadness and second-hand embarrassment plaguing his face.

Yelling, jeering, and chanting echoed out of your phone. Tony didn’t stop. 

“Y’know what? I’m not doin’ this anymore,” he slurred, gulping some unknown liquid down, swallowing, gagging. More cheering. “We– we’re fuckin’ done. You’re out. I’m done.”

The other line fumbled. You winced as you heard Tony wet his lips, preparing the final blow. His breathing became heavy, ragged, hard enough you could smell the liquor through the phone.

“Fuckin’ cunt.” 

Click.

You loathed yourself for tolerating him; the endless cycle of poisoning you, providing the antidote, and taking it away when it seemed to get better. The whiplash from his unpredictable moods and personal attacks on you hurt as bad as it felt when he’d come around with endless apologies– accompanied by flowers, cuddles, and kisses– to heal each wound he was responsible for. 

This time, though, the stab was fatal. This time, you bled out; it’d been akin to getting gutted and hung helplessly in front of your fucking family. 

A sob snuck its way up your throat. You choked it down, willing your fist to reach up and knock on the door. You didn’t understand why this was next to impossible. Steve was your best friend. It wasn’t like he was a stranger. It wasn’t like he’d chastise you or yell at you or tell you to fuck off. Yet, there was a fear, deep down, feeding on the anxiety and self-doubt in the pit of your stomach, telling you the opposite; it whispered to you, telling you to run back to your car, scream into the steering wheel, and speed off to disappear from everything and everyone for just a little longer. It’d only be until you got your head on straight, until you figured out what to do with the apartment and your classes and your stuff and–

Knock. knock. knock.

In the blur of a million thoughts racing through your mind, you automatically reached up and weakly knocked, body tensing every muscle as you waited.

The door swung open, revealing one extremely concerned Steve Rogers.

Steve panted, a result from sprinting down the stairs from his upstairs bedroom in an attempt to open the back door by your first knock. Acutely aware of his jaw hanging from its hinges, Steve’s soft baby blues bore into you, scanning you up and down, stunned at you and your dress and how desperate you looked. 

Time stopped the second you saw him; it was difficult to describe, but everything magnetizing between the two of you was different. You felt different– different in the way he was familiar and somehow new at the same time. Steve felt different– different in the way you were single for the first time in two years and he was single since… forever ago.

This time was unlike the million other times.

You both stared. Your lips quivered, his parted in disbelief. Both your minds instantly went blank, unable to think of anything to say, to do. So, the sky thought for you. It opened its floodgates, releasing a torrential downpour as you stood inches from warmth, from comfort.

“Steve,” you croaked, reaching for him. 

It was then, everything came crashing down. 

You crumbled to the ground in a heap, knees buckling while your hand and arms braced for impact with the ground. Steve quickly abandoned his tight grip on the doorframe, catching you, helping you inside. Lungs gasped for air as heavy sobs poured from your chest and tears flowed steadily down your face. You pawed at Steve’s arm hooked around you as he stumbled back into the house, kicking the door closed and collapsing onto the kitchen floor with you in tow. He immediately pulled you closer and hugged you tightly against his chest. You heaved, crying out from the painful pit in your heart, digging your fingers into his flesh, hard enough to bruise. You buried your face into his t-shirt and bawled.

All of it– the rage, the hurt, the mess of balled-up emotions from the last two fucking years– came unraveled. Hands twisted into Steve’s t-shirt, balling the fabric and pulling it taut enough to rip. 

Steve didn’t shout. He didn’t complain. He didn’t utter a single word as he leaned against the kitchen cabinets, rocking you gently, squeezing you harder as his chest rose and fell rhythmically against your pounding skull, silently coaxing you to follow his breathing. Blubbering in his lap, stringing words together became futile as thoughts became unrecognizable. Another wave of panic and anxiety crashed over you. Steve’s mumbled shushes softened you; the deep timbre and honeyed bass of his voice and vibrations in his chest grounded you, welcoming you to safety. To home. 

“Shh… don’t worry, I got you. I have you. You’re okay,” he muttered, running a hand gently up and down your back.

“I–he–bu–” you fumbled, lip quivering as another sob overtook you. Rage clawed at the walls in the chasm of your chest. You screamed. Guttural, pained. Again. And again.

“Shh… it’s okay, let it out. You’re okay. You’re safe here,” he soothed, rocking you, adding in a lowered octave, “I’m here.”

“T–Tony,” you hiccuped, fists twisting more of Steve’s t-shirt. “He–he–”

“What, angel? What about Tony?” 

“He–he c–called me n–names a–and,” you shook your head violently, “he b-broke up with me. For real, this time.”

Steve cupped your cheek, softly wiping away fresh tears with calloused fingertips. While you continued to cry in his arms, his focus turned to the back door you tumbled through. Inside, he seethed; his rage nearly boiled over at the thought of anyone doing this to you, let alone Tony fucking Stark. Out of all the things you’d told him over the last couple years– all the threats, the cruel jokes and abandonment and insults– tonight was the ultimate cherry on top. It validated every time Tony’s actions made Steve think vengeful thoughts on what he’d do if he ever got five minutes with the douchebag. Just five minutes. Alone. 

He shook the thought away, looking back down to you. The last thing he wanted was for you to see him upset, let alone remotely think you were the cause of it. He’d promised himself that the first time you met.

Tony was going to fucking pay for what he’d done to you every single second for the last two years. And on your birthday, for chrissake. 

“What–” Steve swallowed the excess rage in his chest. “What kind of names, sweetie?”

You softened, sniffling, refusing to look at him. “He called me a b–bitch, a–and,” you bit your tongue, “a… cunt.”

The moment the word left your lips, Steve fought every last nerve in him not to put you to bed, get in his car, and go teach Tony a lesson on some fucking manners. Hell, even the idea of taking Bucky and Sam crossed his mind. 

He pushed the thought away, focusing back on you. You needed him. You came to him for help. No one else but him. 

Steve slid his hand off your back and placed it under your chin, thumb and forefinger gently coaxing you to look at him. Big blue eyes swam with concern and worry. In the dark of the kitchen, they seemed brighter than ever– a beacon guiding you back from the hurricane in your head.

In an instant, everything in your head went quiet. No more muffled echoes from the phone call. No more sobs readying to burst out your chest. No more caring about how swollen and puffy your eyes were, or the drying combination of mascara and tear stains running down your cheeks and neck. Your sopping wet dress that drenched the floor, and Steve, was pushed to the back of your brain, the cold no longer leaking into your bones as he brought you back down from the ledge.

All you saw was Steve. All you smelled, all you could feel, was Steve. 

Steve swallowed. His jaw slacked, tongue jutting out to wet his lips, slowly drinking you in for as long as he was able. 

And honestly? You couldn’t care enough to stop him. It’d been so long since someone looked at you the way Steve did.

Had he always looked at you like that?

“Listen to me. You are none of those things. Not even close,” he whispered, hoping you believed him. 

You nodded lightly. “I–I know, but it hurts,” your voice cracked again, eyes drifting away from him. 

“Hey, look at me,” he tugged at your chin, “you will never be anything like he says you are. Ever. Okay?”

You stared at him. A small smile pulled at the corners of your lips as you placed a hand on his, taking it from your chin to your chest. Warmth bloomed as it rested against your damp skin. 

“‘Kay.” Barely a whisper. Enough for only him to hear.

He paused, gaze holding steady on you, lips twitching at the corners. 

“Let’s get you up ‘n out of that thing, yeah?” He nodded to your dress. “You gotta be freezing.”

Gently, he lifted you off his lap, rising from the kitchen floor and pulling you up on your feet. Your legs felt like a wobbly blend of jelly and nerves that forced you to lean onto Steve for support. He anticipated this, catching you and gripping your shoulders. You didn’t say a word. Instead, you clung to him as he guided you through the living room and up the stairs to his bedroom. You passed by Sam and Bucky’s rooms, both empty for the night, just like Natasha’s downstairs. 

As Steve rifled through his drawers and closet, your focus wandered to his messy desk: the lamp cast a soft, warm glow across the room, sitting next to history books and sketchbooks stacked high on top of one another; pencils and dirtied paint brushes littered the surface, products of his latest art assignment. His bed was half-made, dark green covers on one side neatly tucked in while the opposite was thrown aside, exposing gray pinstripe sheets. The walls were covered with scattered art– some his, others his favorite artists’– posters and pictures of family, friends, and some local bands. You bit back a smile. Memories of the shows you both went to over the last few years played like a highlight reel in your mind. You never regretted it; you never passed up a single invite, even after the time Tony locked you out for a whole weekend. 

“Here, these are clean,” he handed you a neatly folded pile of his clothes before adding, “I promise.”

A fuller smile broke across your face. The first of the entire night.

“Uh huh, sure, I believe you,” you joked sarcastically. He feigned hurt, scoffing at your false accusation.

“I did the sniff test, if that makes you feel any better.”

You giggled, taking the clothes from him and turning to head to the bathroom.

“I’ll be down in the kitchen,” he called after you. “You, um, you want something to drink?”

You paused, turning to look at him from the bathroom doorway halfway down the hall. From where he stood, the saturated pink creeping up his neck and reaching his face was more visible than the light on his desk. You couldn’t help but hold in a snicker and flash him a relieved smile, thankful.

“Coffee would be a godsend, right now.”

Steve smiled, saluting you. “Coming right up.”

You headed into the bathroom, tossing the clothes onto the counter, slumping against the door the second you shut and locked it. Finally relaxing, you realized how much tension was pent up in your tired shoulders– which, in turn, prompted the realization you were holding your breath the entire time in Steve’s room. 

Brushing the self-induced lightheadedness, you slipped the ruined dress off your body and hung it up on the shower rod. You hated the color, the texture, but wore it anyway. For Tony. On your birthday.

You cursed yourself, pulling your bra off next– a pushup that held your rib cage hostage the entire night. Just how Tony likes it. 

Or, liked it.

You silently prayed Steve included some Bailey’s in your coffee. 

Pulling on Steve’s sweatshirt, the scent of him enveloped you instantly. You couldn’t help but nuzzle into the neck of it, filling your lungs with the familiarity of Steve. He was a quiet, sunny Sunday morning and freshly brewed coffee. He was a nice night in watching your favorite movies and playing cards. 

Your head was swimming, swirling, caught up in the entirety of your best friend. He was yours just as much as you were his. Through Tony, through other guys you’d subjected yourself to the last few years, none of them compared to Steve. 

You tugged the sweatpants on, catching sight of yourself in the mirror and realizing the runny makeup staining your face. You snorted at how fucking ridiculous you looked, remembering the caked-on layers you’d put on for the evening. Again, just for Tony. The snort turned into a giggle, utterly grateful for Steve not making fun of how you looked and for ignoring the mascara stains on his poor t-shirt from earlier.

But, again, it was Steve. He’d never make fun of you. Ever.

Butterflies– the ones you’d thought were long gone months prior– stuttered suddenly, alive and fluttering in your stomach. 

You instantly recognized the feeling: it was the same you had the day you met Steve.

The same feeling you’d get on roller coasters, or reading an exceptionally good romance novel. Giddiness, dizziness. It was as if you were spinning while the room stood still. Your head felt light, high on helium. Your skin burned. Meeting your own gaze in the mirror, you scanned yourself, the question ‘is this happening right now?’ running on a loop at the forefront of your mind. 

Bzzt.

You jumped at the buzz of a text. With the trance broken, you took into account your shaking hands and the bumping tempo of your heart. Turning on the sink, you made sure the water was as cold as possible before cupping some in your hands and splashing your face. Refreshing. Needed. You rubbed the rest of the runny wakeup off your skin, stuffing your face into the fluffy hand towel and silently promising to get the boys a new one. Picking up your phone, teeth chewed on cheek to hold in your smile at the sight of Steve’s name on the screen.

⍟ Steve: You doing OK? Coffees ready 

You looked at yourself in the mirror.

“You got this,” you told your reflection. “He’s only your best friend.”

The butterflies continued to multiply, bumping against one another, fluttering and escaping out into your chest and your limbs. 

“Fuck.”

You opened the door. 

⋆˙ઇଓ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

“I was beginning to think you climbed out the window up there,” Steve quipped upon seeing you round the corner into the kitchen. He couldn’t help the stupid grin spreading across his face when he saw you in his clothes. You looked more relaxed, more comfortable.

More like you. 

You noticed he changed, too, donning a heather-gray t-shirt that clung to his torso in all the right ways– ways you hadn’t noticed before.

You mentally scolded yourself.

“A–Almost. But I’d never pass up a cup of world-famous Rogers Roast.”

“Wow, world-famous? I would’ve preferred universally-renowned, but I’ll take it.” He held a mug out to you, one faded with a ‘I ❤ New York’ logo– the one you’d gotten for him during your senior-year college internship. “Made it just how you like it.” 

He paused as you took a sip. You could feel his eyes on you, watching you, biting his lip in anticipation as you drank. The coffee tasted like liquid gold, warm and comforting and all-around delicious. You didn’t care if you burnt your tongue. This was what you needed. 

He was what you needed. 

Was he?

You looked back up at Steve. His cheeks flushed as he pressed his lips together, entranced with the mug in your hands, eyes ever-so-slightly flitting from it to your lips and back again. 

“Thank you, Stevie.” 

“You’re welcome, angel.”

You pinched yourself, then took another sip.

Silence fell, comfortable and calm, as you both nursed your drinks, checking your phones and letting time pass. You didn’t care to check the clock. 

Steve cleared his throat and set his phone down. 

“So, um,” he began. “What else did you have planned for your birthday?” 

His voice was low, tender, careful with the question so as not to upset you. He was curious, however, and determined to see exactly how much Tony fucked up your night.

And your life.

“Oh,” you swallowed, chewing your lip in an attempt to remember what you’d originally planned.

“He was, ah, gonna take me dancing. After dinner, after he,” you took an unsteady breath, “after he met my family. It was the one thing he told me he'd let me do after dinner.” You shook your head, adding under your breath, “besides him.”

Tension seeped into the space between you both. You didn’t want to meet Steve’s stare; it was the one you’d always see whenever you told him about Tony, one filled with anger so palpable it made his arms flex subconsciously, one he thought he hid well enough so you never saw, but you always did. Without looking up, you already knew his jaw was clenched and his shoulders were stiff and his eyes bored a hole into the wall behind you. Butterflies started to somersault, crashing into the waves of worry and anxiety. 

“Why?”

You looked up. Blue eyes. Stormy, swirling, stubborn.

“What?”

“Why did you stay with him?” Steve asked steadily, voice barely above a whisper. His Adam’s apple bobbed.

You paused. “Because he wouldn’t let me leave.”

“I could’ve helped you. We could’ve helped you,” he gestured vaguely to the rest of the house.

Your teeth tore into your bottom lip. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

“I–” Steve sighed and carded a hand through his dirty blond hair, frustrated, trying to keep his promise while also appealing to you and balancing the fragile tightrope you two stood on. “I care about you, angel. I care about you so fuckin’ much. I just wanna know why. Why he was– why you were–”

“I–” Don’t fucking cry. “I was trapped. Every time I tried to leave, he’d tie me down more. It… it wasn’t as easy as you fucking think, Steve. Rose-colored glasses, wool over my eyes, wolf in sheep's clothing, that sorta thing, ya know? These last couple years, I… I don’t know why tonight was it, and I don’t know how I was able to get out, and I just… I don’t fucking know. I don’t. I–” 

You felt tears again. 

“I– Angel, I wasn’t trying to–”

“No, I know,” you cut him off, setting down your mug to rub your face in your hands. “I know. But I need you to understand that I– God, my fucking brain feels so scrambled. I just feel so confused, I feel like I’m going insane right now. Fuck!” 

You tried to calm down, taking deep breaths to feed your strained lungs, holding on to each before exhaling. In, hold, out, repeat. 

The room was spinning again, whirling around like a sick carnival ride as your center of gravity began to give.

As you braced the counter, strong hands and warm, muscular arms engulfed you, lifting you back from the countertop and guiding you into the middle of the kitchen. Steve pressed into you until you relented, reaching your arms around him and pulling him closer. The tension in your shoulders melted, migrating to your chest where your heart surged the moment he touched you, where it pounded against your sternum, threatening to break out of its marrow cage. You inhaled him, savoring him, feeling him all around you.

Slowly, delicately, Steve unwrapped from you. He was careful with every touch, as if he would shatter you– even though he had no problem with putting you back together again. He’d done it a million times before, and he’d do it a million times again.

He’d do it all again for you. 

Steve carefully slid your hands from around his center, placing one onto his shoulder, then– nervously and ever-so-slowly– he held your other hand out, sliding down your forearm and entwining his fingers into yours. His free hand fell softly onto your waist, fingers absently and lightly kneading the fabric and skin underneath his palm.

“May I have this dance?” he whispered.

You looked up from the floor to Steve, speechless. You nodded.

Then, he started to sway. He guided you both, rocking side to side to an unheard rhythm and subtly spinning in unison under the soft glow of the kitchen light.

He smiled softly, boyish and genuine, with admiration and tenderness in his eyes. Something gentle and kind, something about the feeling and the familiarity of it– of him– sank into you the longer you looked at him. Your focus shifted around the features of his chiseled face. You recognized the light freckles stippled across his nose and cheeks leftover from the summer; the scar on his earlobe from the night Natasha drunkenly dared you to pierce his ear and failed; the faint worry lines sculpted into his forehead he inherited from his father; the soft, full pink of his lips that innocently parted when you caught him staring at you.

It was the feeling that felt foreign to you; the one missing from your life after the last two years. But, it wasn’t missing. It had been right in front of you the entire time stealing glances, accidental touches, and irreplaceable memories.

Steve had been there. 

Steve had been the one looking at you like that for the last two years. 

He wasn’t missing. He was just waiting his turn. 

And, judging by the realization that washed over your face, his waiting was over. 

Steve's smile widened as he squeezed your waist, wordlessly confirming the thoughts running rampant in your head. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed the ghost of a cry, blinking away tears forming in the corners of his vision. 

Your lips trembled as you smiled back. Slowly, you snaked your hand from his shoulder to his cheek and cupped his face. He leaned into your touch instantly, stubble and skin rubbed against your palm as he kissed it lightly. The press of his lips sent a spark coursing through your veins, electrifying your body and the air around you. The two of you continued to sway while the kitchen spun faster, a blurred whirlwind while you both remained in focus.

“When?” you asked, voice barely audible.

“Since the day I met you.”

“Why didn’t you–”

Steve shrugged. “I wanted to get to know you first. Didn’t wanna be some random dude who just wanted you for your number. You seemed too special to rush into something. Still are,” he sighed. “I wanted to be your friend first, but before I could muster up some courage, Tony swept you out from under me.” 

Guilt crawled up your throat. “I– I’m sorry, Stevie.”

He stepped away from you, twirling you, then dragged you back to him. You could’ve sworn your heart stopped beating. 

“No, baby, you don’t have anything to be sorry for. I promise. I–” his voice broke. “I wanted you to be happy. I want you to be happy. I just– I wish I did more for you. I should’ve done more for you.”

He tilted his head to the ceiling trying to stop his tears from falling, but you pulled him right back down to you. 

“Steve,” you started, keeping on his baby blues while your own voice struggled to remain steady, “you’ve done more for me than anyone else in the entire world. Hell, in my entire life. I just lost the last two years of my life suffering with someone I thought I loved. Who I thought loved me.”

You brought your other hand to his face. “You did all you could. I just… I thought it was gonna get better, you know? I thought, I hoped– God, I even fucking prayed– that he’d get better, but he didn’t. Nothing did. And I couldn’t find a way out. It’s like he conditioned me to believe he was the only one I had, like, he was the only one who’d ever save me.”

Steve frowned, but nodded in understanding. 

“I’m glad you came to me. Not just tonight, but every night. It was like reassuring me that I didn’t totally lose you, or like I never totally lost you.”

“You’ll never lose me, Stevie.”

His face, red-hot underneath your touch, moved closer to yours. You couldn’t tell if you were pulling or he was pushing. His hands gripped your waist the tighter you held his face, the two of you crashing into one another in slow-motion. The light above you grew brighter, the humming of the appliances was getting louder, the room spun at an infinitely unfathomable speed. 

You crashed together. 

Soft lips– softer than either of you could’ve ever pictured feeling– fit together like the perfect puzzle pieces. Neither of you moved, staying locked together until your hands slipped around his neck, pulling him closer and smashing his nose into your cheek. His grip became bruising as his fingers kneaded into your waist, steadying himself with your hips. You felt another surge of electricity as his tongue jutted out, parting your lips and swiping along the bottom before retreating back behind his.

He tipped you backwards on your heel, smirking against your lips as you flinched and grabbed onto the collar of his shirt. 

Setting you upright, he pulled away from the kiss and whispered, “I’ll never let you go.”

“Never?” 

“Ever.”

You kissed him again, and the butterflies went wild. 

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[lovebugism]

can I request modern!steve meeting shy!reader at a bar? maybe she’s overwhelmed and he can tell and tries to calm her down? I love your writing!

Steve buys you a drink at The Hideout.

Not because he thinks you’re pretty (he does), but because he thinks you need one.

You’re brooding in a frilly white dress, practically a rain cloud in lipstick in high heels — far too gorgeous to look so sad. 

You sit in silence with your woe, like two old friends who’ve already said too much to talk. It keeps you company on the farthest end of the bar, a dimly lit section where the hanging lamps don’t reach because no one ever sits there. 

You only speak when you’re asking the bartender for another round.

Steve reads your glossed lips — “A lemon vodka spritzer, please. And can you make it a double?” 

He waits until your glass is running low to tell the man behind the counter to fix you another, on him.

Your sad eyes go wide when you’re handed another chilled beverage. “Oh. I didn’t—”

“From the gentleman with nice hair,” the server explains beneath his bushy mustache, tilting his balding head to the other end of the bar.

A pretty boy with cinnamon and honey locks hanging over his forehead is already looking at you when you turn to find him. He wears a whiskey-slicked smile on a rosy mouth, tightlipped and warm. Holding an Old Fashioned in one hand, he throws up two fingers with his free one in a sheepish wave.

He seems kind. Beautiful. He looks like poetry in his stripped collared shirt and circle glasses — something simple you could drown in.

There’s a twinkle in the chocolate of his eyes that you figure must be from the dim amber lights hanging from the ceiling — there’s no way you’re the one putting stars in them. The lamps cast shadows on his chiseled jaw, dusted with a fine layer of scruff. The Renaissance sculpture brought to life just bought you a drink.

He doesn’t know he shouldn’t want to be your friend.

Actually, you’re pretty sure that if your real friends hadn’t stood you up tonight, he wouldn’t even be looking at you twice. And you wouldn’t have blamed him for it, either.

All you are now is slim pickings in a sleazy bar and a total idiot for getting so dressed up just to be left behind. 

This is why I don’t leave the house, you keep thinking to yourself as you drown your sorrows in too sweet alcohol. I’m way too soft for the rest of the world.

The vodka spritzer the pretty man bought for you goes warm.

The ice cubs melt and the glass begins to sweat with condensation. Your eyes go glassy in a similar fashion. You try to tell yourself that they’re just sweating, too — that you’re not the kind of girl that cries in bars.

Burning tears finally trickle over when the low radio gives way to a live band. The suddenness of the pounding drums startles you from your sad girl stupor and pushes you far past the point of being overwhelmed. Through a tightening throat, you hand the bartender a tenner and ask him to return the drink. 

You’re nearly weeping when you repeat it for the third time because he couldn’t hear you over the music. 

That’s when Steve goes to find you — when the keep nudges his shoulder to get his attention and hands him a melted drink along with a folded-up bill. “She wanted me to tell you thanks, but no thanks,” the man yells gruffly over the metal band.

“She left?” Steve shouts back, brows furrowed and eyes wide beneath his glasses. His heart thrums something fierce, stomach twisting at the thought of having missed you.

“Yeah. ‘Bout a minute ago or so. Looks like she’s havin’ a pretty rough night.”

He pushes through the forming crowd and rushes outside like a madman, prepared to sprint down the sidewalk to catch up with you. He’s distantly worried that you’ve already called an Uber by now or that you’ve turned a corner and walked out of his life forever. 

He nearly trips over himself when he spots you sitting at the bus stop.

“No, I know,” he hears you assure into the phone pressed to your ear. “I get it, okay? It’s fine. I… I would’ve left me, too.”

You cover your gloom with a half-hearted laugh.

Steve feels like someone’s shoved a knife in the spot between his ribcage.

He idles by the entrance until you hang up. The hand grasping the phone falls helplessly into your lap, like it’s too heavy for your trembling fingers to hold. You sniffle and drop your head into your palms. Your shoulders shake as they rise and fall with uneven breaths — trying and failing to calm yourself down.

“Hey, uh— Spritzer?” he calls awkwardly out to you as he slowly approaches the bench you’re on.

He doesn’t want to startle you, but he does anyway.

You jolt at his presence, hand snapping up as you gape at him with wild eyes that glimmer beneath the orange lamplight. You’re frightened at the intrusion first, then shocked to find the pretty guy from the bar standing in front of you.

“Me?” you question, voice fragile and tight — feeling stupid because the two of you are the only ones at this bus stop.

“Here’s your ten back,” Steve says with a tight-lipped smile. He holds the bill between his pointer and middle finger and motions for you to take it.

Your glassy eyes flit between it and him. You sniffle. “No, that was— that’s for you. For the drink.”

“The drink I bought for you,” he corrects gently.

“…I didn’t drink it,” you confess, face twisting like you’re about to cry again.

“No, I know. I was just… I was trying to be nice.” His soft laugh fills the awkward quiet. His smile fades when he notices you aren’t laughing with him. “Uh, can I— Is it okay if I sit.”

He points to the spare spot on the bench beside you.

You nod and move over a few inches in invitation.

The old wood creaks under his weight as he sits.

Steve smooths his sweaty hands over his jean-clad thighs, not knowing what to say. He peers at you from the corner of his eye. You’re not looking at him, too focused on declining another call. Your thumb swipes over the screen when you turn your phone off entirely.

You wipe your nose with the back of your hand. “Sorry for not— for not drinking it. That was really rude, I’m sorry.”

Steve twists his head to look at you completely. His smile is still warm, his eyes still twinkling. You don’t know why he looks at you so softly, only that it could make you weep. 

“Hey. It’s okay,” he assures with a shrug. “It was just a gesture, you know? No big deal.”

You nod, then turn away to look up at the velvet night sky. He watches your profile scrunch in concern again before you glance at him, looking more sheepish. “But… why?”

His brows raise. “Why what?”

“Why did you… buy me a drink?”

“I don’t know,” he answers truthfully, bouncing his shoulders. “You just looked like you coulda used one.”

A part of you is glad he wasn’t trying to make some kind of move on you.

Another part is disappointed by it, too.

“Right,” you nod, trying to smile though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Uh, thanks. For, uh… For noticing, I guess.”

For noticing me in my sadness, you would’ve said if you weren’t talking to a total stranger. Most of the time, I’m invisible.

“Thank you for not dumping it in my face,” he jokes.

Your nose scrunches softly. Your smile is barely there but more sincere. “Why would I have done that?”

“I don’t know… I feel like when a stranger buys a girl a drink, they’re either really into it, or they think it’s drugged or something—” he explains with a laugh. It fades again when your soft features twist in confusion. 

His eyes go wide in a similar horror.

“It wasn’t! I was just— I was just saying that… Some people might think that, you know? But I’d… I’d never.”

A smile pulls at your lips just before a giggle tumbles from them. 

The sound is too pretty for him to be embarrassed.

Steve smiles, too. “I’m making a whole mess of this, huh?”

“No,” you assure rather quickly, shaking your head in reassurance. “You’re… You’re actually taking my mind off of all this…”

“Yeah?” he wavers.

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Can I… ask what happened?”

“It’s just… my friends. We were all supposed to meet up here, but they went somewhere else,” you explain, wrenching your sweaty hands in your lap. “And, like, I don’t blame them, you know? Concerts aren’t my thing, ‘cause they’re so… loud. That’s why they didn’t buy me a ticket... So, in a weird roundabout way, they were kinda thinking about me by… not thinking about me.” 

You end your rambling by shooting him a contorted glance, like you don’t even believe your own words. “Does that make sense?”

Steve nods slowly, then shakes his head. “Not really, no. They kinda sound like assholes, honestly.”

“It just wouldn’t have been as fun with me there—”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“…No?”

“No. I mean… I’m having plenty of fun with you now, so…”

You scoff and you roll your eyes. “Right.”

“I’m serious!” he promises, laughing. “I don’t know if you can tell, but that place is totally not my scene. I mean, honestly, I wasn’t even gonna come tonight, but my friends dragged me here and everything…” He trails off, smiling too sincerely as he looks at you with honey eyes. “Now I’m glad I did. “Cause, you know, I met someone as miserable as I am.”

You don’t want to laugh, still a little bit sad about the whole thing, but this boy brings a smile to your face without even trying. It’s totally not fair.

He laughs at your laughing. “And I’m having a lot more fun out here with you than I was watching some idiot scream into a mic, so… your friends are obviously blind.”

“Obviously,” you snort in return, still not believe him.

“I’m— I’m Steve, by the way.”

He holds his hand out, wide and warm. You take it in your own. His long fingers engulf your smaller ones. “Thanks for the drink, Steve.”

“Any time,” he grins and means it.

“Maybe… Maybe I can buy you one sometime,” you offer suddenly, flitting your gaze to a building across the street. You say it with a nonchalant shrug like you don’t care either way — like your heart’s not beating out of your chest just now. “You know, like, as a thank you?”

His smile widens. “I’d like that, Spritz.”

The newfound nickname makes you smile.

You don’t notice until then that your hands haven’t let go of each other.

#steve harrington x reader #stranger things x reader #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x you #steve harrington imagine #stranger things imagine #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things fanfic #stranger things #steve harrington #stevie drabble #st drabbles #modern!steve #shy!reader #steve harrington x shy!reader #published by bug

[bruisedboys]

SATURN — modern!steve has a crush on librarian!reader so he keeps checking out books that he never reads just to talk to them and reader eventually calls him out on it

this is short and probably not exactly how you imagined it being but I tried!! however it’s such a good concept that I may or may not make a full length fic out of it. don’t @ me on that though … hope u like this gf!

summary: modern!steve has a crush on you, the library receptionist. fluff, pining steve, very short lol

gn!reader 600 words

You were pretty sure you were losing your marbles when you saw him for the fourth time that same week.

There he was again, looking very immersed in the books on the shelf of the History section, and standing out like a sore thumb. The only people who ever spent this long in the History section were men over 50. This boy, this tall, brunette, glasses-wearing boy, who you’d now seen every day for the past 3 days, was definitely not over 50.

You stared at him, squinted, tilted your head, tried to figure out whether you were seeing things or not. You wouldn’t be surprised — you were the type of person to be up in your head more often than not. Hence the library receptionist job.

Too late, you realised mystery boy was looking right back at you. Your face got hot fast. Your head snapped back to your computer, typing nonsense into the keyboard.

It was only when he cleared his throat that you realised he was standing right in front of your desk.

You looked up. He looked exceptionally handsome today, his long brown hair tucked behind his ears, a pair of round glasses sitting on his perfect freckled nose. Not that he hadn’t looked pretty every time you saw him, but today his grin was blinding. You swallowed.

“Sorry,” you breathed. “Um, hi. Are you … borrowing that?”

You pointed at this book in his hand. He looked down at it like he’d forgotten he was holding it.

“Oh. Yeah, this,” he said, like it was an afterthought. An afterthought of what, you didn’t know. He grinned, then slid the book over the desk to you. “Mhm, I’d like to borrow it, please.”

You went to grab the book and had to do a double take.

“This is … the same book you got out yesterday,” you said slowly, half convinced he was trying to mess with you.

“It is?” He squinted at the book for a second and then his eyes widened. You thought you saw a blush creeping up his neck. “It is! Oh shit, I’m stupid.”

Mystery boy smacked his own forehead and groaned, then fell into embarrassed laughter. His hand dragged down his face and made his glasses go lopsided. You couldn’t help but laugh too, his smile was dazzling and contagious.

“Did you even read the cover?” You asked, amusement at the situation overshadowing your nervous nature. “No, wait. Did you even read the one you got yesterday?”

His laughter died down though the redness in his cheeks didn’t.

“Well, no.” He cringed at himself, looking one part embarrassed and two parts charming. “Listen, I’m Steve. To tell you the truth, I haven’t read any of the books I got out. I just wanted to talk to you again.”

You flushed from head to foot.

Steve ignored your embarrassment chivalrously. “You’re pretty … for a library receptionist,” he said with a cheeky grin and an awfully exaggerated wink.

You blinked, cheeks blazing. Your tongue felt like it was stuck to the roof of your mouth, thanks to his compliment. You stumbled for a moment. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, y’know … library receptionists are usually old ladies.” He wrinkled his nose, and, at your giggling, grinned beautifully. His eyes were bright when he asked, “What’s your name?”

Your tongue unstuck long enough for you to tell him your name. He beamed when you did, the movement in his cheeks shifting his glasses slightly, and stuck his hand out over the desk. You took it, his hand warm and big and calloused.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” he said jovially. You liked the way he said your name. You felt almost privileged to hear it coming from his pretty, grinning mouth.

“Nice to meet you too, Steve.” You smiled back shyly as he let go of your hand, your skin hot where he’d touched you. “Do you … do you maybe want me to give you some actually good book recommendations?”

Steve laughed, much too loud for a library but you didn’t have the heart to tell him off.

#★ mal writes! #ღ stevie #✿ 300 celebration! #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington x gn!reader #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington x reader fluff #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington drabble #modern!steve #modern!steve harrington #modern!steve harrington x reader #✉️ #stevesmixtape!

[rosewaterandivy]

Epilogue | for once in my life

Summary: Rumor has it, that hometown hero-turned-teacher Steve Harrington is hot for teacher. The English teacher next door to him at Hawkins High, who also happens to be his childhood friend, that is.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x chaotic!dumbass reader

W.C: 5.7k

Warnings: No use of y/n - reader goes by the nickname Trouble instead, yearning, Tuscan summers, a flashback or two, a wedding, and my usual filth™️

A/N: Thanks for bearing with me while I worked on an ending for our two beloved idiots. 🥺 Truthfully, part of me put off writing the epilogue simply because I didn’t want to let Trouble and Steve go— they’re so near and dear to me! But, all good things must come to an end and I hope I’ve given them a fitting one. Thank you all for reading along and sharing your joy with me, it’s been incredible to experience! 💜💜💜

Series masterlist | Series Playlist | trouble will find me (for Trouble, most ardently) | rebel without a clue (for Steve, with love)

previous

The distance was difficult, only mitigated by the positively unreal Tuscan summer. Though the university was in Bologna in the Emilia-Romagna region, since your classes centered on Dante, you along with a few other students, called Florence your home away from home for the summer.

The sun shone bright and hot against the ancient stones of Palazzo Medici Riccardi, and felt good against your back as you lazed in the garden and courtyard on a rare day off from combing through medieval texts in jam-packed libraries and dust motes floating through the air.

Crossing the bustling street you popped into your local gelateria only to be greeted with an exuberant, “Bella!” from Alessandro behind the counter. “Finally you grace us with your presence,” He teases, already scooping out a serving of arancia rossa sorbetto for you into a cup.

“Grazie,” You say with a smile, taking the sorbetto from his outstretched hand. “Had a slow start to the morning is all, Sandro.”

“Certo, I know how it is,” He says with a knowing wink. 

To be fair, the slow start to the day was warranted, given the stress-induced dream you had last night. There you were, minding your own business, thinking about Steve and the voice note he’d left you earlier, and the next thing you know, your brain decided a trip down memory lane was warranted.

“But what do I do about the dress?” Your voice is choked, tongue stumbling over the words. 

It hangs in your closet, mocking you. A pink dust bag with an elegant calligraphy card that lists your former wedding date and ex-fiancé’s last name. Robin’s fingers graze the zipper on the garment bag, fingers slowly settling along the pull. 

“You could try it on?”

She says it as if she wishes she didn’t have to, as if the next time you would put on the wedding dress would be for the alteration appointment which you had already canceled, along with everything else.

Truthfully, the day you found the dress wasn’t at all what you expected it to be. Sure, you’d looked around online and at a few boutiques with Nancy, Robin, your mother, and would-be mother-in-law. Nothing struck your fancy though, each dress you slipped on had something wrong with it— too tight, too loose, too many embellishments, not enough embellishments, too heavy...

It was Steve who suggested the boutique, actually. One of his mother’s friends had a daughter who’d gotten her dress from a place in Indianapolis and said the service and selection were both top-notch. So you went and made a day trip out of it; Eddie and Steve would drop you and the girls off at the boutique and hang out in the city for the day.

Though, they really did try to weasel their way in to the appointment. 

“The fact that you won’t let us join you is misandry.”

“Oh my god,” you laugh. “No, it isn’t, Eds!”

“Okay,” he relents, turning around to face you in the backseat, “Maybe not misandry, but definitely discriminatory. Dudes just wanna have fun!”

Steve laughs, pulling up in front of the boutique, waves to your mother who’s waiting on the sidewalk. “Y’never know,” he teases, “Could need a second opinion in there. Especially once they open the champagne.”

Eddie squawks at that, “You get to try on dresses and drink booze? I’m offended I’ve been left out here.”

Robin opens the backdoor with a roll of her eyes, “No boys allowed, dingus.”

You follow suit, giving Steve a small smile, “Thanks for driving us.” 

His gaze softens, eyes meeting yours, “Happy to help. Now, go find a stunner in there for us, will ya?”

With a shake of your head, you bring yourself back to the moment. Sitting on the floor of your former home, moving boxes and tape littering the floor ready for you to pack up the pieces of your life. You look to Robin again, she’s unzipped the garment bag entirely revealing the bodice and skirt of the gown.

She watches you thoughtfully, “I mean, just to see if you still like it? That way we’ll know if we need to pack it or sell it.”

Sighing, you wipe your damp palms against your thighs and stand up. “Yeah,” you breathe, “Okay.”

Between the two of you, you managed to wrestle into the dress. Robin securing the delicate straps as you adjust the cups and situate yourself. The door creaks open to reveal Nancy, her eyes bright with interest. 

Robin gives up with her attempts to fix the zipper and numerous buttons on the back, steps aside for Nancy to intervene.

“You’re gorgeous, babe,” Robin says, voice soft. “It looks amazing on you! Same as the day we found it.”

“It’s one hell of a dress.” Nancy agrees, the zipper pull sliding home. “No one would say no to you in that.”

Your laugh comes out as a choked thing, wet and raspy. You wipe your eyes in an effort to prevent any tears from falling. But that was the thing, wasn’t it? He didn’t even have to see the dress to know that he no longer wanted you.

“Thanks, guys.”

Feeling brave enough to look at the mirror, you pause in perusal. And sure enough, it’s a stunner. Delicate lace embellished the corseted bodice, waist nipped just enough to amplify the bust. The skirt flowed down in layers of silk and tulle, the lace accenting the frothy peaks and valleys of it. 

Turning, you noticed the low-dip of the back, highlighted by the beginnings of the train. It was a gown meant for a cathedral wedding, a long aisle as you walked toward the altar. A beautiful wedding dress for a wedding that no longer was. 

It was getting difficult to justify keeping it.

“Holy shit,” Eddie says, bursting into the room slack-jawed, “Your tits look great!”

Robin smacks him, “No boys allowed, dingus!”

“Yeah, Eddie, don’t you know what a closed door means?”

He grins, “I think we know by now that, no, I clearly do not.”

Hearing footsteps coming down the hall, you turn to Nancy eyes wide. “Nance, the door–”

She shuts it quickly, keeping a hand on the knob. Robin and Eddie stop their bickering long enough to share a meaningful glance. You fist the full of the skirt in both hands and motion for Robin’s help in getting the dress off.

“Uh.” Steve says, voice muffled through the closed door, “What’s going on in there?”

“Nothing!” You’re quick to respond, trying and failing to keep the panic from your voice, “Just packing up some stuff.”

“Riiiight.” He drawls, “Then do I hear Eddie in there talking about tits?”

“Hey man,” Eddie says in his own defense. “I just wandered in here, I know nothing.”

“And why is the door locked?”

Nance’s eyes go to the doorknob as it jiggles in her hand. “We’re trying to figure out what to do with the dress,” she says in a breathless rush.

If looks could kill, Nancy would have dropped to the floor. You narrow your eyes at her and turn with a huff.

“What dress— t-the wedding dress?”

“Yes, Steve.” Robin sighs. “That’s the one.”

The doorknob swivels again, “C’mon, just open the door guys. Eddie’s seen it and I am officially the only one who hasn’t.”

“No!” You shout.

Everyone stops to look at you, eyes wide. 

“I mean,” you sputter indignantly, stepping out of the dress and throwing on your overly large t-shirt. “S’not a big deal, I’ll probably sell it, anyway.”

Robin and Eddie maneuver it back into the garment bag with a zip just as Nancy steps away from the door, gaze soft taking in your drawn face.

Steve stumbles in soon after to find you, pants-less, the hem on your shirt grazing your bare thighs, furiously taping boxes closed and scribbling in sharpie.

“Nothing to see here!” You say, stumbling into your bike shorts, tugging them back up. “No siree, nothing at all.”

His chest falls slightly, looking from you to the pink garment bag and back again. Robin catches the minute change in his expression before he’s picking up a box and carrying it out into the hall, not a word to be said about the dress.

And all that runs through your mind is a frantic buzz of ‘It’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride in her wedding dress.’ Never mind that you were no longer a bride and Steve was never your intended groom. Any rational know-how kicked from your thoughts in an echo of your hammering heart.

Why your exhausted brain conjured up that particular episode, you had no idea. The instance was promptly forgotten, the dress stored at your parent’s place, and Steve never brought it up again.

Thank God for that.

Maybe it was because of Nancy and Jonathan’s looming nuptials. He’d popped the question not long after Nance moved in, and it had been full-steam ahead since March. The ceremony was to happen at the end of summer, just as your intensive was wrapping up. 

She’d nearly had a coronary when you’d expressed your doubts about being able to attend.

“I’m not getting married without you Trouble, so sweet-talk those profs into letting you sit your exams early and get the fuck back home.” She sighs down the line, “There’s only so much of moping Steve we can take— Eddie is about ready to strangle him.”

You huff a laugh, “Yeah, I’m surprised he’s held out this long.”

“Yeah, she agrees dryly, "We all know you two'll take any excuse to get Steve in a headlock.”

“I don’t need an excuse,” You scoff. “That punk needs to be put in his place.”

You’d taken up Nance on her no-nonsense advice and your professors had graciously allowed you to submit your final papers early in order to make the wedding. Unfortunately, you’d miss out on a few of the celebrations like the bridal shower, bachelorette party, and rehearsal dinner— your flight would be landing just as the festivities began— but, Nancy and Jonathan had agreed to help you surprise the gang.

For all Robin, Eddie, and Steve knew there was absolutely, positively no way you could get out of your scheduled final exams. It sucked, as Robin rightfully pointed out, that you’d have to miss your best friend’s wedding but they all understood.

Steve was more hangdog about it than ever.

“Thanks Sandro,” You call out, plastic spoon in your mouth as you quickly step out the door, leaving a €5 note on the counter before he could stop you with a, “Your money is no good here, bella!”

Your phone buzzes in your bag, ducking under an awning your scramble through your well-worn tote bag to find it, throwing your sunglasses on in the process.

“Hey Fratty light,” You greet with a smile, spooning another cool helping of blood orange flavored ice into your mouth. “Do any good keg stands lately?”

Steve’s laugh nearly eclipses the warmth of the sun on your skin, a surge of heat building low in your stomach.

“At least I didn’t fall off the keg.”

“That was one time!” You scoff, jogging across the street before an aggressive Vespa can mow you down. Pulling the phone away from your mouth, you give the driver the ombrello gesture and shout, “Vaffanculo!”

He chuckles at your outburst, “Tell ‘em babe!”

“I’ll have you know, I stuck that landing Harrington and, it was quite the crowd-pleaser if I recall.”

“Sure Trouble,” You can nearly hear the eye roll at your expense, “It was the landing and not the fact that you were wearing those panties.”

The fact that he remembered the pair in question has you reeling, you nearly run into a fellow pedestrian in your dazed state.

“Anyway,” You say, cleaning your throat. “What’s on the sad boy agenda for today? Getting into divorced dad rock, any Matchbox-20 or Creed in your future?”

“God, you’re awful, and no, thanks very much.” 

You hear a door slam and a car engine turn over. Someone muttering about Steve’s ‘utter lack of taste’ in music— Eddie, without a doubt.

He sighs down the line, pulling on your heartstrings because you miss them all so damn much, but Steve most of all.

“Just helping with some wedding stuff.” His voice is softer, sadder knowing you won’t be there to celebrate with them. “Boring shit, you know.”

You hum in agreement, “Well I’ll let you get to it. Don’t let Eddie flirt with too many bridesmaids!”

“You got it, chief,” Steve says, “Take care of yourself babe.”

“You too, big boy.” A huff of laughter at hearing his scoff, “Byyyeeee.”

And maybe it happens like Nance said it would, things just fall into place when they’re meant to.

After a flight from hell— a toddler would not, for love or money, stop kicking the back of your seat on the evening flight from Milan to Berlin, and you were stuck in the backmost row from Berlin to Indianapolis on the red-eye. It was a miracle you rolled up to your parents' house in one piece. You’d arrive at the venue to get ready with the rest of the bridal party where you’d hopefully be able to keep Robin sworn to secrecy.

You weren’t above putting her into a headlock, if it came down to it.

Dress, shoes, and make-up bag hastily thrown in your mom’s car, you drove to the venue just outside of Hawkins. A lovely little outdoor property owned by a local family, groves of trees and the finest collection of wildflowers you’d ever seen— fitting for Nancy and Jonathan.

You arrive in a slightly mussed frenzy, arms weighed down with your bridesmaid dress and a weekend bag that did fuck-all to protect you from the sudden onslaught of summer rain. Cursing the permeability of Indiana summers, you walk swiftly toward the bridal cottage.

The squelch of your shoes and drops of rain accompany you across the tiled path. Breathe. A steady inhale pulls the comforting scent of petrichor to your lungs, tucked safely behind the cage of your ribs. A shift in the light, a cloud makes way for the sun to shine once more; you scramble for the club masters perched on your head, impossibly tangled (of course) in a damp nest of hair. 

Pried free, you rest the glasses against your nose bridge and stroll to the door. Before you can wrestle a hand free to knock, the door swings open to reveal a tipsy Vickie and bemused Nancy. A smirk settles on your lips as the two shuffle you into the cottage, tutting at the state of your hair and general tardiness.

“It is a wedding y’know,” Vickie teases grabbing the canvas bag from you. “Could make an effort to be on time.” She drops a wink your way before absconding toward the vanity table to deliver your belongings elsewhere.

Nancy huffs and rolls her eyes, taking the dresses from your arm. “Ignore her,” she soothes, “Seems the title of temporary co-M.O.H. has gone straight to her head.” She shoves a flute of champagne into your empty hand and leads you inside. “But you’re here, so the title can rightfully fall to you.”

“And how is the blushing bride?” You smile, taking in her cool, calm demeanor.

She’s notoriously hard to ruffle, so you’re not surprised to find Nancy the same as ever, albeit a tad buzzed from the champagne.

“Fuck a duck!” Robin shouts, colliding with part of the doorway as she takes the corner to quickly in her haste to get to you, having heard your voice from down the hall. She trips falling into you in a quasi-hug that’s mostly all elbows jabbed into your ribs. 

“Walk with dignity, you overgrown toddler,” You laugh sipping some champagne, wrapping your arm around her in a proper hug. She buries her face into your neck with a smile. “And before you even ask, no you cannot, under any circumstance, tell your emotional support Steve about this.”

You feel her frown before she pulls back from you, “I can keep a secret y’know.”

“I don’t doubt it Bucks, just wanna surprise him is all.”

“He has no idea? Oh shit, this is gonna be good.” She says with a cackle before trotting off to help Vickie with her dress.

“Alright Wheels,” You announce polishing off your flute of champagne, “Let me at it, where’s the hairspray?”

After furious coating of L’Oreal’s finest to her hair after you’d secured a few flowers in place, you cough in a haze of hairspray and sagely advise, “That’s good for three slow dances, two fast ones, and one Lambada…” You warn, capping the canister to set it aside. “But if you wanna mosh, I’d suggest another coat.”

Nancy laughs at the suggestion, “I think we’re good.” She checks your handiwork in the mirror with a smile, “Can I ask you something Trouble?”

“Shoot.”

She turns to face you and lowers her voice to a whisper while the other bridesmaids are busy with false eyelashes and zipping up dresses. “Have you given any thought to what I said back in May?”

Ah, that conversation. The one where she (lovingly) warned you off of Steve if you weren’t certain about your feelings for him. Your big, overwhelming feelings. As if you could forget them, even thousands of miles away.

“You know,” You begin, voice pitched to meet hers, “I had a bit of time to think over the summer, no distractions, just me and the Tuscan sun.” 

She stands to slip into her dress and you follow to assist— it’s a beautiful number, all minimal sleek lines and fitted to her like a glove. Nancy is gorgeous, but Nancy on her wedding day is otherworldly. She dutifully turns for you to button up the back and arrange the train for photos.

“And?”

Your eyes meet in the mirror, hers curious but not prying, yours wide, reeling from it all— the pro/con lists, numerous conversations with your mom, Eddie, and Nance, the letters, emails, voice notes, calls and texts from Steve. Somehow, some way they all amounted to this:

“You remember my twenty-first birthday?”

“How could I forget,” She chuckles knowingly, “Spin the bottle, right?”

A nod, you busy yourself smoothing out the few lines in the silhouette of the dress. “And a bit of liquid courage.”

There is no good reason why the eight of you should be doing this. Back at the loft after a night of carousing and bar-hopping, imbibed enough complimentary birthday drinks that spin the bottle seemed like a good idea. Even if the bottle in question is some ridiculously expensive high-roller shit swiped from Mr. Harrington’s study.

You’re warm, leaning on Eddie’s shoulder and whispering in his ear— goading him about kissing someone. Steve hopes it’s not you.

The glass mouth of the bottle spins to a stop in front of Jonathan who groans loudly before clambering over the whoops and hollers.

“Lay it on ‘im Munson!”

You tip backwards and shriek in glee when their lips touch. Eddie returns to your side with a roll of his eyes, pokes your knee with his finger. “Pucker up, buttercup. You’re next.”

Argyle cracks his knuckles, taps his chin thoughtfully, “Alright chica.” He says, “Hope you get Nance or Vic. Make it nice and steamy up in here.”

Steve hopes it’s him and not Nancy, selfishly. The rest of them be damned, if the bottle lands on him he’s going to frog-leap over Eddie, shove him to the side and kiss you good. If it lands on anyone else, he may get arrested for murder tonight.

There’s really no excuse for it— the longing. Best friends since childhood who drifted apart because, as always, he was a dumbass. Kissed you all of one time after the Homecoming dance freshman year and that was barely a peck.

The bottle lands on Vickie.

Slightly tipsy and putting on a show, you bite your bottom lip and lean in, slanting your mouth over hers with a soft sigh. The sound sinks into Steve’s gut and he groans in agony— jealous you’d rather kiss his ex or the redhead rather than him. Nevermind that the bottle was nowhere near landing on him.

“Keep it PG, ladies!” Robin calls, “This is taking way too long!”

“Bucks, shut up. I’m trying to take a video.” Nancy slaps the phone from Eddie’s hand.

Having had enough of it all, Steve stands. “Not that this isn’t how I want to spend my night…” he mumbles, hands patting his thighs. “But I’m peacing out.”

You look up, distracted, and bottom lip a little wet from Vickie, eyes hazy from the long night of celebrating, and quirk your head. “You leavin’, Stevie? Wan’ me to walk you?”

“What— like he’s gonna get lost from here to his room?”

Steve is going to get arrested tonight for murdering Eddie. Tries to keep his cool, regardless.

“S’okay birthday girl, I’ll be fine. You have fun.”

You hop up anyway, a bit blundering in your step, and grab his hand to yank him forward. “C’mon… I gotcha.” Fortified with liquor, you tug him along, turning a corner and chattering about how as much as you appreciate that expensive whiskey, you’d rather have a beer. There’s nothing better than some pretzels, beer, and a movie.

“Oh, uh, s-sorry.” Your hand loosens before you pull it away, self-consciously.

“For what?”

“I know we haven’t been, like, close for a while now. I didn’t mean to grab you like that.”

Oh. The realization dawns on him now, like a crash of lightning— you think he’s guarded… but he’s only been reserved for your sake.

He calls your name, followed by a murmured, “C’mere for a second.”

You lean against his bedroom door, dazed but curious. Steve steps forward until you’re nearly chest to chest, back against the wood. Your mouth opens with a nearly inaudible gasp, but he can see your pulse kick up in your throat. “Yeah?”

"You remember our first kiss?" He waits for you to nod before continuing. "I think I owe you a do-over."

Confusion flits across your face, a solitary brow quirked up in interest. "You wanna mulligan my first kiss, like... seven years after the fact?"

He ducks his chin in embarrassment, skin flushing with heat. "Yeah, I mean, if you're open to it?" He scratches the back of his neck and mumbles, "I just think you deserve better."

You bite your lip in thought, and Steve wants nothing more than to shrivel up and die— but then, you nod, and before he can think better of it, he takes his chance.

Purposefully, Steve tilts your face up fingers, trailing along your chin and jaw, thumbing the full of your bottom lip. You can hear your heart pounding in your ears, all whooshes and erratic beats, almost enough to drown out the words that fall from his lips.

And then, the perfect genius that is Steve Harrington leans down to close the distance between you. Satisfied that your face is tilted just so, his hand sweeps back your hair to cradle your head as his lips descend to yours. 

He kisses you like he’s got all the time in world— like it isn’t past three in the morning and you’re about a minute from slipping under. He kisses lazy, slow, and sublime. Presses you closer to him, an arm winding around your waist to pull you from the wall. More, kissing—tongues and lips and teeth— more of that touch you’ve only dreamed about and you want to kick yourself for missing it, for even daring to fantasize when the real thing is so much more.

Your palms are on his chest, pawing at him for leverage, struggling to refrain from bucking your hips up into him like you so desperately want to do. Steve pulls back with a contented sigh, and you’re surprised there isn’t a string of saliva strung between the pair of your for all the swapping spit that just occurred. There’s nothing but you and him. His gaze, so tentative and sweet, meets yours briefly as he stands back hands shoved quickly into his pockets.

“I meant something like that.”

Your mouth tugs at a corner, as if you could laugh or cry. Or smile. 

Steve lets out a breathy chuckle, brandishes a small, hopeful smile, and runs a hand through his hair. 

You nod. And it’s enough.

“I–I think I’ve known for a while.” You admit sheepishly, looking for any last-minute adjustments that need to be made before the precessional. One hand grasping her train, you follow Nancy toward the door. Taking a shaky breath in, you say, "Guess some part of me has been in love with him since I fell off the fence and into his backyard that first summer."

She stops short and turns back to you elated because she knows the story all too well. Steve doesn't get drunk enough to talk about it often–- the man has a wooden leg, hand to god. But once in a blue moon, it'll happen: how the new neighbor's daughter nearly busted her ass sneaking back home way after her curfew, too buzzed on shitty wine coolers and reeking of weed to realize that she'd fallen on the wrong side of the fence.

Hastily, Robin thrusts a bouquet of flowers into Nancy’s hand. Just before the band starts up, Nancy gives your hand a squeeze and advises, “Sometimes what’s meant for you comes back, Trouble. Don’t let it slip by, okay?”

Steve is just looking to survive the day, he’ll be grateful to get through, honestly. 

He was beyond bummed you couldn’t be there for Nance’s wedding and that he’d be sitting with her cousin instead— she’d talked his ear off during the rehearsal dinner last night about her current rewatch of Sex and The City. He’d never been so relieved to be pulled into bridal party duties by Eddie than he was that night.

And, to top it off, you weren’t answering your phone. Logically, he knew you’d be in exams for most of the day but you normally sent him a text or voice note once you woke up or before you made it to class for the day. 

He’s pathetic. Eddie forced him to leave his phone in the groom’s suite and now he feels phantom vibrations from something that isn’t even in his pocket. Heaving a sigh, he lines up ready to escort Vickie and mentally preparing himself for a detailed recounting of the havoc that Samantha’s absence has caused the SATC franchise from the Wheeler cousin.

“You know,” A lazy, familiar voice drawls to his right, “If I was a riptide, I wouldn’t take you out.” An arm loops through his, comfortable and intimate. 

But no— it couldn’t possibly be…

“Hey, Harrington.” You say, quietly, knocking your hips to his, casually holding a bouquet in your hand, all easy smiles and warm touches. When Steve finally does turn, he blinks a few times to confirm that you're not some hallucination.

Because you’re here, impossibly, you’re home, and everything is finally right in the world.

You reach over to straighten his tie, the alexandrite ring gleaming on your right hand and catching the light.

“How did you—” He stammers, bereft of language.

But then there’s that smirk he adores. “Some of us are stealthy, y’know. Like a ninja.”

“Oh, fuck me right in the mouth.” He laughs loud and bright, a few people turn back in their chairs to look.

You sputter briefly as the precessional begins, hand lighting on his arm with a gentle squeeze. “Uh, that can certainly be arranged, Harrington.”

In that moment he knew, with a certain sense of finality, that he had no choice but to love you; all his love and, if he’s being honest, fear, reflected there in your eyes.

The ceremony is beautiful, of course, and the reception is now in full swing. The new Mr. and Mrs. Byers shared an adorable first dance to “At Last” by Ella Fitzgerald, which nearly had you tearing up before Steve twirled you out onto the dancefloor. 

“Hey, good lookin’,” He says with a smile so sweet, it almost makes you weak in the knees. 

It’s a slow song, something to get the couples up and out of their seats. Over his shoulder you spy Robin and Vickie making goony eyes at eachother while Eddie and Argyle stumble around both trying to lead the other— idiots.

“Hi, Steve.” You reply, eyes making their way back to him. “Y’know, they say you should never trust a man who can dance.”

“And why’s that, honey?”

You shrug, “Dunno. Apparently they’re all heartbreakers or something.”

Steve, thanks to his mother’s needling and his father’s need to keep up appearances, could dance. He’d escorted many a debutante, including yourself, during Cotillion. You can still hear Savannah’s nasally “Did you know that five out of six debs marry their escorts?”

But, then again, she was also drinking from the fun flask at the ripe age of sixteen. So, do with that what you will.

He spins you easily, like it’s nothing, and before you know it you’re back in his arms. His brow is furrowed in thought, but what he could possibly be thinking you hadn’t a clue. So you continue to follow his lead across the dance floor and silently thank Mrs. Harrington for forcing you and Steve into those dance classes way back when, even if he stepped on your toes and you retaliated with an accidental elbow to his ribs— knock-kneed teens the pair of you.

So much has changed since then.

The music pauses, as someone announces that the bride will toss the bouquet. You go to find the bar, but Steve promises he’ll come back with a drink for you instead and then Eddie is hustling you toward the crowd of “single ladies.”

“Eds, no.” You attempt to swat him away, but he’s having none of it. 

“Far as I know, you and Harrington are fuck buddies. No declarations,” His eyes fall to your left hand, “No ring. Beyoncé would insist, sugar.”

You’ve always had a sixth sense about things. When you were younger, your family and friends often thought it was an ability— but in truth, it’s just a mixture of careful perception, logical thinking, and educated guessing.

But not even your sixth sense could explain how you’d ended up catching the bouquet. Especially with a vodka and tonic in one hand and standing at the rear of the gaggle of gals gathered for the event. Didn’t even want to take part, far more interested in finding the coat check room and seeing how long it would take Steve to blow his load once you finally got your mouth on him.

So it’s a surprise, either luck or Nance’s killer aim, when her bouquet lands in your hand, the ribbon wrapped stems falling neatly into your palm just as you turn to shout something at Eddie behind you. Catching Steve’s knowing smirk and hearing Eddie’s piercing wolf-whistle, you give him an exaggerated wink before tossing back your drink. 

It’s not long after that, a few more spins around the dance floor, some cake, and more liquor, tasteful toasts from you and Argyle, fond farewells to the newlyweds and bags thrown into cars for a quick getaway, that Steve tosses you— bouquet in hand, over his shoulder and dips out of there. Ignoring Eddie’s teasing of Irish exits and Irish twins, he sets you on your feet again to lean you against the car and kisses you positively stupid. 

But it’s not a surprise when Steve finally asks you the question he’s been dying to for nearly the entire summer on the drive home, Nancy’s bouquet resting against the dash as you toe off your heels.

“Hey mind-reader, how long did it take?”

“Hmm?” Pleasantly sleepy from jet lag, your mind struggles to spark a fuse of comprehension. Steve raises a solitary brow in interest. 

"Whaddya mean?" You mumble out between stifled yawns.

His hand rests on your leg while he drives, big and warm, his fingers fiddling with the fabric of your dress. Steve, bless him, won't press you on it, but he also wouldn't have asked something so casually for no reason. He's crafty like a fox when he wants to be.

You take a breath and let yourself really think about it. If you’re taking the question seriously, which you damn well should, he deserves an explanation. Hesitantly, you remind Steve of the near fiasco with the wedding dress back at your old place. He nods at your rambling, how guilty and scared you felt at shutting him out. 

“So, yeah, between the moving-in playlist and me being bat-shit terrified of you seeing me in a wedding dress,” You summarize, fingers finding their way to his once more. The warm glow of the streetlights cast shafts of light through the windows. “You’re about as subtle as a brick through a window, Steve Harrington," You conclude with a smirk.

His eyes widen in realization, “Oh, so that’s what you were apologizing for before left for Joshua Tree.” An annoyed sigh before a sharp inhale takes its place. “You’re so stupid.”  

Back at the loft, fumbling hands in elevators lips spit slick and ruddied, Steve bats away your grabby hands with an exasperated huff as they light upon his chest. Nearly dropping his keys when they find a better way to occupy themselves.

Once inside, he presses his face into your neck, kissing hungrily, anywhere he can, down to your collarbones and chest and then he’s lifting you up by the thighs, kicking the door close, and instinctively pulling everything off.

He peels his shirt off and throws it onto the floor while you shimmy out of your dress. His mouth hasn’t left yours for anything other than to breathe.

His hands stop at the curve of your hips. The room is spinning— the entire world moving too fast in a feverish haze. Years of close-quartered friendship and the first intimate touches in months have jumped right into the deep end. You don’t even know when the two of you made way back into his room, but the door clicks shut with a kick from his foot.

“Hey, mind-reader, I got two questions for you,” Steve calls teasingly. “First, how big did you think I was, y'know before? When you accused me of, how did you put it... harboring a fugitive?”

Your brain briefly short-circuits at that, mildly embarrassed. He laughs at your slow, owlish blinks while you formulate a response other than, "Well, I, uh..."

"Okay, okay," He drops a kiss to your brow, soothing your worries away, “Second…”

You gulp. Your legs feel like jelly— all the smart words in the entire world wiped completely from existence. The pause he takes is punishingly long and the grin he gives you nearly makes you faint.  

His pants are shucked somewhere near the bedroom door. One of your hands goes into his hair, other guiding him between your legs where you smear all over his fingers.

"S'been a while, do you think you can take it?”

“Oh,” A smirk quirks your lips, hand scrabbling for purchase on his tanned skin, “I think you know I can.”

Later, after frenzied forays in tangled sheets and revelling in the afterglow, you place your hand over his chest, selfishly counting his heartbeats.

You breathe, soft and sweet, “Steve,” the sound of your voice a warm balm in the inky dark. “Steve,” You say again and kiss his neck, turning toward you on the rumpled bed he kisses you, as if he could ever get enough. 

“I love you.”

He pulls back, just enough so that you wrap your leg around his hips, sheet slipping off as his fingers trail up your thigh. Grazing the tip of his nose ever so lightly against your temple, you feel the rumble of laughter through his chest as it heaves against yours. 

Rolls you onto your back, legs falling open to cradle his hips while he holds himself above you, hair falling into his face, “Took you long enough,” he grins, kissing you again. Your cheeks, your jaw, your chin. “I love you too, honey.”

His love is heavy and you delight in the gravity of it as he slips his way back inside, your hands pulling him closer than anyone can ever or will ever get again. It feels fated— the way your body moves and his responds in kind.

Steve only keens your name in reply.

Spun clear out of your body in the haze, pure joy erupts from your mouth, hands scrambling for him, so woozy and giddy you can’t help it. 

So this is love, after all. 

Finis.

#steve harrington smut #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fan fiction #stranger things fan fiction #modern!steve #teacher!steve #the kids aren't alright - rosewateverandivy #Spotify

[sugarsblurbs]

Modern!Steve Headcannons

Modern!Steve would have Just Dance and MarioKart nights. His favorite is Just Dance tho.

Modern!Steve would make all the kids download life360.

Modern!Steve as many group chats.

Modern!Steve loves Snapchat filters.

Modern!Steve would work at Vans and goes to school he wants to be a preschool teacher

Modern!Steve would FaceTime you and fall asleep. You are always on FaceTime with him. Modern!Steve’s Lock Screen is you and the kids and his Home Screen is him kissing you cheek.

Modern!Steve sends Good morning and Good night texts to the group.

Modern!Steve ringer is always on LOUD

Modern!Steve does all the couple TikTok trends he would low key cry if he did the moon phase TikTok trend and your moons didn’t match

Modern!Steve is a Beyoncé Stan

Modern!Steve has five portable chargers in his backpack

Modern!Steve would randomly send you money Modern!Steve is low key a sugar daddy

Modern!Steve drives a mini van

#modern!steve #stranger things #sugarsblurbs #stranger things 4 #steve harrington x you #steve harrington headcanon #steve harrington blurb #steve x reader #steve stranger things #steve fluff #steve harrington hcs #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington hc #steve harrington fandom #steve hc #steve harrington x bookworm!reader #modern!steve harrington #modern!steve harrington x reader #steve x you #steve harrington x fem #steve Harrington x y/n #steve harrington x henderson!reader #steve harrington thoughts #steve #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington au

[xsteveharringtonsmistress86x]

Modern!Steve Instagram

#steve harrington x black!reader #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington imagine #modern!steve #modern!stranger things #modern!steve harrington

[ddejavvu]

modern!eddie who has a super cracked phone and same as modern!robin meanwhile nancy and steve have pristine phones with the best case and a screen protector

eddie and robin crack their phones in such absurd ways!! eddie, in a fit of frustration at a game, bit the corner of his screen and it shattered (something that happened to my friend). steve accidentally backed robin's over with his car (it fell out of her pocket before they drove somewhere) and he panics like OH MY GOD I'LL BUY YOU A NEW ONE and she's swiping through the broken glass shards like 'bae dw this is way better than the time i threw it out of a three story building' and he goes the time you what

nancy has an otterbox, i'm so sorry to say.. it's giant and ugly and something my grandma uses, but it does its job and her phone has never suffered a second. steve has one of those terrible generic apple cases that's just a color with the apple logo on the back but he locks it in with a screen protector (that eddie breaks) so his phone is fine

#modern!steve #modern!eddie #modern!robin #modern!nancy #fruity four #the fruity four #steve harrington headcanon #steve harrington #eddie munson headcanon #eddie munson #robin buckley headcanon #robin buckley #nancy wheeler headcanon #nancy wheeler

[kindamanlymuppet]

~credit to abi_h1x on tik tok~

this is so something modern! steve would say and i would SWOON

#steve harrington #modern!steve #taylor swift #high infidelity #steve harrington x reader #modern!steve x reader

[theemporium]

Im always a reputation!steve fan. A lovey dovey album for a lovey dovey boi

steve is SO king of my heart and gorgeous coded please😭

#cece answers #modern!steve #steve.thots

[rosewaterandivy]

8. scarves of red

Summary: Rumor has it, that hometown hero-turned-teacher Steve Harrington is hot for teacher. The English teacher next door to him at Hawkins High, who also happens to be his childhood friend, that is.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x chaotic!dumbass reader

Warnings: No use of y/n - reader goes by the nickname Trouble instead, cursing, hospital mention, family medical crisis, sad girl hours continue, Meet Me in St. Louis call out, Modern!Teacher AU, English teacher reader, History teacher Steve, slow burn, friends to lovers, romance.

A/N: Hurt my own feelings with this one 😞😞😞 Here’s 5.9K of soft!Steve and conflicted!reader - reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated, let me know what you thought; enjoy! 💜

series masterlist | playlist

Trouble’s gift for Steve: rebel without a clue

previous || next

Then, December, Christmas day, Carmel-by-the-Sea, CA

It’s these moments you cherish the most. The quiet still of mornings when it feels like you’re the only person awake, able to catch auroras that break across the sky heralding a new day. Tangled up in shades of fading blue, rumpled sheets, and him. 

One arm thrown across his eyes to block the growing light, the other wound loosely around your waist having sought you out in deepest sleep. His warm right hand and fingertips. His pulse measuring itself in steady breaths, puffs of air that escape his lax lips. 

It’s in the liminal moments— when he’s suspended in between dreams and waking— that you face the truth. The one you’re so desperate to escape. A shadow drifting through a haze of incandescent light. Heart clenching at the thought—this is where you love him the most. You trace his outline with a finger, igniting the glorious gold shape of his body. It stirs him back to you.

“Mornin’.” Raspy and low, whispered into your ear and your very soul shivers. “Merry Christmas, honey.” He smiles when he looks at you, arm falling to his side.

Curling closer to the heat of his body, you smile. “Merry Christmas, Stevie.” 

Your palm pursues a dip of muscle, Steve presses his lips to the crown of your head before drawing you to him, as if you could fade into him like a band of light. Would that you could. Blinking the tears away before they can fall, you smile into the curve of his neck smothering the urge to taste and touch him.

Hushed tones and footfalls hint that you’re no longer the only ones awake. Steve squeezes you once more for good measure before rising from the bed, with a yawn and a stretch. You follow suit not long after, waiting until he’s left the room to get up. Treading carefully, you unzip his bag and your fingers happen upon his presents, hastily packed away before leaving.

With a small smile, you turn on your heel at the sound of your dad’s Christmas playlist blaring through the speakers. Cheered by the chorus of voices from the kitchen, you move to join them finding Steve ready with a mug of coffee for you as he leans against the counter.

He’s pulled on an ancient Hawkins Tigers shirt and dispensed the proper portion of creamer for your coffee. Trading barbs and jokes with your mother while she teases him about the competing cats of his outfit, tigers versus leopards, a tale as old as time.

Greeting your family, you make your way to the tree and stow Steve’s presents under it. Hearing that he’s been pulled into conversation with your dad, you take the slip of paper from your the pocket of your shorts and sneak it into his stocking, hung right beside yours.

A bump to your hips, a familiar chuckle as you turn to see your brother with a mug extended toward you. “Steve’s orders,” he says, sipping from his own mug. “Said you better not let it go cold.”

You clink your mugs together and settle on the couch, waiting for the festivities to begin. Someone passes a plate or cinnamon rolls your way and sets a champagne glass behind you on a table. Steve bullies his way onto the couch to sit with you, forcing you to the center of the sofa. 

“Well, that looks familiar,” your dad chuckles catching sight of you, nudging your mom to look on. “Trouble in the middle, like every road trip we ever took the three of you on.”

“Not for lack of trying,” you mutter, recalling the antics Steve and your brother would get up to on those long rides to campsites or out-of-state. Mostly them playing keep away with whatever book you’d brought along and making you play I-Spy, the license plate game, or your least favorite, punch buggy.

You roll your eyes at the ensuing laughter, your mom looking at you in sympathy with a pout. Steve taps his knee to yours as you dig into breakfast, an indignant huff when you elbow him back. “Not very nice of you,” he grouses, “Think we’ll have to move you to the naughty list.”

“White Winter Hymnal” is on, blaring through the house. Robin Pecknold croons sweetly, longingly, ethereally about a pack of foxes making their way in the snow in a dreamy cadence. Steve hears your voice as you carol along, impossibly cute. Catching your curious expression at what is most likely his prolonged staring at you, he gives a dramatic roll of his eyes to cover.

“Woah there, cowboy,” you say through a mouthful of pastry, “If you keep rolling your eyes like that, they’ll get stuck up there.”

“Yeah,” your brother chimes in, “Looked pretty impressive there, Steve-o.”

“Well, what can I say?” A waggle of his brow while he sips from his mug, “I learned from the best.”

Thankfully, your dad takes over and begins handing out stockings and presents from the tree, a trash bag at the ready for wrapping paper and paraphernalia. There are more gifts than you’d anticipated, what with this trip being a surprise, but lo-and-behold, you're given an expertly wrapped box from the Harringtons.

“Did you know about this?” 

Steve looks to you, confusion evident on his pretty face. He shrugs, eyes glancing to the package in your lap.

“Oh Steve, your mom had those sent over, we’ve been in touch,” you look at your mom as if she grew a second head. “What? We talk, not everything is about you,” she says casually.

“Mmm,” you say primly before your dad reminds the three of you to get the ‘shebang’ started, stockings first, naturally.

Finding a quiet moment, Steve steps away to call his parents. They exchange a few pleasantries and he thanks them for sending the gifts here rather than the loft. He dodges their question about his last gift for you, simply because he hasn’t found the right time to give it to you— knows how you can get about having all eyes on you in situations like this, not terribly fond of unwanted attention.

Before he can get back to the movie marathon you’d started in the living room, your mom steps into the room. She ducks her head with a smile mouthing ‘sorry’ seeing that he’s still on the phone, and he can see so much of you in her at that instant, Steve completely forgets what he was saying.

“Yeah, I gotta go,” he drawls, head devoid of thoughts about the previous conversation. “Talk later, love you too Ma.”

Comfy on the chair next to the windows, your mom turns to him with a smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No worries,” Steve sits in the chair across from her, “They had to get going, anyway.”

She nods, knowing all too well the perpetual rush his parents were in, steeples her fingers and takes a breath. “So.”

Steve only appears slightly abashed at her tone, that needling you-know-better register it seems only mothers can access. He sighs and palms the back of his neck, “I know, I know.”

Another knowing smile. “You’re still planning to give it to her?”

“I mean, I was…” He leans forward slightly and rakes his hand through his hair frustratedly. “And then my dad got in my head about it, saying it’s too similar to a proposal—”

An inhalation of breath. She kisses her teeth with a shake of her head, “Steve, you know her better than that I’d wager.” 

She scoots forward in her seat and reaches to take his hand, thumb moving in comforting circles across his bruised knuckles. They’re still sore, and he hisses when she brushes a particularly tender spot.

“Sorry sweetie,” she soothes. Her eyes wandered to him, warm and maternal. “I heard about what happened, she told us after patching you up the other day.”

Steve finds it hard to meet her gaze in that moment. Clearly, you could hold your own and take care of yourself. There was no reason for him to get involved save for his own sense of pride. Regret roils like acid in his gut as he waits for the I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed.

“I should thank you,” is what your mom ends up saying with a mischievous smile. “I’ve been wanting to pop him one for years now and you beat me to the punch, quite literally.”

Steve squints a little, understanding when he sees her trying to suppress her laughter. He cracks a smile and squeezes her hand, responding with a laugh.

“He just had such a punchable face, y’know?”

“Oh, do I.”

They fall into easy conversation after that, her confiding in him about your recent predicament and worries for you. He serves as her sounding board, offering up nods and reassurances that you’re doing well, anecdotes about work and the loft.

Eventually, she turns to glance out of the window. “You’ve always taken such good care of her Steve.” Her voice is thick with emotion, she frees her hand from his to wipe at her eyes. “We’ve never had to worry about her with you,” she laughs as if she can’t believe it and stands to face the ocean view. 

He rises slowly, knowing whatever she’s about to say is something she has held close; a private hope for her daughter, too fragile to be spoken aloud. “I know you would do anything for her,” her voice is barley whisper in the still of the room, “And she’d do the same for you,” a slow turn to face him once more, soft smiling tugging at the corner of her lips, “You have to know that. I mean, of course you do, you’re devoted to one another.”

Steve nods, hands grasping her shoulders and pulling her into a hug. She falls into him with a wet laugh, he perches his chin on the top of her head while she pulls herself together. Her arms wind about his waist squeezing him tightly, “All of this is to say,” her voice steady once more, “Would the two of you please get your shit together?”

His bark of laughter surprises him, “Sure, I’ll get right on that mom.”

She claps his shoulder and shoots him a rougish glance, “No pressure,” she goes to leave the room, “It’s not like we want grandkids or anything,” she teases.

He pouts petulantly and follows her out, “You,” he says with a sigh, “are trouble.”

“Mmm,” she agrees, leading him to the kitchen, “Well, the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree y’know.”

Steve listens to the playlist you’d curated for him as he walks to meet you at the beachfront. In your typical fashion, it was an incredibly thoughtful gift— a custom pressed splatter vinyl, a mix your favorite color and red, which is his— and he was speechless for a moment after unwrapping it.

“D’you like it?” You’d shyly asked when he hadn’t said anything or given a hint as to his reaction. “It’s a vinyl pressed with a playlist I made you.” You went on to explain that you had a Spotify version too, since there wasn’t a record player at the house for immediate use. He set the gift down carefully and pulled you into a bearhug, settling your legs on either side of his so you were seated in his lap facing each other. 

Coloring in embarrassment, you rest your forehead against his, bright eyes glancing up through long lashes to study him. The smile he gave you nearly split his face in two, “You’re amazing and I love it.” You teased him, pointing out that he couldn’t say that since he hadn’t heard it yet. Then frowned, spotting the flash of your dad’s camera going off, and attempted to clamber off of his lap.

Loud scoffs as you critiqued your dad’s photography skills, and your brother piped up that he got a shot of the pair of you as well, should the other picture not be sufficient. Steve let you slide back to the center of the sofa, one arm wrangled around your waist as you leant against him for the rest of the gift exchange, head tucked into his neck as his fingers ran through your hair.

Apparently, you’d gone out on a “sad girl” walk not long after Steve had gone to call his parents. Your dad was mindful to relay your sentiments, “Woke up from her sugar coma and said ‘peace out girl scout, time for sad girl hours.’ Whatever that means.”

Steve left soon after, added the playlist to this ‘likes’ and told them he’d be back with you soon. He shoves the phone in the pocket of his jacket and checks for the ring with his opposite hand. Fingers running over the crushed velvet, he reassures himself that it’s there and intact and begins his downhill trajectory.

His mind floods with memories with the opening songs, burned CDs and playlists you’d demand played at max volume as he drove around Hawkins while you sat shotgun in his car. You had a knack for this sort of thing, the ability to curate a playlist around any theme or request impeccably. There was a reason you threw together the soundtrack for any party he’d thrown since high school, why you were in charge of the AUX of every car he drove— much to Eddie’s chagrin.

Descending the hills of the suburbs, he walks through the nearly empty arcade of shops and restaurants of downtown. There are a few people milling around at the water’s edge, but not many. He treads the wood boards of stairs leading down to the sandy beach, head bobbing and singing along “Timberwolves at New Jersey.”

Steve smiles and nods at the various couples and families he passes by, wondering where you are. He’s about to text you after a few minutes of fruitless searching, when he spies you perched atop a hill, chin resting against your knees as you hug your legs to your chest. You’ve got your new headphones on and his raybans, because when are you not rifling through his shit and taking his stuff. 

He scrambles up the hill, feet sinking into the sand if he lingers in one spot for too long. Makes his way to your side with mumbled curses and something about being subjected to finding sand in his shoes for the rest of his life. Plops to the ground at your side with a forceful exhale and knocks a knee against yours.

“Hey,” he says after pausing the music and removing his ear buds. You nod at him, grimace pulling at your lips, and eyes red. 

Wordlessly, he drags you to his side and tucks your head under his chin as you take trembling breaths. Hears the unmistakable sound of Taylor Swift and decides that it’s time to put the headphones away for today. Hands gently lift the speakers from your ears and rest the band against your neck. You sniffle and wipe the tears from your face, moving to sit up. 

Steve cradles you to his chest, thumbs brushing errant tears you’d missed from your cheeks. You allow him to silently comfort you, hands winding under his jacket seeking warmth and touch. He settles you on his lap, arms holding you close. The scent of his aftershave wraps around you, a resounding sense of home as you cry.

How easy it would be if you could rid yourself of the memories and grief that torment you day and night. 

The waves crash against the shore, drowning out your thoughts of him and the life you almost had— a May wedding, a house and a dog, eventually children running through the yard, sprinklers, popsicles melting sticky sweet in the summertime.

How easy it would be if you could just move on. 

Your eyes slip close as you take slow breaths in and out, Steve whispering encouragements into your hair as it whips up in the sea breeze. Notes of salty brine mixing with the cypress of his cologne. His fingers slide down your jaw, moving you to stare up at him. Your best friend looks as if his heart is breaking in front of him and there’s nothing he can do to prevent it.

It’s enough to chasten you, tears drying on your face as you sit up straight. Thumbs running up and down the length of your arms and a small smile, eyes clouded with concern. A shake of  your head to let him know it’s okay, that you’re okay or at least trying to be.

Placated, for now, Steve offers you his hands to help you stand— fingers grasping his palms, you counter your weight against his and rise, dusting sand off as you go. Once he sees you’ve settled, he sits back on his heels and looks up to you. Pulling a box from his jacket pocket, he drops it your open palm, “One last present for you, Trouble.”

Curiosity piqued, you open it while he stands, grains of sand falling from his form. A gasp flies from your mouth. Nestled inside the box is a familiar ring, one that’s plagued you with guilt for the better part of a decade since you’d lost it.

“Steve, I—”

He shrugs, arms falling to his sides, “C’mon now, it’s not a big deal.”

“Of course it’s a big deal!” You smack his chest, “It’s a huge deal, how did you do this?!” You take the ring out of its box and marvel at it in the light: center stone of Alexandrite flanked by bright diamonds sparkling in the evening light.

“Your mom was huge help, actually.” He plucks the ring from you hand to slide it on the fourth finger of your left hand. “Had to use your uh, former ring for size, and some family pieces from your aunts and grandmothers, but we can change it up if you don’t like it.” 

Steve keeps his eyes on your hand, mindful not to meet your gaze, a blush creeping up his neck and face. And you’re too shocked to do anything but gape in awe at his sweet, thoughtful gesture from your charming and dearest friend.

“No Steve,” you breathe and echo his earlier sentiment, “You’re amazing, I love it.”

The two of you stand there, his hand holding yours for what you swear are eternities. Hazel eyes drawing up to meet you, more green in this light, and impossibly fond. With a pull of your arm, he falls toward you, quick to wrap his other arm around your hips and press a kiss to the crown of your head. “Merry Christmas, doll,” the timbre of his voice sending you into shivers.

“Oh.”

A brief, quizzical glance to Steve at the sound of someone approaching you. He turns slightly to see who’s there. An older woman pauses with her hand to her lips, as if she’d interrupted a private moment meant for the two of you.

“I’m so sorry,” she continues, voice light and apologetic, “But you just make such a beautiful couple.” You feel Steve bristle at her interpretation of events. “I just wanted to offer my heartfelt congratulations!” 

“Oh, we’re not–” he begins to say. You swat at him to get him to shut up, smile wide and bright when he turns to you confused. 

More footfalls through the beach grasses as her husband comes to a stop beside her. A comforting hand falling to her shoulder with familiar ease, “So, how long have you been together?” 

“Oh, feels like forever,” you say with a smile, discreetly elbowing Steve before he can correct you. “Childhood sweethearts, we grew up next door to each other.” 

His wife beams, “You don’t see a lot of that anymore.” And prattles on, chatting with you about young love while Steve steals ardent glances of you. 

The man observes him briefly, reminded of his own proposal in another lifetime. The undeniable look of a young man in love, infatuated with a girl and the shimmering promise of what’s to come. With a brief squeeze of his wife’s shoulder, he steps forward a few paces sending a nod to Steve. He catches the man’s meaning and walks away from you, arm extended back to hold your hand for as long as he can. 

His arm drops to his side with reluctance, finally out of earshot and admiring the sunset with the gentleman to his left. 

“A bit of advice, son?” the older man asks, catching your indulgent smile to Steve’s back. “From one old codger to a young whipper-snapper,” he drops a wink to Steve, who responds with a chuckle. “Relationships aren’t fifty-fifty and whoever said that was a colossal dumbass.” 

Steve laughs, brilliant peals of it lost against the crashing of waves on the shore. Shoves his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels as the man continues.

“If all she can give is twenty percent, on bad day, take up the slack and bridge that eighty percent for the sake of the partnership.” The man looks him in the eye with a slight smile, claps a hand on his shoulder, “Just some advice from a thirty-year veteran of a good marriage; it’s not always fair and easy, but it’s worth it.” Steve nods politely, eyes flicking toward you at the sound of your laughter. “Though, I s’pose this might be something you already know.”

They shake hands and the man turns back to call for his bride; she blushes making her way back to him. You take Steve by surprise, looping your thumbs through his belt loops and pulling him back against your chest, chin resting on his shoulder. 

“C’mon buttercup,” you rasp, breath ticking the hairs on the back of his neck. “We got things to do and people to see!”

Waving goodbye to the well-wishers, you take Steve’s hand in yours and make your way back home. The receding sun colors the sky in bands of peach, pink, yellow and lilac. You comment on the cotton-candy hues turned back and facing him to take it in, small hands clasped in his larger ones as you walk backwards up the path. 

And he knows he should turn to sneak a glance, take a picture to remember this moment by. But he can’t tear his eyes from you— light and bright in the dark of the tree covered trail, eyes flitting this way and that taking in the scenery, tongue darting out to wet your bottom lip before you fix him with your signature grin.

And like a moth to a flame, Steve will circle and orbit your radiance until he’s torn asunder. It is enough to love you from afar, for it to bloom and unfurl in the secret, dark recesses where your light cannot reach.

It has to be.

That evening finds Steve in a mild panic. 

The walk back to your aunt and uncle’s place had been a vertical armageddon, just one brutal hill after the next, his thighs were still burning and he honestly didn’t know how you made it without your usual complaints. 

But no. Handling the rigorous climb with your usual nonsense, you’d pestered him with every thought that ran through your head.

“Do you believe in soulmates?”

The question takes him by surprise. Rummaging in your pockets until you’d produced a granola bar, you chomp and chew, crumbs decorating your lips.

Steve frowns and extends his hand. “No. And gimme.”

A granola flake sticks to your chin. “Oh, well, that’s a shame.” A quirk of his brow to egg you on, train of thought having already left the station. All these years of knowing you and he still doesn’t know a damn thing.

“I’m it,” another bite before you hand it off. The wrapper slips in his hand, the bar near to tumbling on the pavement. “I’m your soulmate.”

A cough. Steve chokes on the granola in his mouth and it comes out of his nose. 

Footfalls approaching you at a quick pace, your brother jogging in place as he observes you thumping Steve on the back repeatedly to varying levels of success while he hacks and coughs. 

“Good god.” You older sibling complains before leaving on an evening run, “You idiots were made for each other.” 

And Steve doesn’t think he’s wrong. 

Especially after cycling through the playlist twice over now. He hadn’t thought much of it, at first. You did stuff like this all the time: “Here, this made me think of you,” said with a hastily wrapped gift, “Special delivery!” accompanied by your bright smile and a breakfast tray of his favorites, “Let me know when you get there,” thrown over your shoulder as he’s on his way out of the door.

You’re such a considerate dope, he’s lucky to have you.

But this feels different. More intentional. 

Not that you don’t put thought into things, you’re an English teacher for fuck’s sake; you can pick up on nuance and dissect a narrative like it’s nothing. Appreciating the varied layers and intentions of storytelling, teaching your students to do likewise— he hears it from them all the time (“I can’t read mindlessly anymore,” “I know, right?!”, “I’m so invested in these characters, it’s, like, bad.”).  

He’s probably overthinking this. 

It was just a kiss.

It’s just a Christmas present.

Albeit an incredibly thoughtful one.

Steve decides to cut his losses and stop wallowing. He grabs his things for a quick shower, hoping to wash off the last of the sand and sweat from earlier. The music continues to play, echoing against the tile in the bathroom.

“Tonight the headphones will deliver you the words that I can’t say.”

The refrain of “Homesick at Space Camp” mocks him.

Dinner was a catch-as-catch-can affair, you’d scored some cinnamon rolls from breakfast and whipped up a scramble as a quasi breakfast for dinner situation. Afterward, you joined your dad on the couch for the annual viewing of Meet Me in St. Louis. 

Grabbing the remote, you press ‘play’ and settle in beside him with a glass of wine. From the corner of your eye, you see him tilt his head to the side, gaze focused on your left hand.

“Is that…?”

You offer him a small smile, “Present from Steve.” Setting your glass on the table, you go to move the ring to your right hand. “He didn’t— we’re not—” You stumble over the words, your dad’s grin growing. “Mom helped him with a replica of Grandma’s ring, that’s all.”

“Ah.”

Sliding the ring home on your right hand, you feel his knee knock against yours. “Not for nothing,” he begins to say, “But there aren’t a lot of guys like Steve, are there?”

You hum and turn your focus to the film rather than answer that particular query. And you know he means well, everyone does. Besides, you have a history with Steve and it’s the sort of story people like to see wrapped up with a tidy bow. All that aside, he’s still your oldest friend, your partner in crime. Why would you risk fucking that up, ruining the longest relationship of your life?

The movie unfolds, a comforting silence falling between you and your dad. Not as verbose or vivacious as your mom, but sturdy and reliable all the same. The quiet traditions you share have only grown in meaning over the years, even more so after recovering from a stroke he suffered during your sophomore year of college.

You recall your mother calling you as you readied yourself for work, voice quiet and restrained. “Dad is in the hospital, he had a stroke, they were airlifting him to a larger hospital in Indianapolis— can you make it?”

A tension in your jaw as you grit your teeth, your ex had taken your car for work that day since his broke down (again) and you were carpooling to work with Nancy. 

You’d said yes before having a plan and told her you’d call her from the car. After a panicked call with Nance, you dialed the first number that came to mind— it’d been memorized for years, the Harrington landline.

He answered on the first ring, voice low and laden with sleep. “Hello?”

Steve was crashing at his parent's place for the weekend, something about overseeing pool maintenance for his dad while they were out of town. 

You couldn’t quell the rush of tears that flooded down your face and took in a trembling breath. “Stevie?”

“Trouble—” The rustling of bed sheets as he sat up. “Honey, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“D-dad’s in the hospital, a stroke, I—” Your brain was short-circuiting, kept your cool through two phone calls and were now losing it on Steve. You needed to get your shit together instead of gaping like a fish.

“What do you need?” It sounded as if he’d moved the cordless, maybe cradling it between his face and shoulder as he pulled on his jeans. “I wanna help you, but you gotta say somethin’ here, honey.”

“A ride to Indianapolis, the University Medical Center.”

It would be an hour and a half drive and a huge imposition, midterms were coming up, and you knew he’d planned to study this weekend.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he intoned, “Take some breaths for me, okay?” You did as he requested, liable to hyperventilate otherwise. 

Mind racing, you braced yourself against the dresser and willed yourself to pull it together. He’d be fine, he has to be fine, he’s only fifty-four for fuck’s sake! Thoughts flew to your mother, alone and scared at the local hospital, having called 9-1-1 after your dad’s frantic warning (“I think I’m having a stroke,” because, of course, he's considerate enough to self-diagnose as he collapsed).

“Steve,” you choke out, “He can’t— It’s too soon.”

A garage door opening, car chirping when he unlocks it. “He won’t,” he assures you, voice level, “It won’t come to that, honey.” Steve then calls you from the car on his cell, staying on the line while you change from your work clothes into something comfortable.

You have half a mind to grab a few things for you mom, but that would only take up more time that you don’t have. He uses his key to let himself in as you race down the stairs and fall into Steve’s open arms, wetting his sweatshirt with your tears and snot.

A damp kiss to your temple, a sharp sniff as he grabs your duffle with one hand and leads you to the car. Of course. You were such a self-absorbed idiot, hadn’t even considered how this might affect Steve, who loved you dad as if he were his own.

Three squeezes from your hand to his, the sole thing linking the pair of you together, are you okay?

He pauses, sitting behind the wheel of his car, dreading letting go of you. A shake of his head as he starts the car, and shifts it into gear as the sound of your dad’s favorite song surges through the car.

Steve’s hand finds yours once more after pulling onto the freeway, you sniff back your tears, chancing a look toward him. Red-rimmed eyes and bedhead, impossibly handsome despite it all. Bitten and chapped lips mouthing along to the words, I have these pictures and I keep these photographs / To remind me of a time.

He’s been there, all this time.

“You alright?” Soft. Quiet. A language only for you.

A shake of your head, because you’re not. Even now, you’re crushed with a sense of something old, forgotten vestiges of a time long since past. You close your eyes and let the car lull you to sleep.

Something nudges against your knee, bringing you back to the present. Your dad’s comforting arm, drawing you to his side as Esther and Grandpa dance at the ball. “Hey kiddo,” he says with a slight rasp, “Lost you there for a minute, you okay?”

“Yeah,” you sigh, and blink away any tears, nuzzling into the warmth of his shoulder, “All better now.” He chuckles, hand falling to rest on your elbow.

He clears his throat briefly, preparing to say something important. “You’re doing fine, Trouble. With all of, well, this,” he gives you a hearty squeeze. “And I know it can’t be easy, but I’d like to let you in on secret, if you’ll let me.”

“Sure dad, lay it on me.”

He sits up slightly, taking you with him. You glance up to his kind, weathered face. “One day, you’re going to wake up and think, ‘I’m so thankful I didn’t end up with what I thought I wanted.’” He pauses, letting it sink in. “Right now, it’s the pits— it’s hard and it sucks, I’m sure, but you’ll pull through, we’ll pull you through if we have to.”

You find yourself becoming emotional once more.

“Just— trust me, kiddo.” He kisses your temple as Judy Garland sings about next year’s troubles being out of sight. “We love you and we’re so proud of you,” he whispers to into your hair, “You’ll build an amazing life for yourself, you just gotta have a little patience.���

“Thanks dad,” you sniff back your tears, reaching a hand to brush under your nose before turning back to the movie.

He looks at you lovingly, brushing back your hair, “Merry Christmas, my favorite daughter.” Your bark of laughter startles you out of your melancholy, a soft tread on the stairs alerts you to someone’s presence.

Steve.

Freshly showered and slightly damp, leaning against the bannister, a grin on his face. He nods to your dad in greeting, “Anyone need anything?”

It’s too much and not enough, your heart clenches and you attempt to school your features into a semblance of calm. It feels so foreign; you haven’t had to guard yourself in front of him like this for years. Sinks low and turbulent in your gut.

You try to ground yourself, but it’s hard when the very ground you stand on trembles at the thought of him. The more you’re around him, the more you slip. “Nope,” you finally respond, “All good here, should be up in a minute.”

Just once, he’d like to tell you how he really feels. How he loves you. Like storybooks write it—how kids describe it. 

Like pure, simple truth. Like the only truth he’ll ever know. 

He wants calls your name, sigh it out in a voice that’s pitched carefully, light and airy, yet the heaviest sound he’d ever make. He wants, desperately, to say it. Say it over and over until it stops making sense because it really doesn’t make any. If he’s in love, he should be able to say it. To shout it.

Instead, Steve sends you a soft smile and murmur of ‘okay,’ as he heads back upstairs. When the door shuts, you and your dad’s voices retreating in the distance, Steve’s too exhausted to hide it anymore. He stumbles into the bathroom, splashing cold water and soap over his face in a futile pursuit to get his shit together.

In the mirror, staring back, are his tired eyes, tracking every fraction of movement that gives him away. He can’t let those happen. He needs to be stronger than what he wants.

He closes his eyes. 

He whispers your name.

#steve harrington #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #reader insert #modern!steve #teacher!steve #the kids aren't alright - rosewaterandivy

[sugarsblurbs]

Modern!Steve HAS to be player 1

“My Wii my rules Henderson” -Steve “the hair” Harrington

#stranger things #sugarsblurbs #modern!steve #modern!steve harrington x reader #modern!steve harrington #steve harrington headcanon #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington x you #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington hcs #steve x reader #steve fluff #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #steve stranger things #steve harrington fandom #steve harrington hc #steve hc #steve harrington x bookworm!reader #steve x you #steve x fem #steve x y/n #steve harrington x henderson!reader #steve harrington x fem #Steve Harrington x y/n #steve harrington reader insert #steve harrington thoughts #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington au

[peachy-bunnns]

So I’ve been driving myself crazy I’ve gone through maybe 4 different tags and I cannot find this story at all anymore it was a Eddie Munson story where he’s older in a difficult marriage and the reader is dating his son but they go to Hawkins to meet his parents and Eddie starts wanting his sons girlfriend but in the story his wife had a thing with Steve and turns out the son could be Steve’s kid if anybody knows what I’m talking about or what it’s called let me know I know the last chapter I read was called “Morning Mix Up”

#stranger things #steve harrington smut #eddie x reader #eddie munson #eddie stranger things #steve harrington #older!steve #older!eddie #modern!eddie munson #modern!steve