superbfics

[superbfics]

Hell Hound • Part Three

After the gala, you and Steve have a lot to discuss. A series of new threats emerge to throw wrenches in your plans.

Pairing: bodyguard!Steve Harrington x photographer!Reader, rockstar!Eddie x Reader

Wordcount: 7,629

Warnings: unrequited love, slowburn, jealousy, angst, hurt/comfort, violence, gore, weapons, fighting, death threats, stalker *This chapter also contains sex (oral, f receiving), break-up, kidnapping, overdose, relapse, drugs, character death, religious elements

This blog is 18+ only. I do not give permission for any of my fics to be duplicated, reposted, or put into AI. Thank you!

Navigation • Masterlist

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Moodboard • Fic Masterlist • Part Two

The ball of static tension between you and Steve had grown exponentially over the night, a swirling mass of what-ifs and kiss-me-Steves floating just between the tips of your fingers, your forearms, your shoulders, coming to a head in a cramped mirror-coated elevator from the lobby of Eddie’s to his penthouse.

He could almost see it between you, sizzling and crackling against the supple skin of your chest. His face felt flush, tux jacket draped over his shoulder. Your arms were crossed, and you leaned against the railing with sour features.

The bell chimed and you stepped out first, shoes clacking against marble.

Steve followed, typing the code to Eddie’s penthouse and holding the door to let you through.

“Thank God you’re alive!” Robin’s exclamation from the front room was enough to pop the bubble, sending a shiver through your body that twitched Steve’s fingertips toward you.

He balled his fist and ignored the slip of his soles a step behind yours.

“What the hell happened to you two? It looks like slumming with Chicago’s elite kicked your asses.” His best friend greeted, surprise etched over tired features. She was already draped in silk pajamas, something stolen from Eddie’s closet that didn’t suit her freckled skin. 

“Thanks, Rob,” Steve grimaced, sidestepping you to pour two glasses of water from the tap. 

“How’d it go? What did your piece bid for?” She ignored him, bouncing on the balls of her feet toward you.

“Oh um…” You rubbed at the wrinkle in your forehead, glancing past her to catch Steve’s gaze.

He flushed, shrugged. He hadn’t even thought to look, his priority to get you out of there safe and in one piece.

“I don’t actually know,” you offered Robin a weak smile, leaning against a marble pillar to remove the dainty straps of your heels.

“I’m pretty sure Cyndi Lauper was there,” Steve pulled her focus from you, taking a long gulp of his water.

Robin shot him daggers. “You’re ’pretty sure’? Steven, Cyndi Lauper has a very specific vibe. I think you would know.”

Steve shrugged and crossed to slip the other glass into your hand. Your fingertips brushed his in the exchange, ice cold. He tried to shake the desperation to warm them and tune back in to Robin’s distraction.

“You don’t think I know Cyndi Lauper’s vibe?”

“No, I don’t. You once saw a man you were positive was Willem Dafoe and it ended up just being some homeless guy.” Robin said. 

“Willem Dafoe has a homeless vibe,” Steve shrugged. 

“Describe Cyndi Lauper to me.” She counter-argued.

“Old lady, purple hair.” 

Robin shot him a dubious look before rounding on you, who had just managed to slip to the edge of the kitchen. “Was Cyndi Lauper there?”

Your face contorted in some semblance of an apologetic smile, and you shrugged. “I don’t remember. Long night, sorry, Robin. I’m actually going to bed. You guys don’t mind, do you?”

Robin shifted her gaze to Steve, wide-eyed, as if to say ‘what happened!?’.

He took careful steps toward you, stopping a few feet too shy to comfort with an extended hand. “Do you need anything?”

Your eyes darkened, tongue darted to lick your lips, but you squared your shoulders and shook your head. “I don’t think I do.”

The words punched him in the gut. 

You didn’t need him. You didn’t need him to chase you, to hold you, to comfort you. You didn’t need his protection, his comfort, his care, his kiss, his touch. “Night, Robin.”

“Night, sweetie. Tell me everything in the morning?”

“Promise,” you picked the straps of your shoes off the ground, dress catching the light. “Goodnight, Steve.” The nail hit the coffin.

“Goodnight,” his throat felt as tight as the fist gripping his glass on the counter. 

You turned and the room was silent until the soft pad of your feet were followed by the click and lock of Eddie’s bedroom door.

“What the hell did you do!?” Robin hissed, stumbling over the oblong sofa back to meet him.

Steve rubbed at tired eyes and tossed his jacket on the countertop. “Robin, please, it was a really long night…” 

“Huh uh. No way. You’re not getting off that easy, Harrington. I could feel it the second you two walked in that door. It’s humid in here now. My armpits are sweating.” Robin rose her arms in the air for emphasis, trying to air out her silken pajama top.

Steve ventured one more glance to the hallway, images from the night surging through his mind at light speed. The soft skin of your back against his fingertips, the way you looked up at him through long eyelashes, the expanse of your throat in mood lighting, the soft opening of your lips as you asked him to kiss you, the chills that wracked through him as Jason Carver approached. 

“Jason was there.”

Robin’s gasp sent another course of chills down his spine. She glanced down the hallway too and tiptoed forward. “What happened? Is she okay?”

Steve slumped over the counter, marble cooling the palms of his hands.

Carver’s lips had caressed your knuckles, and it took everything in Steve’s power not to roundhouse kick him back to that Heaven he loved to preach about.

He might’ve done it already if you hadn’t pushed him aside with a gentle nudge, a fierceness in your eyes he’d only seen a handful of times before. 

“I’m a huge fan of your work,” Carver said, tongue split, eyes trailing your frame. “It’s shame I didn’t hear about you until now, I would’ve gladly been a patron at your gallery opening.”

Your bare shoulders were squared, somehow composed despite the tick of your jaw, the clench of your fist at your side.

Steve waited in the wings, cracking his knuckles. 

“I’d love to commission you for some work in my church. You’ve got a great eye.”

You smirked. “Terrible taste in men though, right?”

Carver glanced to the bodyguard at your side, who stiffened in defense until the preacher seemed to remember who you were actually attached to. “Ah, yes, the long haired freak. Well, I’m not going to fault you for that, beautiful. Maybe you just haven’t been approached by the right man.”

Steve frowned. What the hell was he playing at?

At this, you ventured a matched glance Steve’s direction. “Maybe you’re right.”

Steve glanced back up at his best friend and shook off the memory, unbuttoning his shirt to expose the tank top underneath. “He hit on her, gave her his card, wanted to commission a piece for his Mega Church.” 

Robin shuddered. “Fucking creep. Did you… comfort her?” His friend’s eyebrows raised until they disappeared behind heavy fringe.

His mouth felt dry. He poured himself another glass of water.

He thought of the soft pillow of your burgundy lips, wondered if your lipstick tasted of vanilla, or perhaps honey lavender, even hours after your latte. He wondered if your skin was as silky smooth as the fabric that hugged your frame. “She yelled at me.”

Robin frowned. “For what?”

“For not… making a move.” Steve chugged his water. 

“On Jason?”

“What? No.” Steve tangled his fingers into his hair. He hadn’t realized he’d been sweating that much. He ventured a glance down the hall and lowered his voice. “She asked me to kiss her. Tonight.”

“Did you?” Robin’s mouth hung open with a little too much excitement.

Steve clenched his jaw and shook his head. His knuckles had gone white with their grip on the counter. He released and stretched.

Robin didn’t say anything. She just turned and left the room, heading across the living room toward the stairs of the loft. They creaked under her weight.

Steve followed, warm kitchen light reflecting back at him from the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city sparkled just beyond. “Robin?”

“Don’t come up here, I’m naked.” She warned, though it was nothing he hadn’t seen before. The girl spent a Halloween night over the toilet topless because her Dwight Schrute costume was too hot.

He frowned and waited at the base of the spiral staircase, watching her shadows splash across a concrete wall. “Robin?”

She returned to the top of the staircase with jeans on and a backpack thrown over one shoulder. She took the stairs two at a time.

Steve’s stomach lurched. “Where are you going?”

“I’ve got a hot date,” she shrugged, shoving past him to get to the jacket he’d left on the countertop.

He caught her wrist, and she wriggled out of his grasp. “Robin.”

She fished in his pocket until she retrieved his house keys.

“Robin,” he warned. “It’s not safe.”

“Hopper’ll keep an eye on me.”

Steve thought he might be sick. He swallowed and glanced once more down the hall. 

Robin retrieved his phone and typed in the passcode, her birthday. He barely heard the tapping of her fingers and the sending of a text or two through the thundering of his pulse in his skull. 

Then, she slapped the heavy metal to his chest. A knowing smile played across childlike features, blue eyes sparkling. “I’m going to leave now,” she spoke to him like a parent leaving their kid without a babysitter for the first time. “My location is turned on.”

Panic seized his chest.

Robin wrapped her arms around him. “I will see you tomorrow, idiot.”

He patted her back and frowned when she pushed away to see him.

“If you don’t get in there and fuck that beautiful girl’s brains out, I’m disowning you.”

Before he could say another word, before he could utter her name, she was out the door, leaving the two of you alone in the cold expanse of Eddie Munson’s penthouse.

—-

1 Voicemail

Harrington, it’s Hop. Carver made it home. We’ve got a car keeping watch just outside the gates. Joyce says Robin made it safe. I’ve got eyes on her, and I’ve added more security to your current location. Just in case anyone got ideas at the gala. Let me know if you need anything else from me.

Robin: Made it. I know you aren’t inside her yet, so get your ass in there, Harrington. 

Steve hadn’t left the living room, hadn’t managed to look anywhere but the sprawling view before him. His hands shook. His stomach crawled with guilt. Guilt that he hadn’t tried harder, guilt that he had made a promise to his friend, guilt that he hadn’t made promises you to.

His knee bounced. He checked his phone again, Robin’s voice echoing in his head alongside yours. 

With a deep breath, he launched himself off the couch and took generous strides down the hall to your bedroom door, Eddie’s bedroom door.

His heart sank again, a bottomless pit of grief within him. He trailed his fingertips along the grooves in the wood grain, closed his eyes, pressed his forehead to the door. Maybe if you could read his energy, know what he wanted, you’d open the door and he wouldn’t need to step over the threshold, he wouldn’t need to betray his friend. 

His phone rang in his pocket, clear and loud, echoing down the entry hall. 

He cursed, loudly, and fished it from the loose pants of his tux, begging for any reprieve in embarrassment.

“Hello?” He hissed, stepping back into the irritatingly echoey kitchen.

“What the fuck happened at the gala tonight?” Eddie snarled. 

Steve closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “We ran into Carver. Did she talk to you?”

“She fucking broke up with me.”

Now Steve really was going to throw up.

“It’s eight AM, and I get a call from my girl saying that she’s gotta be honest with me, she’s in love with someone else, and we need to break up. Here I am writing songs about her.” To punctuate his point, something heavy was thrown on his end. A guitar twanged. 

Steve winced.

“Do you know who it is?” Eddie’s voice was so soft, Steve thought his heart might explode. 

All he could see was his friend lying on the ground, face down, the flash of blue and red behind him. 

“Harrington, don’t lie to me, man. We’ve been friends for this long. Man the fuck up and tell me what’s going on.”

Steve swallowed, ran his hand through his hair, tried not to imagine himself swan diving from a broken window. “Nothing happened, I swear.”

“What do you mean nothing happened?” And then a long pause. “Holy Fuck, it’s you, isn’t it?”

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, where emotion began to swell, guilt pooling in his chest and crawling up his esophagus. 

“What the fuck, Harrington? How long has this been going on? Have you fucked her? Holy shit, I’m so stupid.” 

“No, no, I haven’t touched her.”

“Are you in love with her?”

Steve’s answer weighed like lead on his tongue. He tried to swallow it down, tried to conjure a lie, but none would surface. 

“For how long?” Eddie hissed, too cold. 

“Since I met her.”

Eddie stayed quiet on the other end for too long, so long Steve almost said his name to rouse him, but then he spoke. “Stay there as long as she needs. Keep me posted. I’ll tell PR to put out a statement about our breakup. Maybe that’ll get the guy off her back.”

“Eddie,” he sighed. 

“Harrington, please. You think I don’t understand? Just wish you’d been honest with me.”

“I know.” Steve chewed the inside of his cheek raw, desperate to push images of their friendship from his mind. 

“Just… take care of her. I gotta go.”

Before Steve could say goodbye, the call was dropped. 

He cursed under his breath and chucked his phone into the velvet couch.

He fucked this up so bad. How did he do this? How could he ruin years of a friendship, a tight relationship, a career, over a girl with a camera? He’d saved Eddie’s life for what? For this?

Anger surged through him, and he stormed toward the bedroom door, wrapping his fist against it.

You opened it instantly, like you’d been waiting on the other side, face freshly washed in an oversized velour sweatsuit. 

“Are you insane?”

What could have been misconstrued as hope on your face quickly turned cold. “What?”

“Don’t you realize you have it made? A multi-award winning millionaire rockstar is madly in love with you. He’d probably leave the business if you asked him to, buy you a cottage in the countryside. He’s writing songs about you. Your photography is reaching so many people. He can give you the life you deserve.” It poured from his mouth before he could stop himself, hands gesturing wildly around the big beautiful penthouse.

He stopped when you planted two palms to his chest in a powerful shove. He stumbled backward three paces. You followed.

“Did you ever think maybe I don’t want any of that? I want to live in Chicago. I want to eat pizza. I want to go to that cemetery and watch the roses grow, and I want,” you shoved him again, “to spend my nights curled up with you. I want to argue about what movie we’re going to watch and whether or not you’re holding me on too tight a leash, which, you are, by the way.”

“Because if I don’t take care of you, you’re going to get yourself hurt!” Steve argued. 

“That’s another thing! I’m an adult woman, Steve. I can make my own God damn decisions in life. I’ve survived thus far without you being there to protect me.” Your fists were clenched so tight, Steve had to prepare himself for a swing. Your jaw was clenched, nostrils flared.

“Did you ever think that maybe I want to protect you because it gives me purpose?” He shouted. “That all I’ve ever wanted is to be there for you?”

“Did you ever think that maybe you are so much more than a guard dog?” You yelled back. “You’re kind and you’re funny. You’re sexy. You make everyone around you feel seen and heard, and I’m in love with you, you fucking asshole!”

Steve’s breath was labored in his chest, a wheeze that stung in his throat from the volume of his voice.

You were inches from him now, fists balled into his unbuttoned dress shirt. There was a fire in your eyes that terrified and excited him all at once, the prickle of a threat, the thrill of a fist fight that he hadn’t felt in years. “If I have to ask you one more time…”

You didn’t. Steve gripped your hip and pulled you flush into him, other hand finding and tugging at the hair at the nape of your neck. 

A moan slipped from your sweet lips, and he thought he’d come apart at the sound of it.

He pressed his nose to yours and breathed you in for a moment, wriggling under your hot fingertips snaking under his tank top.

“Steve, I want you,” you whispered, eyes closed, lips ghosting his.

Something slid into his periphery, bright red. 

He turned his head from yours to find an envelope. It looked like it’d been stuffed under the front door. 

In a daze, he pulled your hands from his body and took a few steps forward, a primal fear clawing itself into his chest. He swallowed and picked it up.

HELL HOUND was scratched into the envelope in red ink, barely visible. He peeled it open and a trembling hand removed a plain white card. 

Inside was an image from the gala. You were walking with purpose, a smile on your face, hand outstretched to meet someone. Steve was right on your tail, a look of lost puppy love in his eyes. Someone had poked a hole through the center of his forehead and one through your chest.

“Steve?”

He looked up just as the knocking started. No, not knocking, pounding. Thick, heavy banging like something heavier than a fist was being thrown into the door. 

You yelped.

“Get in the room,” he pointed. “Lock it. Do not open the door until I tell you to.” The banging got louder, as if some structural damage was taken on the outside. 

“Steve,” your eyes were saucers, staring down the door in front of you, frozen in place.

He let out a yell, unable to find his phone in his pockets, and gripped you around the waist, hauling you into the room.

You stumbled, your footing bringing you back to reality. You shook your head. “I’m not leaving you.”

“Yes you are,” he planted a kiss to your forehead. “Lock the door.”

He pulled the door shut and held it until he felt the lock slip into place. “Good girl,” he muttered under his breath and rushed back to the living room to where he’d left his phone.

The crackle of fizzling electronics startled him, and he leapt over the couch for cover. The banging didn’t cease, but he smelled the distinct acrid smoke of a blown fuse.

Steve grabbed his phone and dialed. 

It rang twice before Hopper answered. “Yeah, I’ve got a guy on the roses right now.” 

“Roses? What roses? There’s a guy here now beating the door down. Get your ass up here. Shit!”

With a blast, the door handle shot across the hallway and clattered to the marble floors.

Steve watched the door swing wide, too wide, slamming into the wall nearest Eddie’s bedroom door. Behind it was a tall man, broad shouldered, something about his curled hair and baseball hat prickled at the back of Steve’s mind, familiarity. 

“Where’s the little lady?” The man grinned, slipping his fingers into brass knuckles.

Steve cursed under his breath and squared up.

“I said,” the guy stepped out of the way of the swinging door. “Give her to me.”

He swung, a little wide, good enough for Steve to duck and launch himself into the man’s chest, knocking him off his feet. This guy was sturdy though, harder to clear than you had been.

He took the opportunity to crack Steve’s rib, a solid punch from behind that stole the wind from him. 

Steve staggered backward enough to steel himself for another throw, going instead of the guy’s nose. It snapped under his knuckles.

The intruder swung back, blindly. 

Steve dodged and rounded for a right hook to the ear. 

He dodged too and just managed to clock him once to the mouth with the brass knuckles. 

Blood filled Steve’s mouth, metallic and warm. He spat a splatter of red and chipped molars across the marble. 

The guy went for a second strike, but Steve backed up.

He slipped, floor slick, head aching.

Fog pooled in from the door, a thin haze of smoke that blurred his vision and stung his eyes.

“Hey,” you called from the entrance to the bedroom.

Steve cursed and spat again. 

The man turned to face you with a devilish grin, and Steve took the opportunity to clock him square to the jaw, so hard he felt his knuckles split. His wrist ached from the blow.

Out cold, the man’s heavy body slumped to the floor, blood pouring from his nose and mingling with Steve’s on the marble tiles.

Steve just licked blood from aching teeth and watched you until the police charged, shoving the man into handcuffs.

—-

It’s Hop. Guy’s name is Andrew Burns. He’s had a few priors including arson. Remember that fire up in Milwaukee a few years ago? That guy was involved. Carver’s already lawyered up. Think we got your guy, kid. You two rest easy. We’ll call you in tomorrow for more paperwork. 

The steady stream of water soothed his aching muscles. His head throbbed. His knuckles seared under the flow. Blood spilled to the porcelain tub beneath his feet and circled the drain. He tilted his head back and scrubbed at his face.

He’d walked you, hand-in-hand, out of Eddie’s apartment and down the winding staircase, 29 floors, until you saw the flashing red and blue lights cast across the petals of a thousand red roses. 

A thousand of them had been delivered to the steps of the building. Every single delivery person was under arrest and awaiting interrogation.

Burns had been taken away in the back of a squad car. 

You trembled, wrapped in Hopper’s coat, barefoot, while Steve was checked out by paramedics and given the go-ahead to go home.

Steve swished and spit blood once more into the drain, back stiffening when he heard the distinct click of his bathroom door opening.

“I don’t want to be alone.” You explained, voice muffled by the rush of water, the curtains that separated you.

Steve nodded, swallowed, iron and heat. “Okay.” His voice was hoarse.

He just listened for a minute, wondering where you’d settled yourself and the logistics of tugging his towel from its hanger behind the door. 

After a long moment, the shower curtain rings rattled against the rail.

Steve froze, dipping his face under the water because waterboarding himself might be more manageable than the thought of you stepping into the shower behind him.

Gentle fingertips found the bruise on his back, shooting a flash of pain through them, and he grit his teeth, scrubbing at the stubble on his cheeks.

Then, your hands found his ribs, and slowly, you settled yourself against him in a hug.

He felt every curve of you, your bare skin tacky against his back, warm and soft and fuzzy, and he relaxed into your hold, tilting his head back to catch a breath. 

You pressed ginger kisses to his shoulder, his back, the base of his neck, just behind his ear.

Your hands found the middle of his chest, circling the patch of hair there before following it downward over his abdomen and between his thighs.

Steve muffled his groan under the water as you touched him, a dream he prayed he wouldn’t wake up from.

Panic squeezed at his insides with your grip, panic that he was imagining this, and he clawed at your wrist to let go.

Then he spun, dangerously quick in a slippery old bathtub, and before you could respond, he had you pinned to the opposite wall, frigid tiles to your back and steam filling up the room.

Your eyes were dark, puffy but self-assured, and your mouth was tilted toward his. “Let me take care of you,” you begged.

He shook his head.

Your chest heaved, breasts perfect in the soft, mid-morning light that poured in from the tiny frosted window. He traced the dip of you hips with his thumbs, delighting in the softness of your skin.

“Please?”

Oh, you were trying to kill him.

Groaning, Steve dropped to his knees in front of you, lifting a leg over his shoulder.

You squawked at being manhandled, but your fingers found his hair, and you steadied yourself.

He placed a kiss to the softest part of your thigh, where the muscle spasmed to hold you aloft.

You whimpered for him, grip on his scalp tightening as he traced your flesh with the tip of his nose, up up up, to place another kiss to your hip bone.

“Can I taste you?” He asked, trailing soft lines across your leg with his fingertips.

You nodded fervently.

“Gonna need you to say it.”

“Taste me,” you demanded, pulling him closer with your leg.

You looked so beautiful like this, staring down at him with your mouth open, every insatiable curve a hill on the landscape.

He dove in to nuzzle you where you needed him most. 

Your eyes fluttered closed, head back, back arched. Your grip tightened in his hair, and he moaned into your cunt, sticky sweet.

You gasped, thighs tightening around him, calves flexed.

“Relax,” he muttered into your velvety skin. “I’ve got you.”

You did as he asked, releasing a shaky breath. 

He saw the emotion prickle in your eyes, and he reached to take your hand in his. “You’re safe.”

“I love you,” your voice rasped, tangling your fingers with his.

“I love you too,” he muttered into the dip of your knee, your hip, the soft hair at the apex. “You’re beautiful.”

You moaned, making a concerted effort to remain lax in his hold. Breath in, breath out, squeezing his hand as he licked a stripe through your folds.

“Doing so good for me,” he reassured, steadying your hips with a firm grip.

In, out. Your breath shallowed, quickened. You released his hand to balance on the wall behind you.

He spread you open with his thumbs and worked you into a tremble, the rubber band inside himself pulled taut and ready to snap.

You came undone for him as the water turned cold at his back, mewling affirmations. He licked you clean and slipped two fingers from you before standing to embrace you, to kiss salty tears from your cheeks and lips.

“You’re okay,” he said, brushing your hair from your eyes. “I’ve always got you. You’re safe. I love you.”

—-

Hundreds of thousands of long stemmed red roses covered the chapel, lining and fillings the pews on either side of a scarlet carpet.

Steve stood, knees bouncing, beside Robin, Hopper, Lucas. The buttons of his collar were too tight, tie askew.

The music changed, and his stomach filled with nerves as the entire congregation stood at attention, turning toward the open doors.

A flood of sunlight poured in from stained glass windows, casting you and your white dress in technicolor. You were smiling, that same, shy smile like you’d caught him watching you, like you knew this was the happiest he’d ever felt.

You took cautious steps toward him, step after deliberate step, around the roses, still too far. He wanted to leap from the alter to meet you, to say screw all the wedding guests and throw you over his shoulder and run away. He knew that’d make you laugh.

Roses grew in brambles at your feet, curving outward and upward, along the pews. They covered the windows, light pooling in blood red through veined petals. 

You picked up your pace, lifting your white satin skirt to run for him, but the room widened between you. You called out for him, reached out a hand.

He looked to his left for help to find Eddie, red-skinned, horned, grinning. 

Beside Eddie, a man in a stark white suit lit a match and cried, “Be gone, Devil!”

Steve watched in slow motion as the flames engulfed dried brambles, dead and crinkled petals cast aside became floating embers. The chapel around them filled with smoke and ash.

The aisle split, a seam of molten lava.

You screamed for him, the edge of your dress catching on a candle.

Steve tried to get to you, made to leap over the river of fire, but was held back, vines and thorned tendrils piercing his skin as they pulled him up onto the alter, a Christ of his own making. 

He called out your name, watched in honor as the flames engulfed you.

Wreathed in fire, you were suddenly there, in front of him, eyes burning. You grinned with malice. “You couldn’t save me.”

Steve woke with a gasp, drenched in sweat. Afternoon sun poured in through his bedroom window. 

You roused beside him, skin just as tacky with his sweat. “S’matter?”

He rubbed at exhausted eyes and blinked himself back to reality, letting the floaters fade to a dirty clothes pile and your SD card on his dresser. “Nothing, go back to sleep.”

You hummed in protest, threading your fingers into the hair at the back of his head. “Talk to me.”

He turned to sweep your hair from your face, planting a kiss to your extended palm. “Just a bad dream.”

“You get those a lot?”

He frowned. “Lately, yeah.”

He didn’t like the understanding in your gaze, the fear that had settled there and hadn’t left for days.

He crawled on top of you, sweeping you into his arm to plant gentle kisses across the bridge of your nose until it crinkled into a smile. 

“You’re crushing me,” you laughed.

He nodded, burying his face in your throat to breathe you in.

A vibration startled you both. Steve’s phone went off on the bedside table. With a sigh, he lifted himself from you to answer. “Hello?”

“Steve? Man, It’s Eddie, he… shit, man, I don’t know what to do.” Lucas seemed breathless, frantic.

Steve sat up, and you followed, clutching plaid bedsheets for modesty. “Whoa, Lucas, buddy, slow down. Just tell me what’s going on. Where’s Eddie? Can you put him on the line?”

“No, man. We’re in the emergency room. I… shit, I lost track of him, and he got into some trouble. Big trouble, Steve. Had to have his stomach pumped.”

Steve’s blood ran cold. He stepped out of bed and over to his dresser for clothes, putting it on speaker to step into a pair of shorts. “Is he going to be alright?”

“Yeah. They’re worried about liver failure. Said he’ll never be able to drink alcohol again. Steve, I’m so sorry, man. He just slipped out. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, Lucas. This isn’t your fault,” Steve tried to bat down the nausea of his own guilt. “He’s got a lot of connections out there. I should have warned you.” 

“What do I do?”

Steve watched you gingerly searching the floor for your own undergarments. He pulled open a drawer to hand you a t-shirt and sweatpants. 

You thanked him wordlessly, terror behind those eyes.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying not to think about what you’d done, what both of you had done to drive Eddie into a bender. He pinched the bridge of his nose and said, “Make sure word doesn’t get out. Not a single paparazzi allowed. I’m going to start calling people. I’ll arrange for a flight back. There’s a rehab facility here he’s been to before.”

“Is he going to want to go back?”

“He doesn’t have a choice.” Steve snapped. “You do not leave his side, you understand me? I’m going to meet you on the tarmac and switch hands so you can fly back to England for the other guys. Text me frequent updates.”

“Copy that, and Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really sorry.”

Steve sighed and looked back at you, trembling in his clothes, glassy eyed, painted in afternoon glow. “I know you are, man. He’s going to be okay.”

—-

TWO DAYS LATER

Lucas: ETA 12:45 PM

Robin: Give Eds a kiss from me. Joyce wants to make sure you guys are still coming for dinner tonight.

Hopper: Be here at 11:30

Steve’s hands sweat, holding open the precinct door to let you in. 

You entered, wordlessly, clutching a lavender latte in one hand and the strap of your camera in the other.

The past few days had been tense: stolen glances, bumped hips, no real words exchanged, no meaningful questions asked. You sunk into his couch into clothes that smelled like him, and he sat at the counter, leg bouncing, letting Robin paint your nails or cackle or share her glass of wine with you. After you went to bed, she’d give him pep talk after pep talk and send him into the bedroom.

Steve fell asleep sitting up both nights, arms crossed over his chest, watching the steady rise and fall of your own breath beside him, back to him.

“Hey, kid, how you holding up?” Hopper greeted, more of a grimace than a smile on his mustachioed face.

You smiled back. It didn’t meet your eyes. You glanced at Steve. “Somewhere I can set up my laptop? I have stills to edit.”

Hopper frowned and glanced around the bullpen. “Uh, yeah. Callahan! Get up. Lady needs your desk.”

Callahan rolled his eyes, but dropped his feet from the desktop, tossing an apple core into the waste bin beside it.

You sighed and slumped to the table to pull out your things.

“Trouble in paradise?” Hopper asked, once you were out of earshot.

Steve tongued at his molars, biting back any sarcastic retort that bubbled. “Keep an eye on her.”

“Treating her like a fugitive. How romantic.”

Steve shot him a look. “You arrest Carver yet?”

“Working on it, but this guy knows a trick or two about covering his tracks. Can’t directly tie him to Burns.” 

“Need me to beat the shit out of him?” 

“Burns? Seems like you already did that.” Hopper grinned, delight behind his blue eyes at the swollen state of Andrew Burns’ face.

“I was thinking Carver.” Steve said.

Hopper poked his chest with a meaty finger. “Don’t even think about it.”

The amount of times Steve had thought about peeling out of bed, driving his car to the suburbs, and taking a tire iron to Carver’s face was unimaginable. But he knew that’s not how the system works.

Steve glanced over Hopper’s broad shoulder. You rested your chin in your palm, expression bored. You didn’t look up. “I’ll be back in an hour, maybe two.” 

“What do babysitters run for nowadays?” Hopper harrumphed, arms crossed over his chest. 

Steve rolled his eyes. “Keep her safe.”

“Yeah, yeah. You good getting Munson alone or do you want backup? Callahan’s not busy.”

Steve waved him off. “I’m good. I’d rather have as many eyes on her as possible.”

Hopper nodded. “Get out of here. We’ve got this.”

Something sat in the pit of Steve’s stomach, uncertainty, guilt, the sting of knowing he’d failed you, failed Eddie. He took one more glance your direction, stomach churning when he met your gaze.

Sad eyes scanned his face, and you offered the tiniest up-quirk of your lips to settle his stomach. 

He nodded goodbye and turned back to the Chief.

“Go.”

With another nod, Steve backed slowly out of the precinct and onto the concrete sidewalks of his city.

—-

Unknown: Your ride share is a black Escalade - license: UFC833

5 New Messages

The car pulled onto the tarmac. The stairwell had been deployed. Lucas waited at the base, phone in hand, long legs bouncing in anticipation.

Steve sighed and thanked the driver, stepping out into the midday sun.

“Hey, man.”

“Hey.” They exchanged a hug, too much history to maintain professionalism.

Steve glanced over Lucas’s shoulder at the open door. “How is he? Do I need to prepare myself?”

“Nah, man, he’s good,” Lucas shrugged. “Just a little paler than usual.” He grinned.

Steve snorted. 

“That was really scary, Steve.”

Steve nodded, clapped his friend on the shoulder. “You did great. He’s alive because of you.” The same thing Hopper had told him. 

Lucas swallowed, nodded, squared his shoulders. “Shall I get him?”

Steve twirled a finger in the air to get the show on the road.

He waited patiently at the base of the stairs for Lucas to return, holding the rockstar by the under arm while the other man slowly, shakily made his way down the rickety staircase.

“Harrington,” Eddie’s lips pulled back into a toothy grin. The final step was taller than he’d anticipated, and he went plummeting directly into Steve’s arms. “I missed you.”

Steve slapped the man’s back and hoisted him back to his feet. “Missed you too, bud. Shall we take a little car ride?”

Eddie’s smile faltered, watching Steve for any indication that he was disappointed, but Steve had been practicing his poker face for years. 

He opened the car door and helped Lucas lift the man inside. The three of them said their goodbyes, and Steve closed the door behind himself, signaling to the driver that it was time to start driving. The man had already signed an NDA.

“That asshole give you this?” Eddie reached a trembling fingertip to poke at the purpled bruise on Steve’s cheekbone.

Steve slapped him away. “Ow, fucker. Yes.”

Eddie snickered. “I’m sorry, did that hurt you?”

“I’ll hit you. I don’t care that your liver’s failing.” Steve threatened.

Eddie’s grin widened. “You know I love it when you play nasty, Stevie.”

Although it felt good to fall back into old routines, banter and sparring matches of the past, that gnawing sensation sunk its way back beneath Steve’s broken ribs. He rubbed at his jaw and glanced sideways at his long-time friend.

“Why’d you do it?”

Eddie’s face fell, like a scolded child, and he slumped further into his seat, leaning his face against the window. “Grow up, Harrington. It’s not always about you.”

Steve grit his teeth and stared out his own window for a moment. “Come on, man. A relapse? Don’t bullshit me. What’s this about?”

Eddie’s legs were fully spread now, and he picked at a rogue string on a hole at his knee. He shrugged. “You remember Chrissy Cunningham?”

How could Steve forget? The girl had introduced them at a party, convinced Steve to knock the guy’s lights out. She’s gotten him his job. 

He frowned, trying to figure out the connection. “She gave you the drugs?”

“No, Christ,” Eddie rubbed bloodshot eyes. “I mean, yeah, she did like ages ago. But the other night, I was thinking about her. We fought over her, too, didn’t we?”

Steve scoffed. He would hardly call it fighting over her. He’d never had any real invested interest in Chrissy. He didn’t hate the girl, but he’d never taken her up on her offer to sit on his face for the camera. Eddie’d gotten her seven million views or something outrageous like that.

“I thought she might’ve been the one,” he continued, “before sobriety, at least. She was a firecracker.”

Steve nodded. “She was… something else.” He remembered carrying her from a party once, half-naked, thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He’d left her in the privacy of a loft apartment, not dissimilar to Eddie’s. 

“Well, I thought maybe I’d look her up, see if the world had been as good to her as it’s been to me.”

Steve still didn’t understand the connection. He frowned to his best friend, wondering what the odds were Chrissy Cunningham had been in London at the exact same time.

“She’s dead, Steve.”

Steve blinked back at the other man, watching the emotion well. “What?”

“She’s fucking dead. Here, I’ve been looking at this for the past two days.”

Eddie handed Steve his phone and, sure enough, an obituary for the tragic loss of a beautiful young woman smiled back up at him. The photo of Chrissy was taken long before they knew her, hair curled into perfect ringlets, a sundress Steve was positive she’d worn on screen. 

A memorial service for her was hosted at…

Steve blinked back up at the photo. The background of which held an industrial, stained-glass Mega Church. 

“Did Chrissy ever mention Carver?” He asked Eddie, his frown mirrored in his friend.

“What?” Eddie rubbed at exhausted eyes.

Steve handed him his phone back, gesturing to the clues at hand. “Jason Carver, did Chrissy ever mention him? Did she ever mention an ex-boyfriend? Did she ever ask you to go to church?”

“How the hell would I know? I was high as a fucking kite every time we interacted? Hell, I probably introduced the girl to Special K.” Eddie crossed his arms over his chest. “Holy Fuck. I’m the Devil,” he said as the pieces fit into place.

“Yeah, no shit, numb nuts.” Steve needed to quit hanging out with Robin. “Did you know Chrissy before her cam girl days, before drugs?”

Eddie shook his head. “I don’t know, man. Not in any way I could prove, at least.” 

“It’s okay,” Steve said.

“I did this to her,” Eddie nodded. “To both of them.”

“No,” Steve ran his hand through his hair. “You didn’t do anything. These are adult women that can make their own decisions. It’s not your fault Carver is a manipulative psychopath. He probably drove her to you.”

Eddie shook his head, the fear evident in his eyes. It reminded Steve all too well of that night, red and blue flashing lights, the panic coating them both in sweat. 

Steve reached across the car to take Eddie’s bony shoulder in his hand. “Hey. None of this is your fault, and I need to hear you say it.”

Eddie swallowed, licked chapped lips. He nodded. “None of this is my fault.”

Steve nodded. “That’s right.”

He looked at his best friend, the man he’d followed for years, the man he’d protected, and said, “I’m so so sorry, Eddie. I should have told you the truth from the start.”

“Moment you met her?” Eddie asked, glassy eyed.

Steve thought of you in your worn leather jacket, sly smile on your face, and nodded. 

Eddie sighed. “Dibs on Best Man.”

Steve narrowed his eyes. “Robin?”

“Didn’t try to kill herself to get your attention,” Eddie shot him finger guns and a wink.

Steve punched him in the arm.

“Ow, fuck. I’m fragile!”

—-

Harrington, it’s Hopper. We have eyes all over the city. I dispatched all of the dipshits I work with, and I’m out there too. We will find her. Don’t panic. She went to the bathroom and slipped out when we weren’t looking. 

Steve was stepping out of the rehab facility with a heavy-heart and relearned adoration for his friend when he listened to his voicemail. 

The car waited, but Steve’s mind was processing a million miles a minute, heart racing.

Hopper would have sent someone to your apartment, to the gallery. He knew you wouldn’t be at either place. You wouldn’t have gone to Eddie’s or back to Steve’s, not when his keys jangled in his pocket. 

Steve looked up, triangulating his location, and then he started to run. 

Down side streets and back alleys, around fire escapes. He sprinted through this city, the one he called home, the one he’d seen so magically through your lens. He ran until his lungs burned, broken rib causing him to wheeze.

He slowed two blocks from that little cemetery, the mausoleum with the roses. He caught his breath, waited at a light, knowing he needed to calm himself before he got to you, knowing he’d approach to find a frown on your face. 

He crossed his arms over his head to stretch his diaphragm. He took a deep breath, two. He crossed the road.

That’s when he saw you. You wore that worn leather jacket, and your camera was pressed to your face. You were cloaked in shadow, sun hiding behind heavy, grey clouds.

He released a sigh of relief, feeling his own smile stretch across his face. 

You rested the camera at your side and looked up, across the street, made eye contact with him, frowned, then smiled.

Then, a man approached you. He was tall, lean, wearing a hood. He asked you something. You pointed directions.

Steve took a few strides forward.

A car honked.

He jumped, apologized with a wave, backed back onto the curb.

The car kept rolling.

You were gone.

Steve blinked, heart thundering in his chest, and darted out in front of another car, hip bouncing off the hood.

That car honked too.

He didn’t care. He disrupted traffic, narrowing avoiding cars to cross to the little park where you’d been moments before.

You were gone. The man in the hood was gone.

Steve screamed your name, looking frantically behind wrought iron fence posts and concrete statues. 

Then, he saw you. Two hands to the glass of a stark white car, pounding on the windows. A gun was pressed to the back of your head. 

Steve ran at a full sprint and reached the car as it peeled away. 

---

[A/N: Oops. You got got, y'all. You can all thank Taylor for me being able to write this again. We spent too many nights until 3am discussing our writing. You can also thank Joe. Because girl you know he got some magic shit going on at those shows. Love you all so much! Thanks for sticking around. Hopefully part 4 will be up sooner than 6 months from now. Finger's crossed. Thanks for reading xo -Amanda]

[superbfics]

Season 1 Steve smells like chlorine and a twinge of cigarettes. He smells like a fresh shower after practice, spearmint gum and just-done laundry. He smells like light dusting of aerosol from his hairspray. He smells like just a touch of Ralph Lauren Polo - all bergamot and cedar and mossy - because his dad bought it for him and told him real men where cologne. He smells like hints of leather, because Harrington's only wear the real stuff. Tucking your nose into his neck smells like a boy trying to be a man, it smells safe and comfortable but a little daring. A little boy next door, but a little trouble all at once.

Season 2 Steve smells like a bit of leather and musk following him around after gym or basketball practice. There's the lingering soft and delicate floral notes of Nancy Wheelers perfume., but that's all quickly overpowered by the nutty, honey scent of his shampoo. He still smells like laundry, clean and crisp. Like fresh air and a fall breeze and a boy who likes to sit outside and think about what comes next. He smells like apple cider and nutmeg and a bonfire before the homecoming football game. He smells woodsy and grassy from his climb up the tall oak tree to get through your window and he smells like pencil shavings and the textbooks he's carrying around trying too hard too late to make something of himself.

Season 3 Steve smells like sweet vanilla bean and with undertones of disinfectant from scrubbing the dishes at Scoops at the end of his shift. It's all cherry chapstick on his lips, making things sweet. He smells like fruity popsicles and there's a buttery scent of popcorn on his jacket that he just can't shake from all his dates at the movie theater. He smells like root beer floats and fresh cut grass and the wildflowers he tucks behind your ears by the lake. He smells a bit like what you would expect sunshine feels like, on a warm summer day by the pool and when he leans in close, you just know he'll taste like butterscotch if you kiss because you already smell it on his tongue.

Season 4 Steve Smells like cherry rope candy and that Family Video vest permanently smelling of Calvin Klein Obsession for Men, all lavender and a little spice. He carries around the faintest smell of crisp apples and peach and maybe a little patchouli - Robin's perfume and shampoo clinging to him from their morning car rides and counteracting the waxy smell of 100 rewound VHS tapes. He smells warm, like a flickering fall fire might feel, and a bit like the coffee he's taken up drinking between dropping Robin off at school and the start of his shift. He smells less put together than before, but more natural, like the cedarwood candle he burns in the living room when you come over and he tries to impress you and the fresh linen smell of his sheets.

[superbfics]

Did not realize how much I needed this 💛 This was so tender & beautiful & lovely & just all the things!

You know that groan. It's made of exhaustion, born of commitments that never give only take and days which drag on, filled with questions like; how has it been two weeks since I've seen you. 

You echo a muffled version of it back into him as you sway and his limp arms come to life, hands coming up to hold your face, noses pressed together at an odd angle in a kiss which makes you both sigh. 

“Was the whole falling into your arms not clear enough? I can go back out?” He goes to pull away and you yank him back by the front of his shirt. 

He grabs the back of your thighs, chin coming to rest against your chest as he looks up at you, smile lopsided and tired “Am now.” 

He finally relents with three parting kisses, running back to you each time he’s left the kitchen like he's going off to sea. It leaves a blush crawling up your neck and a smile hurting your face as you listen to him singing in the bathroom. The acoustics in there always make him sing louder.

I'm deeply obsessed with him 🫠 you've managed to perfect the goofball and gooey romantic he is so wonderfully in this, I love it.

The bags are full of it, stuff you won't buy for yourself.

The nice hand soap, a black fruit bowl, your favourite fancy candy and snacks. It's all odds and ends which he knows you don’t need. 

But they make life a little more tolerable. 

Because everything's relative, and watching something new with Eddie means that the quiet is here and there. He talks through half of it, asking questions you couldn't possibly know the answers to. Until there's a part which grabs his attention, and you're shushed if you mutter a word. 

Hahahaha. I am Eddie 😔😔😔

Something soft.

Eddie Munson x Reader. 2k

A.N: I've been feeling cripplingly burnt out and this self indulgent self care fic has just kind of fumbled out.

TW: Mentions of feeling burnt out, but it's mainly just fluff, Eddie being a babe, established relationship, readers described as having breasts but no pronouns are used. Allusions to smut, a bit of dry humping.

Enjoy whatever this is lmao.

Every inch of you softens at the sight of him, breath finally filling out the place where a numbing ache has been lingering.

He's leaning against the frame when you open the door, face pressed into the wood so its squished up a little. There are no words needed as you reach out for him, greetings lost in the show he makes of heaving himself upright, duffle bag sliding heavily off of him as he stumbles forward, past the threshold and into you.

It's only half his weight, but with his arms slung around your shoulders the force makes you stumble back a step, your senses suddenly smothered by him as a groan reverberates through his chest. 

You don't ask what's wrong as you blindly draw circles into his shoulder blades, breathing in the scent of oil and metal that lingers on him despite the fact he's changed. 

You know that groan. It's made of exhaustion, born of commitments that never give only take and days which drag on, filled with questions like; how has it been two weeks since I've seen you. 

You echo a muffled version of it back into him as you sway and his limp arms come to life, hands coming up to hold your face, noses pressed together at an odd angle in a kiss which makes you both sigh. 

The strands of dread which have been curled around you seep up and out into the places where his fingertips press, but you need to breathe. 

He shakes his head against you when you try to move, hair fluttering around where you're joined,  arm curling around your waist to pull you in a little tighter. 

Your fingers move to curl around the chain which hangs over the divet in his throat, tugging on it lightly. 

“The food will burn if I pass out from lack of oxygen.” You manage to mumble against his mouth and he huffs at you in response. 

“I might pass out if we stop.”

“I'm making nachos.”

He moves away an inch looking down at you, face suddenly serious and a little scrunched from the angle as you take in a lung full of air. 

“With all the fixin's? On the couch?”

“Obviously.” 

He hums considering it, eyes drifting to the kitchen and you take the opportunity to push the hair from his face, letting you see him properly. His eyes are a little weary, the usual scruff on his jaw now crawling under his chin and you reach up to scritch it watching as he practically purrs. 

“I've missed you.” The words threaten something high in your chest, something which leaps to choke you a little, but when his forehead knocks against yours it retreats. 

“You got me ‘til Sunday night.”  

He shifts you both awkwardly, refusing to release his hold on you and you laugh as he hops to kick the door closed behind him. 

“Didn't miss me too?” you ask fishing for more attention as he walks you backwards. 

His movements stop face falling. “Was the whole falling into your arms not clear enough? I can go back out?” He goes to pull away and you yank him back by the front of his shirt. 

“Don't you dare.” He grins wide at your tone, tongue peeking out as you pull him into the kitchen. 

The air’s hot with steam from unattended pans, the contents coughing and spluttering plumes of it as you rush to scrape the bottom where the sauce has started to stick. It only adds to the thin layer of sweat on your skin, one that's been there since you left the cool confines of the shower earlier. 

The old AC’s losing its battle against the oppressive August heat and there is only so much Eddie can fix, but an early finish on a Friday helps, planned weeks in advance so you can squeeze the most out of 48 hours of freedom. 

He already has the heat feeling more bearable. 

The music changes behind you and you turn to see him bent over already routing through your refrigerator, stocked up with essentials to fuel a man who's perpetually looking for a snack. 

His body comes to press up behind yours and a shock of cold against your neck makes you flinch then sigh, he rolls the pillaged can over the bare skin, kissing the back of your head while  the other hand reaches out to steal a chip from the bowl on the side . 

“You didn't need to cook.” He murmurs into your hair, a loud crunch following it that makes you squirm. 

“Have you eaten anything with a real vegetable in this week?” You ask and he pushes his face further into your neck.

 “No.” 

You smile a little to yourself, settling your weight back into him, he's hot against your back. “Me either.”

When there's no longer the risk of burnt food you press him back into a chair at the dining table. He has a tendency to wander when he's overtired, walking around, drumming and pacing until he finally collapses. So you make him sit. 

“You okay?” 

He grabs the back of your thighs, chin coming to rest against your chest as he looks up at you, smile lopsided and tired “Am now.” 

You run your hands through his hair, it's knotted in places and you come across a hair tie which was lost somewhere between the curls. You pull it loose from the few strands still limply threaded through and run your nails over his scalp, smiling as his eyes fall closed. 

“Are you?” He stutters the words out half closed eyes looking up at you and you press a kiss to his forehead humming contently. 

His roots are a little greasy against your fingers, evidence of the heat of the day and a long shift that's settled into his skin. “Why don't you go get a shower?” 

“I'm good.” He pulls you a little closer, looking up with big brown eyes as you run a thumb over a smudge on his face, it comes away marred and tacky.

He pouts when you show it to him. 

“Go shower. You'll feel better.” 

He whines at you, buries his face in your chest and you laugh as you cradle his head. 

“I'll be here when you get out.” 

***

He finally relents with three parting kisses, running back to you each time he’s left the kitchen like he's going off to sea. It leaves a blush crawling up your neck and a smile hurting your face as you listen to him singing in the bathroom. The acoustics in there always make him sing louder.

The water cuts off a short while later and you smell him before you see him, a cloud of scent that lets you know he's been indulging in your medicine cabinet again. Then he appears, clad in boxers and a makeshift tank top which was once a Hellfire shirt, arms filled with two overstuffed grocery bags. 

“What the hell?” you rush to him as the bags tip precariously and he curses to himself. “What's this?”

“Just essentials.”

He says it with a shrug, but his face is too expressive, especially when he's excited and you eye him sceptical as you fetch one to the counter.

“These are not essentials.” You softly scold as he sidles up beside you. 

“No?”

He's all cheeky grin and faux confusion as he pulls out a candle, the one you had seen the last time you both went shopping at Bradley's, he examines it closely.

“Doesn't everyone need a comically big candle?”

“It's not that big," you take it from him, suddenly defensive of the item you'd decided you didn't need and carry on unpacking. 

The bags are full of it, stuff you won't buy for yourself.

The nice hand soap, a black fruit bowl, your favourite fancy candy and snacks. It's all odds and ends which he knows you don’t need. 

But they make life a little more tolerable. 

You choke up and it's stupid so you try to swallow it away, but he sees. 

“No no no.”

You shake your head as he takes you by the shoulders, thumb coming to wipe away a tear which is threatening to breach your waterline. 

“You're cute you know that,” you croak, pulling him down to you and kissing him softly. 

“It may have been mentioned once or twice.” he says hushed, forehead pressing against yours and you thank him, letting yourself linger there for a minute while you build yourself back up again. 

“Is there anything that needs to go in the refrigerator?”

He shakes his head, puzzled expression making your mouth twitch. 

You need the space from the bag of gifts, emotions still sitting at the base of your throat. 

You think he can see that too, so he does as he's told when you ask him to sit again so you can fuss over him. Taking your time to brush out his hair, work through the tangles and run cream through the lengths, before kneading out the tension that you feel at the base of his skull.

Early evening rolls in and you close the blinds, shutting out the sun which is now low and blinding. 

You eat on the couch as promised, toppings and chips set up on the small coffee table in front of the TV. 

It must look like an odd assortment to anyone on the outside, all in individual bowls, his side and yours, but it's tradition now. One decided on after a silly disagreement about too much cheese that devolved into an argument that was about everything but. 

Now the peace agreement of nacho-gate still prevails, even when he nudges the jalapeños further over to your side with an over exaggerate grimace and you moan loudly as you eat one out the bowl in response. 

You watch game shows, hands wrapped around ankles just so you're touching, laugh and kiss him when he's pushed too many chips into his mouth and he coos over you when you reveal you've been taping episodes of a show he's wanted to watch with you. 

It's all so easy. 

So much easier than anything else has felt in days, so when he tells you to stay put as he goes to wash up the dishes, then lands back and manhandles you clumsily until you're in between his legs, you don't protest like you usually would. 

You let his hands come up to knead at the muscles in your shoulders as one of the tapes starts, rough fingers poking and prodding until you're loose and falling back into him in relative silence. 

Because everything's relative, and watching something new with Eddie means that the quiet is here and there. He talks through half of it, asking questions you couldn't possibly know the answers to. Until there's a part which grabs his attention, and you're shushed if you mutter a word. 

There's no talk of work or the things which have been making your soul hang heavy, not tonight. 

Not for when he's nuzzling against your neck laughing to himself as he tells you a story about Gareth at the last band practise, while you rub moisturiser into his hands, over calluses and hardened split skin. 

It all passes so quickly and the light slowly fades until you're left with the unforgiving glow of the TV which illuminates one side of his face as you nip at his lower lip. 

The couch is too small to be laid out like this, his legs are bent awkwardly so he can fit between yours but your slow descent was made for different kinds of comforts. 

Bodies tired and needy, pressed into the couch with his body heavy on top of you as your mouths move slowly against each other. 

It's still too hot, even with your clothes lost somewhere thrown across the room leaving you down to your underwear. But the skin contact is needed, it tears through the final tension held in the depths of you despite the way your skin sticks against each other.  

There's no rush to it, slow and steady as his hips grind down between your legs, each of you grinning into each other's mouth when a whine or moan escapes the other. 

It won't turn into anything now, the energy has been spent but that's okay. 

You'll save it for the middle of the night, when you both wake reaching for each other in the quiet. Content with finding each other there and scratching an itch that's been unfulfilled without the other's presence these past two weeks. 

Or, if sleep pulls you under too deep in the morning. With bad breath kisses and creased skin, the embarrassment of being human long since disintegrated over time, giving way to comfort in one another, sleepy touches and playful nips that turn urgent as you rekindle what was started the night before. 

“We should go to bed.” You say as he kisses down your throat. “If we fall asleep here your back will hurt in the morning.”

[superbfics]

Waitwaitwait this is so cute 😭💛

She spoke about that moment near constantly for two weeks, all starry eyes and flushed cheeks.

Okay Becky, me too. I hate Noelle simply because it wasn't me though

Even easier to let Steve pull loose the ties that held your bikini in place, the soaked garment tossed carelessly onto tiles still warm from sun that had set hours before. Your head fell back, face to the stars as Steve pressed you firmly against the pools edge. You could still see the sparkling constellations with your eyes closed as he thrust in long, deep strokes, the cool turquoise water rippling as your bodies met.

It hurt. You liked Steve. Not just for the way he made your body tremble with pleasure. In the moments before and after he was so sweet, so funny, a little hint of bitchiness in his humour that you adored. He took the time to ask about your interests. He told you about his own. He cared. 

WHY WON'T HE KISS ME 😭

Of all the possible reasons for Steve to avoid kissing you, this one never crossed your mind. But it was the best possible outcome. He’d been scared to kiss you because he liked you. He really liked you. So much so, that one simple kiss resulted in him coming within seconds. 

Need your lips on mine

Steve Harrington x fem reader

Steve Harrington will hook up with you. So why won’t he kiss you?

This is something quick and silly I wrote in an attempt to drag myself out of the writing slump I’ve been in, so be warned that this is barely proofread. 2.1k

18+ minors dni: semi public sex, fingering, oral (f receiving), a little bit of angst and insecurity, premature ejaculation whoops

Steve Harrington is a great kisser.

Everyone knows it’s true.

He’s been making girls swoon since the 10th grade.

Becky Lewinsky was the first. A game of spin the bottle in her parents basement, the damp, dark space crowded with twenty odd teenagers sat in a lopsided circle. As if by some divine magic, the bottle of Jack snuck from the liquor cabinet upstairs stopped pointing at the birthday girl. Becky crawled gleefully across the threadbare carpet and planted one on Steve in front of everyone.

She spoke about that moment near constantly for two weeks, all starry eyes and flushed cheeks.

That is until Steve Harrington had his second kiss.

A study session with Noelle Chambers cut short when the school librarian caught them making out in the Historical section.

Then it was Noelle’s turn to brag. About how soft Steve’s lips were, how he tasted like spearmint and strawberry chapstick, how butterflies fluttered wildly in her stomach when his large hand cupped her jaw.

Then it was Laurie. Then Amy. Back to Becky. Followed by a seemingly never ending list of girls, each one with a story of how Steve Harrington blew their minds with just a few kisses.

Even Nancy Wheeler, always so prim and proper, turned giggly and foolish when Steve’s lips touched hers.

You wouldn’t know what it was like.

It’s not like you weren’t privy to his other talents.

As you all grew older the rumour mill turned more suggestive, then downright sordid.

Steve Harrington eats pussy like it’s his last meal.

Steve Harrington always makes sure his girl comes first.

Steve Harrington was packing, enough to have you walking awkwardly for hours when it was over.

Those things were all true. You could vouch for them.

But you didn’t know for sure that Steve Harrington was a good kisser. Because he would never kiss you.

In fairness, during your first encounter you hadn’t even noticed.

It had been a blur of hurried movements, bodies tumbling out the front door of some house party of some vague acquaintance. Quick footsteps crunching over gravel and the heat of Steve’s body pushed flush to your back as he wrenched open the back door to his beemer. Only the necessary clothes were removed, both of you too eager to bother undressing properly. Your jeans were tugged down to your ankles, sweater pushed up around your neck, and Steve Harrington sunk to his knees in the tiny awkward space behind the passenger seat.

You saw stars with your thighs wrapped around his head. Too drunk on bliss to even care that anyone else leaving the party would be able to instantly see the steam shrouded windows and the rocking of the otherwise stationary vehicle when he finally clambered over you and fit his body so perfectly with your own.

When it was over, Steve helped you tug denim back in place over your hips, chuckled softly as he wiped sweat from his brow.

Steve Harrington is a gentleman.

So it was no surprise that he drove you home. Even waited until the front door was closed behind you to pull away from the curb.

Only as the low rumble of the engine faded into the distance did you realise, he hadn’t kissed you once.

Despite his gentlemanly tendencies, you hadn’t expected Steve to call. In fact, you didn’t remember giving him your number, so the first time you heard the low timbre of his voice over the cracking phone line was a total surprise.

It was obvious what he was after. It wasn’t a date. But still, he was sweet with his suggestion, offering to pick you up for a ride back to his place. A dip in the pool in his backyard to wash away the cloying summer heat.

It was all too easy to accept.

Even easier to let Steve pull loose the ties that held your bikini in place, the soaked garment tossed carelessly onto tiles still warm from sun that had set hours before. Your head fell back, face to the stars as Steve pressed you firmly against the pools edge. You could still see the sparkling constellations with your eyes closed as he thrust in long, deep strokes, the cool turquoise water rippling as your bodies met.

When it was over Steve held you close to his chest. He panted against the shell of your ear, chest quivering beneath your exploring fingertips while he regained his composure. He’d placed a gentle kiss to your temple. You turned your head, hope blooming behind your ribs that you might be able to chase his lips with your own.

But he was up and out of the pool in seconds. Stepping into his trunks and collecting your swimwear.

It was hard not to feel disappointed. You pondered it that night as you lay alone in your bed, the space between your thighs still aching from the stretch.

Had you done something? Was there something in your teeth? Oh god, did your breath smell bad?

That must be it, right? What other reason could there be for Steve Harrington gifting you the most delicious orgasms you’d ever experienced, but still refusing something as simple as a kiss?

You wouldn’t let it happen again.

When Steve called the following week, and you coyly mentioned that your parents were out of town, you set to action as soon as you’d hung up the phone. Brushing and flossing until your gums were sore, swirling mouthwash three times just in case. As your doorbell rang, you applied one final swipe of blueberry gloss, pouting at yourself in the mirror. You looked thoroughly kissable. Steve would have no excuse this time.

Except he did. Not that he voiced it of course. But the usual routine ensued. Steve kissed your neck, sucked deep marks into your chest, mouth hungrily over your cunt. But when he was finally over you and in you, fucking you hard into your mattress, each time you tilted your head towards his and pouted he pulled away. It was subtle, the way he’d bury his face against your shoulder, pepper soft kisses over your collar bones. But by the time he left your gloss was still disappointingly unsmudged.

It hurt. You liked Steve. Not just for the way he made your body tremble with pleasure. In the moments before and after he was so sweet, so funny, a little hint of bitchiness in his humour that you adored. He took the time to ask about your interests. He told you about his own. He cared.

You’d had enough. Your heart and your mind couldn’t take much more of the mixed messages. You needed answers, but you knew you couldn’t bring yourself to simply ask for them. It was too humiliating, too needy. So you hatched a plan.

The drive to Steve’s house was short, which was lucky really. If you’d had too long to think you might have started to question if your plan was such a good idea. You might have talked yourself out of it, convinced yourself that Steve didn’t really like you, maybe he already had another girl over, taking your place in his bed.

But you had no time to ruminate on such thoughts, pulling onto the Harrington driveway just minutes after leaving your own. The BMW sat alone, the house dark save for the light in Steve’s bedroom. You took a deep breath as you knocked on the door.

A moment later you could hear footsteps in the hallway. The porch light flicked on, bathing you in warm amber light.

When Steve opens the door his mouth falls open in surprise. His white t-shirt is tight across his chest, grey sweatpants sitting low on his hips. As your eyes trail downwards Steve shuffles, adjusting the all too obvious tent in the fabric.

“H-hey. Uhh- hey.” He says, sounding uncharacteristically nervous.

“Hi.” You reply sweetly.

Was Steve Harrington blushing?

“I wasn’t - I wasn’t expecting you.” Steve says. He runs a broad palm over the back of his neck.

“Sorry, I probably should’ve called. Just wanted to see you.” You purr, giving him your best bedroom eyes.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Oh. You weren’t - I mean, you didn’t. I w-wasn’t up to anything.” Steve stammers. His cheeks are almost maroon.

“Really? You weren’t doing anything at all?”

You’re teasing him. And it’s wonderful to see his reaction. The way he audibly gulps, his blown pupils darting from your face to the floor and back again.

“Can I come in?” You ask softly.

“Sure! Of course.” Steve says, stepping aside to let you through.

Steve seems to have given himself a mental pep talk as you follow him up to his room. Once the door closes behind you he’s back to his usual confident self.

Clothes are shed much like always. Steve spends what feels like an eternity working you open with his fingers, pulling one orgasm from you as you writhe on his expensive cotton sheets. When he steps away from the bed, retrieving a condom from his dresser, you prepare yourself to put your plan into action. You watch with rapt attention as Steve rolls the latex over his length, thrusting into a loose fist as he leans back over you. His lips find that familiar spot just below your ear as your legs spread wider, giving him space to slot between them. When he pushes into you, bringing that familiar burn that you’ve come to crave, he raises his head. His eyes roll back, lids fluttering closed as a groan spills past his pretty lips.

It’s the opportunity you’ve been waiting for.

Grabbing Steve’s cheeks you pull his face down to you, tilting your own up to meet him halfway. It’s a messy semblance of a kiss, lips clumsily crashing and teeth clinking painfully together.

Steve lets out a small surprised squeak, but you don’t allow yourself the time to question whether the sound is of pleasure or annoyance. You’re too busy swiping your tongue against Steve’s bottom lip. Realising that those old rumours still held some truth. Spearmint and strawberry chapstick.

Through the messy meeting of mouths Steve’s hips have begun to falter, losing a rhythm before he’s even had time to set it. When the tip of your tongue touches his, tentative and unsure, he makes a pained sound, a deep groan that vibrates from his chest. His hips stall, and you feel the warmth inside as he spills into the condom.

Steve Harrington has never been known as a two pump chump before.

You’re so shocked, for a moment your plan disappears entirely from your mind. Your lips leave Steve’s, a gasp escaping you. But you’ve unleashed something now, a wall that’s broken down, and this time it’s Steve that chases you. Whining desperately as he shakes from his orgasm, he kisses you deeper, his tongue thrusting past your lips to tangle with your own.

“Mmm. Steve -what-“ you try to question between his kisses.

“M’sorry.” He whimpers.

You don’t want to stop kissing him. After waiting all this time you’d quite happily let him continue to steal the breath from your lungs. But you need an explanation. Reluctantly, you pull lightly on Steve’s hair, tugging his face back.

“What the hell was that?” You whisper.

He’s blushing again, cheeks a furious red that spreads up to the tips of his ears and down his neck.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long.” He whines.

“Well then why haven’t you?”

“Didn’t think - I didn’t think you liked me like that. I thought you just wanted to mess around with me. And I thought if I kissed you, I’d get too attached. So I didn’t. But you - you just… fuck. I’m sorry, I’ve just been thinking about it for forever.”

Of all the possible reasons for Steve to avoid kissing you, this one never crossed your mind. But it was the best possible outcome. He’d been scared to kiss you because he liked you. He really liked you. So much so, that one simple kiss resulted in him coming within seconds.

Steve moves to pull out, humiliation clear as day on his face.

“No, don’t!” You say quickly. You use your hand in his hair to pull him back down to you.

This kiss is softer. Sweet and slow. You nip at Steve’s bottom lip, and feel the stirring between your thighs. He’s half hard again already.

Steve rocks his hips experimentally, hissing through his teeth at the sensitivity.

You grin against his lips.

“Think you’ve got some making up to do Stevie.”

“Yeah.” He sighs softly.

“I can do that.”

[superbfics]

ohmygodohmygodohmygodIlovvvveeeethiiiisss

“Shitshitshitshiiiit,” chants the dynamite into the break between two songs. “So sorry, shit, you okay? Hey, hey, can you look at me?”

I freaking love "chants the dynamite" 🤌🤌

You can and you do, reluctantly removing your hand from your face. Mr Gunpowder stares at you with wide dark eyes out of a hot, sweaty face that also looks like explosives; with his sharp drippy jaw and sensual mouth and oh, he’s biting his full, pink bottom lip now in another attempt to blow your head up. Okay, yeah, it’s more a worried than a steamy gesture but holy shit; if that’s what he looks like worried, you want to devastate him.

This description TOOK ME OUT.

You could swear the confusion in his voice is laced with a smirk but it’s still plenty loud here at the bar so you open your eyes.

So he has dimples too.

Hi, hello, don't mind me, just grinning like a fool over here 🫠🫠🫠

“What’s your name?” he asks and swallows hard, repeating your name after you like it's a charm. “Can I buy you pizza?”

“They have pizza here?”

“No.”

^literal live footage of me reading this

Boom

I just wrote this. (Instead of working on my 4000wips but what else is new?) It's totally random and silly and that was exactly what I needed today.

Eddie Munson x gn!reader

Words: 694 ||Contentwarnings: implication of violent moshpit, Eddie's elbow to readers face (he's so sorry), bruising, mention of various explosives, strangers to stupidly enamoured strangers, hurt/comfort I guess?, fluff I guess?, meet cute if you're into that sorta thing?||

One moment, you’re screaming kicking jumping your heart out in a moshpit and in the next, your cheekbone explodes.

Well, at least that's how it feels.

“Shitshitshitshiiiit,” chants the dynamite into the break between two songs. “So sorry, shit, you okay? Hey, hey, can you look at me?”

You can and you do, reluctantly removing your hand from your face. Mr Gunpowder stares at you with wide dark eyes out of a hot, sweaty face that also looks like explosives; with his sharp drippy jaw and sensual mouth and oh, he’s biting his full, pink bottom lip now in another attempt to blow your head up. Okay, yeah, it’s more a worried than a steamy gesture but holy shit; if that’s what he looks like worried, you want to devastate him.

“How bad is it?”

He scrunches up his adorable nose. “Already bruising—“

          ‘LET’S MAKE THIS A BLOOD BATH!’ the frontman shouts and counts in his drummer.

“Nope!” TNT-guy says, loops his sticky arm under yours and pulls you through the crowd faster than the blast beat.

“WHERE ARE WE GOING?”

“BAR! ICE!”

—

You sigh with relief as the cold sinks into your hot, throbbing cheek and you have to close your eyes because you’re a bit dizzy and you’re not sure if it’s caused by the smack in the head or by Nitroglycerin Incarnate who’s gently holding a bundle of ice cubes wrapped in a dishtowel to your face.

Whatever it is, you thank the universe for adrenaline.

“I’m so so sorry!” he says for the hundredth time, then you feel his fingers brush your sweaty hair behind your ear. “Let me know when you feel sick? You want some water? I’m sooo sorry.”

“It’s alright!”

“No, noooo, it’s not—“

“It’s a grindcore show, Granade-boy. Shit like that happens—“

“What— what did you call me?”

You could swear the confusion in his voice is laced with a smirk but it’s still plenty loud here at the bar so you open your eyes.

So he has dimples too.

 “What I was saying,” you deflect and your face stings when you smile, “don’t beat yourself up over this… One black eye is enough for one night!”

He tilts his head back and groans. You shiver and mentally mark five mouth-watering spots where you want to bite his neck before he looks back at you; totally heartbroken. “Too soon!”

“Wait! Shouldn’t that be my line?”

“Yes! Exactly,” he shakes his head, a soft smile contrasting the furrowed brows. “You’re way too cool about the fact that some asshole just nearly cracked your skull with his elbow.”

“Exploded,” you explain casually.

“W-what?”

“That’s what it felt like on impact.”

“Ah,” a satisfied noise, smooth, warm. “Granade-boy. Now I get it. Can cross this out as a sign of concussion then.” He carefully removes the ice from your face to look at the bruise. Tilting his head, his eyes rest heavy on your cheek before his gaze travels to your eyes and won’t leave again; it’s galvanic, sends a current down your spine that forces your ribs to expand and your pelvis to twitch on the barstool he ordered you to sit on. “It’s Eddie.”

Eddie takes a step closer, the damp fabric of his shirt ghosting your knees and brings the ice slowly back to your skin, wincing when you do. Sorry, he mouthes silently and breaks into a wide, toothy smile when you roll your eyes playfully.

“Nice to meet you, Eddie.”

“Unbelievable.” The residual red of exertion and excitement on his cheeks deepens again. “Really nice to meet you too... badass bitch.”

Your laugh is a hearty bark; it also hurts but, oh my, is it worth it when Eddie joins you with his smooth, deep cackle. He doesn't stop, even when you lean back, chuckling and moaning, to hold your cheek. His stomach meets your knees, the ice clinks softly as he drops it to the counter. He’s gently holding on to your shoulders, his right hand cold and wet against your skin. “Too soon?” he smirks and you laugh out again.

“What’s your name?” he asks and swallows hard, repeating your name after you like it's a charm. “Can I buy you pizza?”

“They have pizza here?”

“No.”

[superbfics]

just a hockey!Steve thought I had because it was so cold when I got out of bed so early this morning

This is before Steve went to play in the league, way before he was “King” Captain Harrington.

The two of you married young (cue You Never Can Tell by Chuck Berry) rarely seeing each other while you have classes during the day and he’s working at the ice rink, before the two of you have a quick dinner and he has night classes (because his parents want him to be able to have something to fall back on if the dream doesn’t work out) while you work late. He usually tries to stay up and wait for you, watching old tapes of games on the TV while taking notes. Of gameplays, more than his homework.

On weekends during winter, when the snow covers everything and the nearby pond is frozen and solid-thick, he wakes up early and gets out the homemade ice resurfacer he made from parts bought at the hardware store for the local kids to skate properly on the ice.

Doesn’t take long, Steve’s only gone about thirty minutes, but when he comes back, you’re still asleep in bed, shifted over from your spot to his, keeping it warm for him while hugging face down in the pillow that smells like your husband.

He smiles, seeing you sleep through the freezing nights in his old hockey jersey.

Before you were loyal to the minor league DemoDogs, you were loyal to the Hawkins High Tigers (not at first, but I’ll get into that later with the fic)

Steve takes off his jeans and layers, burying himself beneath the blankets to be with you.

“Sh-Shit-! Cold hands-!” You then seethe through your teeth half awake, face scrunching in the pillow as your back muscles flinch at the feel of his big chilly hands sneaking under the sweater to steal warmth from the meat on your ribs as he holds your sides.

It makes you turn over, burying yourself in his neck that smells like the winter wind and his coat. You warm up his neck with rubs of your nose on those two vampire bite-like moles.

Steve holds you close during these next few morning hours, not really going to sleep, unlike you, snoozing with no problem, but he’s still dreaming about making it big.

There was talk at work about “the Chief” stepping down from the team and account of grievance for his young daughter. They were holding tryouts next month.

He knows he can do it. He’ll do it for the both of you. You deserve more than his childhood bedroom and actual dates at nice restaurants, not just free burgers, fries, and shared nachos at rink where he works.

[superbfics]

𝗸𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗲𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗻𝗲𝗿 ᯓᡣ𐭩 𝗱𝗮𝗱!𝘀𝘁𝗲𝘃𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘁𝗼𝗻

you and Steve attempt to wrangle your ever-growing family. mom!reader, dad!steve

all in one place — newest first all in one place — written order

the first fic steve dotes while you’re pregnant with your first you have your very first baby your toddler makes a huge mess steve makes you cry being a great dad you find out you’re pregnant with your third steve gets his girls valentine’s gifts dove says her first word you celebrate dove’s second birthday you and steve are connected steve unravels on avery’s first day of school steve teaches avery to ride her bike avery learns about divorce steve is jealous of your mommy-daughter date steve has a really hard day with the kids steve sends you a drink from the bar the girls fall asleep early steve takes care of his sick family you go on your first big family vacation the harrington’s go poolside

steve makes the girls laugh uncle eddie visits steve and beth catch you working at night you’re startled when dove cusses emphatically steve gets upset and scares dove steve falls a little more in love with you steve defends beth from his rude mom steve gets home to his girls after a day apart the family celebrates the Fourth of July kisses before dinner the girls are so cute you cry you argue with steve when things get overwhelming avery doesn’t feel like anyone’s favourite avery worries that pregnancy will hurt you you try to get comfy with your bump steve loves his pregnant wreck of a wife you can’t deal with being away from steve you and steve take a babymoon you bring the new baby home steve tries to think of a name for the new baby

the girls try to help you with the new baby you go on a post-baby date avery reassures you of your great parenting the harrington’s get ready for halloween the harrington's start preparing for christmas you and steve argue about christmas jammies the harrington’s celebrate new year’s eve the girls end up in bed with you one by one the harrington’s gets ready for a dinner party steve bumps into his estranged mom at the store you and steve have some rare time alone steve feels amazingly content you comfort dove after a nightmare steve comforts you when you’re insecure you mediate a fight between avery and beth you take the girls back to school shopping you and steve comfort beth when she feels weird steve nearly cries when beth makes a friend the girls love steve’s home improvements beth spends some time in the hospital

you recuperate after beth’s hospital stay steve falters during beth’s recovery you coax beth in to eating on a hard day family movie night begins bedtime at the harrington house steve is overwhelmed with love at dinner you celebrate another mother’s day you celebrate another father’s day you gather the consensus on a fifth baby bump five emerges

note: this masterlist is my attempt at a chronological timeline, but the fics were written out of order, so there may be things that don’t line up

[superbfics]

𝐳𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐞 𝐚𝐩𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐲𝐩𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐮 {¬ºཀ°}¬ 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧

reluctant allies to lovers. fics are sometimes non-sequential. requests for the zombie au are open for any time in their relationship

all in one place newest to oldest all in one place written order

on the road

you rescue steve at the end of the world you try to convince steve to turn back you and steve try to navigate without a compass steve saves you from a zombie you and steve hide from a storm steve cuddles you to keep you warm outdoors you try to cheer steve up steve goes out to find your meds you and steve trade secrets steve clings to you after an injury steve trains you in hand to hand combat steve looks after you when you’re depressed steve gets you a present when you’re sad steve gets food poisoning steve realises he’s got big feelings for you you get your period you’re attacked by a lone survivor steve kisses you for the first time you and steve get stuck in a taco truck you and steve meet an okapi you and steve find a lake to bathe in you and steve run from scavengers you get hypothermia steve panics when food is in short supply you spend a day in bed hiding from the snow steve comforts you when you’re exhausted

at The College Community

steve finds robin and you join The College you and steve get your own room you comfort steve after he almost dies on a run steve thinks about the future and having kids you and steve make up after an argument you celebrate steve’s birthday you and steve after a first time you and steve think about before the college you get taken, steve won’t rest til he finds you you realise you can trust steve’s friends steve comforts you after a nightmare you comfort steve after a nightmare steve comforts you after a worse nightmare steve confesses how scared he is of losing you you start to feel like you’re not good enough for steve steve fights to keep you safe when the north fence falls steve knows how he wants to spend a quiet morning

after The College falls

you make your way back to steve steve tends your wounds you take care of steve after he sprains his knee you and steve get back to basics you and steve get into a fight steve almost gets bitten you, steve and robin go on a quest for soap steve takes care of you when you catch a cold you go for a walk and give steve palpitations you meet a curly haired stranger steve is jealous of you and eddie you and steve settle into your new jobs you and steve reunite after morning duties you reunite after a few days apart you bring steve some gifts steve continues to be jealous of eddie steve draws you all the time steve discovers he’s far-sighted steve comforts you through panic you have a dream too good to be true steve brings up getting married a friend comes to mega camp

saving Robin

a last day of normalcy

[superbfics]

for @keeksandgigz and her lovely addition to this post 🤍

"not that easy, is it?"

eddie's voice is calm, but he is seething. you've been at this the whole afternoon. the sun is now setting, and the training grounds are empty, except for the two of you.

his chest is pressed to your back, and he can feel your heated skin through the leather of your armor. it raises and falls with his steady breathing, and he tries not to think of your soft curves and the way they fit with the hard plane of his torso.

no, he needs to correct your posture. your loose grip on the sword could cost you your life, and that's what he's been repeating to you ceaselessly. with each sloppy swing, he pushes you harder. and you huff, your beautiful face marred with dirt and sweat pulled into a frown, and you tell you've got this.

you don't, and he worries about you. even though you you bring him to his limit, and test his patience, with which he was not graced with much.

his arm hold your arm, correcting your grip, urging you to hold your sword at the right length from your body. his legs force yours into position, and your hips are flushed together, fitting perfectly together. all he can hear are your heavy breaths, with his head right above your shoulder.

you shrudder, and he can't tell if that's what raises goosebumps up his spine.

"no." you admit through your teeth. "no, it isn't, sir. i see it now."

he chuckles, still pressed to your back. not in a hurry to leave yet. "did it hurt, my lady?"

"what hurt?"

"admitting you were wrong."

you elbow him in the stomach, turning around as he fails to wipe the smug smile on his face. "that is awfully presumptious of you, sir edward."

you don't admit you were wrong in the same way he can't admit to himself he misses your closeness when you're gone, and tells himself it's better this way.

[superbfics]

Def think frat!steve would see someone at the house party reading a book and after an internal what the fuck, he’d approach to ask:

“So is that any good?”

You lay a finger underneath your current sentence before looking up to find some guy wearing a backwards baseball cap and holding a red solo cup in the midst of a rager, but somehow, he’s singularly focused on you.

“Anna Karenina?”

He nods taking a sip from his drink, as someone passes him with a hearty clap to his shoulder.

“Oh, it’s uh, well,” You stammer, trying and failing to distill 864 pages of Russian literature into a coherent sentence.

And somehow he’s still there, through the whoops and shouts of the fraternity’s name as well as his own— Harrington, if the shouts are to be believed.

“She takes a very sad train,” is what you settle on.

“And you like it?” He sets his drink to the side, crossing his arms over this chest as his eyes flit over your features. “This sad stuff?”

You shrug, dog earning the page and setting the book beside you.

“All the variety, all the charm, all the beauty of life is made up of light and shadow. Anything is better than lies and deceit!”

He raises his brows, confused and more than a little intrigued by your answer.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I got your name—”

He’s cut off by someone shoulder-checking him on their way down the stairs.

“We’re leaving,” She says, sniffling all the while.

Your expression falls taking in your friend’s demeanor— red eyes, raw nose and bitten lips.

“Right, of course,” You say, scrambling for your purse. You give him a pained look, at a loss while trailing after your friend.

In all the commotion, you leave your book behind. Steve grabs it and hustles out the door, hoping to catch you before it’s too late.

But once he’s reached the front yard, crowded with people and beer cans that crunch under his feet, you’re already gone.

Eddie’s idling on the stoop as Steve takes a seat, letting out a long sigh.

“Hooked on phonics, aren’t we big guy?” He drawls, with a nod to the book at his feet.

Steve shrugs and looks longingly out into the night.

Eddie, curious, picks up the book and opens the front cover, more than prepared to read aloud the first sentence in a dramatic fashion just to clown on Steve. He stops, taking in the scrawl of a name, and reads that out instead.

“Shit, no way,” Steve says, snatching the book back and reading the name for himself.

Eddie barks a laugh, “Figure it out, man. But you heard it here first,” He lays a hand on Steve’s shoulder and pushed himself up. “Any chick reading Tolstoy is definitely out of your league.”

Steve smirks up at him, thumbing through the pages and wondering if you’re in that literature class of his. “Wanna bet?”

[superbfics]

Halloween • A Ranged Special

A woman dies of mysterious circumstances and you and your partner are called to a tiny Midwest town on Halloween.

Pairing: special agent!Steve Harrington x special agent!Reader

Wordcount: 3759

Warnings: This is a special based on this fic.*This blurb contains canon typical violence, including violence toward both main characters, mentions of suicide, all characters in peril, jump scares, zombies, etc. Please read at your own discretion.

This blog is 18+ only. I do not give permission for any of my fics to be duplicated, reposted, or put into AI. Thank you!

Navigation • Masterlist

---

Moodboard • Episode 00: Prologue

A paper Dracula hung in the doorway, spinning on fishing line that was paper clipped into ceiling tiles. Crepe streamers dangled from its cape. 

A friendly little bell chimed your entrance, and although you’d managed to duck beneath the streamers, Steve walked directly into it like a moonlit spider’s web, and with a grunt, he batted it from the ceiling and into the ficus pot nearby.

“Steve,” you scolded, trying to muffle your laughter between your molars at the look of disdain etched in his brow.

“I hate Halloween,” he punched the vampire’s face into the soil for good measure before following you through the vestibule and to the open lobby of the little 24-hour diner. 

Cakes and pies with glistening tops rotated in a spinner to the left of the till. Bats and ghosts were hung from a coat rack and more ceiling tiles.

You waited near a hostess stand for a young woman to arrive, watching with baited breath as she gave your partner the ole up-down and lash-bat before ushering you off to your table.

He ordered two coffees and handed you an oversized vinyl menu, flicking a bat-shaped sequin from the tabletop.

“You’re such a Scrooge.” You chided, peering over stock-images of pancake stacks and sausage links.

“That’s Christmas and bah-humbug,” he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair.

You glanced at him over your menu, hair perfectly coifed, bruise from last week’s scuffle yellowing at his jaw. “You not eating?”

He shrugged and glanced around the room.

You followed his gaze to a couple of truck drivers hunched over cups of coffee. Three old men shared a table in the back corner, laughing heartily with food in their beards. A mother was cutting up her pancakes for a little girl in face paint and cat ears. Your shoulders relaxed when Steve’s did. Safe.

The waitress returned with two steaming cups of coffee, staring directly into Steve’s eyes as she took your order, dark curls flowing from a hair tie at the back of her neck. “Are you really a secret agent, or is this a costume?”

Steve leaned forward in his chair, reaching into the inner pocket of his trench coat. “Wanna see my badge?” 

You slid the menu between their line of sight, and Steve cocked a brow your direction, the slightest smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“The sheriff is supposed to be here any minute,” you informed him when she walked away, peeling the lid from a creamer container to stir into your cup. Anything to distract from the heat in your face and neck.

“Henderson says hi, by the way,” Steve said, coffee mug in both hands, pink lips bowing to blow the steam from the surface.

“Huh?” You began to shuffle off your trench coat.

“Dustin Henderson, the friend of mine you met a few months ago. I was with him when Owens called about this case. He wanted me to tell you hi.” Steve explained, taking soft sips of his coffee.

You smiled, remembering the young man with the curly hair and delightful penchant for spy-craft. “Tell him ‘hi’ back.”

“Boo!” A man appeared from around the corner, nearly startled the coffee from Steve’s mouth. You recognized the Sheriff’s uniform, but did find yourself a little unnerved by the hyper-realistic zombie makeup and gashes the man had tacky glued to his face. “Or should I say ‘braaaaains’?”

Steve’s hand went to the handle of his weapon under his jacket, and you pushed your chair back to stand and greet you brunch guest. 

“You must be Sheriff Bouchart,” you introduced yourself and Steve with an extended hand.

“Oh please, call me Tim,” he cackled and ushered you back to your seat while he pulled up a chair from a nearby table and sat in it the wrong-way-around. “I just love Halloween. Don’t you just love Halloween?”

You bit back a smile as you watched Steve squirm in his seat and hummed your agreement. You’d helped Sadie decorate their front porch the night before, fresh carved jack-o-lanterns and corn stalks. Jeff was going to dress as a scarecrow and sit limply on a bench with a bowl of candy in his lap, waiting to scare passersby. You ached a little at the thought.

“So, what can I do you for, Agents?”

You looked from the Sheriff to Steve and back. “We’re here about the… murder.”

“Murder?” The Sheriff frowned.

You nodded and pulled a small notebook from your jacket pocket. “Cheryl Leahy?”

Tim shook his head, the bright smile falling from his bloodied face. “Oh that, tragic thing, really, but coroner agrees it was a suicide.”

“She made an emergency phone call about a monster with rows and rows of teeth,” Steve said, arms crossed and brow furrowed.

“She did,” Tim nodded.

“And you found her with several puncture wounds the size of small bite marks?” You tried to confirm.

Tim nodded. “So we thought, but upon further selection, we noticed it was glass. Poor woman threw herself out the front window of her home.”

Steve shot you a perturbed look, fingernails tapping the ceramic mug in front of him.

“Any sign of a break-in? Maybe she could have been pushed?” You asked.

“Nope. Doors were unlocked, but this is the Midwest, no one locks their doors. They weren’t any signs of a struggle either, other than the broken window,” Tim clarified, thanking the waitress with a hand on her arm as she dropped off another cup of coffee and your pancake stack. Then he reached across the table to pull out four sugar packets and unload them into his drink.

Steve looked like he might be sick.

“Listen, kids,” Tim picked up the spoon from your napkin and began to stir his drink. “Cheryl Leahy, God rest her soul, was a troubled woman. She’d gone a bit off the deep end in the last couple of months, and this wasn’t exactly a surprise.”

“What do you mean?” Steve pulled his coffee from the table, as though the sweetener might jump into his own cup. 

“I mean, she left her husband, quit her job, became a hermit.”

“Does anyone know why?” You asked, taking a bite of delicious, buttery pancake.

Tim shrugged, leaned in to offer the next bit of information just above a whisper. “Rumor has it she was seeing a woman.”

“Have you looked into this woman?” Steve asked.

Tim shook his head. “We couldn’t find any proof of an affair or even of another woman. You know how the rumor mills work in these small towns. I think the ladies at the credit union just needed something to talk about at the water cooler.” He turned to offer you a wink.

You faked a smile.

Steve’s fist clenched on the tabletop. “Well, we’re going to need access to the crime scene.”

Tim sipped his coffee and smacked his lips, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “No can do, buddy. Crime scene’s cleared. New window’s being installed today. Like I said, it’s been ruled as a suicide. Nothing to see there.”

“We understand,” you said, mouthful of sticky sweet pancake to cut Steve off before he said anything rash. You swallowed. “Unfortunately, we have to report something to our boss. I’m sure you understand.”

“Sure, sure,” Tim nodded. “You’re more than welcome to canvas her neighbors. See if maybe they saw something? Other than the poor lady’s body in her driveway.”

—

Mist crawled from the lake’s surface and swirled at your feet. Lamplight cast you both in long silhouettes as you walked, heads disappearing into the fog. 

You stifled a yawn with your hand. 

“Knew I should’ve stopped you from eating those pancakes,” Steve tutted, kicking dead leaves from the toes of his shoes.

You’d spent the day canvasing. You left Steve at the stoop and walked door-to-door after the first homeowner nearly got decked in the face for wearing a Freddy Krueger mask and holding a candy bucket. Nobody knew anything about Cheryl Leahy, nor had they seen or heard anything unusual the night of her death.

“Why did Owens send us here?” You groaned, pawing at tired eyes. Your shoulders and feet felt heavy, each step a slog. 

A blood-curdling scream was better than a cup of coffee.

Steve took off first, the clack of his soles against pavement before he was up a lawn, reaching into his trench coat. You were hot on his tail, heart pumping.

Your partner stopped short, and you nearly barreled into his broad back until you peered around him to see a bunch of kids cackling, pretending to stab one another with a plastic knife. They were dressed as various cartoon characters and carried empty pillow cases and pumpkin-shaped-buckets.

With a snort, you grabbed Steve’s shoulder and led him back down the hill and to the paved path.

“I hate Halloween,” he repeated his sentiment from earlier through gritted teeth.

“Why?” You smiled, kicking at the fog as you stepped.

“Because,” Steve said, that frown burrowing itself between his brows, “there are real monsters in this world they should be afraid of.”

“Have you ever had fun?” You asked behind a yawn, laughing when his eyes snapped to yours. “Even once in your life?”

“I have fun,” he argued.

“Shooting monsters in the face doesn’t count,” you countered.

“Believe me, that is not fun,” he sighed.

You tried not to let the sadness sink in, choosing instead to barrel forward, back around the cul-de-sac where you’d parked your rental. “Alright then, what do you and Dustin do when you hang out?”

“That isn’t fun either,” he rolled his eyes.

“Okay, your… other friends then,” you ventured, hating the way your stomach sank at the thought of him having other company. You thought of Michelle from that party months ago, and wondered if he’d ever reached out.

Sadie hadn’t mentioned anything. She just kept pestering you about whether or not you’d tied him down: figuratively and literally.

Steve’s face fell in a way you hadn’t anticipated but recognized as a shut down of your line of questioning. He shook his head and looked far up the path into the mist. Robin.

You swallowed. You knew better than to push further, but you ached to slip your hand into his and tell him it was okay, that he was safe with you.

You felt his elbow bump into yours. “We should get you something to eat.��

You smiled up at him. “Don’t think I didn’t hear your stomach two houses ago, Harrington.”

You swatted at him to push him away, but he grabbed your wrist and pulled you in tighter, his trench coat and chest all-encompassing as a stampede of children skipped past you both, chanting.

“Trick-or-Treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat!”

His chest radiated warmth, and when you looked up, his throat and cheeks were pinched pink. You watched his mouth as his chest rose and fall beneath your palm, and his Adam’s apple bobbed in a swallow.

You felt his stomach growl before you heard it, and you bit back a smile as you patted his middle. “Let’s get you something good to eat.”

—

The same Dracula was restrung in the doorway, and the hostess’s sign had been flipped to have you seat yourself at the same table as that morning. Vinyl menus now displayed mashed potatoes and chicken club sandwiches. A car drove by, casting Steve in the headlights for a moment across the table, engrossed in his dinner selections.

You tried not to think of Sadie’s pesterings, or wonder what Steve would look like all face-painted up like a scarecrow, hair stuffed into a straw hat. 

The same waitress from earlier approached with a tongue pressed to her top row of teeth. “You’re back.”

Steve flashed you a daring smile and leaned back in his seat. “You didn’t get Halloween off?”

“Jehovah’s Witness,” she explained, tapping her pen cap to the pad in her hand. “I’m off at midnight, though.”

“I’ll have a cheeseburger,” you cleared your throat, folding your menu over Steve’s. “Fries and a coke.”

“That sounds great. I’ll have the same,” Steve flashed her a thousand-watt smile, handing over the menus. 

You hated the green monster that clawed at your insides.

“So what brings you to town, G-man?” The woman asked, idling with a nylon-covered knee a little too close to Steve’s.

“Did you ever spend anytime with Cheryl Leahy? Serve her here, maybe?” You asked, leaning across the table to catch her gaze.

Recognition flashed across the woman’s face, and she pursed her lips. “You mean the crazy lesbian lady from the credit union? Thought she killed herself.”

“She did,” Steve shot you a look. “Her family just wanted us to tick all the boxes.”

“Right,” the girl nodded slowly, glancing between the two of you before the smile slid back onto her lips. She tapped her pen cap twice to Steve’s knee and promised to be right back.

“They wouldn’t send us on a false lead, would they?” You asked when the waitress’s hips swung out of earshot.

Steve’s eyes widened, and he glanced around the empty diner before leaning into you. “Say that again.”

You swallowed, the ominous feeling you felt around house six settling back between your shoulders. “Well, it did sound like our thing, but it’s looking like maybe it’s not our thing, and I’m just wondering if this is,” you lowered your voice, “some sort of distraction.”

“Distraction from what?”

You shrugged, played with the sticky wrapper holding your silverware inside your napkin. “Les Joplin, George Humbolt, the Garcias.”

When you looked up, Steve’s face was inches from yours, eyes carefully watching every change in your expression. You hoped you could convey your worry, that you’d been thinking about this for the last few months, through every small town and every patch of rotting Earth.

“Two cokes,” your waitress interrupted, placing sticky sweet soda between you. The bubbles fizzed against their straw.

You thanked her and ignored the ripple of butterflies at the smile Steve gave her.

“The last three people we saved are still alive,” he said through his teeth, glancing back up at the waitress as she sauntered away.

You swallowed and nodded, stirring your drink before taking a sip. The bubbles tickled at your nostrils and it went down ice-cold.

“Think they’re onto us being onto them?”

You shrugged. “Could be.”

“Do you think I put Henderson in danger?”

You watched the panic fill his eyes. “Steve.”

The bell chimed and a gust of wind rolled in, sweeping leaves into the lobby. Pies and cakes continued to spin in your periphery.

Your shoulders felt heavy with burden, with the weight of the world, and your eyelids too. You reached a hand across to Steve, and he spoke your name like sound waves through a soupy atmosphere. 

“Who sent you?” The waitress appeared, large bottle in her hand, although even she was sideways, off-kilter. “Was it Brenner?”

You fell from your seat, heavier than gravity would allow, and you watched as the bats and Draculas began to spin, crepe paper circles blurring your vision until everything went black.

—

Your brain felt fuzzy inside your skull, your mouth was bone dry, and the light was too bright behind your eyelids. You scrambled to remember your whereabouts, squinting against the harsh glow, and as you slipped back into consciousness, you became painfully aware of the rope around your wrists and ankles.

You strained against them and pulled yourself from laying to seated to find yourself in the auditorium of an old theater. Paint peeled from decorative lighting around the expanse and down from this balcony to the lower level.

On the stage, a huge white projector screen showed the mist of a classic monster movie.

You called out for Steve, but your mouth had been tied too, cloth between your teeth in a gag.

You tugged on your restraints for just a moment of more panic before remembering your training. Deep breaths in and out. 

You observed your surroundings, looked for exits, on either side of the floor level, and then one across the mezzanine from where you sat. You laid back down to peer under the seats for any sign of your partner. 

A few chairs creaked near the exit, almost imperceptible, and you froze, closing your eyes, stilling your breathing like you might pass for being asleep. Then footsteps, the clack of soles against the steps.

You risked a peak to find Steve, who crouched across the aisle from you, finger to his lips.

You nodded and waited with bated breath until a familiar voice startled you. “Oh good. You’re awake. You think now you’re willing to talk?”

You stared at Steve, and he maintained his posture, reassuring you he had it covered if you just played along.

You looked back up at the waitress and nodded fervently.

The waitress barked a cold laugh and approached from the row behind Steve, uniform discarded for something less conspicuous. Her long curls had been released and now fell at her shoulders. “Or maybe I ought to play with you a little bit more.”

She snapped her fingers and Steve stood from his crouch.

You cursed under your breath. Of course she was enhanced.

Feeling the ground around you for a loose screw, you used your thumbnail to loosen it from its hold to use to begin to cut the ropes at your wrist.

Steve wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her in close, bending to press his lips against hers. She moaned, tangling her fingers in his thick hair.

You tried your damndest to focus on the screw until they began to move, slowly backing him to the balcony’s edge.

You cried out for him, but it was too late.

With one powerful shove, you watched your partner plummet to the auditorium floor. Scrambling to your knees to peer over the side, you saw his mangled remains, blood seeping down the incline toward the orchestra pit.

You screamed and ripped your wrists from their restraints.

Standing, you managed to swing your arms at her with the intention to push her over the side with him. Only, she wasn’t there, not really. You wafted through the air until you lost your balance, and you felt gravity cascading you up and over to meet your partner’s fate.

With a sharp tug, your arm was ripped from it’s socket.

“I’ve got you,” Steve said, gripping your wrist, teeth grit.

You glanced to the floor to find it empty, nothing but air beneath your dangling feet.

On the giant screen behind you, a monster’s silhouette was framed in shadow, tens of feet high.

“Give me your hand,” Steve yelled.

With a cry of agony, you swung your other hand to grasp his and allow him to hoist you upward.

Safely back on the mezzanine, Steve made to quickly untie your bonds, large hand replacing the gag on your cheek. “Are you alright?”

His voice was hoarse, blood caked the side of his temple.

You swallowed, nodded. “Are you?”

He shrugged and looked around for any sign of her. “I think she’s enhanced.”

“She can make you see things,” you confirmed.

“Great,” he sighed, hand brushing your hair from your cheek, warm and comforting. You knew she couldn’t manufacture this, not the care or the devotion. “Can you walk?”

“My legs are fine,” you stated, gritting your teeth through the sting in your shoulder.

Steve shook his head. “I’ll put it back in the car. Stay close to me.” He grabbed your hand to assist you in standing, and didn’t release it as you made your way up the balcony aisle and through the exit doors.

—

Flashes illuminating the mist and trees surrounding the little theater. Blood that spilled from her wounds. She coughed and sputtered, face covered in shards of glass.

Tim Bouchart handed you the handcuffs from his belt, and you clipped them around her wrists to restrain her to the gurney, flesh and blood and bone.

“You sure you’re okay there, Agent?” Tim asked, face quite mundane without the zombie makeup.

“I’m fine,” you breathed through the ache. The emergency response team insisted on a hospital visit, but you’d rather not spend your Halloween night watching droves of other people in skeleton costumes puke up their dinner.

Steve finished giving the ambulance drivers their specific directions and shook Tim’s hand. “Sheriff, thank you for all your help. We’ll be in touch.”

“I’m sure you will,” Tim managed an exhausted smile before stumbling back into his cruiser. “Happy Halloween.”

You stifled a yawn behind your hand.

Steve scoffed beside you, cut on his head covered with a butterfly bandage.

You nodded. “I think I hate Halloween.”

—

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Dismissed,” Owens smiled, blue eyes sparkling. He clapped his hands together and held his office door open for you and Steve to exit.

In silence, you exited through his receptionist’s office and into the hallway, glancing both directions before making your way into the elevator. Steve whistled as he pressed the button for the lobby.

“Have any fun weekend plans?” He asked, ceasing his whistle.

You frowned back at him, small-talk so not his forte. “Going to Sadie’s to help with Thanksgiving plans,” you said. “You’re invited, by the way.”

He bristled at that, didn’t respond.

The elevator dinged, doors sliding open to reveal a large group of people waiting. The two of you shuffled around them and to the revolving glass door.

Crisp autumn air hit your face, and you sighed, watching leaves tumble down the sidewalk.

“So listen,” Steve stopped you with a hand to your forearm. “Henderson’s coming over tonight to watch movies. He wanted me to invite you.”

You pushed down anything that kicked in your stomach, tilted your face to catch the sunlight just over his head. “Do you want me there?”

He pursed his lips to avoid the smirk toying at the corner of them. “Not really. I know it’ll just be the two of you talking over the whole thing.”

You hummed. “Is that what you like to do for fun? Watch movies?”

He eyed you for a moment longer, weighing whether or not to tell you the truth, before he nodded. 

This time it was you disguising your smirk. “What movies are you watching tonight?”

“Halloween,” he said. This time, his lips split into a knee-weakening grin.

---

[A/N: In my mind, this entire chapter is in B&W. Like my two favorite episodes of Supernatural and X-Files. I missed you guys. Happy Halloween! xoxo]

[superbfics]

Hell Hound • Part Two

After a few days spent protecting you, a promising lead is found. Steve is wracked with nightmares. You grow closer.

Pairing: bodyguard!Steve Harrington x photographer!Reader, rockstar!Eddie x Reader

Wordcount: 9,770

Warnings: unrequited love, slowburn, jealousy, angst, hurt/comfort, violence, gore, weapons, fighting, death threats, stalker *This chapter also contains allusions of voyeurism, sex, drinking, recreational drug use, overdose, religious elements

This blog is 18+ only. I do not give permission for any of my fics to be duplicated, reposted, or put into AI. Thank you!

Navigation • Masterlist

---

Moodboard • Fic Masterlist • Part Three [Coming soon]

Robin: Have you told her yet?

“I need to get out.” You said it, slinging your denim jacket over each arm. 

Steve’s breath tasted of your toothpaste, and his hair smelled of your shampoo, and he would’ve gone with you over the border to Canada if you’d asked. 

Instead, you carted him down several flights of stairs and the opposite direction of his car and the gallery and to a little park with a coffee kiosk on the corner. You ordered for him and boxed him out of paying, and you waited in silence, smiles playing on your faces. 

The coffee was good. The coffee was really good. It could have been that it warmed the ache in his spine from scrunching on a sofa that wasn’t long enough for his legs, but Steve knew it was good because you waited expectantly for him to take a sip, eyes wide in wonder and curiosity.

“S’good,” he licked his lips.

Satisfied with his answer, you started off again.

Steve hurried to keep up. “Where’re we going?” 

You smiled and didn’t respond, but slowed your pace to let him fall in step beside you.

Sunlight fell, dappled, through the trees as you walked, and birds chirped, and eventually, you passed through wrought iron gates. The sidewalk grew wider, and with it the distance between the two of you, still at a brisk walk.

“Let’s sit,” you nodded toward a stone bench nearby, and Steve followed you there. 

You set your coffee on the bench beside you and began to dig through your leather bag for your camera and whatever size lens you’d deemed the perfect fit. 

Steve peeled his gaze from the concentration etched into your forehead to glance around, curious of your subject. It wasn’t until then that he realized you’d pulled him into a cemetery. His jaw ached a little. “What uh… what’re we doing here?” 

You shrugged, a sly smile curling peachy pink lips. You nodded behind him. “Saw those lattice roses last week, wanted to get them in softer lighting.” 

Behind him, curling their way up stone and iron fencing, were peachy pink roses. A few had seen better days, petals gathering at the base of the wall, but more were reaching skyward, bloomed and beautiful and delicate.

“How do you do it?” Steve asked, regretting his word choice immediately when you turned to flash him a cocked eyebrow. “I mean, how do you know what to capture?” 

You shrugged, snapped a few, glanced at the display on the back of your camera. “I don’t think it’s a conscious thing. If you hunt for something, you’ll never find it.”

Steve hummed, took another drink of coffee. He wondered what Robin’d say to that philosophy. Sounds like your love life, dingus. He rolled his eyes. “What about these roses?” 

You tilted your head, snapped a few more, looked at the display again. “It’s a little about anticipation. I knew these roses would wilt. I knew a storm was coming in, and that usually batters them. Fresh flowers in a cemetery doesn’t tell a story.” 

God, you really were perfect, weren’t you?

You were annoyed at whatever the view finder was showing you, and even that was cute. 

You must have felt him watching because you glanced up and immediately pulled your camera in front of your face and started clicking away. “And what about you, Steve Harrington?” You smirked. “What is your story?”

Steve stiffened and dropped his other leg to the ground, sneakers grinding into dead leaves on the asphalt. 

You laughed and swept his insecurities away. “Quit being weird,” you snorted. “Just talk to me.”

“About what?” He couldn’t help but smile, trying to ignore the gentle click, click, click of the shutter. 

You looked at the view finder and seemed as displeased as you were with the roses. You took a few steps back and got down on one knee, shooting up at him.

Self-conscious, Steve crossed an arm over his chest.

“Stop it,” you scolded, eyes bright, smiling playing on your lips. “Tell me about your life outside of this.” You gestured vaguely to his person and snapped a few more shots. 

You snickered at the frown he pulled.

“You know like, outside of being a bodyguard slash private investigator slash Tour Mom. Are you close with your family? Does your girlfriend miss having you around?” 

Steve sunk a little further into the bench, letting a breath burst from puffed cheeks. He ran his thumb along the perforated ridge of his cup’s sleeve. “Uh no and no… um… no girlfriend.”

You looked up at him then with the same pity and sadness he felt in the depths of his person.

He tried to hide behind his drink, wishing there was something stronger in his cup.

“Oh my God, Steve, I’m so sorry. Eddie didn’t tell me. You and Robin broke up?”

He sputtered around the sting in his nostrils and wiped at coffee that splattered and stained his pants. “Robin isn’t… no. I mean, she’s drop dead gorgeous and like the second best person I know, but no.” He shook his head, frantically. The amount of women that left him because of his relationship with Robin was honestly astounding, but he never imagined he’d have to explain it to you.

You sucked your cheeks in to shut yourself up and squinted, trying to decipher his ramblings. 

He blanched. “Robin’s gay.” 

You blinked for a moment and then barked a laugh. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. You just… you and Eddie talk about her so much, I just figured…” 

Steve nodded. He understood. “I get it, but nope. We’re just best friends.”

Your laughter slowed to something softer, and he could have sworn he felt something spark in your gaze, in the way your lashes fluttered.

You snapped another photo and seemed satisfied with what you found in the display. You turned the camera his direction to see.

Sunlight haloed around him, roses climbing the walls behind his head, out of focus. He looked comfortable. He looked hopeful. A soft small was etched across his features, and he looked madly and irrevocably in love. 

“Blue’s your color.” You commented, detaching your lens and packing your things away.

—

Cheap hangers screeched against metal racks, and you pulled another blouse with 80s shoulder pads and held it up. 

Steve made a face. 

You conceded and replaced it on its rack and kept pushing. 

He’d followed you all day, through the cemetery and back through your neighborhood. You tugged on the passenger’s side door handle of his car until it was unlocked, and you’d given him street-by-street instructions on where to go. 

You’d inquired about half-a-million things about his life, none of which he was happy to share, but all of which he’d share again if it meant seeing your face light up the way it did when he rolled his eyes.

You found a thrift store along the route and insisted you’d pick an outfit for him if he picked one for you, and he leisurely followed you down each aisle, turning down anything and everything made of satin and silk and printed in florals. 

“I really shouldn’t let you peak,” you informed him finally, hand on your hip. 

He opened his mouth to protest, but you waved him off. 

“Women’s is over there.” You spouted your size. “Don’t make me look ugly.” 

He couldn’t if he tried.

With a sigh, he turned to tackle the circular women’s racks. He wondered if he should pull something in your favorite color, or a color that complimented your eyes the same way the peachy pink lipstick did. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket. 

Eddie: How’s my girl doing?

My girl. Steve’s heart sunk. He glanced back up at you, arms already teeming with bright yellows and forest greens. He couldn’t believe he’d let himself get lost in today, that he’d forgotten why he was here with you. It wasn’t because you’d asked, it was because he was being paid to keep an eye on you, to ensure your safety.

At that moment, a young man approached you. Steve stiffened and took a handful of strides closer to get a better look and a better listen.

“Is that a camera bag?” He asked. “Very cool.” 

His earring jangled beneath a curly blonde mullet: a hipster type. He wore a white tank top and Levis, and his blue eyes darted between you and the clothing rack and back again. 

Steve bristled.

“Okay,” the kid spoke again. “This is going to sound like… really weird, but I think I’m following you.”

You looked back up at him, wide-eyed and arms full, but managed a smile and a thank you. There was something else though. Steve saw the way you were looking at the guy, saw the way fear sparked in your features when the kid reached into his back pocket for something - his phone. Suddenly, frantically, you were looking around the store.

“On instagram? I just wanted to say I think your work is incredible.”

Steve was two steps ahead. He swung his arm around your shoulders and brought you in tight, pressing his lips to your temple. “Sorry, babe, the line to the bathroom was surprisingly long. What’d you find me? Oh, who’s this?”

You stiffened before sinking into him, gesturing to the stranger with his phone out. “Steve, he was just telling me he’s a fan of my work. Isn’t that great?”

Steve plastered on a grin and nodded. “She is incredible, isn’t she?” 

The kid nodded and put his phone down, features pulled tight in an awkward smile. “Absolutely.” 

“You have excellent taste,” Steve glanced down the kid’s body for any sign of a weapon. He extended a hand. “What’s your name, bro?”

You were frozen in your spot. Steve could feel your pulse against his side. 

The guy eyed you warily before shaking your guard dog’s hand. “Billy Hargrove.” 

“Good to meet you, Billy.”

Billy nodded, though now his expression had pulled into a frown, seemingly a bit miffed to have been interrupted. He straightened his shoulders and turned his focus solely on you. “I really just wanted to say congrats on the gallery opening.”

“Thank you,” your voice came out in a flush of air, and Steve released his hold on you, worried he was squeezing the air from your lungs. 

“Good meeting you both, I guess,” Billy shot Steve a look. “I’ll let you get back to it.” 

When he left, you deposited armfuls of clothing to the top of the nearest rack. It teetered under the weight. 

Steve bent to catch your gaze, but your face was stoic.

You adjusted the strap of your camera bag and sighed. “Pizza? I’m starving.”

—

1 Voicemail

Steve, it’s Hop. Yeah, William Hargrove does have a couple of priors: B&E and a little GTA, but he was a minor. It’s a good lead. I’ve got Callahan heading down to ask him a few questions. Stay safe. Let me know if anything else happens. Stay sharp.

Steve sighed and reentered the small pizzeria.

The pizza lay steaming, untouched in front of you. You sat against a red brick wall, chewing on a thumbnail and scrolling through something on your phone.

As he approached, he could just make out the blurry mirror selfies of a douchebag in a backwards baseball cap. He had a skull tattoo on one bicep and had a difficult time keeping his tongue in his mouth. 

Steve cleared his throat, and you locked your phone, screen going black. “Everything okay?”

He pulled out the seat across from you and made about shelving gooey pizza onto each of your plates. 

You hummed, but your gaze remained far off, staring at something written in chalk on the menu over his shoulder. 

He tugged a handful of napkins from the dispenser and placed one in his lap before passing another to you. Then, he lifted the drooping piece of pizza high enough to manage one scalding bite. Instantly, it torched the roof of his mouth, and his eyes watered in his swallow.

He supposed the pain was worth the uptick he found at the corners of your mouth. 

“I was letting it cool,” you explained. 

He nodded and chugged some iced soda until a burp pushed its way up his esophagus. He hid that behind a fist and pounded a little at the burn in his chest, but again, it was worth it to see your eyes sparkle like that.

“Don’t move,” you said, reaching into the bag beside you.

Steve froze, as instructed, fingers dangling greasy above his plate.

You camera covered your face, massive lens encroaching in his space in what he knew couldn’t be a flattering angle, but he felt himself melt when he heard your chuckle behind the viewfinder.

“Lemme see,” he said.

You cocked a brow, but flipped the camera to show him the image.

He had a string of cheese on his chin, which he scrambled to wipe off, and the image taken made it look like he had two floppy ears and a long, wagging tail. Frowning, he turned to find a golden retriever had been chalked to the wall directly behind him. 

He snorted and wiped his hands on the napkin in his lap. “Glad I can amuse you.”

You nodded, putting your camera away. “Very much.”

A notification lit up your phone. The background was an image of the gallery bustling with people. Steve spotted himself in the foreground, arms crossed, head thrown back in laughter. He remembered speaking with the woman beside him about her kids’ art projects. One had brought home a macaroni necklace the cat ate.

Another notification dinged. Instagram.

Steve glanced up to see you stiffen in your chair. “What’s wrong?” 

You blinked, shrugged, plastered on a smile that didn’t meet your eyes. “Nothing. All good.” You dove in to your pizza.

Seeing you hadn’t managed to burn your own mouth, Steve ventured another go. He couldn’t taste much.

The two of you ate in silence, some catchy pop tune absorbing into the brick walls surrounding you both. Your phone continued to light up with notifications, and Steve felt his own buzz in his pocket a few times.

“So,” you said around a mouthful, “tell me something else about you, Steve.”

“Like what?” He wiped at his cheeks with a new napkin.

Before you could pose a question, the song changed overhead to one distinctly familiar. Heavy drums and masterful guitar playing filled the little pizzeria.

That killer smile spread across your features again, and your head began to bob along to the track. You pulled a pepperoni from your slice, stretching the cheese with it, and popped it between slick lips, licking your fingertips.

“How did you and Eddie meet?”

Steve licked his teeth clean and dished you both another slice. “At a party, through a mutual friend.”

You rolled your wrist for him to elaborate, taking another large bite.

He shrugged and peeled a rogue pepperoni from the tray. “We have this friend name Chrissy Cunningham.”

“The cam girl?” You dropped your pizza.

Steve warmed under your gaze, wishing he could read your mind. He wondered how much information to tell you, wondered what might spook you, wondered what Eddie had undoubtedly already let slip. 

He cleared his throat and picked at some rogue cheese on the plate. “So, Chrissy invited me to this house party, and it was in his huge ass house way out in the suburbs, and there were all of these famous people there, like so many I couldn’t even process it. It felt like I was in my television, like MTV growing up.”

You smiled and nodded, taking a sip of your soda.

“And there was this asshole from Corroded Coffin coked out of his mind -” Steve stopped himself. He wasn’t sure if Eddie had told you about the Coke Years.

You cocked a brow, leaning forward, seemingly intrigued by this salacious story.

Steve swallowed his words and leaned a little on his elbows. “Anyway, we got in a fight.”

“Like a fist fight?” Your eyes went wide.

Steve nodded. He could still feel the satisfying crunch of Eddie’s teeth before the lanky ass guitarist hit the ground. “I used to fight a lot. Daddy issues.” 

You laughed at that, a barked sound that sent his heart racing.

He smiled and shrugged. “Anyway, he got my number from Chrissy and called me the next day to tell me I was hired.”

“He didn’t ask?” You frowned. 

Steve shrugged, picked up a new slice to take a bite. “Eddie Munson has a way of getting what he wants.”

You hummed and glanced down at your phone as another notification illuminated the screen. 

“I sometimes think he’s just a curator of really great people,” Steve said, tilting his head to catch your gaze. 

You smiled at that and took another slice of pizza from the tray. “He told me you saved his life.”

Steve could still smell the mix of sweat and cigarettes that clung to his clothes, could still feel the clammy cold skin of his friend’s cheeks, could still feel his fingers hit the back of the other boy’s throat. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket. 

The bodyguard set down his pizza and wiped his hands on his napkin before answering.

“Hello?”

“Steve? It’s Powell. That Hargrove kid was acting shady so Callahan took him in. It’s looking good that he might be our guy, but just to be safe, is there anywhere you can take her tonight, just in case?”

Steve watched you watch him from across the table. “Yeah, yeah I could take her to mine.”

—

Steve hoped you hadn’t felt this vulnerable when unlocking your own door and pushing it open to let him in.

The moment he followed you over the threshold to his apartment, he second-guessed everything he owned.

The place was a wreck of pizza boxes piled near the front door. The whisky bottle Robin had bought him was next to an open, but dead laptop. He really had just up and abandoned everything when you called.

“This is it,” he introduced the space, feeling itchy under your scrutiny while you looked around.

His leather couch had a Joyce-crocheted blanket tossed over the back. He was grateful for the coffee table books gifted and stacked neatly where they belonged. Quickly, he crunched the open bag of chips left in the seam of the couch and stuffed it into an overflowing snack cabinet.

“I like it,” you nodded, taking a few steps forward to the window, gesturing for permission. “How’s your view?”

He shrugged, scratched at the back of his head. “Not great. Big buildings and fire escapes.”

“There’s beauty in that.” You smiled, slipping the blinds open to peer through.

Light spilled in, caressing your cheekbones and shining through your hair.

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”

If Robin were here, she’d kick him.

You hummed, satisfied by what you found, and turned to face him. “Mind if I use your bathroom?”

His bathroom was worse than he thought. He scrambled to scoop dried toothpaste from the sink and re-roll toilet paper that had gone rogue. Not one, but three sets of boxer-briefs were discarded on a navy blue rug. Thank God Robin had reminded him to scrub the toilet before she came to visit.

“Smells like you in here,” you mumbled from the hallway as you swapped spaces.

Steve warmed.

“Your aftershave,” you said with mischief in your eyes. “Give me a minute?”

Bumbling like an idiot, he gave you space and wandered down the hall to him room, once again scrambling to pick up piles of clothes.

Steve: We’re at my apartment. Why didn’t you tell me how disgusting I am?

Robin: I do every time I’m there, dingus. When’s the last time you had a girl over?

Steve: Please don’t make me feel worse.

Dirty dishes went from the nightstand to the sink, and he made about loading his little dishwasher. The kitchen was easy to tidy in piles. Luckily the garbage didn’t smell too bad.

After a long, quiet while, he glanced up from his phone to find the bathroom open and abandoned. Dim light splashed into the hall from his room. With a frown, he toed down the hall to find you admiring photos pinned to a cork board above his dresser. 

“Can I help you?”

You shrugged and smiled. “I showed you mine.”

He wondered if you found his bedroom to suit him as much as yours had suited you. He glanced around at a plaid duvet, lightweight curtains, the baseball bat he kept at his bedside. 

“Is this Robin?” You tapped your fingertips to a polaroid of him and his best friend, faces squished in smiles. 

He nodded.

“She’s pretty.”

He nodded again, shoving his hands in his pockets to avoid the temptation to tangle his fingers with yours. “She’s single if you’re looking.” 

“I just might be,” you shot him a sly look.

Steve warmed at the idea, a challenge stirring under his ribs. 

“What’s on this?” Your hand found the SD card. “Top secret files? Blackmail?”

Heart racing now, he shrugged. “You tell me. It’s yours.”

You frowned back at him.

Cat’s out of the bag now. “You gave it to me at the hometown after party.”

You played with the tiny card in your hand for a moment. “You were supposed to give it back.” 

Steve’s mouth went dry, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, I must have pulled it out of my pocket and forgot it was there.” 

You shook your head and looked up at him. “No, at the party. You were supposed to come find me at some point. Did I… was it not obvious?”

His pulse thundered in his head.

You just blinked back at him, expressionless like you hadn’t just confirmed everything he’d been doubting for months now.

His mouth just hung open like an idiot until he rubbed some feeling back into his face and willed himself closer

You continued to weigh the SD card in each of your hands, and he held his breath as you inched nearer. Your boots rested between his sneakers. “When you had me sign that NDA - “

Steve’s phone rang in his back pocket, a loud ringtone that came with the device that he hadn’t heard since he bought the thing. He must have accidentally taken it off silence when he was doing the dishes. 

Cursing, he pulled it out to see an unknown number. He slid the answer button. “Hello?”

“Stevie? It’s Lizzie!” A familiar voice cooed from the other line, a little scattered, a little broken. “Where the hell are you?”

Steve stared back down at you, breath heavy in his chest. “I’m in Chicago. Where are you?”

“Backstage with this fucker who tells me he’s met the love of his life. Is that true? And if that’s the case, where are you? I need a good cock to sit on.” A hair-raising cackle preceded a shuffle.

He could feel your warmth now, smell the peppermint on your breath, the lavender in your hair.

“Harrington? It’s me, it’s Eddie. You there?”

In a flash, he saw his friend bent over a pile of vomit, strapped to a gurney, disappearing behind red and blue lights.

“I’m here.” Steve muttered.

“You got my girl, Stevie? Keeping her safe? Put her on.”

Wordlessly, Steve held the phone loft between you, putting it on speaker.

“Sugar, you there?”

You blinked back at him before glancing down at the device. “I’m here, Eds.”

“God, I miss you both. England isn’t the same without you. I’ve been telling everyone here about you, Sug. You’ve probably gotten a million offers today just from me bragging about you. I’m really proud of you, you know that right?”

“Thanks, Eds.” You breathed.

Steve pushed the phone into your hand and trailed his thumb down your wrist, catching goosebumps all the way to the crease of your elbow. He hated the sour taste that accompanied every word Munson said.

“Recorded a song about you today. I got very jealous hearing Simon sing about you.”

Steve let his hand fall to his side before he gestured back down the hallway and let you have your privacy. His hand tingled, and he flexed it in a vain attempt to shake away your touch.

—

Hopper: Got him, kid. Great job. Tell the girl she can rest easy.

—

You were all-encompassing, everything above and around him, a tight pull that had him on the verge of combustion. You were silky smooth, and soft mews spilled from between plush lips as you sunk down onto him, head cast back to expose the beautiful column of your throat. 

Steve’s hand was pressed to your bare sternum, dwarfing your frame as he extended his touch to every part of you, desperate to squeeze and caress while the stars began to spin behind his eyes.

Directly above him, you were mirrored, the steady push and pull of your bodies, the rucking of his hips on white satin sheets for all the world to see.

He breathed your name, whined it really, in desperation, begging for you to go faster, to slow down, he didn’t know, he just felt the curl of his stomach, his toes, the building of that climax about to burst. 

And then he heard the thunk, a distinct crash of glass and pill bottles from the adjacent suite bathroom. 

He took two steps inward to find the Devil himself lying motionless beside the bathtub. Scarlet red skin, cloven feet, two horns that jutted from beneath jet black curls. 

Steve shook his head, feeling the weight of something in each of his hands. An empty pill bottle and a fifth of whisky. You did this.

No, no, no, no. Steve knelt beside the man, slapping ruby red cheeks, shaking at a studded leather jacket. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He pried the man’s mouth open to expose pointed fangs. 

“Guess you’ll have to take my place,” the man said, eyes wide and ice blue. “You’re the Devil now.” 

—

“Holy fucking shit,” Robin exclaimed, all limbs, blocking the aisle in a local bookstore.

Steve shushed her and pulled a photography book off the shelf. He wondered if you were familiar, if you’d thumbed through the pages with a glass of wine in hand, curled into your futon, maybe you were wearing a nightgown… Jesus Christ.

“You had a Wet Nightmare?”

“Not quite as satisfying as it sounds.”

Robin made a face of disgust. “Please spare me.”

Steve sighed and returned the book to its shelf, pressing on through the aisles as though he had something to look for that didn’t remind him of you.

His best friend rounded to the other shelf, freckled face exposed when he removed the next book. He sighed and replaced it to cover her grin. 

“So, what do you think it means?” She asked, having returned to his side and looped her lanky arm through his.

“I don’t know, Rob,” he ran a hand through his hair. 

“I mean, it feels pretty obvious.” 

He rolled his eyes. “Enlighten me.” 

With a tug of his arm, she twirled him to face her. Sun poured in from a skylight, warm and yellow, illuminating the blue in Robin’s eyes. Steve wondered if you would capture a moment like this. 

“You feel immense guilt over trying to steal Eddie’s girl when you promised him you’d make her fall in love with him.” 

Moment ruined.

Steve palmed her face and shoved her away.

She swatted at his arm and chased him past the meow of a little ginger shop cat and down a new aisle.

“I’m not trying to steal her,” he muttered when she finally caught up.

“I know you’re not, dingus. You’re much to chivalrous for that crap.” Robin nodded, rubbing a circle into his shoulder. 

Steve hummed and pulled a book from the shelf, too heavy, probably a million pages, with a dragon on the cover. The dragon’s eyes were wreathed in flame, his scarlet scarlet. He shelved it. “You should have seen his face.”

“The Devil on the ground? He wasn’t real, babe.”

Steve rubbed at tired eyes and shook his head. “No, Eddie. It’s like, the second he realized he might lose her, he freaked. And I think the most irritating part is that I felt it too. I thought she was going to run and that I’d never see her again because I have to pick him.”

Robin nodded, sliding a book from the shelf to read the back cover. “And why do you feel like you have to pick him?”

Steve swallowed. He knew the answer. It had been nagging at him for days, spinning around in his skull with images of those empty bottles, those tile floors. “Because he needs me.”

His best friend kept her face incredibly expressionless as she flipped through the novel in her hands. Then, with a sigh, she said, “I’m going to ask this will all of the love and understanding in the world. Do you think maybe you need him because something inside of you needs to feel needed?”

Steve didn’t respond, just felt his molars grit around the pang in his chest when her insight hit the nail on the head.

Robin replaced the book on the shelf. “Eddie’s a big boy. He’s grown a lot over the years, thanks to you, and I know he just wants what’s best for you. I think he’ll understand.” 

“You think he’ll understand that I’m trying to steal his girl?”

She shot him a look. “I thought you weren’t.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I think when you talk to him, he’ll understand why you can’t be his wingman this time.” She shrugged, turning the corner down another aisle. Books were stacked to the ceiling near an open stockroom, and her fingertips etched the spines. 

“Remind me why you came to town? To torture me?” Steve leaned against a big rolling ladder, locked into place. 

“I missed you, idiot,” she pinched his cheek and carried on into Science Fiction. 

He swatted her away and followed. His phone felt heavy in his pocket, words left unsaid between the two of you, a wordless trek to the gallery. You thanked him at drop-off. You promised him you’d call if anything came up and that you felt safer knowing Hargrove was locked up. Steve promised you he’d have a good time with Robin and that he was happy you felt safe.

Neither of you said anything about the SD card, about the phone call with Eddie.

Maybe Robin was right, maybe he should call his friend. Maybe he should fly back to London with Robin, leave you and the city behind for a while, clear his head.

“So tell me about this gala.” Robin interrupted his thoughts, hands somehow already full.

With a sigh, Steve took her haul under his own arm. “Some charity is auctioning off her pieces and invited her to be in attendance.”

“That’s very cool. Are you still going?”

He glanced down at the titles in his hands, shrugged. “I don’t have to. I can tell her you want to spend your time here with me. I’m sure she’d understand.”

“And miss all of the aftermath drama? Hell no! You are going, Harrington and you are staying all night. Mainly because I’m going to bring a girl back with me and I need you to not kill the mood with your melancholia.” She gestured to his person and held out another book for him to take.

“These aren’t all going to fit in your suitcase,” he pointed out.

She shot him a look. 

“Why do you get to bring a girl back to my apartment?”

“You had your chance, Harrington, and you ended up on the couch. Time to let the master show you how it’s done.”

He watched as she strolled through the aisles toward an attractive young woman with a curled bob and overalls. Robin commented on the stack of books in her hand, and the girl chuckled. Moments later, Robin was slipping her phone from her pocket and into the girl’s hand.

Steve shook his head, mouth agape, as she offered him a little wink and gestured for him to hurry and follow her to the register. 

—

You: Headed home. Thanks for everything.

—

Steve winced as Robin pushed her little wooden stick into his cuticle. He wasn’t sure how she’d talked him into it, probably guilt tripped him, but they sat cross-legged across his coffee table with beer and chips and the sting of acetone and nail polish. 

“Okay, hypothetical scenario for you,” Robin continued her assault on his nail beds, tonguing the corner of her mouth for concentration on his pinky. “Let’s say you call Eddie right now, tell him you’re in love with her, and he realizes he doesn’t want her as bad as you do. So he moves on. He hooks up with Lizzie or finds another girl in the UK who is far more metal or far more Lord of the Rings elf, right up his alley.”

“Where are you going with this?” Steve groaned.

“Let me finish,” she poked at the back of his hand for emphasis before dripping a tincture of oil onto his fingertips. “So he falls madly in love, right? And they deserve each other. And your girl is sad because Eddie broke her heart. What do you do?”

Steve shook his head, not willing to play games that’ll get his hopes up.

“You’d comfort her. Because you don’t like the people you love to be in pain.”

“Like Eddie if I told him I was in love with his girl.”

As if on cue, Steve’s phone buzzed on the table between them. Munson’s picture lit up the screen, and before Steve had a chance to snatch it off the table, Robin answered.

“Speak of the Devil,” she said.

“And he shall appear,” Eddie finished. “Hey, Buckley, how’s my favorite world traveler?”

“Jet lagged,” she managed a weak smile, circles dark under her eyes. Steve tried to force her into a nap, but she was insistent in staying up. 

“I bet,” Munson laughed. “You are with Harrington, right? Or have you finally stolen his identity?”

“I’m here,” Steve sighed, paint fumes making him dizzy. 

“Oh good. Where’s Sug?”

“On her way home from the gallery,” Steve glanced at the clock, making a mental note to check in on you. You should be home by now.

“I’m not going to ask why you aren’t with her, but I guess this is a good opportunity to ask how our plot is working. She in love with me yet?”

Robin made eyes at him like he ought to tell the truth, those “if you don’t tell him, I will” eyes.

He made a face back.

She opened her mouth to start talking.

“What’s up, Munson? Isn’t it late there?”

“Coward.” Robin mouthed.

He rolled his eyes, resisted running his fingers through his hair. 

“Yeah, did you guys get my packages?”

“What deliveries?”

“Becky didn’t call you down?”

Steve blinked back at Robin’s teasing expression for a moment longer before Eddie’s sentence made sense. “Oh, we haven’t been back to the loft since you left.”

“Why the hell not? There’s full security, a door man, a reception desk, and we installed that huge lock. Not to mention, there’s enough beds for all of you. Robin, tell him to let go of his pride and let you sleep in a King sized bed.”

“What he said,” Robin nodded fervently.

Steve rolled hie eyes. “What packages?”

“I bought Sugar a dress for the gala. Robin, I’m actually glad I’ve got you. I’m looking at earrings right now. Do rubies say ‘I love you but I’m not desperate’?”

Steve stomach churned.

Robin’s eyes went wide, and then her face went through a myriad of emotions before settling on, “Sure. Yes, definitely go with rubies.”

“Shit, are her ears even pierced?”

“Yes.” He hated that he knew that, hated that he watched you loop a silver hoop just before the gallery opening, hated that he wanted to press his nose to the spot where your pulse met your jaw.

Robin snorted, all accusation and face hidden in her bright blue nail polish.

“Great. I’m having Angelo make - a tux. You haven’t - beefier since our last -?”

Call waiting beeped over his voice. Steve glanced down to see Hopper’s name, no photo attached. 

“Eds, I’m going to have to call you back. Hopper’s on the other line.”

Before his friend had a chance to ask questions, he switched lines. 

“Hello?”

“Steve, Jim Hopper here. Listen, I’ve got your girl at the station. She’s fine, just a little shaken up. She asked me not to call you, but I’m not letting her leave here without you.”

—

Hopper’s precinct hadn’t been updated since the 80s. Bricks painted yellow cast sallow shadows on the faces of everyone who shuffled papers around a small office. Florence greeted them with a friendly smile and the smell of stale coffee.

The thundering of Steve’s heartbeat hadn’t quieted since Hopper’s phone call. Robin was up and pulling his jacket off the rack before he even had a second to ask Hop for context, and the two of them split from his apartment and rushed down rainy sidewalks to get there.

Flo buzzed them in, past a glass divider and into a small room with desks stacked with bobble heads and baseballs. Just beyond was an office with a plaque reading Jim Hopper, and a gruff voice asked, “what?” when her knuckled wrapped on the hard wood.

The door opened to reveal a hulking frame behind the desk, broad shoulders and a bushy mustache. A coffee cup steamed in his hand. 

Across from him, you sat in a little aluminum chair, your own hands wrapped around a ceramic mug, shoulders slumped. You turned to see who had entered, eyes glassy. “Steve?”

“Sorry, kid, didn’t want to let you loose on your own.” Hopper confessed.

Prodded by Robin, Steve took a few tiny steps into the office and knelt beside you.

Your hands trembled around the mug. A tear escaped the corner of your eye and began to streak the side of your face.

He caught it with his knuckles, brushing it into the hair on your temple. “Are you alright?”

You wiped frantically at your other cheek and nose, straightening your shoulders up and away from his touch. You set the cup onto Hopper’s desk. “I’m fine.”

Steve teetered back on the balls of his feet and pulled himself to stand. “Want to tell me what happened?”

You avoided his gaze, instead nodding to the Chief to tell your story.

“In her building, some guy said hi to her, and when she got to her door, more roses and this,” Hopper slid a card across the desk for Steve to read.

Your name was scrawled in red marker and on the inside, more images of you and Eddie, these taken during your gallery opening. 

Eddie’s sunglasses were pulled down his long nose, tongue to his canines in a sly grin, hand tucked gripping your waist. You were swatting at him, just as giddy. Only the same red slash mark through your throat had pierced the paper. This time, the artist only got more graphic in his illustrations on the following couple of photos. Enough to churn Steve’s stomach.

“What the fuck?” Robin hissed.

Steve shot her a look over your head.

The poem went as follows:

Roses are red

I thought you’d been warned

I must make you understand

That you will be harmed

“What did this guy look like? Have you seen him before?” Steve tossed the card back to Hopper.

You shrugged, rubbed at the exhaustion in your eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe? He had these blue eyes. They looked so familiar, but I can’t place him.”

“We’re thinking Hargrove’s got an accomplice, maybe a brother or cousin. Seems like his dad’s a total dick, so it’s not out of the realm of possibilities. We’re looking into it. Think he doubled-down when we took him in.” Hopper explained.

Steve nodded. “We’re going to Munson’s. There’s triple the security there, high quality CCTV. She’ll be safe there.”

You looked up at him then, something terse hardened your jaw and your gaze. When Steve frowned, you looked away again. 

“Good, you all try to get some rest. I’m going to send some guys to have eyes on you, too. Call me if anything changes.”

Steve nodded again. “You too.”

You stood before anyone could prompt you and thanked Hopper. You rounded the chair the opposite side of Steve to charge out of the room, but halted abruptly when you found your way was blocked by a leggy blonde in Steve’s denim jacket.

“Oh, hi,” Robin gulped, glanced up at Steve and back to you. “I’m Robin.”

You introduced yourself, voice softer than he had ever heard, a shell of yourself. You glanced back over your shoulder at Steve, looking so small and so lost.

—

Your skin was supple and smooth beneath his palms, throat extended to he could kiss the dip where your jaw met your earlobe. A mewl escaped plump, bitten lips. Steve growled into your clavicle and pressed you tighter into the pane of glass.

“Eddie,” you breathed. 

Steve blinked and pulled back from you, that familiar pang of jealousy tight under his sternum. 

He trailed your arm to your hand tangled in a mess of curls. Eddie knelt between your thighs, curling your toes.

Steve’s heart raced in his chest, and then you were grabbing him, pulling him back to you.

“Steve,” you gasped in his ear, clutching at his shoulders, raking fingernails along the muscles of his back.

He groaned and buried his face in your chest once more.

Then gravity gave out.

A crash of glass cracked and splintered the pane behind you and the three of you were falling, spiraling downward, endlessly, terminal velocity to a ground that never came. Steve couldn’t fly to you fast enough, watching you float further and further away, fingertips grasping for his own. Eddie clung to his knee, screaming for him to get you, to save you, that he needs you. Help him, Steve, help him. 

You hit the ground first.

—

“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.” You whispered, clutching a glass of water in both hands. You stood at the window, city lights painting you in deep reds and yellows.

Steve’s heart raced, nightmare having startled him upright on the sofa. He was drenched in sweat, t-shirt clinging and faux fur blanket wrapped around his waist. He gulped and gestured for you to come sit, anything to get you away from the glass. “Everything okay?”

You shrugged and glanced out at the world once more before taking cautious steps toward him. You perched on the very edge of a plum velour chair, the back rising up and over your head like a throne, blanketing you in shadow.

“You want to talk about it?” His voice was hoarse. He wondered if he’d been yelling. He hope he hadn’t woken you.

“I don’t want to wake Robin.” You whispered.

He rubbed at the sleep in his eyes and glanced upward to the loft stairs. “Nothing can wake Robin. Plus, she’s jet lagged. What’s going on?”

You hesitated for several long moments before you spoke again, voice still soft, but above a whisper. “I looked through every single one of my Instagram followers and Billy’s and none of them were that guy. I just feel like I know him from somewhere. I thought maybe he was at the gallery opening, so I went through the guest list and my client list. He’s not in there. Maybe it’s just a guy who lives in my building, and that’s how I recognize him. I don’t know, Steve, I just feel like I’m going crazy here.”

“You’re not.”

“And I know it’s safer here, but sleeping in that big bed all by myself just pisses me off. I kept catching the reflection of my phone in those stupid mirrors, and I just feel like I’m being reminded of what a fucking idiot I am.”

“You’re not,” Steve repeated.

“No, I think I am. I don’t know what I was thinking, maybe that because I’m such a nobody, I’m impervious to all of the other shit that comes with sleeping with a rockstar. I just thought it couldn’t touch me. Paparazzi, fans, whatever. I’m just a girl with a camera like they are. I’m just being young and having fun. Nothing and no one can hurt me. Fucking stupid.”

“It’s not,” Steve shook his head.

“And I thought telling myself it was casual every single day would keep me at arm’s length, but that’s not how emotions work. I can’t just stop how I feel or who I’m in love with or -” You went silent in your chair. 

Steve felt the pang in his chest again, like a cloven hoof crashing through bone and muddling his organs. He glanced at the pane of glass, vaguely wondered how easy it’d be to crash through.

“I just,” you took a deep breath. Your exhaled was so shaky, he thought you might be crying, but he couldn’t see beyond the veil of shadow. “I just want to catch this guy so I can decide how to keep living my life.” 

“We will.”

—

Eddie: Send me a photo of you in that tux. I need spank bank material.

—

Steve felt ridiculous with the luggage cart of packages he wheeled out of the elevator to Munson’s front door. Everything had been opened in front of Becky’s curious gaze, tissue paper torn to ensure no weapons or bombs had replaced the thousands of dollars worth of merchandise Eddie had purchased the day before.

He’d almost walked away without the coffee when Becky called his name to remind him. He thanked her, grabbing the drink carrier, and before he could walk away, she extended a hand with a lime sticky note pressed to her index finger.

“In case you need anything else,” she shrugged.

Front Desk Becky was scrawled across the note above a ten digit phone number.

Steve felt his face flush, but smiled and slipped it into his pocket. He nodded. “Thanks, Becky. I’ll see you around.” 

Seemingly satisfied with his response, she nodded and buzzed to unlock the elevator.

He keyed in the six digit code to Eddie’s place and the door slipped open with ease. He thought about shouting for Robin to help him, but seeing your bedroom door closed, he figured it’d be best not to wake you. He decided instead to slip inside unheard.

Dumping keys on the side table and toeing out of his shoes, he made for the kitchen before lurching to a halt at the end of the hallway upon hearing Robin’s voice.

“I don’t mean to pry, but I have to know the answer to this before Steve gets back and tells us to shut up.”

Steve’s heart began to thud in his chest. He had half a mind to tell her to shut up right now.

“Shoot,” you chuckled, a low sound that sent his stomach doing cartwheels.

“Is Eddie like… a freak in bed? Is that why you stick around? Because I knew him in his Lord of the Rings phase and honestly, you are way out of his league. So it must be the kinky shit keeping you here, right?” 

Steve’s head hit the wall at his best friend’s tact.

“Honestly?” You laughed. “He’s the total opposite of his… persona, I guess you could call it. He’s so sweet and tender. He’ll never try anything new without talking about it first. He makes you feel so… seen, I guess? Like you’re the only woman in the entire world and he just wants to make you feel desired.”

Steve closed his eyes and tried not to remember all of the moments he’d walked in on, all of the stolen kisses and whispered promises.

“Well you’re a very lucky girl. The way he talks about you, I think he really does love you.” Robin’s voice lingered, like maybe she was asking it instead of stating it, gauging a reaction.

Steve didn’t know how much more he could hear.

“Okay, my turn to ask you,” your tone shifted, conversation alleviated of its tension. “You’ve known Steve forever, right? So you must have gained some insight from the women in his life.”

The bodyguard’s face warmed.

“Oh boy, where do I start?”

“No, it’s fine, Robin, I got it.” Steve said a little too loudly, rounding the corner into the living quarters. The large windows poured in the light of a foggy morning. He made eye contact with Robin, and he could tell from her expression she knew he’d heard everything.

“Do you need help?” She asked, uncrossing her legs on the sofa.

He shook his head and smiled, “I got it. Here’s your coffee.”

She took his drink with mumbled gratitude.

Then he pulled yours from the carrier to slip between your soft fingers. “Good morning. How’d you sleep?”

“Fine. You?” You hadn’t. 

“Good, yeah,” he nodded. He hadn’t either after his nightmare. He sat up scouring the internet for any and all suspects. He knew you were, too, yards away in that big bed all by yourself.

“Can we start digging into those presents from Eddie?” Robin cut the tension. “It feels like Christmas, and he promised he’d buy me something too. I wanna know what I got.”

Steve gestured for the entry hall and sipped his own coffee, too hot and too bitter for such a grey morning.

You feigned a laugh, allowing Robin to pull you up by the wrist.

—

1 Voicemail

Steve. It’s Hopper. No leads yet. Munson’s driver has been vetted, and the building security staff. We’ll have patrol cars out front as well as guys posted near the exits. I’d been packing if you got it. I don’t think Brenner’s affiliated, but we’re taking all necessary precautions. Joyce wants pictures. Stay safe.

—

A valet opened the door and Steve hopped out of the large SUV before you, extending a hand to help you down and onto the pavement of the function hall. You teetered a little on your heels as you began to ascend the stone steps, but Steve ensured the crook of his elbow was there to stabilize you.

Cameras flashed, and you clung to him like a life raft, a panicked look etched across your features. 

“Relax. I’ve got you,” he muttered into your hair when you reached the massive front doors.

Coming to a coat room, your worn leather jacket was slipped from your bare shoulders, and your white invitation was exchanged for a numbered stub that Steve slipped from your fingers to stash in the inside pocket of his tuxedo.

You didn’t wait for him to proceed into the massive event space, marble pillars standing hundreds of feet tall on either side of you.

Say what you will about Eddie Munson, but the man had style.

Your dress was the perfect shade of burgundy to match the rubies dangling from your earlobes. It billowed with each step, yet maintaining enough structure to hug and accentuate every beautiful curve. The silk garment left your shoulders bare, the expanse of your beautiful skin exposed and gathering goosebumps as you entered the vast space.

Steve suffered the same goosebumps when you’d both stepped out from your designated dressing spaces, you in your dress and heels, he in his all-black ensemble. The two of you just took a breath to stop and stare, a moment suspended in time. 

For half a second, he was tempted to sweep you off your feet, to crash his lips into yours and never let you go. He took two strides closer. You did the same, fingers tangling with nerves or excitement or anticipation, that familiar glint of mischief in your eye. 

“Alright, I’ll say it,” Robin sliced into the moment. “I’d fuck both of you. Right now, if you’d like?”

You laughed, head thrown back, dark lipstick accentuating your sparkling white teeth. He’d pay to feel them sink into him. 

Now, he remained two strides behind, giving you space to relax, to take in your surroundings, to lead the charge. 

Your name was called from nearby, and he watched every muscle in you tighten and release when you looked over to find Martin Brenner, host of the gala, with his hand outstretched to you. 

You accepted and allowed a kiss to the height of your cheekbone.

Brenner introduced you to a handful of guests surrounding them. Steve tried to memory-bank their names and faces. All of them older, none of them had blue eyes. 

“This is my date, Steve Harrington,” you extended your hand now, and your bodyguard fell into place beside you, shaking hands and offering curt nods.

“You work in the music industry, do I have that right?” Brenner sized him up, squared shoulders and pursed lips.

Steve spared a glance your direction, felt himself tighten at the fear in your gaze.

Brenner shrugged, let a smug smile slip onto his features. “Background checks. We want to ensure our get-togethers are safe. I’m sure you understand. You’re in security, right?”

Steve nodded, tight-lipped. “I appreciate your diligence.”

Brenner’s smile widened at this. “Good man. Your job must feel grueling, all of those late nights, traveling the world. Have you ever considered settling down? Maybe taking a stationery position somewhere? I’m always looking to expand my security team.” He nodded to indicate men with earpieces scattered throughout the floor.

Your fingers gripped Steve’s bicep tighter. He smiled and shrugged. “I tend to thrive in chaotic circumstances.”

Brenner seemed to appreciate his response, but glanced over his shoulder with a nod. “Well, it was fantastic seeing you both again. Hopefully I’ll catch up later. More guests to greet. Please, help yourself to some drinks.” And he was off.

—

Several champagne flutes had found their way into your hands and then abandoned on tables, still full, while you met and greeted dozens of Chicago’s elite. Steve recognized a few faces, elbows he’d knocked before, and tried to impress you, when he could, with introductions. He couldn’t help but delight in the way your timid smile grew with each compliment.

“You’re doing great,” he managed to whisper between senators and lobbyists.

That smile had his stomach doing somersaults. 

“When I saw your piece, I cried,” another woman said, clutching your arm with diamond encrusted fingers. “I’m serious. I thought, ‘that’s it. That’s my city.’ Your work is amazing. Isn’t her work amazing?”

Steve nodded and smiled. “Her eye is incredible. I feel the same way every time I look at it.”

“It’s not enough that her work has to be beautiful though, I mean, will you look at her?” The woman’s secretary pitched in.

“Isn’t she breathtaking?” He agreed. The soft candlelight wrapped you in warmth, reflecting off smooth skin and the sheen of your dress. If only they knew what you looked like in a t-shirt, hair tossed to the top of your head, sipping a lavender latte.

“You’re a very lucky man.” 

“I am,” he nodded.

“Ladies, will you excuse us? I think I need a little air.” You tugged at his forearm, and the woman chirped and cooed goodbyes.

When you finally stepped into the hallway, breeze brisk from outside, you rounded on him.

“Why did you make me sign that NDA?”

Steve blinked, whiplashed at your change in demeanor. After the first exchange, he noticed your shoulders relax, that light come back into your eyes. Now, you were all harsh angles and spat words. “What?” He shook his head.

“I gave you the SD card and told you to come find me, as in, come talk to me, as in, I’m interested in you, Harrington. I thought I made it pretty fucking clear. And then I met Eddie and started talking to him, and he told me I had to talk to his security guard to sign the NDA, and I don’t know I guess a part of me really hoped you would talk me out of it and convince me to go home with you instead, but you didn’t.”

Steve glanced around the hall at on-lookers before gripping your hips and pushing you back into a more secluded corner. 

“Don’t touch me,” you huffed.

He released you immediately, hands threading through his hair while his brain tried to catch up with everything you’d said.

“And now I’m getting death threats and am terrified for my life, and Eddie Munson is in love with me, and I can’t even reciprocate even though he’s the most genuine, sweetest man I know because part of me is still holding out hope that you feel the same way about me as I do about you.” You hissed, glancing over his shoulder to ensure no one could eavesdrop on this onslaught of confessions.

Steve felt his jaw go slack, but only in the way he can feel his hands go numb if he’s been laying at a weird angle on an airplane. Everything buzzed and his ears popped and his heart thundered in his ears.

“So why did you make me sign the NDA?”

He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to respond, couldn’t find words past. “I don’t know.”

You were trembling, breath shallow as you slipped one hand into his, the other tucked up under his lapel. “Do you feel..” You glanced up at him through long, thick eyelashes.

He swallowed, nodded, allowed his hand to caress the small of your waist. Your smooth dress caught on calloused fingers.

“So kiss me,” you tilted your head, breath warm on his face.

He traced circles into your hand with his thumb.

“Steve,” you breathed. “Kiss me.”

Your name cut through the air too loud, too disruptive, ripping through you.

“The woman of the hour, have you seen her? I heard she came out this way. I simply must compliment her on her work.”

Steve’s blood ran cold at the sound,  and he turned on his heel to find a man in an all-white tuxedo, a menacing grin splitting his features. 

“Oh, Harrington, right? Good to see you.” Jason Carver extended his hand. 

---

[A/N: Dun dun dunnnnn. I think I might be in love with him. Steve. Just for clarificaiton. xoxo]

[superbfics]

The ceiling fan hums, a noise usually soothing now making your skin crawl as you toss and turn again.

Eddie’s gentle snores echo from beside you, making you wish to join him.

Yearning for sleep to turn off the thoughts flooding your head for the last hour now.

Tilting your head to the side, your eyes strain looking at Eddie. If it wasn’t so dark, you’d see the way his nose scrunches and eyes twitch with the dreams he’s conjured up tonight, a bit of drool making its way to his chin, the way his hand curls up next to his face, fingers lightly grasping strands of his hair.

You huff as you look up at the ceiling again, trying to focus on the ceiling fan going round and round.

It feels like no use as you turn onto your side again, facing away from Eddie, fingers curling under your pillow, pushing your face harder into the soft fabric.

Taking some more deep breaths, thinking maybe it’s time to crawl out of bed and try laying on the couch, maybe a change of scenery will help, the bed shakes and the sheets rustle with movement next to you.

Eddie’s arm curls around your waist under the heavy covers, pulling you into his chest as he glued himself to your back.

He hums with the press of a kiss to the back of your head, nuzzling his nose against your neck.

“What’s the matter, baby?”

Your hand finds his, lacing your fingers together, pulling it against your chest before melting further into your pillow.

“Can’t sleep.”

It’s silent for a beat save for the sound of the ceiling fan as he continues to lazily rub his nose against the back of your neck like a cat putting its scent everywhere.

“Did I tell you what happened to the new guy at the shop today?”

Your brows twitch with confusion before you realize what he’s doing.

“You did not,” you whisper with a smile on your face and eyes closed, lightly squeezing his hand in yours.

For the next twenty minutes, Eddie regales what in fact happened to the new guy at the record shop that day, helping ease your nerves as you listened to the sound of his voice.

[superbfics]

in the woods somewhere

summary: everything was fine. you had it all handled. and then eddie just had to go and run his mouth. to harrington, of all people. ("you woke up on his doorstep!" / "that is neither here nor there, edward.")

pairing: s.h. x f! werewolf reader

w.c.: on-going

warnings: blood, bloodlust, guts, gore, possessiveness, supernatural elements, mating rituals, exhausted best friend!eddie, smut, no a/b/o, angst, drug use, mild dubious consent, local werewolf annoys town

playlist

Series

i. aconite

ii. bisclavret

iii. starlit nights

iv. howl

v. tearing at seams

vi. run to me, lover

Lore

blurb 1

Steve & Eddie’s scents

[superbfics]

fall right into me

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: when something happens to your apartment and you need a place to stay, steve, your best friend, is quick to provide it for you. your prolonged proximity forces you both to realize some things.

word count: 13.6k

warnings: childhood bffs to lovers, absolute idiots in love, mentions of a negative relationship with parents, probably inaccurate descriptions of some things but it’s (say it with me) for the plot!!!

a/n: i know it’s been a LONG time since i’ve posted a long fic so thank u guys for ur patience <3 i had so much fun getting back to it and writing these two, and i hope it’s at least a little bit worth the wait!!! ily :,)

𝜗𝜚

Your shoes are still wet as you dial the first number that comes to mind: Steve’s.

He picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, Steve.”

“Hi,” you can imagine him on the other side of the phone, leaning casually against the wall, an easy smile on his face, “what’s going on?”

You’re not quite sure where to start.

Coming home from work earlier, you’d been excited to shower and change and lay around for the rest of the evening, your book hanging open in your lap and some mindless TV filling the silence.

The day seemed to have other plans for you, though, because as you walked down the stairs to your apartment—one in the basement of a sweet, older couple’s house who just never used the space and converted it—the carpet had made an ugly squelch as soon as you stepped on it.

You looked down at your shoe against the carpet, at the way its color was darker than usual from whatever water had gotten into it. Looking up, you found a complete mess. A piece of the ceiling hanging open right above your bed, water still dripping in steady drops from the gap, your bedding ruined among many other things.

You don’t know how long you stood there, hand over your mouth, eyes flickering over the damage like you were hoping it would vanish, like it was only something you imagined.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t.

The couple who owns the house came down when they heard you shout for them, unsure of what else to do. They’d both gasped when they came down, and began apologizing for something that really wasn’t their fault before one ran up to call whoever it was they needed to call to fix this and the other comforted you with a gentle “we’ll take care of it, sweetie.”

You nodded, eyes still roaming your space that was now uninhabitable.

It’s an old house, something was bound to happen at some point, you only wished it wasn’t so inconvenient for you. A small leak, you could have handled, but the ceiling practically caving in?

Yeah, it was a complete fucking mess.

Hours later, with the damage assessed and set to take a few weeks to fix up, you’re on the phone with the one person you’d known would pick up.

You fill Steve in on what happened, and his first response is a sigh of, “Shit.”

“Yeah, shit,” you agree. “And now I’m gonna have to live with my parents for a while and I don’t know how I’m gonna go back into that house, Steve.”

If you’re being honest, the couple you live with now was kinder to you than your parents were. You suppose that’s one of the many things that you and Steve have bonded over.

“Just come live with me, instead,” he offers without hesitation.

Steve says it like it’s obvious, a no-brainer, and you guess it should be, since you’ve slept over at the Harrington’s house countless times before. Only, this is different because you’d be staying for a while, because you’d be needing his help, which makes you feel all awkward and guilty.

He’s been your absolute best friend for as long as you can remember, and you’re one hundred percent sure you’d offer the same thing if the roles were reversed, but that doesn’t make it any easier for you to accept, not when you’re already frazzled from the events of the day.

“No, Steve, I’m sorry I’m just being dramatic,” you say, twisting the phone’s cord around your finger. “I’ll be fine, really. It’s just a month, or so, and I don’t wanna be in your way or-”

“When have you ever cared about being in my way, angel?” The pet name he’s called you ever since your ninth grade Halloween party slips out naturally, the way it always does. “Besides, this house is too fucking big for me as it is, and you know my parents won’t be around to care, either.”

“I can’t ask you to let me move in, Steve.”

“Well then, it’s a good thing you’re not asking. I’m offering. It’ll be like that one week when we were twelve and you stayed over for spring break, only longer. It’s perfect!”

There’s a small smile ghosting across your face as you recall the memory he’s talking about. A blanket fort in their spacious living room, sleeping bags and pillows piled inside it along with two flashlights.

You can picture the way he looks on the other end of the phone, his hair a bit messy from running his hands through it during the day, one strand rogue against his forehead, his shoulder leaned carelessly against the wall the way it usually is when he stands. Like he can’t be bothered to hold himself up, like there’s constantly a weight on him.

“Are you sure about this, Steve? It’s really okay if you’re not. I swear I’ll be fine.”

“As if I’m letting you spend multiple weeks back in your parent’s house. You’re staying with me, alright?” His voice is insistent, yet kind, letting you know that he’s being honest, that he means it. “We’ll order pizzas and watch shitty romcoms, ‘kay?”

“You can call romcoms shitty all you want, but we both know you get teary at every single one.”

“Don't change the subject, angel. Also, fuck off,” he says, though you can hear the smile in his voice. “So, you’re living with me, yeah?”

You don’t think you could say no to him even if you wanted to.

“Yeah, alright, Steve. Thank you so much.”

“None of that. I know you’d do the same.”

There’s something beautiful about the kind of trust and ease that comes with a friendship as long as yours. One where you’ve watched each other grow up, awkward phases and all, and stuck together the entire way. There’s no questioning whether or not you’d be there for each other if you were in need.

It’s known, felt. Like a fact.

“Now,” he continues, “I’ll pick you up, okay? Ten minutes, tops.”

“Okay.”

“You need me to bring boxes for your stuff?”

“I’m not sure how much is worth keeping. It’s pretty ugly in there.”

Your voice goes small at the end, because the gravity of it all is really sinking in. You’ll have to replace a lot of stuff. Stuff you don’t have money for right now.

But, you haven’t let yourself cry just yet, so you swallow it down.

“I’ll bring some anyway, then. We’ll figure it out, angel, don’t worry.”

“Thanks again, Steve. See you soon.”

“Ten minutes,” he assures you, then the line clicks.

-

True to his word, Steve arrives in under ten minutes, which isn’t surprising considering the size of Hawkins, but feels reassuring all the same.

You’re sitting on the curb in front of the house when Steve’s BMW pulls over on the other side of the road, and you stand just as he climbs out and shuts his door, rounding the car and jogging over to you.

His keys jingle as he tucks them into the pocket of his faded jeans, his opposite hand coming up to squeeze your shoulder, “You okay?”

The warmth of his palm seeps through your work shirt that you’ve yet to change out of, and you let your eyes fall shut just for a second before looking at his face, “Guess so,” you nod. “Maybe ask me again after all of this?”

Steve’s arm winds itself over your shoulders, tugging you into his side and dropping a kiss to the top of your head, simple as an instinct. “I’ve got you. We’ll get through this, angel.”

We’ll, he says. A team.

You reach up and squeeze his hand and nod, guiding him to the side-entrance leading to your basement apartment.

“I hope you didn’t wear your good shoes for this,” you say.

Steve looks down at his feet and shrugs, “Shoes can be replaced.”

He lets you lead the way down the stairs, his footsteps close behind yours. You wince when you look at the damage again, even though you’d seen it minutes ago. You can't bring yourself to look at Steve, to see the reaction on his face, because you think it’ll just make it all more real.

He mouths the word ‘fuck’ while you aren’t looking, then claps his hands once. “Okay, let’s figure out what we can save, yeah? Where do you want me?”

You’re grateful for his gentle guidance at what to do. “Maybe the bathroom? Everything in there should be fine, so it just needs to be packed.”

“‘Kay. I’ll just go grab some boxes from my car,” Steve says. He squeezes your hand once before heading up the stairs. “I’ll be right back.”

You decide to tackle the worst spot first. Though the place is more like a studio, the side that houses your bed and your closet is the most affected, so you head over there and try to tune out the squish of the carpet beneath your feet.

You’re opening the sliding doors to your closet when Steve comes back, dropping a stack of boxes by your feet and running his hand down your arm softly before heading over to the bathroom to pack for you.

Even his presence seems to be making things a little bit easier for you, and each time he finds a small way to touch you or speak to you, to remind you that he’s there, you’re glad for it.

Half of your closet is a gross, wet mess, but some things are salvageable, which you take as a win. Things might be damp, but at least it’s only water, you suppose. A cycle in the dryer and most things will be wearable again.

Your dresses that are hung get the worst of it, soaked and smelly, and you decide that it’d be easier to get a couple new ones than to try and save what’s there.

Steve checks in every now and then, poking his head out of the bathroom’s doorway to look at you and make sure you’re doing alright, giving you a thumbs up when you look over to him.

You’re not sure how you’d be managing this if you were alone, and you’re thankful that you don’t have to.

The next time he checks on you, you’re by your nightstand.

Sitting atop of it is a framed picture of you and Steve from summer camp when you were around ten years old, maybe younger. Only now, the picture’s stained with water and the frame you’d decorated all those years ago at camp is a splotchy mess.

Where yours and Steve’s handwriting used to be, is now a blur from the water seeping into the wooden frame, the marker’s colors muddy. You frown, picking it up and running your thumb over the edge.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re tearing up, frustrated and sad and tired. Memories like this one are the most special to you, the ones that have kept you going for so long, and just like that, the picture that’s sat on your nightstand since being taken is gone, and it fucking sucks.

“Hey, angel?” Steve calls.

When all you do is sniffle and mumble an “mhm?” in response, he sets the box he’d been packing on the bathroom counter and walks over to you.

He comes up behind you, resting his hands on your upper-arms and peering over your shoulder at the ruined picture.

“It was my favorite one,” you say, voice breaking a little. You wipe your tear away as it trails down your cheek, your own fingertips too harsh against your skin.

Although it’s soaked and splotchy now, Steve knows which picture it is. The one where you’ve both got your neon summer camp t-shirts on, the one where his cheeks and nose are completely sunburnt and you’re both grinning up at the camera from your seats on the ground.

Steve’s clutching a stick in his hand for some reason, and you’ve got your fist tangled in the sleeve of his shirt.

It feels like no time and forever has passed since then.

Steve grabs the picture and pries it gently from your hands, setting it back onto the table and turning you around in his grip to face him.

“We can fix it,” he tells you, his brown eyes all soft as his hands come up to cup your face, thumbs swiping your tears away.

“But the frame-”

“We’ll fix it, angel. I’ll find a way, okay? We can pack it in one of the boxes and figure it out.”

“Steve-”

“Look at me,” he urges you when your gaze flickers to the ground. You listen. “This fucking sucks, I know it does, but you’re strong and I’m here, and we can handle this.”

His voice is quiet, but sure. You search his face for any trace of a lie and find none. He really believes what he’s saying, and he really believes in you.

“Thank you for being here.” You take a deep breath and drop your forehead against the collar of his shirt. “I’m sorry for crying. I know it’s kinda stupid. Most of this is replaceable, it’s just-”

“It’s not stupid,” he says, letting his chin rest atop your head. “You’re allowed to cry. Hell, I’d probably be kicking and screaming on the floor like I'm back in the terrible twos.”

You laugh wetly into his shirt.

“Now,” he says, pulling back and putting his hands on his hips, “the quicker we pack, the quicker we go home. I’ll even let you wear a pair of my good fuzzy socks.”

A smile tugs at your mouth. “Deal.”

-

Steve wouldn’t let you do much of the work after that.

Instead, he simply held up items for you to assess from where you’d been leaning against the wall and packed it into a box if it was a ‘yes,’ or tossing it aside dramatically just to try and get you to laugh if it was a ‘no.’

Once things were sorted through and packed, you loaded everything into Steve’s car—which wasn’t a whole bunch, considering how much you had to leave behind.

You’d refused to let Steve carry the boxes all on his own, though he tried, but he still managed to open the doors for you whenever you made it to his car, even when his own hands were full, too.

By the time you were finished, you were drained. It felt like you’d lived multiple days in the one. An eight hour shift opening at the store, then coming home to a wrecked apartment. All you wanted to do was shower and lay down and not get back up.

Steve knows you well enough to be able to tell when it’s time to fill the silence and when it isn’t, and on the drive back to his place, while your head was leaned against his window, he knew to stay quiet and give you a bit of space.

He turned the radio on, but not too loud, letting the songs hum through the speakers. At every stop sign, he reached over and gave your thigh a light squeeze. Reassuring, kind, somehow exactly what you needed at the moment. Nothing more, nothing less.

You were no stranger to the Harrington’s house, having been there countless times since you were little, but it feels more intimidating now, knowing you’ll be staying. You feel silly for being worried, but you are. Asking for help makes you feel like a burden.

Steve, however, doesn’t let you entertain that thought for long, parking in his driveway and jogging around to open the passenger door for you. “Honey, we’re home!”

“Dork,” you say, though you accept his hand and let him tug you up out of the car.

Grabbing the first couple of boxes, Steve leads you inside and upstairs, right to the guest room across the hall from his own bedroom. The closest one to him.

The house has at least two guest rooms, though you suppose with how little Steve's parents are around, you could consider there to be three. Three spare rooms and Steve puts you up in the nearest one possible. It makes your heart squish in your chest, how caring he is. He doesn’t even have to try, really, the goodness in him shows even when he tries to keep it hidden.

It only takes a few trips down to his car and back before all of your boxes are stacked against the wall. You decide you’ll deal with them later.

Steve runs over to his room and grabs a set of pajamas that you’d left there, and hands them to you. “I figured you’d wanna wash up.”

“You calling me smelly, Harrington?”

“Shut up, I think you smell nice. Usually.”

“Hey!”

“I’m teasing, angel.” He ruffles your hair. You swat his hand away. “You know where the bathroom is, and there should be soap and stuff in the shower already. Just yell if you need something, okay?”

You do know where the bathroom is. You have your own toothbrush in a cup by the sink, a set of travel-sized skin care products in the cupboard behind the mirror for whenever you end up staying over.

It’s funny, you’ve always felt more at home here than at your own parents house, and though he hasn’t said it to you, Steve much prefers this house when you’re in it. There’s a warmth that comes with your presence that makes him ache when it’s not around.

You nod, “Thank you again for letting me stay, Steve. I won’t be in the way, promise.”

“I want you in the way. You know you’re always welcome. This is no different.” He shrugs, “Plus, it’ll be nice having you around. Place always feels so empty when it’s just me.”

“Maybe I’ll just stay forever, then,” you say, tone light and joking.

Steve, completely serious, says, “I’d let you.”

There’s a zip that goes through you when he says it, quick as lightning, something you’ve never felt—or noticed, rather—around him. It throws you off just a little.

“Anyways,” Steve cuts your thoughts short, “I’ll let you get settled. Pizza will be waiting for you when you’re done.”

He leaves the room before you can thank him again, his footsteps retreating and heading downstairs.

You’ve been to his house a million times, so you don’t really feel the need to ‘get settled’ but you desperately need a shower so that’s where you go.

You stay in for longer than you need to, letting the too-hot water run down your neck and back.

When you finally do step out of the bathroom, now clad in your pajamas, and head downstairs, Steve’s sitting on the couch in the living room, the romcoms he owns sitting out in front of the TV for you to choose from, your favorite blanket resting on your side of the couch, and pizza boxes on the coffee table just as promised.

It’s the best thing in the world, you think, to have a friend like Steve.

-

You’ve been staying at Steve’s for a couple of days already, and time seems to fly by a little quicker when you’re there, especially when you’re around him.

He’s taken it upon himself to have coffee ready in the pot for you every morning, one of your favorite mugs already next to it on the counter. You’ve cooked breakfasts together (pancakes one day, where you’d done most of the work, or something simple as toast when you both have to get to work), ordered dinners, and Steve comes home from his shifts with a new movie to watch almost every day.

It’s been so nice. Almost perfect, actually.

This morning, the first day where your shifts happen to be at the exact same time, he’d even insisted on driving you to work. It was an easy yes, considering it wasn’t out of his way at all.

After a short stint of working together at the grocery store in ninth grade, and your subsequent firing from the job after a month of constantly distracting each other on the clock, Tim, the grocery manager, took it upon himself to warn Hawkins not to hire the both of you together.

Eventually, you’d taken the closest you could get which resulted in you working at the arcade and Steve next door at Family Video.

You share a parking lot. Steve already drives you to work most days. You like to put up a bit of a fight just to annoy him.

Though you haven’t worked together in years, and he isn’t far away by any means, you miss having Steve around on days like this. Where the arcade is quiet save for the sounds of the games in the background, where you’re simply babysitting the desk and cleaning things multiple times to try and make the hours pass by.

If Steve were with you, he’d make stupid jokes that you don’t wanna laugh at but do, or coerce you into playing the games while on the clock with the change you find whenever you’re cleaning.

He’d probably trash talk you, and bump your hip with his while playing pinball, and be a sore loser, and for some reason you want him around so bad.

You chalk it up to getting used to spending hours and hours with him, every single day, these past couple of days. Staying with him has made you miss him more, you think.

That’s it.

Meanwhile, over at Family Video, Steve isn’t feeling too different from you.

He’s spent the morning stocking shelves, memories popping into his head whenever he’d come across a movie you loved or watched together, while Robin’s been manning the desk.

Then, when his cart was empty and put back into the back room, he sat on the chair behind the front desk, spinning around until Robin stopped him with her foot and asked what he was thinking so hard about.

Steve caught her up on what had happened with your apartment (you’d told him he could tell her, because she’s your friend too and would find out sooner or later) and how you’d ended up staying with him in his house.

She raised her eyebrows and hummed in a way that was automatically suspicious, because Robin isn’t very good at hiding things.

“What?” Steve asks.

“Nothing.” When Steve only gives her a pointed look, Robin continues, “Well… are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Now, Robin is one of Steve’s closest friends, and him one of hers, and she supports him in pretty much everything that he does even when she teases him relentlessly along the way, but she cares about both of you and doesn’t want to see anyone hurt.

She can read Steve better than he can read himself, probably, because to Robin, it’s clear that he feels more than friendly towards you. And he doesn’t even know it.

When they became closer, it was clear to Robin, even before meeting you, just from the way Steve spoke of you, that there was a spot reserved for you in his life that couldn’t be filled by anyone else.

He would say it’s that of ‘best friend’ but Robin would call it something even bigger than that. Still, even though she thinks he’s an absolute dingus, she’s trying to let Steve figure it out for himself.

Clearly, it’s taking fucking forever.

He looks confused at her question, “Why wouldn’t it be a good idea?”

Robin sighs and resists the urge to drop her forehead against the desk and decides on, “You know what they say: become friends with your roommates, don’t become roommates with your friends.”

“Whoever they are, they’re dumb as shit,” Steve says. “She’s been over, slept over, hundreds of times. It’s not any different, just longer.”

“I guess so,” she settles on. “The rules of the world never really seem to apply to you two.”

“That’s because the rules of the world are also dumb as shit.”

“How would you know? It’s not like you’ve ever tried following them.”

“‘Cause I’m a rule breaker, Robs.”

Steve wiggles his eyebrows. Robin shoves the rolling chair he’s sitting on with her foot, sending it into the other side of the desk with a thud.

“Don’t think that smoking weed in your backyard is enough to call yourself a rule breaker, dingus.”

-

That night, your routine was pretty much the same.

Steve was already waiting for you in his car when you left the arcade, a smile spreading onto his face when he saw you making your way across the parking lot to him, your skirt swishing a little with the breeze.

Rather than go straight home, you made a stop at your apartment to talk things over with the couple who owned the home. They’d met with a builder and plumber about getting everything fixed and wanted to walk you through it all.

Steve came with you and held your hand, and both of them cooed at him and pinched his cheeks and called him a cutie before getting to the important stuff.

After going over what had to be done (rip out the carpet, replace it, fix the pipes and make sure no others were at risk, replace the ceiling, and more you couldn’t even remember already), they’d assured you that they would be taking care of it all. Covering the entire cost.

You probably would’ve argued if not for how little money was in your bank account, and how stubborn you knew these people to be. Instead, you’d squeezed them both and thanked them while your eyes grew misty with tears.

Steve’s hand stayed in yours and squeezed when you sniffled.

He knew, because he knew pretty much everything about you, that these people were kinder to you than even your own parents. That, if this had happened at their house, they would’ve found a way to blame you for it.

You feel lucky to have found that kind of parental love elsewhere, sad that you didn’t know exactly what it felt like beforehand.

After giving the couple Steve’s phone number to call in case they needed you and giving them both another hug, you and Steve headed back home.

Home, you call it. Like it’s yours.

Sometimes it feels like it is.

Later, after you and Steve have both showered and had dinner and gotten comfy in your sweats, you’re back in the living room, Steve shows you the movie he’s brought back this time.

“Gremlins?” You ask, smiling and shaking your head.

“Hell yeah, angel. It’s a classic.”

Steve sets everything up, joining you on the couch after pressing ‘play’ on the movie and adjusting the volume with your guidance.

“So, how was work?” Steve asks during the opening credits. The two of you have a hard time being next to each other and not talking. It’s why you get dirty looks whenever you go to the movies.

“Weekdays are so boring, Steve,” you say, letting your head fall against the back of the couch. “You’re so lucky you have Robin to entertain you during the day. I think I dusted like, ten times at least.”

“Robin is a pain in my ass.” He says. He doesn’t really mean it, because even when she is, he’s glad to have her around. A different kind of gladness than he feels with you. “She kept pushing me every time I sat in the rolling chair. There’s probably a dent in the desk.”

“That’s because you were probably hogging the chair, Steve.”

“What the fuck!” Steve’s smiling when he says it, lacking any sort of anger. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

Your smile mirrors his, the way it always does. It’s contagious, you think, the way his eyes crinkle at the corner.

Shrugging, you say, “I don’t know, I’d wanna push you around on that chair too, I think.”

“You’d spin me too much. I’d get sick all over you and then nobody’s happy.”

“Don’t talk about barf while I’m eating, Harrington.”

You throw a piece of popcorn at him. It bounces off his cheek and lands on his lap, and he doesn’t even flinch. Steve just picks it up and pops it into his mouth.

When the bowl’s empty, you lean forward and set it on the coffee table before sinking back into the couch, Steve's shoulder brushing yours. You let the warmth seep through your clothes and shut your eyes.

It’s a little more than halfway through the movie when Steve realizes you’re asleep. You’d been quiet, sure, but Steve only thought that meant you were paying attention to the movie.

That was, until your head slipped and rested against his shoulder.

He looked down at you, at the hair falling across your forehead (he smoothed it away gently, so it wouldn’t be in your eyes or your mouth), your eyebrows relaxed and free of any worry, your chest rising and falling with steady breaths.

He thinks of how tired you must be, after everything. Your apartment and dealing with the aftermath both emotionally and physically, working long shifts most days to keep your bank account full.

Steve, though he doesn’t let himself look too deep into it, also thinks of how beautiful you are. Now and always.

Not wanting you to get a kink in your neck from the position, Steve decides to rouse you from sleep as gently as possible. He slips a hand under your head to keep it steady and maneuvers himself to kneel in front of you.

“Hey, angel,” he almost whispers, thumb dragging across your cheek. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed.”

Your nose scrunches and you grumble, but after some coaxing, you blink your eyes open and squint at Steve. You blame your half-asleep mind on the way you nuzzle into his palm. “Hmm?”

“You fell asleep.”

“Oh, sorry,” you mumble.

Steve laughs softly. “Don’t be sorry, I just didn’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

The warmth of his hand leaves your cheek as he stands and holds his hands out for you to grab. He pulls you up off the couch and starts leading you towards the stairs.

You knuckle at your eyes on the way, a tiny smile gracing your face at how sweet Steve’s being. As if you haven’t fallen asleep on his couch plenty of times before.

Still sleepy, you stumble a little on the stairs, but Steve catches you easily with an arm around your waist and a small “Careful.”

He leaves his arm there the rest of the way to what’s become your bedroom, guiding you over to the bed and lifting the covers for you.

Tomorrow, you’ll regret not brushing your teeth or washing your face before climbing in bed. But today, you don’t feel like risking not being able to sleep again if you wake yourself up further.

You’re practically asleep again by the time you’re settled with your head on the pillow as Steve tugs the blankets over you.

You’re just awake enough to feel the light press of his lips on your forehead and a soft “Goodnight, angel” against your skin before he leaves the room and shuts the door behind him.

-

On a random Thursday that you and Steve both have off, he convinces you to let him take you to the mall.

“We should go shopping,” he says when you walk into the kitchen. It’s a little later in the morning, having slept in since it’s a day off, the sun slipping through the window in warm beams.

You raise your eyebrows at him. “Like, groceries?”

“No, like shopping shopping. You know, the mall?”

You lean against the kitchen island, the countertop cool on your back where it touches the sliver of skin between your tank top and sleep shorts. Steve has his shoulder against the fridge, his arms crossed over his chest, the sleeves of his t-shirt tight against his muscles. Not that you’re looking.

You squint at him, trying to find his motive on his face. “You literally buy whatever the mannequins are wearing to avoid shopping.”

“That’s what they’re there for!” The sass in his voice has you biting back a smile. “You need new clothes,” he continues, “and I need to get out of this house.”

“We can do something else, Steve,” you say. “I thought you hated shopping.”

“Well, I don’t hate you.” There’s a pause, Steve’s eyes lowering to that sliver of skin above your shorts. He flicks them back to your face quickly, hoping you didn’t notice, because even he’s not sure what compelled his eyes to wander. “Plus, Eddie called me a hermit the other day and I really can’t stand for that, can I?”

“Ohhh,” you ignore the way your skin suddenly feels warm beneath his gaze, “so you need to make a public appearance to prove Eddie wrong?”

“Exactly. We’ll replace some of the things you lost and restore my reputation. Two birds, one stone, right angel?”

So that’s how you’d ended up at the mall. After Starcourt burnt down, the closest place was a couple towns over, and Steve (as always) offered to drive.

He lets you pick the music the entire way, sings along when you hold your water bottle by his mouth like a microphone, even attempts to harmonize with you which just ends in laughter because neither of you sounded that great.

You’re a couple of stores in, and Steve’s been complaint-free so far—which makes sense, since this was his idea, but you’ve caught him side-eyeing some things, so you know he’s got some remarks in his head he just hasn’t said out loud—and follows you around as you browse. You try not to take too long, because you can’t imagine that this is any fun for him.

“How about that one?” Steve asks, pointing at one of the dresses hanging along the store’s wall.

He’d seen your apartment, though that was a bit ago, and he remembered what you’d lost the most of, along with the type of stuff you like. He pays attention like that, in small, quiet ways that you think mean the most.

He knows you. He cares enough to know you.

“Yeah, that’s really pretty, actually,” you admit.

At your approval, Steve grabs one in your size (which he also just happens to know) and adds it to the couple of things he’d already been holding for you. Every time you picked something up, he was quick to snatch it from you, telling you it was ‘too hard to browse with your hands full.’

After making your way through the rest of the store, you decided to head back to try things on, holding out a hand for the stuff Steve’s holding. “You can wait out here, I’ll be quick.”

“Hold on,” he says, holding the hangers out of your reach. “Why do you think I’m here, angel? I wanna help you pick.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. Give me a fashion show, yeah?”

“Oh my God,” you mumble, letting him follow you to the fitting rooms.

They’re hidden behind the back wall of the store, a hallway painted bright blue with pink changeroom doors on one side, and white benches along the other.

“Hi there,” an employee with auburn hair greets you both, her smile wide and kind, though you know it’s a practiced one. Customer service smile. “How many you got there, darling?”

“Oh, um,” you turn back towards Steve, who’s counting the hangers in his hand. “Five.”

“Perfect!” The girl takes the key hanging around her neck and unlocks one of the rooms for you. She takes the clothes from Steve and hangs them up inside for you, then turns to the two of you and says, “Your man can have a seat right here. We call them the ‘boyfriend benches.’”

“He’s not my-”

“Thanks,” Steve says, cutting off your correction because for some reason he didn’t want you to correct her.

Did he… like the idea of being your boyfriend?

Fuck. No. He just didn’t want you to have to explain the whole situation in your rambly way. That’s all.

The redhead smiles again, “Holler if you need anything,” she says before walking off.

You stand there for a second, something like confusion on your face. Did it look like you were boyfriend and girlfriend?

“Come on,” Steve says, snapping the both of you out of whatever that was. “Show me what you’ve got.”

“I can't believe you’re making me do this,” you say, walking into the fitting room and shutting the door.

You try on a couple of sweaters first, and Steve feels the fabric both times, making sure that it’s not scratchy on your skin. Then, there’s just some basic t-shirts that aren’t all that exciting, but Steve says they look nice anyway.

Finally, you get to the dress he picked out.

It really was pretty. A midi-length with a ruffled hem and straps that tie into little bows on your shoulders. You don’t always feel good in your clothes. Sometimes you wish you could crawl out of your skin when you look into the mirror, but right now, you don’t hate what you see.

You actually like it.

“Well?” Steve calls softly from the bench.

In response, you open the door and step out so he can see you.

Steve’s seen you in plenty of dresses—hell, you went to prom together—but for some reason this one makes his heart beat just a little bit quicker. Maybe it’s simply the fact that it looks great on you, or the way you’re smiling shyly as he looks you over.

Or, maybe it’s because he’s the one who picked it.

He stands up, spinning his finger in the air in a gesture for you to twirl. You roll your eyes but do it anyway, and he can’t take his eyes off of you. The hallway of fitting rooms isn’t very big, so with both of you in it, you’re standing toe to toe, the gold flecks in the middle of Steve’s eyes and the faint freckles that dot his nose are visible from where you stand.

As if he can’t help it, Steve lifts a finger and dips it beneath the strap on your shoulder. Not moving it or undoing it, just gliding along your skin where it sits.

“You look beautiful,” he says. His voice goes all quiet and soft when he says it, and his eyes widen a tiny bit, like he hadn’t meant it to slip out that way. It sounded… more than friendly. He clears his throat and steps back as much as he can in the small space, his finger leaving your skin. “I have great taste. Clearly.”

You blink at him, then shake yourself out of it as much as you can. “Yeah. Don’t let it get to your head.” You lift the tag where it hangs by your armpit and look at the price. You gasp and swat Steve’s arm. “Steve! Why would you let me walk into a place so expensive?”

You probably should’ve looked at the tag beforehand, but here you are. Steve, shrugging exaggeratedly, says, “I didn’t know!”

“Okay, I’m gonna change before she comes back. We can make a run for it.”

“We’re not stealing.”

“I know, but they look at you all judgemental when you try stuff on and don’t buy something. Trust me.”

You turn and go back into the fitting room to put on your own clothes, taking a look at the dress in the mirror one last time before shaking your head at yourself.

Steve, however, takes the opportunity to leave you and head back out into the store. He finds the dress easily and grabs another one in your size from the rack and heads to the cashier.

He’s just finishing up, bag in hand, when you walk out and meet him at the front of the store.

“For you,” he says, holding out the bag for you to take.

“Steve…” You grab it and look inside. Your chest aches when you see the dress, your heart suddenly too full and your stomach fluttering stupidly. “You didn’t have to do that. I would’ve been fine with something from the Gap.”

“I know that,” he says, a hand lifting to scratch at the back of his neck. It’s a nervous tick of his, and the thought of him being nervous right now makes you melt even more. “I wanted to get it for you. You looked too pretty in it not to have it.”

Your eyes catch his, and again, something passes between you that you don’t think you’ve ever felt before. A fizzle, a spark.

You rock back on your feet, looking down at the ground before meeting his eyes again. They’re so fucking soft it makes you wonder how lucky you have to be to have him in your life. Being your best friend, driving you to work even when he doesn’t have a shift, offering you a place to stay, buying you a dress.

He’s the sweetest boy you’ve ever known.

“Well,” you twist the straps of the bag around your fingers just to keep them busy. “Thank you, Steve. This is really nice.”

His knuckle traces down your arm just once, featherlight. “You’re welcome, angel.”

You don’t buy anything else after that, instead stopping at the food court for fries, stealing from each other’s baskets, smiling and slapping hands away.

It’s the best day you’ve had in a while.

-

You don’t think anything you do will convey just how grateful you are that Steve has been so kind to you. Always, but especially now. Letting you stay with him and refusing to let you pay rent. (“I don’t even pay rent, and I live here all the time.”)

But, this morning, you’ve decided you’re gonna try.

Steve’s favorite meal of the day happens to be breakfast, which is funny, considering he usually eats something as simple as cereal. He’d told you once that it was because, as a kid, breakfast was the most peaceful of meals, his parents too busy getting ready for work or wherever they were going that he’d have the kitchen table to himself.

Lunch was usually spent at school, and Steve was never a fan of school to begin with. Then there was dinner, which his parents (when they were home) still wanted to have all together. They’d ask him questions and make backhanded comments about every single answer he gave. He never won at dinner.

So, breakfast was, and has remained, his favorite.

You made sure to get up early enough to give yourself time to get everything ready before he wakes up. Steve’s usually the one making the coffee in the morning, and you figured the least you could do was give him a break.

Yesterday, while Steve had been at work, you went over to the Wheeler’s and asked Nancy if you could borrow their waffle maker. She’d directed the question to her mother, who went and grabbed it for you and handed it over with a smile. You promised to take good care of it and have it back in a couple of days.

By the time Steve walks into the kitchen, you’ve already made the batter and set out the toppings—berries, maple syrup, whipped cream—like a buffet. However, he just so happens to come in as you’re swearing at the waffle maker.

“Stupid fucking thing,” you mutter, trying to open it.

Steve smiles to himself before saying, “Morning, angel.”

You jump at his voice, not having heard him walk in. When you turn around, your heart beats for a different reason.

Steve’s still only in his pajama pants, plaid and soft, hanging low on his hips. And he’s shirtless, his chest smattered with hair and his skin a little tanned from the sun. He’s got beauty marks all over, like a constellation you could chart, and his abs are just visible beneath the soft of his stomach. A trail of hair leading to the waistband of his pants and disappearing beneath them.

You’ve seen Steve shirtless plenty of times. Swimming and sleeping over in the summer, in high school when you used to go to his practices, but it hits you harder for some reason this time.

The way his hair is still a mess from sleep, his eyes a bit heavy. The way it feels to be greeting him in the kitchen, cooking breakfast. Intimate. Domestic.

You clear your throat and turn back around to pry the waffle maker open, revealing a slightly burnt but otherwise good-looking waffle. “I’m making breakfast. Coffee’s already in the pot, too.”

He walks over, his chest close to your back as he grabs a mug from the cabinet above you before heading over to pour himself a cup. He looks at the spread you’ve prepared, “Waffles, huh? What did I do to deserve all this?”

“Just wanted to do something nice for you,” you say as Steve walks over to lean against the counter next to you, his hip barely touching yours. “To thank you, in a way. For letting me stay and the dress and-”

“How many times do I have to tell you to stop thanking me?” He says, though his voice is soft and still a bit rough from sleep. “I like having you around.”

“So you don’t want the waffles then?”

“Oh, I want the waffles. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything for me. It’s not some debt you’ll owe me, angel.”

“Want you to know I appreciate you is all,” you say, pouring a new scoop of batter into the waffle maker.

Steve, unsure of what exactly possesses him to do so, dips in and presses a kiss to the apple of your cheek, his lips a whisper away from your skin when he says, “I appreciate you, too.”

Then he pulls away and moves to set the table. Like it was natural.

And it was, in a way. How you moved around each other in the kitchen. You leaning out of the way when he needed to reach something you were blocking, him putting a hand on your lower back when he walked behind you so you knew he was there.

Your cheek still tingles from where he’d kissed it when you bring the plate of waffles to the table, your skin somehow even warmer under his gaze, like he’s still remembering exactly how it felt, too.

You sit in the chair beside Steve, not noticing the way he tugs it a bit closer to him with his foot before you sit down. Soon enough, both of you are digging in. Steve’s got more whipped cream on his plate than waffle (you tell him as much) and you’ve got your berries on the side the way you always do.

Neither of you work until later in the day, and it’s nice knowing that you can take your time. Steve tells you about the advice he gave Dustin about how to be ‘cooler’ in school (he’d told him that being cool is completely overrated, he knew from experience, and that being himself is the most important). You’d told him he was going soft with age.

You talk about anything at all. How Keith somehow manages both of your places of work, how he also somehow does both terribly. The way he says ‘if you have time to lean, you have time to clean’ while literally having Cheeto dust on his fingers. Laughing at each other’s impressions of him.

What the new highscores were at the arcade, what people were renting from Family Video.

You wonder what it’ll be like when you have to leave. When you’re living alone again.

Logically, you know you’ll still see Steve frequently, because he’s your favorite person and you can’t remember the last time you went longer than a few days without hanging out. Still, it’ll be different than right now, waking up in the same space and sharing breakfast and brushing your teeth side by side in the mirror.

You’ll miss it, you think.

Trying not to dwell on something that’s still a few weeks away, you take another bite of your waffle. Steve catches your chin and wipes off a bit of whipped cream from the corner of your mouth, then pulling away and sucking it off his thumb.

He goes back to his own plate without a thought. Like touching you just now was an instinct.

Then, he teases you, “These are a little crispy, angel. Maybe you should stick to letting me make breakfast in this household.”

You kick his leg under the table. “That’s a funny way of saying ‘thank you,’ Harrington.”

He kicks you back, much gentler than you’d been. “Thank you.”

“That’s what I thought.”

When you look at him, there’s an easy, boyish smile on his face.

A similar one stretches across your own lips.

-

Steve has had the thought pop up into his head a couple of times, that maybe he should’ve just asked you to live with him before you ever bought that apartment. Because having you around feels the most right things have ever felt in his house.

And though the circumstances of your moving in with him (temporarily, he has to remind himself), were far from ideal, he can’t lie and say that he isn’t glad that you’ve ended up sharing his space.

The room across the hall will always be yours, even when you move back to your place.

He knows that you feel indebted to him for all of it, but if anyone owes the other something, he feels like it’s him. For everything you’ve ever done for him. Sticking around even when he was an asshole in highschool, defending him to his parents whenever you’d cross paths, simply being the kind of friend he needed.

Even when you’re not around, he can picture your face, the way your smile spreads slowly until you’re fucking beaming. Worse, the way you cried into his chest that day at your apartment.

He remembers the crack in your voice when you spoke about that picture frame from summer camp. Though he hasn’t seen you cry since, or even bring it up, he’s decided he wants to fix it. He’d told you he would.

Dustin wound up roped into his plan: find a similar frame, decorate it the exact same way, and scour the photo albums in Steve’s room for his copy of that same picture.

When he was younger, the photo albums pissed him off, because they were purely for show. Pictures of his family that were all fake smiles. Now, he’s glad for them, because at least he has some good memories to look back on. To know it wasn’t always all bad.

Steve probably should’ve thought that one through, because when they looked through his albums, he was on the receiving end of relentless teasing from Dustin. (“Dude, you have an insane boogie in this picture.” “I was four!”)

He hopes it’ll be worth it.

Dustin was the one who found the picture they’d been looking for, and he cheered and waved it in Steve’s face as if they’d been racing.

Now, after driving Dustin back home, decorating the frame the way the two of you did as kids, trying to make his handwriting look like it did back then (which wasn’t too difficult, ‘cause Steve’s writing still isn’t that neat), he’s waiting for you to come downstairs before giving it to you.

He’d picked you up after your shift at the arcade not too long ago, but he knows you like to shower and change as soon as you get home from work, so he’d taken the opportunity to wrap the frame and have it ready for you.

Steve can hear you singing in the shower, and he knows you’re done when it goes quiet. A few minutes later you’re walking down the stairs in a baggy t-shirt and silky sleep shorts.

His eyes, for some reason, linger on your legs for a second.

He stands up, frame in his hand, when you walk over. “I have something for you.”

“Steve! Stop buying me things. Seriously.”

“This thing was free, so you can’t even be mad,” he says, smiling almost sheepishly.

Your eyes search his face, flickering between his own and dipping down to his lips and his nose and back to his eyes. He looks… nervous.

Steve’s never nervous around you.

“Okay,” you say, shuffling on your feet. “What is it?”

“Here,” he hands you the poorly-wrapped frame. “Open it.”

You scrunch your brows at him once, because you have no idea what it could be. It isn’t your birthday, or any sort of holiday at all. With zero guesses, you look down at the light yellow wrapping paper in your hands and slowly tear it open.

What you find makes your eyes grow misty, tears pooling at your lash line but not quite falling.

It’s your favorite picture, the one of you and Steve in those stupid neon shirts with messy hair and dirt on your hands. Only now, it’s not water damaged, and the frame is new, but decorated just like the old one. You run your thumbs over the glass lightly, smiling down at little you and little Steve.

When you look back up at him, he’s already looking at you, his brown eyes all warm, his smile kind but also worried, waiting for your reaction.

Seeing his face springs you into motion, jumping forward and wrapping your arms around his neck tightly with the frame still in your hand. “Thank you,” you say into his skin.

Steve’s arms move to hold you around your waist without a thought. A reflex. They squeeze you close to him, his nose pressed into your damp hair, smelling your shampoo.

“It’s not perfect,” he says. “But I know how much you love that picture, and I wanted to fix it.”

“Steve. Shut up. It is perfect.”

“I’m glad you think so,” he says, his thumbs running back and forth against your back.

You hug for what could’ve been minutes, but neither of you moves to pull away first. You’re not sure if it’s still considered friendly to stand in each other's arms, breathing each other in, for so long, but you don’t care at the moment.

This is probably the nicest thing anyone’s done for you in a long, long time.

When you finally do pull away, you don’t go far. Your arms stay slung over his shoulders, Steve’s hands framing your hips. His thumbs still dragging those sweet patterns against you.

“I’m keeping it forever,” you tell him.

“You sure?” he asks.

“Certain. You’ll always be my best friend, Steve.”

“You’ll always be mine too, angel.”

Then, your eyes both move to each other’s lips, yours flick back up in a second, startled at their wandering.

Steve, however, is a bit transfixed. He looks at the slope of your cupid’s bow, the way your lips are shiny from your lip balm. He thinks it quickly, like a gust of wind that can’t be stopped: I really wanna kiss her right now.

Fuck. He wants to kiss his best friend.

He blinks a few times, clearing his throat and pulling back, letting his hands fall from your waist as yours slide off his shoulders. He misses the feel of your touch immediately, but he’s too freaked out and confused to do anything about it.

“What are you in the mood for tonight?” he asks, cutting off his own thoughts. “I brought back a horror and a comedy. Take your pick.”

“Mmm,” he picks up two tapes from the coffee table and holds them up for you to choose from. “Horror. Unless you’re too scared?”

“You’ll just have to hold my hand, then, won’t you?”

“I guess I will.”

You look back at the picture while Steve puts the movie into the player. You smile at it every time you see it, because you can still see parts of Steve in him now that were in him then.

His eyes, always kind, the way he smiles when he laughs, and about a half hour into the movie, the way he holds your hand and squeezes it when he’s scared.

-

You’re having one of those nights. The kind where sleep seems to be fighting you.

You worked a closing shift at the arcade, which usually lasts until late considering how long you’re open plus all of the cleaning you have to do afterwards. Today was no different, and despite how much later you finish than him at Family Video, Steve waited and drove you home. He hung out in the arcade with you until close, actually.

You’d think that after such a long day, the second your head hit the pillow you’d be out and breathing steadily. Today, that is not the case. You fell asleep for maybe an hour before a nightmare woke you up. You can’t quite remember what happened, only that you’d been yelling for Steve and he wasn’t there.

Groaning quietly, you rub your eyes and toss the blankets away. You stand up and head down to the kitchen in the dark, hand trailing along the walls to make sure you don’t bump into anything.

Just as you’re pouring yourself a glass of water, you hear the shuffle of sleepy footsteps coming into the kitchen.

“Holy shit,” he says, walking over to grab a glass, one hand on his bare chest. “I thought you were a ghost or something just now.”

You shift out of the way to let him get some water just like you did, taking the second that he’s distracted to look at him. His hair a mess, wearing nothing but his boxers. You take a big sip from your glass.

“I feel like I should be offended right now,” you say, “if you think I look like a ghost.”

“Shut up,” he says, dragging out the second word. His voice being rough from sleep makes his words sound much warmer than they are. “My eyes aren’t awake yet. Nothing to do with you, angel.”

You shake your head, though there’s a soft smile on your face the way there always seems to be when you try to be annoyed with Steve. You tilt your head at him, asking, “Couldn’t sleep?”

He shakes his head. “Been tossing and turning. Just can’t get comfortable, then I got pissed ‘cause I couldn’t get comfortable and only made it worse.”

“You would get pissed at that. Probably slapped your pillow like it was at fault.”

He folds his lips inwards and blinks at you. Because he did smack his pillow and call it a dipshit. “Why do you know everything? Spying on me?”

“Hate to say it, but you’re getting predictable, Harrington.” You shrug, then move to put your now empty glass in the dishwasher. “I know you too well.”

He looks at you, your hair falling across your shoulders, your pajama shorts riding up a little as you bend down. The moonlight slipping through the window seems to hit you perfectly. Like a halo.

Fitting, he thinks. You’re his angel, after all.

“Yeah, you do,” he agrees. Then, “What about you? Why’re you up?”

“Nightmare. Been forever since I had one.”

“You okay?” he asks, trailing a knuckle over your shoulder, pushing your hair behind it.

“Yeah,” you say, skin tingling where he’d touched you. “I can't even remember most of it, but now my brain won’t let me sleep.”

Steve wishes he could’ve protected you from whatever haunted you in your sleep. It’s silly, he knows, to think he might be able to ward away anything that hurts you, but he wants to, nonetheless.

He thinks about how comfortable he is whenever you cuddle during movie night. Your head on his shoulder or his chest, his hand on your back or waist.

So, he blurts, “Why don’t you sleep over?”

You furrow your brows at him, “Um, I’ve been sleeping over. A couple of weeks now, actually.”

“No, I mean, like in my room with me,” he says, suddenly shy at the idea. He’s grateful for the darkness, because he can feel his cheeks warming up. “A proper sleepover.”

You’ve done it before. Shared a bed a bunch of times, but for some reason your heart jumps when he says it. Your stomach swirls as you say, maybe a little too quickly, “Okay.”

Steve’s eyes widen like he’s surprised, just for a split second, before a soft smile takes over his face. He holds out a hand for you to take, “C’mon.”

Soon enough, Steve’s lifting his navy bedspread for you, letting you slip into bed next to him. He stays further away at first, letting you settle and lay on your side the way he knows you always do.

You blame sleepiness—or, maybe, the lack thereof—for the way you reach behind you for his arm and tug him closer, draping it over your own waist.

He obliges, of course, his arm securing itself across your stomach, palm spread out and warm against your sleep shirt. His chest is only a breath away from your back, though he keeps his lower half a little more distanced.

His thumb runs circles over your shirt, once, twice, three times before stilling, his forehead pressing to the back of your neck.

“Goodnight, angel,” he says into your hair.

Your hand splays itself on top of his. “Night, Steve.”

And suddenly your eyes grow heavier, and sleep doesn’t feel like much of a battle anymore.

-

You wake up the most rested you’ve felt in a while. There’s warmth surrounding you, but not the uncomfortable kind. The kind that feels safe.

Somehow, you and Steve are even closer than you’d been when you fell asleep. His arm is still around your waist, his other outstretched and tucked beneath your head like a pillow. His chest is flush to your back, and you can feel it expand with every breath he takes.

Most differently of all, however, is the way his hips are snug against the curve of your butt. And you can feel him hard against you.

Your skin feels even warmer than before when you notice.

Steve hasn’t woken up yet, you don’t think, because the faintest snores are getting puffed out against your shoulder where his face is tucked. His hand on your stomach has worked its way beneath your shirt, though, and his fingertips press against your skin, like he’s fighting to keep you close.

As if you’d go anywhere even in your sleep.

His knee is tucked between your legs, and you’re quickly realizing that it’d be pretty impossible to get out of bed without him noticing. You’re completely tangled together, a knot of limbs somehow fitting together just right. Like two puzzle pieces.

In his sleep, Steve’s mouth presses against the back of your shoulder, and only when you involuntarily shiver at the contact, does he stir.

It takes Steve a bit to really wake up, mumbling words that don’t make sense, scrunching his eyes shut even further before blinking them open. He’s met with the sight of you right in front of him. Body curved perfectly against his.

“Steve? You awake?” you ask, checking.

“Mhm,” he hums.

Then, something that has his cheeks flushing pink, he registers the feeling of his boner pressed against your ass. He shuffles them back enough so there’s space between you. “Fuck. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say. Because he can’t control the way his body reacts while he’s asleep.

“I didn’t think-” he cuts himself off, because he’s not quite sure how to say I didn’t think about the whole morning wood factor or that I’d fucking plaster myself to you when I suggested a sleepover without sounding stupid. Instead, he just repeats, “I’m sorry.”

You twist yourself around to face him, sheets crumpling and twisting as you move. When you settle back onto the pillow and look at his face, at the redness on his cheeks and the tips of his ears, you squeeze his hand that’s now laying between you.

“It’s okay, really,” you say. “It’s, like, anatomy. You’re human, Steve.”

“I don’t want you to think I invited you to sleep in here for some pervy reason,” he says, scrunching his nose when he says it.

“I don’t think that at all,” you tell him. You squeeze his hand again. “We’ve shared a bed like, a hundred times by now. If anything I’m surprised this hasn’t happened already.”

“Oh my God,” he groans, shutting his eyes and pushing his face into the pillow.

“Steve,” you drag out his name, fighting a giggle at the way he’s acting. He’s got a reputation, after all, and how shy and embarrassed he seems to be doesn’t reflect the things you heard about him in high school. He’s changed a lot since then. “It’s seriously fine. We can pretend it never happened. Promise.”

Steve pulls his face from the pillow, eyes catching yours as his fingers squeeze yours back in appreciation. He lets his eyes wander a bit, at the messy bits of your hair around your face from sleeping, the marks in your cheek from the pillowcase, the way your sleep shirt has fallen off your shoulder.

He feels lucky to get to see you this way, right after you’ve woken up. Vulnerable, unguarded, beautiful.

It’s during this small stretch of silence that you realize how close your faces are now. You’re sharing a pillow, his nose not even an inch from yours. Shift forward the slightest bit, and they’d be touching. Your eyes trail down to his mouth, to the visible patch of chest hair and the freckles that dot his skin. He’s already looking right at you when your eyes flick back upwards.

You know Steve, could tell what he’s feeling just from the look on his face, but this is one you’ve never seen before. At least, not directed at you.

Steve moves first, his eyes a little darker than usual, shifting forward slightly, then looking at you. Daring you to make the next move.

“What if we didn’t forget about it?” he says. Quiet and scratchy.

You don’t have time to think before you move forward a bit, too. Your noses brush. “What would that mean?”

Steve doesn’t answer with words. Rather, he moves forward the final bit and brushes his lips against yours in a question mark of a kiss, giving you time to pull away.

You don’t.

Instead, the hand of yours that isn’t still holding his comes up to the back of his neck, gently encouraging him to do it again. His free hand tightens at your waist as he dips in a second time.

It isn’t as tentative now that you’ve urged him on. His lips meet yours more sure, more firm, but still soft against you. Neither of you cares one bit about morning breath, or about what this might change. As if the morning’s haze slows time, minds still a little sleepy.

You’re simply acting on instinct. And this feels too right to stop.

Soon enough it grows more heated, Steve shifting to hover over you, his elbows pushing into the mattress to hold himself up, his tongue sneaking out to lick against the seam of your lips for permission.

Just as you open up for him, the blaring sound of Steve's alarm cuts you off, pulling back with a gasp. He simply leans up on one arm and slams the snooze button—and you laugh, you laugh, at how hard he hits it—before diving back into you.

You feel hot all over, where one of Steve’s hands has moved to cup your jaw, his thumb running delicately against your face as his mouth moves against yours, practically devouring you. Where the blankets are still over your lower halves, trapping in heat. When he pulls back, looks into your eyes, fucking smiles all dopey and pretty, and then kisses you again.

It’s so good, you’re almost angry at yourself for not kissing him sooner.

You kiss until his alarm goes off again and Steve's forced to pry himself away from you, groaning about being on his ‘last tardy warning’ from Keith.

Still, he takes the time to kiss your forehead on his way out, Family Video vest slung over his shoulder, calling a sweet, “bye, angel,” on his way out. His hair’s still a mess from your fingers, and he doesn’t even seem to mind.

You stay in his bed longer than you probably should, blinking up at the ceiling, fingers pressed against your lips like you’re searching for physical proof that everything was real.

What the fuck just happened?

-

It’s been a couple of weeks, and Steve can’t stop thinking about that kiss. He doesn’t know it, but you can’t stop thinking about it either.

Neither of you have brought it up, and things have faded back to normal as if it had never happened. But you and Steve are both thinking the same things without knowing it. How good and natural and easy it felt, how, every now and then, you think about doing it again.

You talk and joke and watch movies and eat meals together the same way you always have, and it’d be so easy to stay that way, to never kiss again. But then, what if you could stay that way and kiss? Wouldn’t that be something close to perfect?

You lay awake thinking about it every few nights. Because, when you really reflect on your life and how intertwined it is with Steve’s, you realize that you’ve sort of always acted like a couple, minus the kissing and sex aspect. You go on what could easily be classified as dates—the movies, lunch or dinner—you cuddle on the couch almost nightly, and you’ve never shied away from physical touch with one another. Held hands, a palm on your back.

You haven’t brought it up with Steve because you haven’t even come to terms with it yourself. Feelings are so fucking confusing and messy and you’d like to have a better idea of what’s going on in your own head before asking him about his.

Meanwhile, Steve has allowed himself to come to terms with it. He’s in love with you.

He’s pretty sure he has been for a while. Months, maybe even years.

It hadn’t come easily, though. It was nights spent similarly to yours, running through interactions you’ve had and the way he felt that one time in senior year when you went on a date with some guy from your math class. Even then, a part of him felt wrong about it, that pit in his gut.

Then there were his shifts with Robin at Family Video where he’d practically spilled everything just to get her opinion. She looked up and sighed “thank you” before saying that it was nice of him to finally catch on.

Had he really been that obvious? All this time? And had he really been that oblivious to his own feelings?

Steve can’t answer those questions. He can’t say when his love for you changed from platonic to romantic, he just knows that it has and he doesn’t think he’ll ever come back from it.

You’re his best friend in the entire world, the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, and he can’t picture himself loving anyone but you so wholly.

He’s fucking terrified of losing you, but he’s also terrified of never telling you how he feels and testing that what if.

So, like a desperate idiot, he knocks on the door to Eddie’s trailer.

Eddie opens it after a minute and what sounded like him stubbing his toe, “oh, hey Harrington. More weed?”

“No, shut up. I need your help.”

“You,” Eddie points at Steve, then at himself, “need my help for something? Are you ill?”

“Okay,” Steve, dramatic and bitchy as usual, sighs and mutters something about this being a stupid idea and turns to leave.

“Come on,” Eddie laughs, “I’m just joking. What’s up?”

Soon enough, Steve’s sitting on Eddie’s couch, Eddie pacing in front of the coffee table like this is a very serious matter, and telling him pretty much everything. Your kiss, the train of thought it sparked.

“Basically I’m in love with her and I have no clue what to do,” Steve finishes, sinking back into the couch cushions. It squeaks as he shifts.

Eddie pauses, tugging at his bottom lip between his fingers, then looks at Steve and says, “You know I’ve never dated anyone in my life, right?”

Steve groans into his hands, “Why do all of my friends have to be losers with no dating lives.”

Eddie ignores that, because he can tell how affected Steve actually is by all of this. How much he cares. He walks over and sits down on the opposite end of the couch. “Have you ever thought of, I don’t know, telling her how you feel?”

Steve rests his elbows on his knees, leaning forward and letting his head hang for a moment before picking it up. “Of course I have, but I’m fuckin’ scared.”

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Um, she could reject me and not feel the same way and everything would be awkward because I ruined it and I’d lose my best friend in the entire world.”

“What if she does feel the same?” Eddie asks.

He’s both yours and Steve’s friend, he’s been around the both of you together. He’s seen the way you look at each other. Eddie might not be an expert, but it’s always looked a lot like love to him. He’s pretty sure the chances of you feeling the same are quite high.

“What do you mean?”

“What if she does feel the same and you never figure it out because you’re too afraid?” Eddie says. “Man, don’t you think that risk is worth taking?”

Steve thinks about it, and as much as he hates to admit it, Eddie’s right. He’d hate to always wonder, to lose out on the chance to really be with you when he knows it could be so good.

You are worth the risk to him.

“When the fuck did you become so wise, Munson?”

“Dunno,” Eddie shrugs. “Wanna smoke?”

Steve laughs, “Yes I do.”

-

With Steve gone at work and you off for the day, there’s been too much room for your thoughts to creep in. Too much silence.

You’ve already been thinking about things so much. Thinking about him so much, that in his absence, your mind seemed to work overtime to fill in the gaps.

You thought about the day he picked you up from your apartment, how quick he was to drop whatever he’d been doing and come over and help you and take you home with him. The day he took you shopping and bought you a dress because he thought you looked pretty in it, the way his fingers fiddled with the strap on your shoulder when you tried it on for him.

The day he gifted you a remade version of your favorite picture from summer camp because he knew how much it meant to you, the way you held on to each other afterwards.

How you’d been waiting for him to get home that night he went to Eddie’s, just to make sure he was okay. How when he came in, he smiled at the sight of you curled on the couch, and he kissed your cheek when he walked by like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Your brain knew he was high, you could smell the weed mingling with his cologne on his clothes when he leaned in close, but your heart didn’t care about that. It thumped in your chest the second he leaned in closer, even worse when his lips touched your cheek.

The realization hits you now like a shock, a quick zip of electricity running through your system. You fucking love him.

Sure, you’ve loved Steve practically your whole life, but this was different. You love him, love him. Like, you want to kiss him when he comes home from work and in the morning. You want him to introduce you as his girlfriend and to be able to call him your boyfriend.

You feel stupid for not realizing it sooner, because looking back on things now, knowing how you feel, you can see it written throughout your entire friendship. Holding hands and kissing foreheads and hands pushing hair away from faces.

For a second, you’re purely happy, because you get to be in love with your best friend and it feels as warm and sweet as sunlight. Then, the fear creeps in, and you’re scared. Scared of losing him, of making things weird, of change and doing the wrong thing.

So scared that you start to panic and pack up some of your things in your bag like you’re running away.

Truthfully, you’re not sure what else to do. You’ve never been in love before, you’ve never known it this way—so kind and unconditional. And your parents sure as hell didn’t set a good example for you. They’d fight, and someone would leave with the slam of a door, and then they’d be back and the cycle would continue.

You’re scared and confused and your instincts are telling you to run away even though the only place you really wanna be is with Steve. In his arms.

You’re stuffing clothes into your bag just to keep your hands busy, breathing hard and fast, when you hear the front door open and close. Steve’s quick to find you, his eyes scanning your room and then looking at you. “What are you doing?”

You feel like you might cry just looking at him. His brown eyes worried but warm as always, his hands stuffed into his pockets like he’s nervous.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to be home until later,” you say, hoping he can’t hear the shake in your voice.

“It was dead, so Keith let me off early. I-” Steve furrows his brows, “are you leaving?”

You nod. “I’ve been in your way long enough.”

“I told you, you’re never in my way.” Steve knows you, and he loves you, and he can tell that there’s something going on. That you’re panicked and trying to get away from whatever it is. He cares too much to let that happen. “I want you to stay.”

You want to stay, too. You just don’t know what comes next, and that unknown, the lack of control, of familiarity, it makes your hands shake.

Your mind doesn’t work the same when you’re afraid.

“Give me one good reason why I should stay, Steve. I’ve been taking up your space for weeks and-”

“Because I love you.” Steve cuts you off. He hadn’t planned on telling you this way, he wanted it to be romantic and perfect but he can’t wait any longer. Especially not when you’re trying to run away. “I’m in love with you. And I want you here.”

You immediately stop in your tracks, blinking up at him like you’re not sure you’d heard him correctly. “You- what?”

“I love you. Romantically. And I think I have for a really long time.”

“You’re not high again, are you?” You ask, your eyes a little misty.

Steve walks over to you and grabs both of your hands in his, making sure you’re looking at him, at the sincerity written all over his face, when he says, “Completely sober. I fucking love you and I want you to keep living with me, because this house doesn’t really feel like home unless you’re in it.”

“What about when my apartment is ready?”

He squeezes your hands. “Stay then, too. Stay forever.”

You look up at him, his hair falling over his forehead, his eyes so honest, a tentative smile on his mouth. The only boy you’ve ever loved.

You feel silly for trying to escape this when this is how it’s turning out. Steve had been brave just now, telling you he loves you and he wants you to stay, so you decide to be brave, too.

It’s easier than you thought it would be to say: “I love you, too, Steve. I feel the same. I only just realized it and freaked out. I’m so scared of losing you, is all.”

“You won’t. Not ever.”

You tip your chin up to kiss him after he says it, because you can. You pour your feelings into it, and Steve returns your kiss as if it’s one he’s known for years. It’s slow, and deep, and sweet, and so full of love you’re practically overflowing with it.

The two of you only pull away when you need a breather. Steve doesn’t go far, resting his forehead against yours.

“So what happens now?” You ask.

“Well, we’ve been acting like a couple for a while, I think, so we stay the same. Mostly. Except now I get to call you my girlfriend-”

“Um, I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to ask me first.”

He lets go of one of your hands and pushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his knuckle running lovingly across your cheek. “My angel girl, will you be my girlfriend?”

Your grin is wide and lovesick and cheesy and you don’t care one bit. “Yeah, yes I will. Boyfriend.”

“And, being your boyfriend means I get to do this.”

He kisses you once more. And you don’t ever want to not be kissing him again.

𝜗𝜚

thank you guys so much for reading!!! it would mean a whole bunch if you would consider leaving a comment or a reblog and letting me know what you thing!! it helps more than you know <3

[superbfics]

it’s been so fucking hot outside and i am plagued with the fact that i know eddie is the type that has to touch you when he sleeps. it’s not even really something he knows he does, he just does it.

goes to sleep (and he is a hard sleeper, never wakes up) and is mouth open snoring, and it’ll start with lifting his leg so his shin is touching you, or a foot touching your leg. then he’ll roll and his side is pressed up to your body, sometimes an arm thrown over you. it’s kinda nice in the winter when you’re freezing and enjoy the extra body heat, but in the dead of summer, it’s misery.

you try to push him off, shove him only for him to roll away and come back stronger like a tidal wave, nearly laying entirely on top of you. he’ll grab at you sometimes, try to pull you in while you’re pushing him away.

the room is too stuffy, the ac not working hard enough and the fans not cutting it. you end up fighting eddie until you wake him up with a tired, frustrated huff.

“what? what?” his voice is groggy, sleep ridden and spacey.

“scoot over.” you huff, pushing him with your foot for emphasis. “you’re smothering me.”

“‘m sorry, baby.” eddie mutters, lids already pulling closed with sleep, rolling over towards the edge and away.

you’d have time to try and wedge a pillow between the two of you, hopeful that it would keep him away for a little while. he always ends up rolled over on the pillow, hand on your head or your hip, just to feel you- even when you keep shoving him off.

[superbfics]

come a little closer

REQUEST → dear nonny, SUMMER BLURB PARTY ❝ 💬 prompt 58, “do i make you nervous?” where steve and reader are more acquaintances and have mutual friends? – tina invites you to a party while her parents are out of town, but aren’t you too old for this shit? and then you run into steve and, god you wished you’d said no • +18 ( a little king!steve, a little spice, a little frenemies and a little fluff • steve harrington x reader )

C O M E A L I T T L E C L O S E R 🎶 waiting for a girl like you, foreigner

This was easily the stupidest decision you’d ever made, telling Tina you’d come to her party and then actually showing up. Because you were too old for this shit. Because you’d been out of high school for a few years now and who partied like this anymore?

You shot Eddie and Robin a glare as they stood next to you snickering under their breaths. They’d dragged you along with everyone else to crowd down in the basement and wait outside a closet door to see if Tommy and Carol would ever come out.

Seven minutes in Heaven. The most asinine game of all time, but everyone was eating it up. It’d been well over seven minutes and you were tired of hanging out with a bunch of old high school acquaintances.

“I’m leaving,” you hissed at Eddie and he grabbed at your hand with ringed fingers.

“No, not yet,” came out in a whine, looking down at you with big, brown, puppy dog eyes.

“There is no way in hell I’m going in that closet.”

Eddie grinned, smile lines creasing his cheeks. “C’mon, it’s not that bad.”

“Eds, you need glasses. Look at this,” you waved an arm around at the potential candidates you’d have the ‘pleasure’ of sharing a small, dark, linen closet with.

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “The worst is already in there,” he teased, “’sides, Harrington’s here.”

Harrington.

“Don’t even think about it,” you muttered and he grinned even wider.

“What? He’s nice now. Saved my ass more than a few times,” Eddie protested and you rolled your eyes.

“Absolutely not.”

Steve Harrington and his stupid member’s only jacket and perfectly coiffed hair and million dollar smile, the one that could – apparently – bag any girl he wanted. It had boggled your mind when Robin told you she’d made a new friend, Steve Harrington, can you believe it?? No, you couldn’t. Since when did King Steve buddy up with band geeks? A few shifts at Scoops Ahoy and you were already playing second fiddle to some asshole jock.

Well, not today. You didn’t need this.

Shooting back the last of the whiskey sour in your cup you gave the handle of the door one last glance and shook your head – stupid – but when you moved to leave the crowd gave a whoop.

“Shit, Tommy!” “Carol, oh my god, how was it??” “Did you find heaven?” “Gross!”

Tommy emerged from the closet triumphant, pumping a fist in the air with Carol under his arm, cheeks flushed and a big grin on her face. Everyone was eating it up and the thought of having to go in there with someone, anyone, made your stomach flip over.

“Eds, I’m going–”

“No–Sweetheart, stay!” he begged, nudging Robin with his elbow, “Right, Robs?”

“Are you kidding? No, you can’t leave. This is just getting good! What, are you nervous or something? Oh my god, you are! What’re you nervous about? Is it cos Peter Townsend is here? He’s so not your type–”

“Robin,” you hissed, cheeks flushed as every pair of eyes in the room settled on you.

“Wha–oh,” Robin chuckled and pasted on a piss poor excuse for a smile.

“You can’t go now,” Carol purred from under Tommy’s arm, “You’re up next, hon.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. This wasn’t happening.

“Sorry, I have to be up early tomorrow for work and–”

“It’s only seven minutes,” Tommy sneered, the grin on his mouth pulling up at the edges – a shark with blood in the water.

You couldn’t breathe, air sucked out of your lungs as your grasped at straws, trying to muster up another excuse. You desperately looked to Robin and Eddie for help, but they were too busy whispering and giggling at your expense and your cheeks burned.

“Fine,” you pushed, trying your best to sound unbothered, chin tipped up in defiance.

“That’s more like it,” Tommy said with a whoop, rubbing his hands together, “And while you were too busy arguing with tweedle dee and dum over there we all decided you’re in with Harrington.”

Your stomach lurched dangerously, queasy and full of dread.

“But, I thought you were supposed to spin–”

“Nah, we put it to a vote,” Carol cut you off picking at her nails, “Better not keep him waiting.”

Keep him waiting? Your eyes frantically searched the sea of faces staring at you, but Steve wasn’t among them. When your gaze finally settled on the closet you saw it was just barely cracked, a shadowy figure shifting in the inky black just beyond.

You thought you were going to be sick, but you weren’t about to be made into a wuss. Turning to Eddie you grabbed his beer and chugged it in one go, then finished off whatever was in Robin’s cup too, shit, easy sweetheart.

“You’re on the clock,” Tommy goaded as Carol took hold of your hand and tugged you toward the closet.

“Have fun,” she teased, voice sing-songy, shoving you through the door and shutting it behind you, plunging you into darkness.

❝ MAYBE I’M WRONG, WON’T YOU TELL ME IF I’M COMING ON TOO STRONG?

Your eyes strained against the black of the small room, your body all too aware of there being someone else in there with you. It made the air thick, too warm and too close and the booze swimming through your veins had you feeling on edge.

“Thought you were gonna stand me up.”

Steve’s voice broke the tension and you jumped at the sudden noise, pulse fluttering against your neck.

“You’re lucky I didn’t,” you cut back, trying to stick to your guns, but then he shifted a little closer, his breath warming over you cheek, and it melted whatever resolve you had left.

“Ouch,” he half-laughed, arm brushing yours as he rocked on his feet.

It was slow, but your eyes were adjusting, dense black shadows blurring into soft indigos and violets and Steve’s face swam into focus. Thick, dark lashes framing warm, hazel eyes, the strong slope of his jaw, moles chasing across his neck and cheeks and that dumb grin. The one he was giving you now.

"This is stupid,” you muttered and Steve laughed, tutting at you.

“You didn't have to come, you know,” he teased and you gifted him with a particularly bratty eye roll.

“Seemed like a good idea at the time,” you snarked and it pulled the corners of his mouth up into a tiny grin.

“At the time, huh? Not anymore?”

You scoffed, shook your head and folded your arms over your chest, but the words wouldn't come. Stuck in your throat at the way you could feel the warmth of Steve's chest lingering just a few inches away, the scent of his cologne making you dizzy, hazy at the edges and all of a sudden unsure.

Shifting on his feet, Steve's toes bumped into yours as he put a hand on the wall next to your ear and leaned a little closer.

“Do I make you nervous?” he asked, his voice notched a little lower, closer, closer, closer, and it made something in your belly twist.

“Nervous?” you huffed a weak laugh, “Keep your pants on, Harrington. I don’t even know you.”

“D'you want to?” Your breath caught in your throat as he crowded over you and lifted a hand to tuck your flyaways behind your ear. “You can obviously do whatever you want, but–” his tongue flicked out to chase along his lower lip and heat pooled in your belly at the thought of what he might taste like, “–aren’t you a little curious?”

“Curious?” you breathed, voice barely above a whisper and he nodded softly.

“Yeah, what it would be like.”

You’d been in classes him with since grade school, watched as he won everyone over for popularity in middle school and shot to the top of the social pyramid in high school all while you lingered down at the bottom with Eddie and Robin and Jonathan, but you couldn’t deny it. Of course you’d looked at him just a little too long, eyes stuck on the way his Levi’s hugged in all the right places, heart racing when he smiled at you from down the hall.

“To kiss you?” you asked and he hummed, a low rumble in his chest.

“Only if you want to,” came out strained, a strangled sound as he pushed the words from his lips and you found yourself arching into him.

“I–” you started, lashes fluttering atop your cheeks, “–I want to.”

And Steve wanted it too, hadn’t realized just how down bad he was for you. You in those jeans. You and the way you seemed immune to his charms. You and your confidence and fire and disregard for everything ‘cool’ or ‘trendy.’

“You sure?” he asked again, body tensing as your hips bumped into his, jaw ticking as he bit down on the heat swelling his chest.

“Kiss me,” you whispered and he felt himself unravel at the way your voice edged on needy, a little desperate, a little bossy and God – you were hot.

His free hand moved to rest on your waist, fingers pressing into the plush of your hip, breaths falling heavy between you as he leaned down, down, down to capture your bottom lip between his and it was like a rubber band snapping.

Years worth of tension pulling and stretching and straining as you both played it all off like nothing. Like you didn’t care. The thought of you being with each other like this a joke, but the only people you were fooling was yourselves.

Steve tugged at your bottom lip and it pulled a sound from your throat that put him in the palm of your hand — soft, pliable, yours. He dropped his hand from the wall to grab at your other hip and you teetered a little off balance, grabbing at his shoulders to steady yourself.

Your arms looped around his neck too easy then, like they’d been doing it for years, like they’d mapped the curve of his neck and muscles pulled taut across his back a thousand times. Pressing your tongue to the seam of his lips he opened to you and you licked into him, tasted spearmint, cheap beer, Steve, and you wanted more.

He slotted a knee between your thighs and you gasped, a lovely pretty sound he wished he could keep forever, keening for him as he pressed your back into the wall. Parted your lips with a pop and dragged messy, open-mouthed kissed down your neck, your collarbone, your shoulder–

“Harrington, is your watch broken? Jesus it’s been like ten min–”

“Shit,” Steve stumbled away from you into the shelves full of towels as Tommy yarded the closet door open, the sight of you two dropping his mouth into a little ‘o’. Hair messed, foreheads dewy with sweat, lips kiss-bitten and a hicky sucked to your neck.

“My bad, did you need another seven?” Tommy grinned.

Head leaned back against the shelves, Steve squeezed his eyes shut, chin tipped up as he pushed a heavy sigh from his lungs and all too aware of the way the crotch of his jeans was way too tight.

“Yeah, maybe,” Steve hissed, hands tangled in his hair and it made you laugh. A soft, little thing without any heat behind it, cheeks flushed and pink.

“It’s all good, Hagan,” came out easy, confidence swelling where Steve’s had deflated, “We can finish it in the car.”

And God, Steve would’ve made a mess of his pants right then and there if you hadn’t pulled him from the closet and up the stairs out to your bronco with a bench seat more than wide enough to fit two people on top of it, more than confident you wouldn’t need another seven minutes.

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