#steve fluff

[crappymixtape]

call collect

you and your best friend ( and coworker ) steve go to cincinnati for a big client presentation, but delays at the airport keep you there longer than expected — when your boyfriend calls and steve catches him fucking up, who will you choose? | *18+ TW: cheating, language (  3.8k, hurt / comfort, angst, smut, little fluff, best friends, steve x you, steve x reader )

C A L L C O L L E C T 🎵 over-the-ocean call, lizzy mcalpine

The sound of rain hammering the roof overhead was almost deafening. Like the static scratch of a TV without an antennae. The shitty little motel was less than ideal, but with all the delays at the airport, there was no way you were going to get out of there before morning.

When your boss asked you and Steve to fly to Cincinnati to present without him, it’d been a big deal for both of you; the fact that he trusted you enough to be with the client solo meant you were stepping into the next phase of your career, and Steve was too.

Once you’d reached your rooms, you allowed yourselves to finally be proud. Despite the stress of the day, you had just accomplished something huge.

“Did you see the look on the CEOs face after you presented that last slide??” Steve asked, shit-eating grin on his face as he dumped your bags on the floor of the room.

“He ate it up,” you grinned right back, cheeks pinking up a little at the attention.

“Hell yeah he did. You were incredible! Seriously, congratulations.”

The way he looked at you then conjured heat between your ribs. Proud, impressed, and maybe a flicker of adoration. It was a feeling you experienced more and more with Steve, one you knew was supposed to come from your boyfriend…but didn’t.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket and shattered the tension pulled taut between you.

“Oh–er–go ahead! I should call, Robs,” Steve stuttered, backing into his room.

“Right, yeah,” your composure was just as scattered, clearing a spot on your bed and fumbling your cell. “Hey, babe! I’m good. No, no, it got delayed,” you glanced through the door at Steve, watching as he dug around in his messenger bag, muscles pulling and flexing as he took things out.

“Are you there?” came through the receiver.

“What?” Right. Your boyfriend. “Uh–it’s okay,” you murmured into the receiver, “Sheets are a little scratchy.”

You gave him a run down of the presentation, told him not to pick you up like you’d arranged, and that Steve was checking if Robin could be available when you landed in the morning.

When the low hum of your friend’s voice filtered through the adjoining door between your rooms, you leaned forward on the edge of your bed to see Steve’s socked-feet kicking just above the carpeted floor.

“Yeah, he’s on with Robin right now, so don’t worry about it. I know you have to be to that interview by eight,” you reassured, hand smoothing over the old, wooly blanket on top of your bed. “Let me know how it goes. You too. Love you, g’night.”

Steve was still talking to Robin when you hung up, so you got up and took stock of your room.

The motel had vacancies, unsurprisingly, and was able to get you a couple of spots connected by a locking, adjoining door. You said it wasn’t necessary for the two rooms to be linked, but when you clocked the creepy janitor loitering near the ice machine you were thankful for it.

There was a mini fridge tucked into the entertainment system, squealing like it was on it’s last legs, and the wall unit next to the bed seemed to be stuck in AC mode, blowing cold air into an already freezing room. You pressed your fingers against the buttons, clicking OFF once, twice, three times.

Click. Click, click. Click, click, click!

“Piece of shit,” you kicked a foot into the bottom of it just as Steve knocked on your wall.

“Hey, everything okay in here?” he asked, mouth turned up in a half-smile.

“Oh, you know. Quality is their middle name here at the Cinci Suites,” came out overly sarcastic. “Sorry,” you apologized through a sigh, “I’m tired.”

“Tell me about it,” Steve commiserated, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “Damn, your room’s just as cold as mine is. Did you get a hold of Ian?” he asked, still lingering in the space between.

His hair was disheveled, sticking up in odd places after running his hands through it nonstop at the airport an hour ago, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. He’d undone the top three buttons on his dress shirt, open low enough you could see the thick thatch of hair sitting just underneath, and the thin silver chain that settled across his collarbone. Realizing you were staring, you dropped your gaze down to your nails, picking at the chipped polish.

“Yeah! Yep. I told him Robin’s going to pick us up instead, so he can make that interview.”

“Cool, Robs said she’ll be there, I’ll call her when we land.”

“Great!”

“Yep.”

Quiet stretched between you then, Steve still loitering half in your space, half in his, and a shiver ran down your spine at the cold, but more at the way Steve looked. Even when he was stressed out and tired, he managed to look good.

“Er–anyway. You go do your thing, I’m gonna veg out and watch the rest of this movie,” Steve cracked first, thumbing over his shoulder at the TV in his room. Someone shouted, Marty! from the screen just before a crack of lightning hit a clocktower in the background.

“Thank you,” you said, biting at the inside of your cheek. “Even if this place sucks, it’s better than the airport floor.” You gave him a small smile, taking a few steps toward him and the bathroom. A shower would fix everything. The cold, your aching feet, the heat swelling in your chest and Steve.

“Oh, hey. Don’t mention it,” he held his hands up, it’s nothing, and then pointed his chin at the closet. “Let me know how the robes are,” he joked.

You snorted, “Already looked. Mine’s got a hole in the back. Not promising.”

“Damn,” he chuckled, “Alright, holler when you’re out and we can look over client feedback.”

“Hey–” you added, “–if Ian calls again, will you answer it?”

“For sure, can do.”

Murmuring your thanks, you slipped into the bathroom, flicked on the light and fan, turned on the shower, and filled the room with steam.

~*~*~*~

Steve knew you and your boyfriend, Ian, had been rocky at best lately, especially after you’d caught him texting your best friend, Carol, last month. Ian promised it was just texts, nothing else, and told you how sorry he was, how grateful he was to have you in his life, that he’d never do it again, but Steve didn’t believe him.

Ian had a reputation around Hawkins, especially back in high school, and Steve knew he hadn’t been a saint either, but at least he never cheated on anyone. He hated seeing you stressed out and anxious. The thought of your boyfriend cheating on you always lingering in the back of your mind. You couldn’t ever, truly relax and Steve thought, knew, you deserved better. Better than that shitbag.

The shower in the other room turned on and it pulled Steve’s gaze from where he was sprawled out on his bed. He was glad you were able to take a minute to decompress, especially after the airport chaos, but when he caught your feet moving under the door his thoughts wandered.

He pictured you standing in the steam. Water spilling over your figure. The way it would run down the slope of your neck, the dip in your collarbone, the plush of your waist. Imagined the soft curve of your cupid’s bow lifting at the edges, tilting in a smile, teasing him from behind the door. Thought of the sweet sounds he’d pull from you, his lips pressed to the hollow behind your ear, the long sweep of your lashes and how they’d kiss the tops of your cheeks as he–

“Shit,” he muttered.

Shoving a pillow into his lap over his hard on, Steve tried to focus on how gross it was that Marty McFly’s mom wanted to bang him, but a ring from the other room sounded and he looked through the doorway again.

“Got a phone call!” he hollered, voice cracking. The shower was off, but you hadn’t come out yet. When your phone kept ringing, he stood from his bed and put one foot into your room. “Your phone’s ringing!” he said again, but you didn’t reply over the rumble of the fan. “Ahh, coming, coming,” he shuffled across your room and grabbed your phone from the bedside table, arm over his half-hard boner.

Ian Griffiths stared up at him. He scowled, but remembered his promise to answer. Swiping a finger over the green bar, he put your cell to his ear.

“Hey–”

“Carol baby,” Ian’s voice cut Steve off, a low purr, “I’m free until tomorrow morning. Their flight got delayed, so it’s just enough time. Can I still come to your place?”

“What the fuck–” Steve held the phone out, then jammed it back to his ear, “–I’m sorry, what did you just say?”

“Oh, shit–hey, man! Uh–I was just calling to see–”

“No, no, no–cut the bullshit,” Steve growled, “You fucked up and called the wrong number, man.”

“Dude. Please don’t say anything. It’ll be just between us guys, right?” Ian pushed, desperate, huffing a nervous chuckle, “You know how it goes, can’t control our manly urges.”

“Can’t control–Jesus Christ. I’m definitely going to say something and you’re definitely an absolute asshole. Don’t call again.”

“Wait–please, don’t–I can explain–”

Steve hit the red, End Call, button and threw the phone onto your bed, tangling his hands in his hair. His heart hammered against his ribcage, hard enough to crack it, face burning at what had just happened.

Your boyfriend was cheating on you, again, but this time he dialed you instead of his booty call and–

“God dammit, piece of shit,” he gritted between his teeth, tongue jammed in his cheek as he struggled to keep his anger in check.

“Steve?”

Sucking in a breath, he whipped around to see you standing in the doorway of your bathroom, a pair of grey sweats hanging on your hips and hair wet against your tank top.

“Is everything okay?” you asked, chest tight at the look on his face.

That look. The one that flashed between frustration, anger, and something softer, sadder, I’m sorry.

“Uh…” he bit his lips between his teeth, hands propped on his hips, debating. “No, actually,” he decided, “Everything’s not okay.”

Taking a step into the room, you could feel the familiar, awful creeping of pins and needles down your arms, breaths growing shallower and shallower.

“What happened,” you half-whispered, more statement than question, already anticipating his answer as he let out a heavy sigh.

“Ian called while you were in the bathroom,” Steve started, staying where he was to give you room. He held your gaze and you watched as his lips curved down, the warm, hazel of his eyes shifting softer. “But he misdialed…he meant to call Carol.”

Tears stung at the corners of your eyes and your vision blurred, your already defeated frame leaning heavy against the wall as you let his words hit you like a sucker punch. Steve’s hand twitched and he took half a step toward you, wanting nothing more than to just gather you up in his arms and hold you, but he hesitated. Didn’t want to be too much. Didn’t want to overstep.

You tipped your gaze up to the ceiling, not wanting to see Steve or the way you knew he was looking at you, tears streaming freely down your cheeks now.

“Son of a bitch,” you huffed, throat tight, “I knew it, I don’t know why I trusted him, so stupid–”

“Hey, hey, hey–you’re not stupid,” Steve interjected, taking those two steps now and grabbing your hand in his, determined to not let that douchebag get the better of you. “He’s the stupid one, yeah? You gotta cut yourself a break.”

Holding your breath, you were trying not to come apart at the seams, but you felt yourself crack the second Steve’s palm pressed into yours.

“God–” you exhaled through a half-sob, “–am I not good enough?”

“Don’t say that,” came out quick as a reflex, “You’re perfect.” His cheeks burned at his admission, unable to hold back any longer, “That’s his fault for not realizing how lucky he is. If I were him I’d tell you that every single day. D’you know that?”

Tears cut paths over and down the apples of your cheeks, the salt lingering at the corner of your mouth, and Steve lifted a hand to your face. Gently, he brushed his thumb across your skin, wiping your tears away, his palm resting soft along the line of your jaw.

“He doesn’t get to make you feel like this,” he insisted, brows knitted together in a mixture of anger and agony at the way this asshole could bring you down, “Doesn’t get to define your worth.” Taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger, he tilted it up so he could look into your eyes, so you knew how serious he was. “You deserve everything,” he half-whispered, shaking his head in disbelief, expression pained, begging you to believe him because how could you think you weren’t worth the world?

“Steve,” you choked out, throat still tight, your best friend blurred and swimming through your saltwater tears. “You don’t have to fix things, s’not your fault.”

“I want to,” he murmured and it made the ache in your chest cry out in pain.

Maybe it was the way Ian had cracked your heart in two or maybe it was the discomfort of Steve putting it back together, but when you melted into him, he wrapped you up without a second thought.

~*~*~*~

He let you cry in his arms, the soft fabric of his old Hawkins Athletics shirt soaking up your tears, threading his fingers through your hair slow and gentle, soothing. His voice low and reassuring in your ear, “Shh, it’s okay, I got you.”

When you finally came up for air, eyes puffy and red, he looked down at you, took you in, searched for any lingering signs of hurt or pain.

“I’m sorry,” you said with a half-hearted laugh, wet from crying, and he shook his head.

“Don’t be sorry, you have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I got your shirt all wet,” you groaned, running your hand over your tear stains, and heat flickered in your chest when he flexed under your touch.

“S’okay,” came out of him. Quieter than before, a low grate, and it pulled your gaze up.

“Steve?” you whispered.

“Yeah?” he breathed.

“Can I…I want to be honest with you,” you said and he held his breath, heart thrumming in his ears.

“You can always be honest with me.”

You were trembling now, the words on your tongue burning, and Steve’s hold on you tightened, “It’s okay, you don’t have to–”

“I want to,” you cut him off, squeezing your eyes shut in focus, “It’s just…hard.” Pulling in a deep breath you opened them again and looked up into his eyes, warm, honeyed amber. Whiskey and melted caramel. “Steve, I–I can’t stop thinking about you. Even before all this…” you breathed and it blew his pupils wide, his racing heart stopping altogether at your confession.

“Me?” he gaped, shocked, and the blush on your cheeks deepened, the heat searing across your skin.

“Oh my god–I–” you stuttered, “I’m sorry–so inappropriate–I don’t know what I was thinking–I’m so sorry–”

But you didn’t get a chance to finish your apology.

Dipping down, Steve swallowed the rest of your words in a kiss that had been simmering under the surface from the moment you met.

Your eyes fluttered closed, your arms looping around his neck to pull him even closer and he tilted his head to deepen the kiss. His tongue traced the seam of your mouth and you opened to him, letting him taste you, grazing your teeth over his bottom lip as you pulled away and making his fingers press into the plush of your waist.

“Holy shit,” fell out of him, breathless, chest heaving and brows pinched together in an effort to try and hold himself together. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to–”

“–me too,” you cut in, and kissed him again, and this time it was loaded.

The point where your lips pressed together was electric, kissing like it was the end of the world, devouring each other like you’d been starved, hands everywhere all at once, touching, grabbing, pressing, feeling.

Your fingers fumbled at the hem of his shirt, tugging it up over his head and flipping his long, brown hair into a mess. He sucked in a sharp breath at the pads of your fingers trailing over his bare chest, and for a split second you froze.

“Should I stop–”

“No, no, it’s okay, just your hands are cold, s’okay,” he rambled through a shaky laugh that died in his throat when you took his hand to slip it under your sleep shirt.

Even though you were the one setting the pace, you still gasped at the feeling of hand on your stomach, and his lips parted at the sound, so pretty, so soft, your eyes locked on one another.

“I want you to touch me,” you whispered and he nodded slowly.

“Okay,” he breathed, “Anything. Tell me what you want. Whatever you want.”

“Here,” you murmured, dragging his hand down your body and pressing it between your legs, “Please.”

Please.

“Christ,” he choked out, wrecked and he hadn’t even started yet. “Okay, you tell me if you need to stop. You’re in the driver’s seat.”

Pulling at your shirt, you ducked out of it and tossed it to the floor, bra long gone from your shower, and Steve swallowed thick. Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat and jaw ticking as he bit down on the sight of you.

“So perfect–god, you’re perfect–he’s such an idiot,” he babbled, only stopping when you took his hands in yours to ease your sweats down your legs together.

When they hit the floor, you were standing there in front of him for the first time without anything shielding you from his gaze and your heart raced in your chest. Wings against your ribs, a bird caught in a cage, laying yourself bare and trusting him to not let you fall.

He slowly closed the gap between you and took your hands in his, pulling you into him, closer, closer, closer, “I’ll give you everything,” he promised, your chests pressed together, skin to skin with only his sweats in the way. Dropping your hands, he looped his palms under the curves of your ass and lifted you with ease, eyes still locked on yours, wrapping your legs around his torso and walking you to bed.

Gently, he set you on the edge of the mattress, hands running over the tops of your thighs as he slowly knelt down between your legs.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured, “Gotta tell me.”

You nodded, words failing you at how perfect he looked between your thighs, at the firm press of his fingers on your skin.

Soothing circles across your knees with his thumbs, he eased your legs open and leaned forward, eyes still watching yours and growing rock hard at the way your chest rose and fell with quick breaths.

His mouth parted, tongue darting out to chase across his lower lip before gently pulling you into him, his breath warming over your skin. Just watching him had you soaked and he didn’t look away once as he licked a stripe flat and firm through your slick.

“Steve–” you gasped and he paused, lips shiny from you.

“Tell me,” he said again, and you lifted a hand to tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling him back into you.

He loosed a groan at your confidence, your silent order, the hum of it vibrating through you and coaxing out a moan of your own. He worked you with reverence, your body his temple to worship, a slow, tantalizing heat that he stoked with his mouth. He shook his head slowly back and forth, lapping at your folds, his nose teasingly nudging against your clit.

“Feels s–so good–” you gasped.

“It does?”

“Y–yeah, go faster–faster, Steve,” you asked through hitched breaths, your eyes fluttering closed as you fell back against the sheets.

“Like this?” he asked, tongue flicking a blur across your clit, and the sound you made was the only answer he needed to keep going.

Pulling away from your cunt, he sucked a kiss against your thigh, leaving a pretty lilac mark to find in the morning as his fingers pressed at your entrance. Gaze flicking up to watch you, you okay? He slowly slipped a finger into you and your mouth dropped open in a silent gasp. Flattening the palm of his free hand against your stomach, he eased another finger in and set a slow, agonizing pace.

In, out. In, out.

“So fucking beautiful like this,” he praised, words warm against your skin as his mouth closed over your clit again, and you cried out. His fingers moved faster then, thrusting in time with his tongue while your hands fisted in the sheets, your knees squeezing him between your legs.

“Steve–I’m gonna–I’m close,” you whimpered.

“I got you–let go, honey, I got you,” he promised as you gasped for breath.

“Please, Steve,” you were practically begging now. It made him put his mouth back over you one last time, sucking at your clit, pushing you over the edge and making you cry out as you came on his fingers.

Your hips bucked up into him and he swallowed your thrusts, his fingers working you through it and easing you down, soothing through the overstimulation. When you finally slowed, legs shaking around his head, you looked down as he pulled his fingers from you and placed them against his lips.

“You deserve the world,” he said, crawling up the bed to lean over you, his arms bracketing you in against the sheets, “Can I give it to you?”

His eyes searched yours and you felt yourself getting lost in the way he looked at you. At the way he saw you, the way he really listened.

“Yes,” you whispered, pushing up on your elbows to press your lips to his, still shiny with your slick, and he kissed you back.

“Want to give you everything,” he promised, and with every fibre of your being

you trusted him.

crappymixtape™ • steve harrington masterlist // stranger things masterlist♥️ reblogs and comments keep me going, friends! ily! ♥️

[stevesgother]

dad!steve harrington x mom!fem!reader idk if this will ever be anything, maybe a series of vignettes. i just love him as a dad <3

The bathroom fan whirs noisily above your head as you stare in silent horror at the light piece of plastic resting on the porcelain sink.

Two pink lines.

Your stomach churns suddenly, but now you can't tell if it's because of the life growing inside of you or the shock of the situation as a whole.

"Steve!" You don't shout so much as cry. "Can you come here please?"

He's already rounding the corner before you can finish the sentence. He must not have been far. "Yeah?" He asks. "What is it?"

Pointing to the cheap pregnancy test on the counter, you follow Steve's eyes as they follow your hand; widening when it dawns on him why you've called him in there.

He nods slowly, processing. A piece of hair flopping into his eyes before being hastily pushed back in place.

It appears words are failing you both now. Steve-- your beautiful, lovely Steve-- steps forward, wraps you up tight in his arms. His calloused thumb swipes across your waterline, and it's only then that you realize you've begun crying.

"What do you want to do?" Steve asks softly.

"What are we supposed to do?" You counter just as quietly.

"No," he firms, "what do you want to do?"

You pause. Think. What do you want to do?

You're young, scared, living in a cramped apartment with your childhood sweetheart two years out of high school. But then, images flashing in quick succession:

A daughter toddling towards you. She has Steve's moles and your eyes. Or, perhaps, a son-- cradled gently across his father's chest. He is a spitting image of the boy you've always loved. A weird, surreal form of deja-vu.

You realize right then, in that exact moment, that your life will always be divided into two halves: A before and an after. Before this moment, and after this moment.

"We can figure it out," You peer up at Steve through the wet awning of your lashes, "right?"

"'Course we can." he assures, tucking your head into the crook of his neck and petting your hair with the palm of his hand. "If that's what you want to do, of course we can."

You nod, sighing wetly, "Okay..." Then, with more resolve, "Okay."

divider credit to @/enchantingthings-a

[stevebabey]

the four steps between (best) friends and lovers

summary: Long-time best friends, it's not a surprise that it's you Steve comes to when he needs a fake girlfriend. One little white lie, one perilous family dinner, one evening of pretending to be a couple.

How hard could it be?

[ 12k + best friends to lovers + fake dating + fem!reader]

STEP ONE: THE PROPOSAL

"Be my girlfriend."

The glass held between your fingers slips and makes a loud bang as it hits the sink. The water from the tap pours over it, unaware of the incredibly unusual change in the universe that just occurred.

You tilt your head up, ignoring the lost glass, and raise your eyebrows high. "Come again?"

Steve huffs a little, as though you're the one being rather dramatic, and leans further forward across the island. His hands are planted firmly, his hazel eyes wide as he all but pouts at you. You're still grappling with where the hell that came from.

"Be my girlfriend. Please." He says. "For just one dinner, I promise. I swear I wouldn't be asking if I wasn't actually desperate."

You blink, clearly having missed a beat somewhere.

Frowning, you finally shut off the tap and rescue your abandoned glass from the bottom of the sink. You pick up and give it a quick once over for any chips. Scot-free, luckily.

"Okay, back up." You say, giving a small shake to clear your head. You make a face. "First of all, Harrington, ouch."

Steve sags a bit. "C'mon, you know that's not what I mean."

Not even a hint of a smile at your dig — which tells you he's probably pretty serious then.

"Secondly, what dinner is this? What could be so important that you have to show up with a faux-girlfriend on your arm?"

Steve properly slumps this time, a loud groan accompanying the languished movement. His forehead presses against the counter-top and you bite your tongue to avoid making an unhelpful, teasing comment about it. Instead, you refill the glass in your hand and wait patiently.

"I…" Steve begins, his voice muffled against the counter-top.

"MybrotherisintownwithhisfiancéeandI—"

"Steveeee," You interrupt as you give in to the urge, leaning over and poking him in the head. "If you want my help, please stop mumbling into the counter and tell me the problem."

He doesn't move for a moment, still face down, but you can see the rise and fall of his back as he sighs deeply. He shifts, twisting so his face is no longer hidden. It's noticeably pinker than it was a minute ago.

"My brother is in town next week." He explains. "With his fiancée. And my parents really love to kick up a fuss whenever he gets brought up, whether it's, yanno, like, about jobs and shit or whatever."

Steve waves a careless hand out. He rises from his slumped position, tucking his chin into the palm of his hand.

"And, like, this time it was about relationships. It was all," Steve's voice pitches up, whiny and nasally. "When are you going to get a serious relationship like Brandon, Steve? When are you going to settle down, Steve? When are you going to stop being a disappointment, Steve?"

He huffs another sigh, this one tinged with more defeat. You feel your face twitch in sympathy.

"So, just to get them shut up I…" Steve averts his gaze to study the counter-top suddenly. He draws an idle circle with his free hand. "I said that I was actually dating someone."

You take in his words. "But you're not."

"Thank you, genius. I had no idea." Steve straightens up with a scoff, throwing his hands out. Dragging them down his face, another groan warbles out of him.

"But now they're expecting me to show up to this dinner with someone — someone I'm dating — and I cannot admit I lied. So, please, be my girlfriend for one night."

You snort. His distress, a disaster of his own making, is just a tad bit funny. Just a little. A smidge. "Dude, chill. Just say your girlfriend is sick and she can't come."

Steve laughs mirthlessly. "That's like the adult equivalent of saying oh you don't know her, she goes to another school. No, I can't do that! C'mon, please."

His hands clasp together, raised in a plea.

"Think of it as one hugely, massive favour."

You take a moment to think it over.

"When is it?"

"This weekend, Saturday, 5 o'clock."

"Dress code?"

"Formal. Duh."

"How many people?"

"Uh, my mom, my dad, my brother, his fiancée. Maybe my uncle? Four or five."

Saturday was only a couple days away. He'd left it awfully late to ask—and you're not exactly sure who else would step up for the job if you said no. For the first time since he threw out the insane suggestion, you properly consider it — and feel your face screw up instinctively.

You? Pretending to be Steve's girlfriend?

Sure, to some girls that probably sounded like a dream come true, but it hadn't ever been like that between you and Steve.

You weren't even sure if you could picture it, being tucked under his arm, receiving delicate kisses on the head instead of noogies. Your nose wrinkles again at the oddity.

It wasn't like people didn't like to speculate — men and women can't just be friends, after all — but getting on Steve Harrington's kiss list had never really been a priority to you. Would you even be able to pull it off?

Your mind casts out to the girls that Steve tends to date, nit-picking as you try to think of what separated you from them. While Steve would certainly vehemently deny it, you're pretty sure you can pick a pattern out from the array of girls. A type that you certainly wouldn't see yourself fitting into.

Steve just… doesn't go for girls like you.

Steve, watching you closely, sees the hesitation sink in. He leans forward again, bargaining face on.

"You can veto every movie we watch for the next month."

You squint at him. Raise your chin an inch, forcing yourself not to smile too obviously. It's not often you get to see Steve looking ready to actually grovel for something.

He narrows his eyes, catching onto your deviousness. "Fine. I'll pay for your shakes for the next month, too."

You take another moment to think it over, exaggerating the hmmm sound you make. You tap your finger against your chin, indicating you're not quite convinced yet.

Steve leans further forward, his expression inching toward a bitchy disbelief. A muscle in his jaw twitches.

He looks as though he might start another slew of scoffing, his tongue pressed into his cheek, before he seems to re-evaluate what's at stake here.

He says, "I will drive you up to Indianapolis on—" He holds up one finger. "—one occasion when you ask."

Grinning, you stick out your hand for him to shake.

"You've got a deal, mister."

Steve sighs, his shoulders sagging in relief as he drops his hand to rest in yours. You give it a firm shake and just when you can see the thank-you forming on his lips, you tug his hand forward. You grin wider, almost taunting.

"I would've done it just for the shakes, just so you know."

Steve does scoff this time, ripping his hand back from yours. "You're an awful friend."

You bite down your smile, already dreaming of the free shake you'll be sipping all the way out to Indianapolis. You take a sip of your water and raise your brows at Steve over the lip of your cup.

"Hey. Don't you mean awful girlfriend." You wiggle your brows, not failing to see the hint of pink that colours Steve's cheeks.

Despite the colour in his face, Steve manages to deliver a long, unimpressed stare at you.

His eyes flick down your figure, clearly turning your words over in his head, then back up. As though he's actually realising what he's asked you to do.

He huffs another sigh, running his hand down his face. "Jesus Christ. This is an awful idea."

"Hey, it's your idea, not mine."

—

A stray blouse flies from the closet, landing in an unceremonious lump at the foot of your bed.

You toe at it gently, narrowed gaze travelling from the murky colour up toward the closet, to the perpetrator currently tearing your wardrobe apart. He doesn't even pause, hands still digging, almost resembling a dog burying a bone.

Sighing, you drop your head back, hair splaying against your pillow. The water-stain on your bedroom ceiling greets your sigh with silence.

You had thought that, while sure, yeah, the Harrington's are a fancy bunch, it ultimately wouldn't be that much of a hassle to step in as Steve's date.

You'd have to dig through your closet for the nicest thing you owned (and seldom wore) and you and Steve would concoct a ludicrous story that could be the next John Hughes film.

It would take an hour, tops.

A severe underestimation. Maybe the promise of one hugely, massive favour should've tipped you off.

"Are you being serious right now?" You moan from your place on the bed. You shift your head forward again, eyeing your best friend across the room.

Steve, still buried in your closet, makes a loud harumph in answer. His voice comes out muffled against the clothes, too swamped amongst the fabric. "—Y'know, this wouldn't be so hard if you actually had anything wearable in here—"

You make a noise of indignation, tipping your head further forward. Your necklace shifts, the pendant sliding down the chain and hitting the comforter beneath you.

"And just what are you trying to say?"

Steve pauses for a moment, his hands halted on a pair of coat-hangers. He leans out from the clothing and lets his head loll back, his hazel eyes forming a flat stare.

"Har har." Steve says sarcastically. He turns back to the closet, the coat-hanger in his hand scraping as he pushes it along, assessing each piece with quick, attuned eyes. "I'm just saying you have a lack of clothing that my mother deems acceptable."

He turns back for a second. "Which is a good thing, by the way."

You hum in agreement, letting your head flop back onto your pillow. You've seen the pantsuits Cynthia Harrington wears.

Steve continues his barrage through your wardrobe, making a noise of disapproval every couple of seconds.

You also can't say you had expected to get started so soon; as in immediately post fake-girlfriend proposal. It occurs to you that perhaps you've said yes to something bigger than you expected.

"You're taking this really seriously." You comment.

"Yeah, well," Steve reaches in and tosses another blouse, this one pale-blue, on the bed by your feet. "I know you've met my parents before but they're, like, different when Brandon comes around."

"Different?"

"Like worse. Way, way worse." He draws a line with a flat hand. "Brandon makes them just so—"

His hand curls up, forming a fist. He sighs, dropping it to rest on his hip. For a long moment, he stares into your wardrobe.

You push up on one elbow, brows knitting together. "Steve?"

Steve jolts lightly at your voice, torn out of his thoughts. He reaches out and plucks another blouse from your wardrobe, a maroon pleated one that you'd sworn you had thrown away. It's horrendous and definitely picked out by your mother. He turns and chucks it on the bed, crumpling atop the others and looks up at you, hands perched on his hips.

"Just, like, the smoother this dinner goes, the better, okay?"

You sit up completely, catching the seriousness leaking into Steve's voice. Damn. He actually sounds pretty worked up about the whole thing.

You smile, aiming for comfort. Even if you hadn't quite grasped what you had said yes to, Steve was still your best friend.

His parents were… difficult on the best of days. It was clear he was going for the least eventful, head-down approach as he could for this.

You could do that.

"Okay." You nod, more serious this time, eyeing the blouses on the end of the bed. You miss the relief that shutters across Steve's face. "We got three days til Saturday. What do you need me to do?"

"You can start," Steve says, spinning back to face your chest of drawers this time. His eyes flash over, with a hint of mirth. "By telling me if you even own a skirt that goes below your knees, you scandalous woman."

You laugh and get to your feet, wandering towards your drawers to pull open the bottom most one. Fishing around, you try to recall if you have anything church-worthy, tongue poking out your lips.

A hideous woollen skirt gifted to you for Christmas a couple years ago springs to mind. You shiver.

"Below the knee, huh?" You say. "You better start telling me about the role I'll be playing if I can't even turn up as myself."

You're only half joking. Your fingers curl around the scratchy fabric and you wrinkle your nose in recognition. Tugging it forward, it escapes the confines of your drawers and splays out with a sudden poof. You get the joy of remembering just how ugly it really is.

Twisting, you hold it up to Steve who has taken your place on your bed, laid back.

"Think this'll do?"

Steve's head perks up and he locks onto the skirt in your grasp. "Ugh, it's awful. Perfect."

You drop the skirt, abandoning it to take your place next to Steve on the bed. The springs creak slightly as your weight joins Steve's, the bed dipping and forcing you closer together. A smile sneaks onto his face.

"Okay, but for real," You jab a finger into the softness of Steve's side and he makes a little noise of complaint. "You've gotta tell me what I'm expecting for this, dude. It would be, like, catastrophically mean of you to send me in there blind."

Steve sighs — something he's really doing that a lot recently — and rolls toward you, propping his head up with one arm. The edges of his polo stretch as his bicep bulges. He frowns down at your comforter as he thinks.

"I don't know if I actually can prepare you for it." He admits, raising his gaze to look at you through his lashes. "Like, I think we're gonna have to just come up with a story and fend off the questions as best we can."

Another thought occurs to you. You frown. "Wait, don't your parents, like, know about me already?"

Steve's gaze darts away, this time staring at your comforter with a greater intensity. He gives a mirthless chuckle. "Yeah, well, that's why it'll work. They basically already ask me when we'll be getting together."

Your brows jump. A teasing grin taunts your mouth but you forsake it for a more helpful approach.

"Alright, then," You say. "Then let's do better than fending off the wolves. If I'm gonna be your fake girlfriend, I'm not gonna half-ass it. Let's knock the socks off your parents."

Steve's eyes jump up, meeting your stare and it takes another moment before he realises you're being genuine. You grin, poking him in the side again.

"And Brandon."

"Yeah?" Steve smiles. He sounds a tad awed at your dedication, his eyes roaming over your face gently. After a moment, he shakes his head, as if clearing his thoughts. "Okay. Uh, we have to come up with a backstory first."

"And it has to be one that your parents will believe too."

Steve nods, then pauses, a frown knitting together his eyebrows. "Wait, when did we get together? We can't have just started dating that's— like, almost as bad as showing up without a girlfriend."

You blink, perturbed. "What?"

"Oh, hey mom and dad." Steve says, his tone sardonic and flat. "Oh yeah, this is my girlfriend who I somehow started dating just one week ago, coincidentally just in time for this family dinner."

You cringe a little. He does have a point.

"Fine." You say. A little worry burrows into your brain — the longer you make your 'relationship', the more details you have to construct, to remember, and recall correctly.

You worry your bottom lip. "How long is long enough though? If it's too long, we have to remember more things."

Steve's mouth twists in thought. He gives a hmm.

"I think the last time you saw my parents was… sometime around New Year's Eve, right? They had that party, d'ya remember?"

You wrack your brain and find a memory with glittering fireworks and greasy hot-dogs. Steve had too much champagne and emptied his stomach into a bush. Faintly, the memory of passing by Mr and Mrs. Harrington fits in there— only for a moment.

"Yeah," You say.

Combing over the last years' events, you try to think if there's anything else you would've seen them at.

Graduation? You try to smooth out the wrinkles of that memory too; sunny day, sweltering gown. You hadn't remembered seeing Steve's parents there. "'Cos they didn't come to graduation, did they?"

"Nope." Steve says, popping the p. He rolls back to lie flat on your bed, folding his hands to rest on his chest. "What about after one of my basketball games? The final one of the season." He proposes, eyes tracking back to you.

You laugh without meaning to, spurred on by Steve's surprise.

"Really? At your basketball game? That's when the sparks went flying and we got together?"

Steve's mouth drops open an inch in offense. He throws his hands up. "What? That's, like, totally romantic." He defends. "Besides, it's a good reason for our friendship to have changed."

"You lost that game."

"I still scored!"

"Fine." You appease, laughing lightly. "We got together after you lost the last basketball game of the season."

Steve wrinkles his nose again. "Well, don't put it like that."

You laugh again, soft and light.

"Who asked who?"

"I asked you." Steve says.

You nod, carefully trying to commit the detail to memory. Your head spins as you try to think up the variety of different questions you might get asked at the dinner.

What sort of questions might his parents ask? Or his brother? They'll probably want to know the basics — how you got together, how it's going. You might get a shake-down to see if you're worthy of dating a Harrington.

Then, of course, there is the matter of ensuring you're a convincing couple. In love enough to be brought along to an exclusive family event.

That means… getting touchy. The thought sends a jolt through your stomach— will you have to kiss?

You bury the thought. You'll cross that bridge and have it's subsequently unavoidable, awkward conversation when you get to it.

You're not sure who'll you will have more trouble convincing; Brandon or Steve's parents. But from what you know of Steve's family, you'd bet none of them know him that well.

For all you know, this could well be a walk in the park. Maybe the easiest free trip to Indianapolis ever earned.

"What's Brandon like?" You ask, trying to get a better sense of who you'll be fooling. "Do you think he'll ask many questions?"

"He's…" Steve's eyes shift from you to the ceiling, his mouth forming a flat line. "An asshole, like my dad. He's got this amazing talent for getting under my skin. Which usually includes undermining just about anything I have going for me in my life. Or—" He gestures to you with a sigh. "—what I actually don't have going."

He rolls his head in your direction, his mouth twisted into a bitchy frown.

"He used to always rat on me to our parents when I was kid. He once got me in trouble for going to see Tommy just because he didn't want to walk me over. Said I disobeyed authority." Steve makes quotations with his fingers.

Your brows raise in disbelief. "Isn't he, like, fifteen years older than you?"

Steve huffs a mirthless laugh. "Yep. Told you, asshole. So, yes, he'll probably ask questions but I don't think he'll expect I'd do something as desperately pathetic as faking a girlfriend so hopefully we'll fly under his radar."

Reaching out, you whack Steve on the arm, relishing in his annoyed ow!

Eyes narrowed, you wait til he's looking at you with his what gives? face before you say, "What you're doing is not pathetic, nor is it desperate. It is an act of survival against your shitty family, okay?"

Steve stares at you for a moment before his shoulders seem to melt, the tension leaking from them. He flops his head back.

"Okay." He murmurs in agreement.

"Alright," You say. "Now, let's get this story straight. We got together at the final game of the season, which would mean we've been together for nearly…"

STEP TWO: THE ACT

Your legs itch and you fight the urge to readjust your tights for the umpteenth time.

Steve, in the driver's seat beside you, drums his hands against the steering wheel too rapidly to be casual. He keeps darting one hand to his mouth, teeth worrying at his thumbnail.

You'd reach out and smack him to get him to stop but you're beginning to feel the lurch of nerves yourself. The drive from your house to Steve's has never seemed so, so entirely too short.

"Okay, uh," Steve's throat clicks, clammed up from his silence for too long.

He hadn't spoken much when he had picked you up, other than to laugh at your joke at the mismatch of yourself and your prim outfit.

You'd ended up finding a double-breasted blazer in your mom's closet and you look almost ready to run as the local mayor. You're even wearing tights.

"We got together the 20th—"

"—of June, last year." You finish for him.

Steve nods, his face still facing forward. His eyes look a tad unfocused, even as he reaches out to adjust the collar of his dress shirt. "Right. So we've been together for, uh, about ten months."

You nod encouragingly, checking the details in your head. "You asked me out. Our first date was—"

"—at The Hawk." Steve cuts in, parroting off your memorised answers. "We saw Labyrinth and, uh, then I drove you home."

That part isn't technically untrue. You and Steve had gone to see Labyrinth together back in June of last year, but it certainly hadn't been a date. You find the details lend themselves quite easily regardless.

"That's when we had our first kiss." You remind him, even if it makes your face heat minisculy. "What did you get me for Christmas?" You quiz.

"Uh," Steve's hand rabbits against the steering wheel, nerves evident. He finally breaks his stare from the road to glance at you, his brows furrowed together, eyes worried. "Fuck, I can't remember."

"It's fine," You stress, waving a hand. "You got me tickets to Billy Joel and we drove out to Indianapolis for the concert in April."

Steve nods a bit too manically, his perfectly coiffed hair coming a bit loose. The houses flashing by the window gradually get bigger, fancier. He bites his thumbnail again and this time you do reach out and tug his wrist away.

"Thanks." He murmurs.

He turns the wheel, the engine droning as the car takes the corner to enter his street. Your nerves hike a mile higher and you tug at your tights fruitlessly again. The street is lined with nice cars — not unexpected for Steve's neighbourhood.

What is unexpected is the sheer volume. You and Steve peer out the car windows, eyes wide, as you take in the full street. When you swallow, your throat feels particularly dry.

You turn to Steve. "I thought they said it was a family dinner?"

Steve, his eyes darting from car to car, either trying to find a park amongst the packed sidewalk or maybe just panicking like you are, takes a moment to meet your eyes. He looks a lovely shade of chalky white.

"They definitely did."

There's a free space down the end of Steve's street, the driveway already full with two cars, neither you can recognise.

Steve's foot hits against the brake too abruptly and the car jerks to a stop, rocking forward. You grip the edges of your seat tightly as Steve kills the engine. For a moment, neither of you make a sound.

"What if there's more than just family in there?" Steve croaks, turning slowly to face you.

The paleness in his face has pitched toward something greener. He swallows heavily, twisting back to stare out the windshield and his hands on the wheel tighten. "Oh my god, this is— this isn't gonna to work."

"Steve."

"Valentines, we did Lover's Lake," Steve mutters to himself, eyes still out the window. "Fuck, this is so stupid."

"Steve," You try again. His own panic is worsening your own and if he continues to spiral, you fear you might never make it out of the car and you did not wear itchy tights for that to happen.

"You got me the Michael Jackson record for my birthday," He rattles off again, almost absentmindedly, as though his mind can't pick between panicking about trying to remember all the details or the apparent extra guests.

"This is— oh my god, we're never gonna convince them."

"Steve." You say firmly. His head snaps around, broken from his mutterings. He blinks at you.

You take a deep, exaggerated breath in. Steve follows instinctively, his shoulders rising as he inhales.

"We will convince them." You insist earnestly.

Offering out your upturned hand, you wait for Steve to shift to place his bigger hand in yours. When he does, your fingers curl around it, cradling it.

You can feel the rabbit of his pulse at your fingertips and you meet his eye as you say, "We know each other—really well. We're best friends. We've practised, we look the part, okay? Now, all we have to do is… be a couple for an evening. It's going to be fine."

Steve swallows and for a moment, he doesn't say anything. Then his breath bursts out in a release of tension, his hand finally squeezing yours back. "God, what would I do without you?"

"Crash and burn, probably." You tease, thankful when unease hanging on his frame is replaced by something more familiar.

Steve makes an appalled noise, tightening his grip on your hand so you can't pull it back. His other hand moves, his fingers dancing across the ticklish skin on the inside of your arm til you shriek out in laughter, yanking your hand back.

Your laughter seems to have dimmed the nervousness a bit. You glance over your shoulder, down the street, and track an older couple dressed primly entering the Harrington home. As you turn back to Steve, you swallow to gather your nerves.

"Ready?"

Steve doesn't look like he is, his shifting, unsure eyes and stressing hands. He pushes his palms against his slacks and takes a sharp inhale, before meeting your eyes. "Ready as I'll ever be."

You count the steps up to the doorway without even meaning to, arriving at the Harrington doorstep in approximately 47 steps. The maroon double doors before you seem taller than usual. Steve raises his hand to knock and then halts, his attention shifting to his upraised hand.

He quickly tucks it back against his side, except this time with his elbow held out for you.

A faint pang of surprise in your chest, coloured with something softer, nicer. You’ve seen somewhat what Steve’s like on his dates and you’ve certainly heard plenty of the aftermath. But you’ve never been on one, of course.

As you loop your arm to nook in his, you find yourself unexpectedly eager to find out exactly what it’s like to be Steve Harrington’s date.

Steve knocks on the door, then twists the knob and lets himself in.

Despite seeing the earlier guests, there’s little to prepare you for the room full of people that stand on the other side of the door. Moving on instinct, clinging to Steve’s arm, you step through the threshold and into the lion's den.

Your nerves fry. Never mind lion's den; you feel more like a fly caught in a web. Frog boiling in a pot? No, that doesn't work because you know exactly what you were signed up to when you said yes to Steve.

Well, not precisely. You survey the crowd, counting at least three times as many people as you were expecting with nervous eyes.

Your little white lie with Steve just graduated to having an entire audience. No pressure, right?

“Steven.”

The croon of Cynthia Harrington greets the pair of you.

You feel Steve stiffen up beside you, his shoulders rolling back, his entire body straightening up. His throat bobs as he swallows nervously.

“Mom,” Steve says. His voice is a bit dry and he swallows again. “You didn’t say there were going to be this many people here.”

He’s polite enough to not word it as an accusation. His niceties don’t work, bouncing off the painstakingly sculpted smile of a businesswoman.

“Please, it’s a networking event, I’m not sure what you expected.” She adjusts her diamond earring, swaying and heavy, as she speaks dismissively. “I told you this, Steven.”

You never hear anyone call Steve Steven other than his parents.

“No, Mom, you didn’t.”

There’s a barely restrained bite in his words.

That catches Cynthia’s attention. She stops her roaming gaze to focus on her son, not even glancing at you. After a moment, she gives an exasperated huff.

“Well, why else would we be back, Steven? Your father is trying to close business with Mr. Collings.”

The sting isn’t even for you — in fact, you don’t even think she realises she’s dealt it — but you feel it all the same. Steve’s arm looped with yours tightens, a minuscule motion.

Though you know he thinks they’re all assholes, it doesn’t stop Steve from hoping they’ll come back for him.

“Right.” Steve says, voice tight. “Sure. Of course.”

You’re just thinking about dragging him away from this barbed conversation, clearly pricking all his sensitive spots, when Cynthia’s sharp gaze slides over to you.

Her eyes gleam in recognition and her posture changes.

“Oh, is this the girlfriend you’ve spoken of?”

This time you’re the one who stiffens up. It’s momentary. You know that Steve’s likely freaking out too and at least one of you has to pull yourself together.

The most winning smile you can manage glides onto your face.

“That’s me.” You squeeze Steve’s arm with your hand. It's half in genuine comfort, half in show.

Cynthia regards you for another long moment before she manages to straighten up further, as though pinched.

“Oh! Yes, I recognise you. Remind me of your name, dear?”

It’s a struggle not to grit your teeth. Steve and you have been friends for nearing ten years now.

Still, you relay it politely for her. Your smile feels a bit wooden now.

“Oh, Steven. How nice.” Cynthia says, a touch of patronisation in her tone. Her beady eyes slice back to yours. “He had such a crush on you for the longest time, it’s—”

“Mom.” Steve hisses, cutting her off. Another unexpected jolt of something warm in your chest. Wait, really?

You chance a glance up at Steve. His ears are tinted pink.

You’re not entirely sure what to make of how that makes you feel, so you shelve it for later. Maybe when you’re not being thrown to the sharks by Steve’s awful parents.

Okay, too many animal metaphors. Falling asleep to the Discovery Channel last night is definitely taking its toll.

“We’re gonna mingle, find Dad.” Steve says hurriedly. He moves forward, past his mother, and tugs you with him. Your legs itch with the reminder of your scratchy tights.

“Alright, Steven. Make sure you say hello to your brother!”

Steve huffs, loud enough that you hear it, and you let him lead you through the throngs of middle-aged people. He stops when he reaches the kitchen, finally unwinding his arm with yours.

He does it so he can shove his hands in his hair, a stressed motion from Steve if you’ve ever seen one.

“God, okay, that went well.” He says sarcastically.

“Stop. You’re ruining your hair.” You reach up and rescue his lochs from his harsh grip, fingers around his wrists to tug his hands away. You’re far too aware of how long it had taken him to do.

Steve lets you. When you focus on his face, you notice the pink from his ears is also on his cheeks.

The question jumps off your tongue, unbidden.

“Was she telling the truth? About… the crush? Or was she just trying to tease you?”

The pink dips closer to scarlet. Steve sighs, his eyes closing for a moment.

“I— she- yes,” He admits. Your heart shudders at the revelation. Steve’s eyes open and he twists his hands so he can hold yours in them. “But, like, not now. In the past. Years ago, I promise.”

For his sake, you do your best not to take it too seriously. Even if you wanted to pry, now is not the time nor the place to do so.

However, you can’t resist a small, teasing grin. Steve catches it and his embarrassment gives way to exasperation instantly.

“You likeeed me,” You say in a sing-song voice.

Teasing is not unfamiliar in your friendship with Steve and getting to joke around, even at this strange party, feels nicer. Steve groans dramatically, his eyes closing and his hands pushing against your hands to shove you away.

A new voice interrupts.

“Liked? I sure hope he likes you now, being his girlfriend and all.”

You and Steve both snap out of your easy joking, remembering that you’re supposed to be presenting as a couple. Head turning to who had spoken, it only takes a couple of seconds for you to place who it is.

He looks a little bit like Steve, but not really.

The eyes are different, not as slanted and he hasn’t got any of Steve’s beautiful moles. But the nose, the mouth, put together with matching brown hair and tan skin, you know who this is without having to ask.

“Brandon.” Steve says. The name is stilted in his mouth.

Brandon smirks, his same hazel coloured eyes dragging a long, scathing once-over of his younger brother. He doesn’t look impressed, if his disinterested expression is anything to go by.

Then he does the same to you.

It’s almost tangible, the prickly feeling of his gaze raked over your body. Searching, hunting, nearly making you want to perk up to gain his approval.

God, Steve was right on the money. This guy is like his father but worse.

“The eye-candy of the month, huh?” He says to you, chuckling as if he’s made a joke.

You consider, then make the decision to throw all pleasantries out the window. You don’t smile back.

“Actually, Steve and I will be coming up on one year soon.”

Tangling your hands back together as you say it, you lean into Steve’s side. It’s warm, smells of his cologne. Only when you gaze up at him, do you let a smile grace your lips. It’s soft and genuine.

Steve smiles back down at you, crooked and lovely.

“I’m surprised anyone could settle him down,” Brandon continues and you turn back to him, fighting the urge to narrow your eyes. It doesn’t escape you how he’s jumped from one slight dig to the next.

He’s clever with it. Polite enough that Steve can’t exactly bring it up as an issue.

Brandon continues, swirling his crystal tumbler of whiskey idly. “Surprised he wanted to. Little bro always seemed like such a womanizer. Didn’t think he’d want just one chick.”

He leans in and socks Steve on the shoulder, hard, when he says the word womanizer. He’s grinning.

You have to admit, Brandon’s far too good at this — good at getting under your skin. If you hadn’t been forewarned of his behaviour, if you actually were Steve’s girlfriend, it would certainly rub you the wrong way. He’s certainly doing his best to sprinkle grit and strife between you two.

And you know it hurts Steve to hear — Sure, maybe when he was a thick-headed freshman, with no clue about the world, he had acted that way.

Nowadays... Anyone who knows Steve, even a little bit, knows he wants the real deal, more than anything.

“Not anymore,” Steve says, though it’s not nearly as confident as he usually is. He clears his throat and casts his gaze around. “Where’s Ariel?”

“Ah,” Brandon hums, looking around himself. He takes a long sip of his whiskey. “Not sure. I think I left her in conversation with the Erickson’s from across the street. She’s been pleading with her eyes to be saved but hey, she’s gotta learn sometime, right?”

Your lip curls up in distaste before you remember yourself. Fingers intertwined with Steve’s, you clutch them tighter for some semblance of strength.

You’ve got to get the two of you out of here before you start outright sneering at this man — which is very much not the heads-down approach Steve had asked for.

“Babe,” you say, effectively dismissing Brandon’s comment as you look up at Steve. He looks down at you and squeezes your hand. “Can we grab a drink, please? I’m feeling thirsty.”

Steve murmurs his affirmation and you both turn back to Brandon to bid a polite goodbye. His left eye twitches just once, the only indication that he’s put off by your subtle rejection.

“Well,” Brandon fixes his features, his smirk sliding back into place. “Don’t let me keep you. What was your name again, sweetheart?”

“I didn’t say.” You say, forcing the politest, more nonchalant expression on your face. You let him stew in the awkwardness, waiting for him to break and ask.

He doesn't. Brandon just smiles, though this time it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He holds out his hand and despite how you don’t want to, you place your own in it to shake it.

“Well, it’s been real nice getting to meet you. I hope I’ll see more of you later tonight.” He smiles like a promise. His grip tightens in the handshake.

You grip his hand tighter, matching his strength, and for the first time in the whole conversation, you match his perfectly fake smile.

“Not if I see you first,” You say, spoken pleasantly enough that the meaning of your words doesn’t sink in until you’ve pulled back. You urge Steve somewhere, anywhere that’s not here.

“C’mon, let’s get that drink.”

There’s a punch-bowl out in the living room, thankfully. Displayed next to it is a large jell-o mould, arsenic green, and jiggling gently whenever someone bumps the table. Rich people stuff, you assume.

You eye it curiously as Steve quietly ladles a cup for you, then himself.

The punch is pineapple flavoured but peachy in colour. You sniff the cup Steve gives you hesitantly before you take a small sip. It’s nice. Mostly juice.

You peer up at Steve over the next sip and the cup hides your near hiccup of surprise when his hand slides along your waist. His hand, warm and large, settles on the small on your back and urges you closer.

“That was— wait, this is okay, right?” He pulls his hand back an inch, hovering over your waist. You nod without having to think about it.

“Okay,” He sighs in relief, resting it back down. His thumb moves, soothing along the fabric almost absentmindedly.

He grins at you, “That was, like, amazing to watch. The whole —not if I see you first— just, god, his face. Amazing.” His hand on your waist squeezes lightly. “You’re amazing. I didn’t know you could be so snobby.”

He says the last word slightly too loud and you laugh, worriedly stealing a glance around the room. No one’s paying you much mind. You do notice, however, that Brandon’s meandered into the living room now.

You sidle closer, tucking up under Steve’s arm.

Surprise touches Steve's features; his brows raising a bit, lips parting, and cheeks colouring that ruby colour once more.

It’s as if, despite all your previous agreements, he’s forgotten that you’re supposed to be acting like a couple.

As if he’s forgotten that couples act like this. In love, that is.

“Are you finding this weird?” He murmurs, volume control on this time. It’s said just to you, muffled into your hairline.

From afar, you think it might look like he’s kissing your forehead.

You take another sip of the punch, peering at his dress shirt, and consider his question. It’s not weird, per se. You tell him as much.

“I think it’s just new,” You look up at him — closer than you usually ever see him. His lashes are long and spidery. His hazel eyes are lighter under the lights. “Just different to what we’re used to. It’s… nice, I think.”

“You think?”

You expect Steve to tease you for your own unexpected soft answer but instead, his response comes out with a strange reverence.

If you had to pick a word, something traitorous would maybe call it hopeful. Wait, traitorous? Wait, hopeful?

"Yeah," You shrug a little, no big deal. "I mean it's not that much different from how we already are, right? Just a little more..."

Steve's thumb swatches along your back, more intentionally this time.

"Touchy?" He provides.

You nod and pretend the strange acknowledgement isn't making you feel a tad more flustered.

The touchiness is really quite nice. It’s sweet to have an anchor in this freaky social situation, very much unlike the aforementioned and abandoned Ariel. Steve’s hand on you is a grounding touch, a constant soft reminder of the person who has your back—literally.

And the person is Steve — which, again, isn’t really that different from what you’re used to. He sorta always has your back anyway.

You suppose it hasn't really crossed your mind before, not in depth at least, the small changes that would occur if you and Steve really did date.

How different would it really be?

Chin tilting up, you slyly steal a look at him as Steve scans the party. He's probably planning escape routes, jaw clenched subtly. He's clean-shaven, not a whisper of that stubble that you think suits him rather well.

Would you still be friends, if the two of you dated?

The question feels silly the moment you think it, even if it's only spoken in your mind. You wrinkle your nose lightly and hide it behind another sip of punch. There's an easy answer to that.

Of course you would. It's like you just said: not that different from how you are now. Same teasing dynamic, same loyal history, same sharing embarrassing secrets and same driving around doing nothing, loving it.

Just more. More of this.

Steve squeezes your side warmly, his head twisted to look back down at you. He's asked you a question you realise.

"Hm?"

"I was asking how long do you think it's acceptable to wait to fake a heart-attack to get us out of here?”

Amusement draws your eyebrows up. You grin up at Steve. "A heart-attack? At your youthful, healthy age? C'mon, Steve, they'll never believe it."

Steve's expression twitches closer to bitchy as he considers your rebuttal. You take another sip of punch. He relents.

"Fine. What else? I’m not above faking haemorrhoids.”

The punch in your mouth comes back out in a surprised splutter, thankfully landing mostly back in your cup. A drop of it streaks down your chin.

Your surprise quickly morphs into a glare, eyes shifting up to deliver it to your best friend.

The shit-eating grin on Steve’s face tells you that his timing was not accidental.

“You’re unbelievable,” You hiss because what happened to the polite, head down, and not eventful approach that Steve had all but pleaded from you?

He reaches for a napkin for you without asking — and then tugs you in closer with the hand around your waist, brings the napkin up to your face. He hovers, giving you a moment to realise what he’s doing, before he dotingly swipes away the streak of juice.

“Careful now, honey,” He says, giving the petname a teasing intonation.

How he managed to pick the petname that does actually make your heart perk up in your chest is beyond you. Maybe he knows you better than you think.

“Oh, that’s how it’s gonna be?” You ask, brows raised, pretending to be annoyed. Your bitten-back grin gives you away. “Making me spit my punch and then just sprinkling in a petname—”

“—like you didn’t do that first, with Brandon in the kitchen.” Steve interjects. He crumples the napkin and drops it back on the table.

“Okay," You say. "Fair."

"We forgot to discuss that, actually," Steve says. He sounds casual but he looks away, studying the punchbowl rather intently. "What... like, do you like to be called? In a relationship?"

It is an oversight both of you managed to miss, which makes you feel a little foolish now. You focus on the question.

"I like honey," You admit gingerly. A tepid smile threatens at your lips and when you look up at Steve, he's already turned back to watch you closely. "It's a bit old-fashioned. Sounds more like something you say if you're married but...I think it's nice."

"Yeah," Steve says softly. "Me too."

Something hums brightly in your chest at his gentle expression, his fondness zeroed in only on you. You break his gaze to swallow, your mouth suddenly dry.

"What about you?"

Steve chuckles. "Don't like babe."

"Too late."

“Yeah, well, obviously.”

There’s a beat and you think if you’ve ever had this conversation before. Sweetened preferences didn’t usually make it into your gossip sessions. This is new territory.

“I like sweetheart too,” Steve says, somewhat offbeat. As if he’d thought for too long if he’d say it or not.

He peers down at you, a scrunch in his nose. “Not like Brandon says it though. He might’ve ruined that one for me.”

“He can ruin this dinner, but not that.” You decide for him. “C’mon, sweetheart. We look like we’re stealing all the punch.”

Using your hand in his, you lead him away from the punch table and weave through the people milling about the living room. A touch of resistance makes you glance back. You can see a pink glow painted on Steve’s cheeks.

Your feet come to a halt, twisting back to properly face him. You can’t resist the urge to tease. “Oho, you weren’t kidding- you do like that one.”

“Oh, shut up,” Steve murmurs, his tongue pressed into his cheek and his eyes narrowed.

“I don’t believe I raised you so poorly as to address a lady like that, Steven.”

You jump at the intrusion, realising you’d unluckily managed to stop right beside Mr. Harrington. Fuck, why are all of Steve’s family so good at sneaking up on you? You chalk it up to their snakeish tendencies.

“Dad.” Steve says hurriedly. Then, with a quick swallow, he corrects himself. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Mr. Harrington is not what you’d call an impressive man. Sure, his suit is tailored to fit and you have no doubt his overwhelming cologne costs more than three paychecks combined — but in substance? He lacks. Severely.

You’ve met him thrice.

Every time, you wonder how someone as wonderful as Steve, can come from someone like him.

Though, it certainly explains the god-awful ‘King Steve’ phase Steve had gone through in his freshman and sophomore year. You shiver at the memory.

“It was warranted, Mr. Harrington, believe me,” You jump in to move the attention of Steve’s father back to you, easily shouldering the blame. A smile, cool and collected, graces your face. “I was teasing him, after all.”

Mr. Harrington grunts in disagreement. “Hardly an excuse to speak so crudely, especially in front of guests.”

Opening your mouth to defend him again, Steve speaks first. “You’re right, sir. I apologise, it won’t happen again.”

Steve still shoots you a thankful glance. You clamp down your half-formed response and squeeze his hand instead. He squeezes back.

Maybe the two of you should’ve learned morse-code with all the squeezing you’re both doing. You hadn’t anticipated holding his hand for this long.

You could let go. You don’t really want to — and you’re pretty sure, neither does Steve.

You can’t remember the last time you held his hand.

“Your new girlfriend, I presume?” Mr. Harrington nods to you.

Steve barely gets a moment to respond when his father is waving him forward, stepping back to open a circle of middle-aged men behind him.

“Come, there’s a few associates I’d like you to meet, Steven.”

There’s no question, only a demand. Despite how it feels like stepping into a pit of vipers — damn you, Discovery Channel — you and Steve join the circle.

“Gentlemen,” Mr. Harrington addresses the four men before you, a wry smile on his face. “My son, Steven.”

Then, as an afterthought, with a glance your way. “And his girlfriend.”

“Oh? Not fianceé?” One of the men speaks up. He’s balding, his hair combed over in an attempt to cover his ruddy coloured scalp.

“I’m afraid you’re thinking of my other son, Brandon.” Mr. Harrington says, words suddenly imbued with a proud tone. Steve’s hand grows rigid in yours, though you don’t think he’s even noticed. You send a squeeze back.

A different man speaks up. This man has all his hair, but also has a pot-belly that threatens to send buttons on his dress shirt flying.

“Ah, well, fianceé to be, I bet.” He says, speaking directly to Steve and ignoring you. “Soon it’ll be the ol’ ball and chain. Enjoy your freedom while it lasts, son.”

Then the fucker winks at you—as if you’re in on some big joke. A deep, miserable pity dawns in you for their wives.

“Actually,” Steve begins. There’s an edge in his voice.

You glance up at him concernedly — sure, these guys are douchebags, but you know that. Throwing in the polite and heads-down approach in front of his father might be the worst timing ever.

“I’m not sure what you mean.” Steve says. The bite in his voice has receded and instead, he sounds calm. Polite. “My girlfriend is one of the best things in my life. She’s smart, talented, beautiful— and why she chooses to waste her time with me is a mystery to me.”

He speaks as though he believes every word he’s saying, a hundred percent. You realise you’re holding your breath when Steve turns to look down at you. His hazel eyes are soft, genuine.

“She makes me a better person. She’s… She’s my best friend.”

The line between your genuine friendship and this fake concocted act blurs entirely — and suddenly, you can’t tell what is real and what is not.

Worse, you’re not sure which you'd prefer more.

Does he really think all those things about you?

Steve, who should probably, definitely take up an acting gig after this, plants a quick, nimble kiss on your forehead to sell his loving words.

He turns back to his father’s business friends.

“Believe me, if I ever get so lucky as to marry her, I’d be the ball and chain.” He chuckles. “Not the other way around.”

You’re still holding your breath, heart stuck somewhere halfway up your throat. The businessmen before you show varying amounts of surprise and annoyance—none more of the latter than Mr. Harrington himself.

It doesn’t matter. Steve’s said it all in that perfectly polite way that’s so often been used against him. Something within you glows hotly with pride.

“Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us,” Steve says politely. He drops your hand to re-link your arms once more, then nods to them. “I need to reapply my haemorrhoid cream.”

You’re pretty sure Steve turns you both away from the conversation as fast as he does, knowing that you’re gonna laugh. You do, his last sentence so unexpected it turns your laugh into this foul half hacking, half coughing noise.

Steve pats your back, expecting it, raising his voice as he walks you forward, “There, there.”

There’s a little smugness in his tone. You wait until you pass back into the front hall — now Cynthia Harrington free — to unlink your arms and smack him on the chest.

“Asshole!” You exclaim, but you’re already laughing. Steve’s laughing too, the sound bright and honeyed amongst the dull murmur of the event. God, the looks on their faces.

“I didn’t think you would actually do that.”

“Hey, it got us out of the conversation, didn’t it?”

“Yes, but,” You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, gaze falling from his for a moment. “I mean, won’t your dad…?”

Steve sighs and then shrugs. “I think I’m done trying to impress people like that. If you’re not up to standard to them, why the hell would I care about their opinion of me?”

Your heart feels a little wobbly at that. Steve has always been devastatingly earnest; it’s just less often directed at you. The two of you are used to teasing.

You fall back on it. “Awww,” You coo, gripping his forearms and leaning forward with a coy grin. “You got haemorrhoids for me, honey? That’s so romantic.”

Steve narrows his eyes, trying and failing to suppress his own smile.

“Hey. Fake haemorrhoids, thank you very much.”

“Eh, what’s the big difference?”

“One is my bleeding heart, the other is my bleeding ass, is the big difference.”

He can barely get through the sentence before his laugh takes over. You dissolve into laughter too, cheeks beginning to ache with the force of your grin.

“Steve? Leaving so soon?”

The sweet bubble of laughter around you and Steve pops at the sound of Brandon’s voice. He’s in the doorway that leads to the kitchen and at your attention, he steps toward you, slow and deliberate.

“Yeah, actually,” Steve says. His eyes track Brandon with every calculated step his brother makes til he stops, a few metres from you both.

“Y’know, I heard that hasty exit in front of dad. Did you know that was in front of Mr. Collings? Y’know, the one guy dad’s trying to close a deal with?”

Shit. You swallow heavily. You didn’t know that. You know neither did Steve.

Beside you, Steve grows tense. When he swallows, you hear his throat click from dryness.

Brandon watches and revels in the tiny reactions, his smirk growing. He tucks his hands into his suit pockets casually.

“I talked with mom, too. Learned some interesting stuff, especially about your pretty lady here.”

He nods to you, hazel eyes slicing across to meet yours. Your nerves start to stand on end, something threatening in his calm demeanour setting you off. You grip Steve’s forearms tighter.

“That she is the best friend you’ve been mooning over all these years. And I just thought—” Brandon clicks his tongue. “Man, what are the chances that we don’t hear a thing about you two getting together until this conference? Crazy timing, if you ask me.”

He tilts his head to the side, examining the two of you closely. His smug nature is far, far too much like that of a predator toying with its prey.

“It’s like- wait, no—”

Brandon cuts himself out, fishing a hand out his pocket to gesture to you, grinning smugly like something is funny.

“Is he paying you?”

You recoil back, so baffled and taken aback by the cruel mockery Brandon jumps to make of his younger brother. To make of your best friend.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You snap.

Brandon blinks, surprised, and a bit of his smugness dries up. He draws his hand back, holding it up defensively.

“C'mon, like it's not just the kind of pathetic move he’d pull. I haven’t even seen the two of you kiss.”

He chuckles as if the idea is ludicrous.

STEP THREE: THE KISS

You act without thinking — turning back to Steve, your hands reach up to tightly grasp the collar of his dress shirt.

You see Steve’s hazel eyes widen ever-slightly, then you’re pulling him down, pressing up on your toes, and kissing him.

And… oh.

He’s not half bad at that, you think. It takes Steve a moment, but then his arms circle your waist and after a tentative moment, he kisses back gently, deepening the kiss. Not bad at this at all.

For one brief, precious second, you’re kissing your best friend.

And it's entirely incomparable to any kiss you've experienced before—immeasurable in passion and utterly undoing in a thousand ways.

Steve breathes a little heavier, his cheeks flushed, when you break away. You sink back down off your tiptoes, hands dragging off Steve’s rumpled collar to rest on his chest. You turn to face Brandon.

He doesn’t look so smug anymore. He looks ticked off. Good.

“Brandon, you’re an asshole.” You state plainly. “I hope one day, soon, your fiancée realises what a cruel and shallow bully you really are. And I hope she leaves you for it. Truly.”

The ticked off expression on Brandon's face veers closer to aghast and offended—as if he can’t believe you have the gall to speak to him that way.

“I hope you realise what a stain you are on other people’s life and I sincerely hope that I never have the displeasure of meeting you again.”

Moving to grip Steve’s hand in yours, you move towards the door without a goodbye.

STEP FOUR: THE AFTERMATH

It’s bright outside. Stepping out feels a bit like waking from a stress dream, where in reality, the sun is shining and things that were driving you nuts aren't really problems you actually have.

You stall on the front doorstep, where you were just an hour or so ago.

Well, that didn’t go… awfully, you think. In fact, you’re feeling quite happy with serving Brandon a perfect brand of his own medicine.

You’re about to open your mouth and say as much when Steve drops your hand, brushing past you to head down the stairs, “C’mon, let’s go.”

Your stomach drops at the tone of his voice, a prickly disappointment draped over his words. You’d think you’re reading into it — if Steve wasn’t currently heading for the car, not even waiting for you to catch up. A dead giveaway.

Tights itching from the hasty movement, you quickly follow him and puzzle for a moment. He’s mad. But at what? It takes only a moment to hazard a pretty good guess.

Before the dinner, the awkward conversation of how touchy you two would be had been breached. You and Steve both agreed; no kissing. Even with how close the two of you were, it felt like strange territory to cross into. An unspoken line not to cross.

By kissing him, you’d broken that rule.

Guilt wells up within you. Your moment of telling Brandon to suck it suddenly feels tainted by the sliminess of kissing Steve without permission. You pull at your tights uncomfortably, trailing behind Steve on the sidewalk.

As you reach his car, you swallow the lump in your throat, and speak up.

“I'm sorry, okay?"

Steve, who's reached the driver's side door, looks up and over the top of the car. Then furrows his brow.

"What?"

"For..." The word gets stuck in your throat like wet paper. "Kissing you when we said we wouldn't do that. That was-" You inhale sharply and study the trim along the edge of the car window.

"I just really couldn't stand how he was talking to you. And I thought that would shut him up."

You glimpse back up at Steve. He's softened a little at your words, the crease between his brows gone now. His eyes dart away, a muscle in his jaw working tightly.

"Yeah, well, you were right. It worked."

Steve seems to hear how short his words sound right after he says them, especially as you rear back an inch. He gives a sigh, his eyes falling shut for a moment. "Look, I'm not mad about the kiss, okay?"

His particular wording isn't lost on you.

"But you are mad." You press.

"I'm not."

You step closer to the car, desperate to understand. He is mad but he's not mad about the kiss? Does that mean he is or isn't mad at you?

"You sound mad."

Steve makes a sputtering noise, like he's torn between denying it or not. You catch it, pressing your hands against the car window to lean in even closer.

"So, you are mad. At me? Are you sure it's not because of the kiss?"

“Yes. No." He's furrowing his brow again, confused between how to answer your question correctly. He pinches the bridge of his nose with another sigh. "It’s- no, I'm not mad at you.”

Still not an exact answer. You eye him warily, your guilt still lingering at the front of your chest, aching painfully. It forces out your next words, reminiscent of a rambling apology. You take a step back from the car and begin to pace.

"It's okay if it is the kiss, Steve. I- I mean, we said we wouldn't and I broke that- and I don't want you to ever feel like—"

“I just— I didn’t want our first kiss to be like that!”

That halts your pacing, feet quite suddenly rooted to the spot. You turn rapidly back to Steve, your eyes wider than they were a moment ago, heart jammed back up your throat. Did he just say...?

Steve realises what's escaped him a moment after you do. His hand leaps to cover his mouth as if he can smother the secret he's just let slip.

His eyes crush closed. He smushes his hand against his face more forcefully as though he's trying to push the words back into his mouth.

"What does that mean?" You ask softly. "Steve?"

He clears his throat, dragging the hand down and off his face sluggishly. "That, ah, no- nothing!" He deflects, hands making a crossing motion. "It means—zilch. I just, ah, you know- it's—"

He's thought about it before—about how he'd want a first kiss between the two of you to go.

A glow in you dissolves, the saturated sweetness of it riding through your veins like a sugar rush. You have a sudden wish you weren't wearing such a ghastly outfit for this conversation.

"Steve," You interrupt him. You round the front of the car slowly, stopping with still some distance between you. Let him meet you in the middle. If you're right about all this, that is.

"If there's even a small part of you that wants to do that again," Your breath shudders at your inhale. "You need to tell me."

"A small part?" Steve echoes your words, his tone incredulous. He rounds the car to meet you, his hands out in front of him, flexing into fists. "Don't— don't say what I think you're going to say, if you don't mean it."

He pauses in front of you, eyes blazing with a fierce emotion as he stares down at you. He studies your face and then groans, tipping his head back and burying his hands in his hair.

"It's a big part, y/n. A huge fucking part of me wants to kiss you again and has wanted to for awhile." Steve stresses. His hands sag down from his mussed hair to hang off his neck before he gestures back to the Harrington house.

"What I said in there? About my crush on you being ages ago? I lied. I've had a crush on you for years and I don't think I ever stopped and so if you don’t mean what I think you mean, please don’t… Don’t give me hope.”

There's desperation in his final plea.

A thousand emotions course through you, all competing for your attention. You squint incredulously at Steve, half tempted to sock him for the feeling of a kept-secret. You're best friends for gods sake. Years. Years, he said.

A tremble takes your heart. You open your mouth and try to find the right words.

"Wha... You never said anything."

It comes out a little insulted.

Steve stares at you, flabbergasted. "You never seemed interested!"

"I didn't think I was your type!"

Though it seems impossible, Steve's eyes widen further, his hands shifting to hold out before him, fingers spread wide.

"Are you saying you've thought about it before!?"

"No!" You exclaim, suddenly stressed. You run your hands across your face agitatedly. "I mean, yes. Of course, I've thought about it before!”

Your fingers splay against your cheeks, pulling an expression not unlike the painting The Scream. You're not sure you've ever been this stressed, this undone before.

“Every day through fuckin' high school someone asked me if we were a thing. I just... hadn't, like, considered it til today. Properly."

"Okay, okay," Steve breathes in deeply.

He brings his hands together, clasping them, and he rests them against his forehead. For a second, he stares at the ground before he meets your gaze, dropping his hands.

"And... now?"

Fuck. Right. Cards on the table, you guess.

"Like," You don't know where to put your hands now. They drop off your face and hang loosely at your side. "I told you, I hadn't really, like, thought about it — but we were in there and it just wasn't that different!"

It's a heavy effort to keep yourself looking at Steve. There's no decoding the expression on his face, not when you're already frantically trying to unscramble your own feelings.

"If we did actually, yanno—" You stumble over the words, a fierce and bumbling heat flaming your face. "—date and be—I don't know—boyfriend and girlfriend, like, I guess what would actually change? And now I think we've just been one step removed from dating this whole time!"

Steve takes an almost quivering breath in and takes a step forward, bringing you both closer. He asks the million-dollar question.

"Would you... want that?"

"I," You flex your hands anxiously. "I don't think we can go back to the way things were." You say truthfully.

Something crestfallen ripples across Steve's face. It's hidden away in the next second. You gulp involuntarily. You feel so nervous you can feel it's fizzing inside you, bubbling like a freshly carbonated drink.

But more than that, it feels like you're balancing on the precipice of something good. Like waiting for news on whether you get something you desperately want.

And there it is; the true revelation.

"And I don't think I want to."

The admittance hangs between you, strung out and tinged with your apprehension and Steve's disbelief. He stares at you, brown hair tousled and messy, pink lips parted in his surprise.

He's your best friend and he's been waiting all this time. Holding the torch quietly, the flame flickering low sometimes, but always burning, always for you.

How the hell did you miss it?

"You..." He croaks. He reaches up and tugs at his tie as if it's suddenly too tight around his neck. "You mean that? You'd want to, like, date me?"

What you really want is to kiss him again. To chase away the tender look of disbelief in his eyes with a passionate press of your mouth against his. But you won't kiss him without asking twice in one day.

"I would like to try," You say. It takes a lot of courage to not lose your nerve. You rock up onto the balls of your feet to let out some of the rampant nervous energy.

Steve clocks it, some part of his brain that knows you, and all your tells well, finally coming back online. You're as nervous as he is, and maybe just as unsure.

But you want to try.

That's about all Steve's ever wanted. A chance for more between you.

He closes the distance between you, his hands shifting up and sliding along your neck to cup your jaw. It's ticklish enough to make you shiver and Steve smiles at the motion. He draws your faces closer and you push up on your toes to reach properly, magnetically drawn in.

He pauses just before your lips can touch.

Your eyes scan his face and he does the same to yours, both of you drinking in the intimate closeness. This close, you can see the tiny quiver hidden in his lips.

Fondness percolates between you, sweeter than sunlight and softer than a daydream. You can't resist the smile that toys at your mouth. Steve smiles too.

You're excited.

His pupils are blown wider than usual, only a ring of hazel around them. It might be your new favourite colour.

"I imagined," Steve murmurs lowly, his eyes now trained on your lips. "Our first kiss would be more like this."

The kiss is different from the one in the hallway. There's no surprise in it, no hesitance — Steve cradles your face between his hands preciously and kisses you so fiercely you ache.

He kisses with painstaking reverence. With an unfaltering adoration. Steve kisses you as though he envies anything that's ever touched your lips.

You grapple to find purchase on his suit jacket, your fingers curling around the material and pulling him closer without breaking the kiss. Steve hums into your mouth, his nose pressing against yours. You're both trying to pull each other closer.

"That was-" You breath heavily against his mouth as the kiss breaks. Your eyes open. Steve's gazing at you through his lashes, honey-eyes doting.

"You-" You try again, realising you haven't finished your sentence. You can barely get a word out, a relentless grin overtaking your lips. "I mean—you thought it- like that?"

"I hoped." Steve whispers. He's grinning too, not yielding any of the nearness between you. His thumbs on your jaw swatch softly across your skin.

God, he'll undo you entirely. This newness, this intimacy, it's ruining you. You capture your bottom lip with your teeth and bite it meanly to try to contain your grin.

"So, like, you wanna try? For real?" You say, matching his whisper. Speaking too loud feels like it breaks the moment—and you want to savour it as long as you can.

You can't even imagine how Steve must be feeling, waiting all those years. You take your feelings and multiple them tenfold. It's dizzying. It only endears you even more.

"Like, being boyfriend girlfriend?"

Steve's eyes crinkle in happiness as he scrunches them closed for a moment. His nose scrunches a little too at the motion. He takes a deep inhale and opens his eyes.

"Dating, boyfriend girlfriend, sweethearts, I don't care what you call it." He breathes. "Yes. Yes, to all of it."

Then he kisses you again, stealing the affection off your lips with an ardour that threatens to make your knees weak.

You kiss and kiss until you and Steve are both smiling too much to properly continue.

Only a couple days ago he'd asked the same question you had asked him, except as a begged request to help his ruse. He's the only one you'd have said yes to, you know now, the only exception.

One can only wonder how the two of you would have carried on if you had said no — never gone along with his frankly ridiculous plan, never showed up on his arm to fool an event full of people, never kissed him just to piss off his brother.

Never known the true depths of affection Steve held for you.

As you crowd in closer — your lips skimming across his gently, hearing the hitch in Steve's breath before you kiss him once more— you're thankful you'll never really know.

taggin some peeps below! @illyrianbitch @headkiss @brettsgoldstein @spideystevie @djotime

@katsu28 @inthehystericalrealm @djarinova @cheugyphobe @sunshinesteviee

@sunlitide @citrinesparkles @bigfrogs

just ppl that either expressed interest in the preview or i thought would enjoy! <3 i don't know what possessed me to pick this draft up and straight up like double the word count and finish it in one day but whew,,, i enjoyed that sm

[wonderlandwalker]

Hell Hath no Fury like a Buckley

𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 / 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 / 𝐩𝐭. 𝐈𝐈

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x fem!buckley!reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 6.2k 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: there's exactly two thoughts left in Steve's brain: you, and the fact that he's about to majorly violate the bro code 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: the usual I guess, hopeless pining, smut, mostly those, seems the only writing style I have is 'falls desperately deeply in love at first sight' and I'm not in the mood to psychoanalyse it so here's more of that

𝐚/𝐧: was gonna work on this more but I had to commemorate Pope Francis' morbidly entertaining demise somehow x

Steve Harrington was many things—

Former King of Hawkins High (retired, thank you very much). Babysitter extraordinaire (unofficial title, of course, but the kids would back him up). And, according to Robin Buckley—his best friend, partner-in-crime, and personal tormentor—a ‘walking disaster with good hair’.

But right now?

Right now, he was fucking mortified.

Okay.

Wait—

Let’s rewind.

Five minutes ago, life had been simple: Steve had been doing his best impression of a responsible lifeguard, which mostly meant leaning against the chair with his sunglasses perched low, pretending he wasn’t counting the minutes until his shift ended and he could stop caring about pH levels. The Hawkins community pool was the same as ever— the sharp tang of sunscreen and chlorine in the air, kids cannonballing into the deep end, and Debbie — the one lifeguard who actually gave a shit about the rules— blowing her whistle at some poor kid for running. Steve?

Steve was here for two reasons. One: free access to the pool after hours — unofficial, of course—courtesy of Keith’s lack of managerial oversight.  And two: A pay cheque that barely covers gas money but is still better than listening to his dad rant on to him about ‘loafing around all summer like a goddamn bum.’

And then— 

Then he saw you.

Which, okay, is not that unusual— people come to the pool all the time.  And it wasn’t that you stood out, not really. No, you were just— there. In a swimsuit like half the other girls, a loose cover-up tied around your hips, but fuck— As you stepped into the sunlight, it was like the universe had hit pause. You moved like a struck match in a room full of shadows—vivid, flickering, impossible to look away from. Everybody else blurred at the edges, cardboard cut-outs in your wake, but you? You burnt.

And Steve—God, Steve was already half in love with the way the light would destroy him. He knew the story. Knew how it ended. Orpheus wasn’t supposed to turn around. But you smiled at him, and suddenly he understood: some temptations aren’t meant to be resisted. They’re meant to unravel you, thread by thread, until you’re grateful for the ruin.

Oh, shit.

You were walking straight toward him.

Fuck.

Think, Harrington, think.

You looked familiar. Hawkins isn’t exactly a metropolis—if you’d gone to school here, he’d know you. Had you been at the summer fun fair? Sat behind him in chem sophomore year? Christ, this was bad. Steve—King Steve, who used to have the entire school catalogued in his peripheral vision—couldn’t even scrape together a fucking name. Maybe you were—

Your eyes met his—sharp enough to flay him open—and your smirk said you knew exactly how hard his brain was liquidating.

Double fuck.

You were smiling at him—Christ—that stagnant, astute curve of lips that already felt branded behind his eyelids, and he was staring. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Some distant, rational part of his intellect screamed at him: say something cool. Say something cool. 

Instead, all he could track was the way you tilted your head—that loose strand of hair escaping, catching sunlight like spun gold as it tumbled free. His fingers spasmed at his side with the sudden, visceral urge to reach out—to brush it back behind your ear with a touch too tender for whatever this was. The realisation made him feel violently stupid, like some second-rate rom-com hero about to monologue his feelings in the rain.

"Hey," you said, and your voice wrapped around him like smoke. Steve's pulse stuttered. "Have you seen Robin by any chance?"

The whiplash of it—the casual destruction of that moment—left his cerebrum sputtering like a dying engine.

Robin?

Why the hell were you asking about Robin?

Robin doesn’t have friends he didn’t know about. He is her best friend, which means he knows all her people—the band geeks, the weirdos from the record store, and even that one girl who could recite The Hobbit in Elvish. He’d met them all.

And yet, here you were, asking for her like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like you had the right to know her schedule. Like you—

His mouth moved faster than his brain. "She left to grab beers, like...five minutes ago."

"Figures," you hummed, rolling your eyes, but the corners of your mouth twitched—that tell-tale sign of years weathering Robin's particular brand of chaos. "She swore she'd meet me here, but I guess we're operating on Buckley Standard Time again."

Steve's thoughts screeched to a halt.

Buckley Standard Time.

That was—

No. That couldn't be right. Because that was his bit. Well, technically it was their bit — his and Robin’s— the joke he'd made after she'd shown up forty minutes late to their shift because she'd "gotten into a debate about whether hot dogs were sandwiches with some guy at the record store." 

He'd thought that was theirs. Just theirs.

But you knew it.

Which meant—

Oh shit.

Oh, no.

His stomach dropped like he’d just crested the first hill of a rollercoaster—that awful, weightless second before the plunge. Because there were only two kinds of people who knew Buckley Standard Time: him, and someone who’d known Robin longer than he had. And unless you were some kind of psychic super-stalker (which, given the way his heart was currently trying to break through his ribs, he might’ve honestly preferred), that left only one earth-shattering possibility.

His eyes flicked over your face again, searching for it—the resemblance. The same sharp wit tucked into the corner of your smile. The identical nose scrunch when you laughed. Christ, how had he missed it? He’d been too busy being dazzled, too busy cataloguing the way sunlight caught in your eyes, to notice the nuclear bomb of a truth staring him in the face.

“Y-you’re—” Steve cleared his throat, trying to wrestle his voice into something resembling casual indifference. It came out closer to a pubescent seagull. “You’re Robin’s…?”

“Twin.Yeah.” Your grin widened, head tilting in a way that should’ve had a government warning: Caution: May cause permanent heart palpitations.

Holy.

Shit.

He’d heard about you, of course—the mythical other half of Robin’s childhood stories, the shadow in the Polaroids stuffed in her wallet. He’d even known you were coming to town for the summer. But in his mind, he’d just pictured… Robin 2.0. Same chaos, different zip code. But meeting you in person was a different kind of disaster.

Not only were you Robin’s sister—fully, irrevocably off-limits by the Bro Code in every conceivable universe—but he’d just spent the past two minutes mentally drafting embarrassingly bad poetry about how your eyes reminded him of...something poetic (he hadn't gotten that far). 

And Robin?

Robin was going to murder him.

Slowly. Painfully. With that special look of disappointment she reserved exclusively for when he was being “particularly Harrington-ish”.

"Oh," he said, brilliantly. "Cool. That's—cool." The words hung in the air like particularly unimpressive confetti. You raised one eyebrow, clearly savouring the spectacle of smooth talking. Steve Harrington reduced to a floundering mess. "You okay there?"

"Yep. Great. Never better." His grip on the lifeguard chair tightened until the plastic creaked ominously. "Just, uh—didn't know Robin had a sister." Stupid. Stupidstupidstupid—

The moment the words left his mouth, your face twitched—part amusement, part genuine bewilderment. “Really?” For a second he wondered if he should just fucking bolt, but then your smile returned, and he forgot how his lungs worked. "I've been away at college," you explained, shifting your weight just enough to make the hem of your cover-up ride up, and Steve suddenly developed an intense fascination with the chlorine dispenser behind you, his ears burning crimson. "But I'm back for the summer, and Robin promised me pool privileges." You leaned in, dropping your voice to a conspiratorial whisper that sent shivers down his spine. "Apparently, you're the guy to sweet-talk for after-hours access."

Sweet-talk.

You wanted to sweet-talk him.

Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

His mouth opened, ready to blurt something catastrophically eager like, "You don't even need to sweet-talk me; I'd drain the pool and refill it with champagne if you asked," when—

"There you are!"

Robin materialised like some kind of vengeful angel, arms loaded with a six-pack and a half-eaten bag of chips. "I see you two already met." Her expression cycled from relief at spotting you to instant suspicion as her gaze darted between your amused smile and Steve's deer-in-headlights-meets-fish-out-of-water-meets-man-who-just-remembered-he-left-the-stove-on panic. "Why does Steve look like he's about to pass out?" She asked flatly, already exhausted. "Earth to Harrington. You good?" Robin waved a hand in front of his glazed-over eyes, then shot you a look. "This guy's supposed to save lives? Yeah, right."

Which brings us back to fucking mortified.

Robin doesn’t even wait for you to reach the car, having commandeered you on an urgent towel retrieval mission she absolutely (and suspiciously) couldn’t handle herself. One second Steve's watching you go, the next he's being manhandled behind the snack bar like a misbehaving golden retriever, Robin's fingers digging into his bicep like she’s trying to jump-start his malfunctioning brain through sheer force. "What the fuck is up with you?" She hisses, voice low enough that it bypasses his eardrums and vibrates directly in his panic centre. Her free hand gestures wildly toward the parking lot. "Why are you acting so weird?”

Steve opens his mouth. Closes it. His throat makes a noise like a dial-up modem trying to connect. "I wasn't—" Robin's eyes narrow into lethal slits. "You were." She releases his arm only to jab a finger against his sternum hard enough to leave a bruise. "The moment she walked in, you short-circuited so hard I could smell burning wiring. You called the pool ladder ‘ma’am’. Twice."

Steve’s pulse kicks into overdrive. “What? I was just—being nice.” He gestures vaguely at the pool, as if that explains anything. “I’m a nice guy, Robin. It’s a thing I do.” She scoffs, nostrils flaring. “Harrington, I’ve seen your ‘nice’. This wasn’t ‘nice’. This was—” She makes a frantic explosion motion with her hands, complete with a “pshooo!” sound effect. “—full-system meltdown ‘nice’. You were sweating.”

“It’s July,” he protests weakly.

“You never sweat.”

“I always sweat!”

“You once fought a demodog in a leather jacket and came out dewy at most.”

Steve opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “That’s— that’s not—” But before he can dig his grave any deeper, you reappear, sauntering over with a smirk that spells nothing but trouble. “Everything alright over here?” Robin’s grip on his arm tightens like a warning. “Great!” she chirps, voice suddenly three octaves too high. “Steve was just telling me how thrilled he is to have another Buckley around.”

Steve’s smile is less charming Harrington grin and more man awaiting execution. “Thrilled”, he croaks. “Yep. So. So thrilled.” Your grin widens at his words—slow, studious, dangerous. "Yeah?" You step closer, and Steve's heart launches into an Olympic-grade gymnastics routine—triple backflip, perfect landing, gold medal in catastrophic panic. "Because I was just thinking..." Your finger taps a thoughtful rhythm against your chin. "...about all that quality time we'll be sharing. Robin says you throw legendary parties."

Steve’s brain flatlines. Parties. Together. You. Him. Oh God.

Across from him, Robin’s gaze darts between the two of you, her expression morphing from suspicion to outright dread.

Steve's Adam's apple bobs like it's trying to flee his throat. She knows. Christ, she definitely knows. He has just enough coherent thought left to realise:

He is so spectacularly, catastrophically, irrevocably fucked.

He spends the rest of the week trying to avoid you. Trying being the key word here. The universe, it seems, has other plans.

Because you're everywhere—a constant, maddening presence burning at the edges of his vision like the ghost of a flashlight in the dark. He swears you're doing it on purpose, catching his eye just to watch him fumble, that sly smile playing at the corners of your lips every time his pulse stutters under your gaze. And God, does it stutter.

You’re at the impromptu movie night Nancy throws, wedged between Robin and Eddie on the couch, laughing as you recall some childhood disaster involving a stolen bike, a jar of peanut butter, and—if Robin’s dramatic interruptions are to be believed—a "very pissed-off raccoon with a personal vendetta."

"Way more traumatic than this," you declare, gesturing at the slasher flick on the screen where some poor extra is meeting their gory demise. Steve—who’s stranded in the armchair like some sombre, forgotten puppy—can’t manage to join in. Not when your laughter does things to his pulse that’s sure to send him into cardiac arrest any day now.

But then your knee brushes against Eddie’s as you lean forward to grab a handful of popcorn, and something hot and irrational coils in Steve’s gut. It’s stupid—Eddie’s just a friend, and it’s not like he has any claim over you—but the way your fingers linger near Eddie’s wrist for half a second too long makes Steve’s jaw clench.

Then there's the Hawkins High tailgate, where the lukewarm beer and golden-hour sunlight are the real stars of the show – not the Tigers' tragic losing streak. Steve leans against his BMW, nursing a drink and trying to convince himself that he’s here for school spirit— he’s lying. He’s so fucking obvious about it that Robin’s been giving him that look all afternoon—the one that says, ”I will skin you alive if you make this weird.”

And like his personal reckoning—you appear. One second, he’s staring blankly ahead, and the next, you’re sliding onto the hood of his car like you own it, all long legs and lazy smiles. The dying sun paints your skin in hues of amber and gold, catching on the delicate bend of your collarbone and the smooth plane of your thighs where your cut-off shorts ride up.

Christ.

He wants to map every inch of you with his mouth, starting at the delicate dip of your ankle—that vulnerable hollow where his lips could linger—then leisurely, torturously working his way up. Up the taut line of your calf, tracing the sensitive bend of your knee with his tongue. Higher still, along the trembling skin of your inner thigh, where his teeth might graze just to feel you shiver. An unhurried pilgrimage of worship, every gasp and hitch of your breath another sacred waypoint in his journey.

”Dude, you’re, like, actually drooling.” Dustin’s voice cuts through his increasingly inappropriate thoughts. Steve chokes on his drink, beer burning his sinuses as he wheezes, ”What? No, I’m not—!” But Dustin just raises his eyebrows, impervious. ”Uh-huh. Sure.” And then Robin’s there. ”So!” she chirps, stealing Steve’s beer right out of his hand. ”Who’s ready to watch our team get slaughtered?” You hum softly in your throat – a vibration Steve feels more than hears – as you tilt your head toward him. The calculated brush of your knee against his thigh burns through the denim between you, lingering just a second too long to be accidental. His breath catches when you don't pull away, your leg warm and insistent against his.

He’s so screwed.

Even as the midday sun is brutal at the Hawkins pool, he barely feels it—not when you’re walking toward his lifeguard chair with that look in your eyes —the mischievous Buckley spark.

You hold up the sunscreen bottle , tilting your head with a smile of practiced innocence. "Can you help me?" Before he can answer, you're already turning—presenting your back to him where the strings of your bikini top form a delicate, infuriating knot. "I can't reach," you add, voice dripping with false helplessness.

Steve's soul nearly leaves him: "I— You—Robin can—" "Robin's allergic to coconut oil," you lie effortlessly, glancing over your shoulder. The sunlight catches the curve of your shoulder blade, the flutter of your lashes. His mouth goes desert-dry. "And you are the lifeguard." You let the implication hang between you like the summer heat. "Isn't it your job to protect me?"

Fuck.

His hands tremble as he squeezes sunscreen onto his palms, the lotion warm from the sun. When his fingers finally make contact with your skin, you hum—soft, satisfied—and he swears you lean into his touch, just slightly. The sound goes straight to his gut, hot and insistent. His thumbs press into the dip of your spine, dragging sluggish circles that have no business being that deliberate. “You missed a spot,” you murmur, shifting just enough that his fingers brush the edge of your bikini tie. Steve’s breath comes ragged. This is torture.

And now? Now the bass from Tina’s stereo thrums through the floor, rattling Steve’s bones like a second heartbeat. The air is thick with sweat and cheap beer, the kind of chaos he usually lives for—except tonight, his entire world has narrowed down to you.

All evening, he’s been trapped in a loop of stolen glances and half-formed hopes, wondering if the way your eyes linger on him means something or if he’s just another fool drunk on wishful thinking. Is this real? Is this worth it? The questions gnaw at him, unanswered, even as he drains the last of his beer and sets the bottle down with a clink. And then, as if summoned by his desperation, you’re there. Emerging beside him like smoke, you lean into the wall, your shoulder pressing against his, and suddenly—the music, the crowd, the entire fucking room might as well not exist.

"Trying to hide from me, Harrington?" You taunt, tipping your drink to your lips. The bottle’s rim glistens under the dim light, and your mouth—pink, slow, meticulous—lingers there for a beat too long. It’s a calculated assault on what little composure he has left. His throat goes dry.

“Would it work if I were?” He shoots back, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. His voice is rougher than he intended, betraying the way his pulse jumps under his skin. You laugh, low and keen, before stepping into his space. Your palm lands on his chest, searing through the fabric of his shirt. “Probably not.” You admit, fingers crooking slightly—testing, teasing—and he knows you can feel the frantic hammering of his heart beneath your touch.

“You know,” you murmur, leaning in until your breath ghosts his jaw, “Robin talks about you all the time.” 

His breath hitches.

This is dangerous.

Your knee brushes his thigh, prudent and—holy shit—his thoughts dissolve into static. “But she never mentioned how cute you are when you’re flustered.” The words curl into his ear, sweet and lethal. He should say something clever, something smooth, but all he can manage is a shaky exhale as your fingers trail up to his collarbone, tracing the edge of his shirt. You’re close enough now that he can smell the jasmine of your perfume and the faint tang of gin on your tongue. Your hips tilting, just a fraction, and— “I wonder”, you whisper, lips grazing the shell of his ear, “what else I don’t know yet.”

Before he can respond—before he can even breathe—you’re leaning in, your nose almost brushing his. His hand lifts—to pull you closer? To push you away? —when—

"Oh my God."  

Robin’s voice shatters the moment as she stands there, arms crossed, looking done. “I leave you two alone for five minutes—”

Steve jerks back like he’s been burnt. "Robin! Hey! We were just—"

"—about to make my life a living hell?" 

Steve’s mouth snaps shut, his fingers flexing at his sides like he’s still debating whether to reach for you again, and his gaze flickers to your lips — just for a moment— before he forces a laugh, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. The gesture does nothing to hide the flush creeping up his throat. “Come on,” he deflects, “We were just talking.”

Robin raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Uh-huh. And 'talking' now involves you two looking like you’re about to re-enact Dirty Dancing in the middle of the living room?" Steve can feel your pulse kick where your thigh brushes against his, but you don’t back down. You’re clearly used to these sparring matches with Robin, a rhythm he doesn’t yet know the steps to, and he’s equal parts terrified and intrigued.

"Maybe you should’ve knocked," you shoot back, grinning wider when Robin’s jaw drops and Steve’s composure nosedives like a bird that just noticed the window isn’t open.

"Nope. No. Absolutely not." Robin jabs a finger between the two of you like she’s warding off evil. "I refuse to be the third wheel in whatever… this is." She spins toward the kitchen with enough dramatic flair to create wind resistance. "I'm getting another drink," she announces over her shoulder. "Or seven. Alone. Like the abandoned best friend in every fucking rom-com."

Steve takes a half-step forward. "Rob—"

"Save it, Dingus." She pauses, levelling you both with a glare that’s equal parts warning and surrender. "Ground rules," she announces, holding up a finger. "You—" The finger jabs at Steve's chest. “If you hurt my sister, I’ll give you a live demonstration of why The Texas Chainsaw Massacre wasn’t rated PG. Spoiler: It’s the bone saws.” Her finger swings to you, and Steve can practically hear your heartbeat kick into overdrive against his side. "And you—if you give him another existential crisis, I'm telling Mom you're the one who broke Grandma's urn and that you're the reason we had to get the couch steam-cleaned in '82."

Then she’s gone, swallowed by the noise of the party.

The silence between you is thick, charged. Steve exhales, slow and shaky, before turning back to you. The air crackles—Robin’s interruption only fanned the flames, and now it licks at his skin, relentless. His voice comes out rough, just this side of breaking: "She’s never gonna let me live this down." You bite your lip, stepping closer. The scent of your perfume coils around him, dizzying. "Then we might as well give her something real to complain about," you murmur, lips grazing the shell of his ear. His breath stutters when your fingers skate up his throat, nails scraping just barely over his stubble. A whimper claws its way out of him, raw and unbidden. "Christ. You’re killin’ me here." You grin, all teeth. "Good." Your thumb brushes the frantic pulse under his jaw. "We’ve got about twelve minutes until she storms back. Better make ‘em count."

This time, when you lean in, there’s no one to stop you, just the muffled clink of Robin angrily rearranging liquor bottles in the kitchen. Steve finally—fucking finally—learns what you taste like (gin and mint and something addicting), how your lips feel against his (softer than he imagined, but demanding, hungry), and how the dip of your waist fits under his palms like it was made for him. And Christ—the sound you make when he pulls you flush against him, a moan clawing its way up your throat, is enough to unravel him completely.

His brain, stuck on a loading screen for days, finally processes one coherent thought:

Fuck it.

Steve's hand fists in your hair, dragging you closer—Christ, not close enough—until your shared breath turns jagged. Just as he tilts his head to finally taste you properly, you pull back. His stomach plummets like a failed carnival ride. For one gut-twisting second, he's certain he's ruined it—misread the way your body arched against his, all heat and hunger, like you wanted to melt into his skin. Then your fingers lock around his wrist, nails biting just shy of pain, and the look you give him isn't hesitation—it's wildfire. "C'mere," you murmur, already walking down the hallway, tugging him along. Steve doesn't think; his body moves before his mind catches up, pulled by the magnetism of your touch.

The party dissolves into white noise—drowned out by the hammering rhythm of his pulse. Every passive draw of your thumb against his skin is a brand-new dare, burning straight through to his sternum. The hallway diminishes around you, lit only by a sputtering bulb that throws strobe-light shadows across your face. He doesn't miss the way your teeth sink into your lower lip as you glance at the bathroom door—or how your grip tightens like you're fighting the urge to sprint the last few steps.

Then you're shoving him inside, all impatient hands and shared momentum. The door clicks shut behind you with finality, sealing you both in the dark. Somewhere outside, a cheer goes up—maybe for the keg stand, maybe for the universe laughing at how thoroughly Steve Harrington is about to lose his goddamn mind.

The space is cramped, the air thick with the odour of soap and the lingering sweetness of someone’s perfume. The sink digs into his lower back, cold enough to make him hiss—but then your hands are on him, warm and demanding, and he forgets everything else. Forgets the way your thighs had tensed when he licked the salt off his hand before taking a shot. Forgets the way you’d watched his throat bob as he laughed at one of Robin’s jokes. Forgets the way you’d nearly choked on your own tongue when he’d rolled up his sleeves in the kitchen, forearms flexing as he scooped ice into a cup. The party’s bass thrums through the walls, a distant echo beneath the serrated sound of his own breathing and the slick noise of your mouth on his skin. Christ, he hopes the music’s loud enough to drown out the way you whimper when he sucks at your pulse point.

“You’ve been driving me crazy all night,” you admit, voice low, and the crude honesty in it makes his throat go dry. Your fingers dig into his hips, pulling him closer. “All week”, you correct, and suddenly he’s replaying every glance, every brush of contact: the way you’d “tripped” into his side at the pool, how you’d lingered in his space after movie night, your knee pressed to his thigh for a full thirty minutes before Robin kicked you both off her couch. The memory of your breath on his neck when you’d leaned over his shoulder to steal a fry at the diner—had you always smelt this good?

Steve’s hands trail up your waist, thumbs carving possessive lines into that sliver of exposed skin where your shirt’s ridden up. “Yeah?” he rasps, voice wrecked—drunk on the way your breath hitches, on the way your ribs expand under his palms like you’re already starving for it. “Funny. I thought I was the one losing my damn mind.” You hum—a quiet, perceptive sound—before inching your lips along the column of his throat. He feels the vibration of it like a live wire down his spine, sparking at every vertebra. “Show me,” you murmur against his pulse, and the challenge in it sends his blood south so fast he gets lightheaded. It’s all the permission he needs.

One hand fists in your hair, wrenching your head back as he crashes into you. This kiss isn’t like before—no teasing, no hesitation—just heat and teeth and the slick, filthy slide of your tongue against his. He swallows your whimper when his other hand slips under your shirt, palm skimming the bare dip of your waist. Christ. The whimper you let out when his fingers dig into your hip isn’t just sound. It’s a bloody revelation.

Steve knows he’s on borrowed time. Robin’s sharp and observant—she’ll come looking sooner rather than later, and when she does, she’ll take one look at his flushed face and your swollen lips and know. The thought should sober him up, but right now? He doesn’t give a shit. All that matters is the way your nails bite into his shoulders, the way you gasp when he nips your lower lip, and the way your body fits against his like you were carved from the same damn stone. And when you roll your hips against his—slow, deliberate, maddening—his grip tightens, fingers digging into your waist hard enough to bruise. His voice is rough, wrecked, barely recognisable when he growls against your mouth: "This isn't exactly how I pictured our first time."

The words tear from Steve's throat, rough and wrecked—a confession to his sinful thoughts. The second they hit air, he freezes. Shit.

But you—Christ, you—just beam like you've won the lottery, dragging your teeth over his swollen bottom lip in a way that makes his knees threaten to buckle. "You pictured our first time?" Your voice drips with delight, thumb brushing the frantic pulse in his neck. Heat floods his cheeks, but you don't let him recover. You crash into him, kissing him so hard his back slams against the tiled wall. His hands move on pure instinct—lifting you onto the sink with a grunt, fingers skating up the soft underside of your thighs like he's memorising the map of you. When they dig in, kneading with a hunger that surprises even him, you moan directly into his mouth, and the sound goes straight to his dick.

You moan, and the sound tears something primal from his chest—a growl that rumbles against your lips, vibrating through you. "How about we save your ideal first time for later?" You murmur against him, biting his lip just hard enough to make him jerk against you. Your voice drops to a whisper, all heat and promise: "And focus on fucking my brains out in the next ten minutes?"

Steve's resolve doesn't just shatter—it disintegrates. Any pretence of patience evaporates as his hands find your waist, fingers pressing bruises into your hips that you'll savour tomorrow. His mouth crashes into yours again, but this time he's a man on a mission. He charts your skin like territory to be conquered—the sharp line of your jaw, the salt-slick column of your throat, the frantic flutter of your pulse beneath his tongue. When he reaches the swell of your cleavage, you arch into him with a gasp that turns into a whine as his teeth scrape delicate skin. Your fingers are already working at his belt, tugging with impatient urgency.

"Steve—"

"Fuck," he rasps, pulling back just enough to watch your face. "You sound even better than I imagined." And Christ, he has imagined this—in the shower, trying to relieve the ache with his hand, in his bed with the sheets tangled around his thighs, in the fucking Family Video break room when you'd leaned too close to reach a tape. Every fantasy pales in comparison to the reality of your nails digging into his hips as he shoves his jeans down just enough to free himself. Your hand wraps around him in one smooth motion, and for one blinding second, the world narrows to the slick heat of your fingers, the way your thumb swipes over the head just to watch his abs clench.

If this is heaven, he'll sign his own damn death warrant.

But then—then—you spin him around with surprising strength, dropping to your knees on the bath mat. The cool tile bites into his palms as he braces against the sink, but all he can focus on is the way your breath ghosts over him, the way your eyes lock onto his as your tongue—

Jesus.

Fucking.

Christ.

His vision fractures at the edges, tunnelling until the universe condenses to three points: the wicked curve of your lips, the flutter of your lashes against your skin, and the sinful press of your tongue where he needs it most. For one suspended, blasphemous moment, Steve's convinced Robin actually killed him—because there's no earthly way this is real: your mouth sinking onto him like you've been starving for it, hot and wet and perfect, swallowing him down to the hilt with a vibration that travels straight to his fucking spine. The sound you make—a muffled, content hum around him as he hits the back of your throat—sends a full-body shudder through him.

Holy mother of God.

He knows better than to look. He knows he shouldn’t—but he does anyway, helpless as a marionette with its strings cut—

Big mistake.

Because now he's watching, really watching, as your lips stretch obscenely around him, as your throat works to take him deeper. Your eyes lock onto his, crinkled at the corners with vicious amusement as you take him deeper, and shit, suddenly he’s sixteen again, stumbling across his first Playboy, heart racing and palms sweating. Except now it’s your mouth, your knowing gaze scalding him hotter than July asphalt as you savour every choked noise he can’t suppress. He should say something, should at least try to form words, but all his head does is thud back again. That look alone—like you’re cataloguing his every twitch and heave—threatens to spill him into your throat right fucking now. If he doesn’t—

A burst of laughter ricochets down the hall, sudden and too close. Your fingers tighten reflexively around the base of him, nails grazing the sensitive skin there, and Steve’s entire body tenses like a bowstring drawn too tight, but his hips jerk forward before he can stop them, dragging a ragged groan from him.

“Fuck—we have to be quiet,” he rasps, but you just smirk around him, all devilish intent, dragging your tongue along his underside in a measured, filthy stripe that makes his vision blur at the edges. His legs actually cave in; he has to brace a forearm against the wall to stay upright.

It’s agony.

It’s ecstasy.

Then your eyes flutter shut, and the soft, satisfied hum you let out vibrates through him straight to his spine. His fingers fist in your hair—gentle, got to be gentle—but his hips jerk of their own accord, chasing the sinful heat of your mouth like it’s his only chance at salvation. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he chokes, voice shredded. “You’re gonna fucking ruin me.” And he means it. Because if this is what you do to him in some shitty bathroom, with Robin and half the party just beyond the door—Then what happens when he gets you alone? His mind whites out, fever-bright with the images: Pinning you against the first available surface—his bed, his car, the fucking kitchen counter—anything to finally take what you’ve been tormenting him with. Peeling you out of your clothes with agonising slowness, just to hear you whine and beg for his name. His mouth on every patch of skin he’s watched you expose all summer—the dip of your collarbone, the inside of your thighs, that spot behind your ear that makes you gasp when he accidentally brushes it. The way you’d clench around him when he finally sinks in, tight and desperate after an eternity of stolen glances. The filth he’d whisper in your ear: “Knew you’d take me so fucking good.”

“Christ,” he grits out, hips stuttering as you swallow him deeper. His knuckles tensing against the sink. “You’re so fucking—”

A sharp knock at the door interrupts him.

“Hey, dipshits!” Robin’s voice slices through the haze, sharp with accusation. "You better not be doing what I think you’re doing in there."

Steve’s head thunks back against the wall. Goddamn it.

His entire body locks up, every muscle pulled taut between the mind-numbing pleasure of your mouth and the very real possibility of Robin kicking the door in. His fingers twist tighter in your hair—not to stop you, never to stop you, but because if he doesn’t anchor to something, he might genuinely combust. The bathroom light flickers overhead, casting shadows against your cheeks as you glance up at him, and—fuck—he’s never seen anything more obscene.

"Shit," he hisses, voice shredded. "Fuck, fuck—" The litany spills from him like a prayer, like a curse, like heresy. You pull off just enough to smirk up at him, lips slick and swollen, and the sight alone nearly undoes him. "We should stop," you murmur—liar, fucking liar—your breath scorching his skin. Your tongue grazes his tip as you speak, and Steve sees actual stars. He groans, low and wounded, but his thumb trails over your bottom lip anyway, smearing spit as he claims the wetness there. "Yeah. Yeah, we—" Another knock, louder this time, rattling the doorframe.

"I swear to God, Harrington," Robin’s voice cuts through the wood, "if you’re defiling my sister in there, I’m replacing your hairspray with Nair."

You pull back just enough to make him ache, and Steve’s breath hisses through his teeth—sharp, frustrated, barely holding back something far filthier. His hands twitch at your waist like he’s debating dragging you right back, but all he does is adjust himself with a rough groan, his jeans straining. When his gaze locks onto yours, it’s wildfire in the dark, pupils swallowing every last bit of reason. "This isn’t over." The words scrape out of him like a match strike, sulfur-sharp and spark-ready.

A smirk curls your lips as you stand, lips grazing the stubble along his jaw. The shudder it pulls from him is downright criminal.

"Better not be," you murmur against his skin, your tongue swiping the sting from his skin, sweet as poisoned candy. "Or I’ll finish what you started on my own—and trust me, you’ll lie awake trying and failing to picture it half as vividly as it’ll sound."

Steve’s breath catches. "Christ," he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. He’s half-hard, wholly ruined, and absolutely fucked when you step back, looking far too innocent for someone who just had their mouth on—

The door flies open under Robin’s impatient fist. Steve barely has time to yank it wider before she’s glaring up at him, arms crossed. But Steve only has one thought consuming him:

Later.

[pt. II]

[mercurial-chuckles]

Don't Flip your Wig, Steve

Pairing: Steve Rogers x F!Reader Summary: Steve and you time travel. Your Steve is not happy meeting his older self because he shows interest in you. Warnings: My attempts at 40s slang | Unabashedly jealous husband | Fluff | Your Steve being annoyed by the old-era Steve | Not so accurate time travel depiction | I benched all my science logic in this | No existence for Peggy ('Coz why even) | Language | Lemme know if I missed anything. A/N: This is a part of Steve Rogers Bingo Round 3 | @steverogersbingo |Prompt | D4: Steve Variant(s) | Modern Steve referred as Your Steve or husband Steve. 40s Steve as old-era Steve. That's all I can think. | I'm a fairly new writer here! So, Reblogs would be great! Follows would be fantastic! Thank you! :) Note: Do not Steal, Copy, or Plagiarize any part of my work! GIF credits to the creator. Thank you :) Divider credits to me. Check out my other works: Masterlist

Indulge Away!

Steve Rogers was testing your bloody patience.

It was a bad idea to bring him here, except Bucky was a bit too beaten up after his last mission and couldn't join you in the mission as he was the only other person from the era who could navigate you to Howard without any suspicion.

Tony said the mission was easy peasy. As if.

It had been more than two days now. Some things went south, like the machine you were here for, which apparently had gone into repair a week ago. So, Howard was fixing it before you took it home.

The issue you mostly predicted was the difficulty explaining to Howard Stark that Steve and you quantum jumped, but to your surprise, that went far better than you imagined.

However, the major predicament came in the form of the 6' 2" golden boy Rogers of that era, who came to Howard for some help. When he saw himself standing before him, he straight-up beat Your Steve without a second thought. Your Steve defended, and did his best not to punch back his older self. He simply held him down until Howard drugged him to calm the poor man's nerves.

Steve Rogers of that era was not accustomed to the convoluted possibilities of science, so it took him a great deal of effort and time to gauge the situation. Were you in his position, you'd have scoffed if someone said they traveled time! Plus, at that time, there was not much material or cinema for the common man to rely on familiarity with traveling through time and space. Maybe if older Steve had read 'A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court,' he'd have been a bit familiar. But, you knew, as a matter of fact, that your Steve did not read a lot of fiction back then.

So, Steve, old-era Steve, thought it must be Hydra's gimmicks, which seemed less bizarre.

That whole fiasco was two days ago. Since then, old-era Steve had been nothing but hospitable to you both, helping you sneak in and out and arranging food and shelter. Everything was good, except he started showing great interest in you and got a bit awkward around you.

Your Steve tried his best to distance you from him. It was very hilarious, to be honest, and you were having a ton of fun.

When the machine was finally here, you all gathered at Howard's lab. Howard was setting up the machine, and you were standing near the table with your Steve. Steve approached you to the annoyance of your Steve.

"Who are you...to me?" he asked curiously.

That era Steve wore trousers and a checkered grey shirt very similar to your Steve, who sported black trousers and a sky blue shirt and looked slightly more appealingly rogueish than the innocent-looking blond. Still, hands down, he had always been handsome, irrespective of the beard or length of hair. He looked truly fucking gorgeous and aged like a luxury wine you couldn't afford without dipping into savings.

"Umm, I'm..." you hesitated, surprised by the question and worried about how he'd take it.

"She's my wife," your husband flung an arm around your shoulders and pulled you against him.

Old-era Steve's eyes widened as he looked from his future self to you.

"No gobbledygook?" He chuckled in awe. "Our wife, huh?" he exclaimed in utter astonishment.

Gobbley…what now?

Your Steve stepped in front of you, a bit closer to his older self, ready to punch.

"My. Wife," your husband pronounced, sneering at the man.

You don't want to be a part of this discussion. It was giving you a headache.

"Steve," you chastised your husband, pulling him aside.

"Excuse us," you mumbled at the other Steve, and he looked at you amused.

"What?" your husband frowned when you walked him to the corner of the huge lab. He stood defiantly, hands folded on his chest.

"Don't give me the attitude, mister. I'm gonna beat your ass," your reprimands went to deaf ears as his frown grew deeper.

"I don't like him," he exclaimed in anger.

"What?" Your surprised laugh caught Howard's attention as he looked from where he was working. You simply smiled, giving him a thumbs up to ease his worry.

Your husband shrugged.

"Are you hearing yourself? He's you," You poked his chest, whisper shouting.

Placing his hands around your waist, Steve pulled you towards him. Winding his hand around you, he held you there, kissing your lips passionately in a surprising urgency. Steve Rogers was a private man, though he always held onto your hand and kissed your cheek or forehead, but he never kiss kissed you.

You wanted to roll your eyes at him, but his lips consumed you. Your heart skipped a beat as he deepened the kiss once you yielded.

Somewhere in the corner of your still-working logical mind, you understood that Steve's insecurities were showing. All this time travel definitely made him nostalgic, especially vulnerable. When you broke away from the kiss, you embraced him tightly.

You felt like you were looking at a much younger Steve, a lanky Brooklyn man at that moment. You sometimes forget that the version of Steve was always lurking at the surface of his insecurities. Technically, he had only been with you his entire life, his one true love, his only girlfriend, and his wife.

"You know that I love you, no matter what," you whispered, smiling softly at your man.

"I just... I'm sorry," he mumbled, "I love you."

"It's okay, let's get what we are here for, and go home, Okay?" You looked up at him expectantly.

"Can't wait. He is annoying, and he is showing way too much interest in you," he snickered in distaste.

You placed a kiss on his chest, which usually calmed him.

You broke apart when Howard motioned you to come closer to show the workings of the machine and the technicalities.

Your husband walked closer to you; old Steve stood beside him, a bit amused having heard your conversation, what with his enhanced hearing and all.

Steve Rogers couldn't wait for his future, whatever it held in it, he was sure he would meet you one day. That rejoiced him, and until you both traveled back to your home, he couldn't help but poke fun at his future self.

Okay, if you were wondering ...🤭

Gobbledygook: talking gibberish or nonsense Flip your wig: losing composure or control

If you wanna be tagged in my works, add yourself here. <3 Please send me a message if you wanna be removed from the Tag list. :)

Tags: @nekoannie-chan @salvatoreitmeanssaviour

[take-everything-you-can]

ex husband steve who is desperate to win you back, uses the kids an excuse to pop over all the time, once here used the excuse he had to stop by because they left one purple crayon in his car

Steve's her daddy now

(in the most wholesome way)

So.... I may have written an entire little blurb for this because I can never just do a small thing.

Shout-out to @keeryhours for beta reading this for me. Lord knows I can never get this man just right.

If y'all want more of this let me know !!!

Request are open 🖤

Wc: 2.7k

Pairing: Ex-husband Steve Harrington x fem reader

Tw: mention of fertility issues, mentions of divorce, mentions of food, fluffy hurt/comfort

A date. 

The first date you had been asked on in over a month and with your divorce semi-final you were more than ready to get back out there. You had tried separation and it was easier than you thought but also the hardest thing you had ever done. 

At first, you didn't even really notice a difference. Days were long and far too lonely. It was almost like the days that Steve would spend locked away in his home office only to roll over in bed and see that he had found his way eventually. The only major difference was legroom and how your dog filled a steve-shaped space. And then things started to become a little hazy. 

Steve had never wanted a divorce so separation was already a failure in his book. He thought providing was the way to a happy life and a fulfilled relationship but money was the farthest thing from what you found important now. He spent his time plotting, hoping, and praying to whatever god might still pity him. Pitiful, he’d think. Pathetics more like it, he would tell himself over and over.

You wanted fun and a love that would last through things lower than low. Hardships you couldn't face without him and he figured that all out way too late. You wanted reassurance on the little things, things you knew you didn't need it for. It's just nice to hear a little praise now and then. 

Was it too late? 

He had yet to sign off on the last of the paperwork. Kept sending it unsigned. You knew it was hard for Steve to grasp that this was ending. It had been the only real relationship you two had ever felt was true. The only one he felt in his bones, felt it to his core. you were his soulmate to stand by him for the rest of his life.

So when you told him you weren't happy, his entire world turned upside down. How did he not see it? How could he go day by day not noticing how the tectonic plates were shifting and he hadn't even felt a tremor?  

He knew he needed to change. Things he didn’t think needed work made him exhausted trying to bring that feeling back. That feeling of belonging he sought out was just barely out of reach. 

He moved out thinking it would help to give you your freedom to try new things, insisting he do the same, but every single time he tried to even flirt with another woman he felt sick to his stomach. Knots and tangles of a string he’d desperately tried to untie. You had been the one to always undo and thread through the tangles. He couldn’t do it on his own, he never could. 

He knew he needed to get you back no matter the cost. Robin had flown in the second she heard the news. From drunk lips to sober ears, she yearned to take hold of him a thousand miles away. Robin had always been the person Steve could lean on. The only person he trusted to not let him fall too far.  She had set up shop, and Steve had recruited her for his mission. How could she say no to him? His big ass brown eyes stared up at her with tears in them as he cried about all the time he spent fucking up his life. Her best friend was shattered and she was taking the little shards and trying to crazy glue them back together. 

He spent his next month taking a sabbatical from work to try and see how he could fix things and when news of you going on your first date since the split came to him, he was livid.  He had no right to be and yet his blood was reaching boiling points sure to have smoke bellowing from his ears. You knew that news would travel to Steve in a town as small as Hawkins; you had just hoped that the news wouldn’t hit him until after the date had ended. How sadly you were mistaken. 

Steve showed up at your door in his yellow sweater, one you had told him for years was your favorite. Some jeans that fit him perfectly, a pair you know he dug out of the depths of suit pants and khakis, Steve looked as if he had walked right out of a picture you took long before things went south. A wet dream, the man before you stood tall and had that cocky little grin you loved to kiss the corners of. 

“ Steve?” you asked as you opened the door a little wider as your daughter had tried to push through at the sound she knew as her father's car. 

“ Daddy !” her small voice rang out as he stooped down low to scoop her up in his arms. 

“ Honey bee ! “ Steve yelled back, just as excited. 

You became pregnant not long after vows were exchanged. His parents swore you had trapped him, and wanted to take his family’s money. Ruin their golden boy on the fast track to running his father's company, but they could shove it where the sun didn't shine. They were not going to take this and twist it for Steve.

The person you had been trying for months and months with. The person who took you to get hormone shots when things didn't sync up exactly as planned. The man who sat by every negative test and shared frustrated tears with you only for them to turn into tears of joy at the smallest pink plus there ever was.

Scarlett Grace Harrington was born on May 15th, 1989 and she was perfect. She had her father's eyes and a small mole on the left side of her nose. You knew she would have constellations to follow as she grew, matching Steve's. She had her mother's cheeks and her hair was soft and she gripped Steve's finger with the strength that had him laughing through the tears. His baby girl was going to be the strongest, most brave girl there ever came to be and ever would be. Just like her mother. 

Scarlett jumped into his waiting arms and he lifted her into the air settling her on his hip. She was just turning four in about two weeks and she was about as chaotic as they come. Really taking a page out of her uncle Eddie's book. 

“You're a little early to come to get Scar. I thought you and Robin were doing dinner?” 

“Nah, change of plans. She wanted to get some quality aunt time in so I'm here to scoop her and we are going to head on over to the diner and meet her there. She went shopping with Nance so I’m sure she went overboard with gifts. I Mean Eddie gives her one little guitar and she thinks Scarlett will never speak to her again.” Steve huffs out as you hum in amusement at Robin and Eddie's godparent war takedown continues.  

“Ukealele.” softly spoken and Steve furrows his eyebrows. 

“What?” 

“ It’s not a little guitar, it’s called a Ukelele.”  Steve smiled. He missed the small corrections, even if they used to get under his skin. Now he craved that correction and wanted to have that seared in his brain like a fun fact you never forget. Missed watching the way your gear turned like he could see the thought form in real-time. 

He coughed and set Scarlett down to go and told her to go and grab whatever toys she might want for the night. Anything she might want to show Aunt Robin. 

“ You look nice, got big plans tonight?” he shifted his gaze from where your sundress met your thigh, watched as his eyes traveled up your torso and landed on your collarbone, his favorite place to hold and bruise deep purples and blues with his tongue. Loved the way they tinted yellow on the last days, a reminder for him to add more as time went by. Like a flower reminding him to buy a bouquet once it started to wilt. He wanted to claim you, wanted whoever got to see you in this dress to know that you were spoken for. 

He couldn't be selfish, but god did he want to. 

“ I’m, uh, I'm seeing someone tonight on a first date, kinda. Dinner and a movie. Nothing serious .” Steve sucked in a breath trying to find the center of it, letting it out slowly through his nose. You stood with your back to the counter, arms out on either side. All he wanted to do was reach out and grab you but instead he opted for leaning against the island in the middle of the room, as if he was bracing for impact. 

“ You think this is too much?” He looked up at you and shook his head slightly in disbelief.  He could see how nervous you were. How your hands kept fidgeting with the ring you still wore on your left hand. How you had a waver in your voice at even asking him the question. Unsure if the words made it to him or not you did a small spin and ended up next to him. “ It Is Isn’t it?” 

“ No, It’s perfect.” He reached out and plucked a small lash that had fallen to your cheek. Holding it out to you with a smile on his face. “ Make a wish?” you glanced up with eyes wide making his stomach knots slowly untangle as you closed your eyes, thinking of the perfect wish. They fluttered back open and you blew the lash off his fingertip and leaned into Steve's gravitational pull. He was the damn sun and you wanted to burn out like starlight. Blackhole to a time before things became how they were.  A silent knowing he made the same wish. 

You heard small thundering steps as Scarlett bound her way into the kitchen, ready for Steve to take her on her grand adventure. Coloring book and backpack in hand, he helped Scarlett into her seat, buckling her up and making sure she had everything she could possibly need for the night. You stood in the car door and waited for Steve to move out of the way making his way to the driver's seat as you said your goodbyes to your daughter. 

“ Alright, sweet thing you better be on your best behavior for Daddy and Aunt Robin.” Making sure she was secure even if Steve had done it twice over, you still had to have that peace of mind. “I want you to have so much fun okay baby? Make sure your daddy and Aunt Robin don’t argue over waffles and pancakes.” 

“Waffles are better!” Steve scoffed from the front of the car. A laugh was earned and it was like music to Steve's ears. Like a song, he played it over and over until it was ingrained into his deep tissue. It sent a warmth through him.  

You ducked in to kiss your daughter on the cheek and whispered in her ear. “ You take care of Daddy okay?” 

“ Okay.” 

“ I love you, baby girl.” 

“ Love You More.”  Steve smiled and added on his small infraction of what you used to say to each other. 

“ Not possible.” 

“ Yes possible.”  He heard it barely audible as he shot his head up to look at you through the rearview mirror. He felt his heart squeeze and his breathing stop. He looked up to see you wipe a tear from underneath your eye as you turned to walk back towards your front door waving at them from the porch, Steve bit back a few unshed tears of his own as he looked back at his sweet child dancing in her seat to the Abba cassette he had been playing. 

The diner across town that had taken the bones of Benny's and built atop of it, had become one of the staples of Hawkins, much like its former establishment. The once dingy bar stools now stood with a gloss top finish and booths that were once ripped to shreds now had a bounce from being reupholstered. The tile was redone and the staff all now wore whatever made them comfortable instead of that stuffy little uniform they had to endure back when they came and ate in high school. 

Fed and a milkshake on the way, Steve could feel the way Robin knew something was off. He looked up at her from helping Scarlett find her way through the small maze on the back of a kid's menu the diner had printed out and she just knew. She always did, he never understood it but she always knew. She would tell him his aura was off or that he seemed different even if it was just that he found a penny on the ground. She always knew. 

“What's up dingus? What's the long look for ? Before he could even answer, without missing a beat as she was coloring in a flower Scarlett spoke.

“Not possible.” Steve stared down at his daughter in awe, there was no way that his four-year-old before him was this perceptive. Robin raised an eyebrow.” Yes possible,” Scarlett sang as she colored away on her menu and Steve sat stunned. He knew she didn’t understand but it made him make a decision one he should have made a while ago. 

“ Hey, honey bee what about we make that little flower over here purple ?” 

“ Daddy there is no purple.”  Steve bit his lip as he looked up at Robin. 

“Blue and re-” but Steve had interrupted Robin.

“ Huh, but you have purple at home, right? “Steve was speaking two conversations at once. He was telling Robin, asking her to take care of his baby and lend him her keys. Too much work to take a carseat out of the car, not for what he needed to do. 

“ Yes, I think so,” Scarlett answered as she continued to color her page, unaware of the bigger picture. 

“ Alright, how about this? I’m gonna go get that really quick okay baby? That way when we go to Uncle Eddie's tomorrow we can draw him his own purple flowers. Sound good? She looked up at Steve through her long hair and nodded emphatically. 

“ Alright, I’m gonna have Aunt Robin and you build a fort, and when I come home with your crayons we can color and watch your favorite movie.” 

“ Snow White !”  Robin smiled at Scarlett while taking her keys out and setting them on the table knowing Steve was going to do this, argument or not. 

He told her thank you countless times and she swore that if she didn’t get a bagel and a coffee from her favorite place in the morning he would be disowned until he found the fountain of youth. Driving home to you felt like it was taking forever, like he was waiting for the pen to drop. Hoping he could catch you before you went on your date, to convince you not to go. He didn't know how he was going to do it. All he knew was that it needed to be done and it needed to be done now. 

As soon as the tires hit the driveway he could feel his heartbeat, that pulsing in his ears you get when you are scared to jump off the diving board. The one you get before you kiss the love of your life for the first time. He jogged to the door and knocked until it felt like his knuckles were bruised. Waited and waited until he heard that shuffle from behind the door and there you stood in shock. 

“What's wrong? Is Scarlett okay?  What happened ?” you rush out and see that your daughter is not even with him. “ Where is Scarlett, Steve?” 

“ Robin has her, safe and sound I promise.”  you take a breath letting the panic subside and the confusion set in. 

“ Steve, Why the hell are you here right now?” 

“ Scarlett needed her special box of crayons.” he smiled all saccharine and sweet, letting the confusion make you shake your head and raise your hand while the other finds your hip. 

“ Special Cra- What are you even talking about right now?”  

“ Purple… She needed Purple.” 

[strangererotica]

EXPLICIT CONTENT | MINORS DNI

Steve Harrington x Reader | Steve is on a mission to get you pregnant, as a thunderstorm rages outside… | Includes breeding kink, unprotected p in v sex (naturally lol) and mentions of drinking wine.

(This fic pairs well with a previous post ⛈️)

You were busy chatting away, all giggly and excited as you told Steve a funny story from work. You didn’t realize his attention had drifted far away from your words by the point his second glass had been emptied. Steve’s dark hazel eyes were focused on your lips, and the blush spreading your cheeks from the wine you were sharing…the pretty sound of your voice as you spoke, the way your animated gestures caused your breasts to jiggle over the top of your dress...

Steve distractedly pulled his fingertip along the edge of his wine glass, his eyes wandering up and down your face and body with a wolfish intensity he made no effort to hide. Steve’s main focus, as always, was on you. And tonight, with the promise of a storm rumbling nearer by the minute, it seemed that Mother Nature herself was beckoning Steve, practically begging him, to ask the question…

“Do you want a baby, (y/n)?” Steve asked. Your eyes widened, a bashful smile heating your cheeks. Steve already knew the answer to his question; you’d both discussed a mutual desire for children quite some time ago. Obviously, the two of you were having sex, and often. But you were still on the pill (when you remembered to take it, at least) and since the subject of actively trying to get pregnant hadn’t been seriously discussed, Steve was still pulling out each time he came.

Maybe it was the alcohol in his system, or the soft, pretty glaze in his eyes it had created, that made Steve’s suggestion especially tempting, exciting, almost dangerous…?

He was serious. And you knew it.

It’s how you ended up in bed less than ten minutes later, a mess of arms and legs tangled together, lips searching, craving one another with an intensity that rivaled the raging storm outside.

Steve had made his mission clear, through a series of slick kisses that tasted like you, climbing up your body from where his face had been nestled between your thighs: he was going to get you pregnant.

Your fingers clutched the edge of the mattress, nails digging crescent shapes into the foam. Steve’s breath was hot against your neck, raising goosebumps along your shoulders, the groans from between his lips thick and labored. The hair spread over Steve’s chest, moist and curled with sweat, rubbed coarsely against your back, stomach muscles taut where his body rounded yours, enveloping you.

Steve took you with both the soft, steady rhythm of making love, and the rough, selfish thrusts of a man wanting only to fuck you. The storm outside boiled over, a burst of white light illuminating the bedroom, the sharp crack of lightning briefly masking your cries of Steve’s name. The sweat on your skin glittered in the sudden light, which flickered like a dying bulb through the bedroom window. Steve dipped his forehead to your shoulder, his tongue pulling a quick stripe across your back, tasting your skin. You shivered at the contact of his warm, wet tongue, your clit throbbing in response to the stimulation.

Thunder rolled close by, vibrating the mattress Steve had you splayed against. His right hand slid beneath you and cupped your breast, groping you gently as his voice panted hot and breathy at your ear. “I’m so fuckin’ close, honey.” The weight of Steve’s balls slapped against your ass, heavy and full. Steve had so much cum to give you, enough to keep you dripping for days.

He exhaled against your shoulder, his voice focused, forehead creased in concentration. “Gonna feed this pussy so good tonight-” Steve murmured, his voice breaking softly. “-fuck a pair of twins inside you before morning…” Lightning erupted nearby, crackling loudly above the room. Steve’s growl of release was drowned out by the sound of the storm, his climax overtaking him as the room around you was splashed in light. Thunder rolled deep and slowly, drawing further and further away. Steve’s groans devolved into a low whimper of relief as his body softly crumpled into you, his wet lips finding yours from behind.

“Think we did it?” he asked, and you giggled a little, rolling onto your back so you were looking up at Steve. He didn’t quite understand, so you explained that it would likely take at least a few months of really trying, timing cycles, charting temperature, etc, before you’d actually get pregnant. “Well,” Steve shrugged, undeterred. “Even if it doesn’t happen tonight-.” He tugged your body into his chest, stroking back your hair with his hand. “-I sure as hell don’t mind practicing…” 💜

[romanestuffsposts]

Hiii!! I don’t know if your taking request but if you are can you write something about Daddy!Stucky baby talking reader? I think it would be so cute and reader is just giggling and humming ✨💕

Hiii there love ! 💜

Ohhhhh that’s such a cute idea u absolutly looooooove this !!

I hope you like how it wrote your idea ��️

Enjoyyyy <3

*****

Warnings : giggles, pet names, clingy, babying, bottle, paci

Pairings : Daddies!Stucky ; Daddy!Bucky x Papa!Steve x Little!Reader

Summary : just a cute evening with the little family

A/N : I’m so so sorry for disappearing like that. I went to London with my sister for her eighteenth birthday and i just wanted to enjoy my time there.

I also had lots of problems with university and i didn’t know how to solve them so i kinda let the blog aside for a while. Just the time I wrap my head around everything.

But I missed you so much and i missed writing your requests so here i aaaaaaaaam

*****

“Hello my little love” Bucky immediately smiles as soon as he sees his beautiful baby in her curb.

You immediately start to kick your little feet when your eyes catch on your Daddy. He stands above your curb and takes you in his arms “were you good today, babydoll ?” He gently asks, resting his forehead against yours

“I’m sure you were. You always are my cute little bunny” he gently teases your little belly making you giggle louder than when he came back. You push his hands away and the tickles stop right away. Bucky chuckles along with you and kisses your nose

“Did you had fun today with Papa ?” He asks, gently swaying you side to side

“Oh yes we had so much today” your Papa says as he enters the room. He immediately comes to your side, in front of your Daddy “isn’t that right, princess ?” He smiles as he grabs your hand, letting your little fingers wrapping themselves around his.

“Do we tell Daddy what we did today ?” He whispers. You softly hum and nod your head before resting it again against your Daddy’s arm.

“We started by a delicious breakfast, only fruits and two wonderful pancakes” he starts to wonder the tip of his index around your face “then we went to the park until it was lunch time, we ate something outside and then came back home. We kept playing inside the house because of the sun and then bath time”

You love how he talks to you, his voice singing a little, his eyes full of memories. But mostly, his eyes were watching you deeply. And that’s what you loved the most.

“Ohh seems like you had the best day ever” your Daddy exclaimed

“Yes it was!” Your Papa smiles “and look what i have in my hands to make it even better” he shows you your bottle of milk and you immediately make grabby hands to the bottle

“Easy, easy baby” he shushes you gently

Once you finish, he takes it back and put it on the nightstand. Your Daddy puts your paci in between your lips and starts swaying you again.

“Aren’t you the cutest” your Daddy whispers more to himself but you heard him. You crack into a smile and your little hand reach up to grab his nose, making him laugh.

He kisses your palm making you giggle “ ‘gain” you say between your giggles. He chuckles and kisses your hand again.

“Hey! what about me” your Papa complains

You giggle and give him your tiny little foot which makes him laugh even more. He grabs it and at the same time, him and your Daddy cover the part of you they have in their hands with kisses making you genuinely laugh. The kisses were way more ticklish than you thought and you absolutely love it.

Your Papa laughs at how your giggle got more louder when he kissed your toes “you definitely are the cutest”

This game exhausted you more than you thought you soon find yourself fighting for your eyes to stay open.

Your Daddies of course saw it and know exactly why you don’t want to fall asleep. Without you noticing, they start to try to make you sleep. Your Daddy draws small circles on your skin, humming a a lullaby while your Papa was sliding his index from the hole between your brows down to your nose.

That always makes you sleepy and you’re soon fast asleep in your Daddies arms.

“Good night my beautiful girl” a sweet kiss is dropped on your forehead

“We love you so much” another kiss is dropped on your hand

And with that, both of your Daddies go to their bed and lay you down between them, cuddling you all night long

[justmeinadaze]

Secrets Underneath Masterlist (Steddie X Plus Size You)

A sassy, strong sugar baby, you are exhausted with all the men who claim to be Daddy but lack any of the true qualities especially to handle a beautiful curvy brat like you. One day you find yourself intrigued by a Daddy profile with two figures that hide their identities but seem to live up to their title.

Warnings: Older (Mid thirties) Sugar Daddies Steve and Eddie/ Young (Early to mid 20s) Baby Fem Plus Size Reader

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

[voidskipper]

WHERE THE SILENCE WARPS

Prologue

Locked away in a hidden facility, a girl with powers beyond understanding has known nothing but control and confinement. But when chaos erupts from within, an unexpected chance to escape surfaces—along with secrets she was never meant to uncover. As she steps into the unknown, one truth becomes clear: freedom comes with a cost she has yet to understand.

Your gut had never been wrong before. Living a life filled with needles and white-tiled walls, you learned quickly the only thing you could trust was instinct.

You had grown up in this place—HNL. You weren’t sure what it stood for; you only knew the badges said it. Men and women in white coats, clipboards clutched tight against their chests, guards shadowing their every move. The taste of metal. The hum of fluorescent lights. The static crackle of radios on the guards' hips. The sharp clack-clack of their polished black boots haunted your dreams.

You spent so long locked away in your padded cell you memorized the sounds—their patterns, like a grim symphony. One set of boots: just a guard. Two sets: a guard and a doctor, usually passing toward A-wing. Two sets, one faint and hesitant: Dr. Eikmo. He was the gentle one. Three sets: Dr. Brenner. The man who buried you in this corner of hell, far from any visitor’s earshot.

But tonight was different. A pressure, heavy and clawing, hung over the facility like a coiled storm. A tiger stalking its prey. Something was coming. Your palms itched, an ache deep in your bones. Maybe this could be the day—

WEEOOO— WEEOOO—

The alarms screamed over your head, deafening. The world plunged into darkness—and then bathed in an ominous, flickering red. The steel collar around your neck—the SDC—seemed to double in weight. Panicked, you clawed at the edges, fingers trembling as you brushed over the sensors you weren't supposed to touch. Every breath came sharp and fast. The noise. The darkness. The wrongness thick in the air.

“Breathe.” You tried to remember Dr. Eikmo’s voice. Deep breath. Calm down. But your heartbeat rattled against your ribs. Ding. The collar’s sensors awakened. BZZZTT! Pain exploded down your spine. You crumpled, screaming, fists slamming uselessly against the floor. Your whole body spasmed, twitching like a puppet with its strings yanked cruelly. The metal collar bit into your flesh, leaving the sharp scent of burning skin. You didn’t know how long you lay there, twitching against the cold tile. Minutes? Seconds?

Then–Bootsteps. Frantic. Dozens of them.

You forced yourself upright, muscles trembling. Pressing your face to the tiny reinforced window in the door. Two figures sprinted into view—white coats stained with blood and grime, wide eyes gleaming in the strobing red light. Dr. Layards leaned heavily against the wall, coughing, cradling his ribs. Behind him, Dr. Connors, sweat-slick and wild-eyed, dragged him forward.

"Connors! What about Nine?!" Layards gasped.

Connors barely looked at you. "Leave her! We don’t have the protocol to open that door!"

“But—” Layards hesitated, glancing desperately at your cell.

"That door's solid steel," Connors snapped. "She'll be fine."

You pounded on the glass, fists burning. “DON’T LEAVE ME!” Tears blurred your vision. You were real. You were alive. Why couldn’t they see you?

Another sound cut through the chaos. A roar—deep, guttural, wrong—ripped down the corridor like a blade through flesh. Both men froze. Connors’ face blanched. Layards stumbled. Without a second thought, Connors grabbed the other man's coat and dragged him away—away from you.

Gone.

You sagged against the door, throat raw, fists bruised, silent sobs shaking your body.

Breathe. Calm down. 

It didn’t work this time. Your heart surged again. You felt it: anxiety, horror, betrayal—

Ding. BZZZZZZT.

The collar fired again, seizing every nerve in your body. You crumpled sideways, sliding down the cold wall. Everything burned. The acrid scent of your own scorched skin filled the air. Your mind frayed at the edges, black spots blooming in your vision. You barely registered the sound of a beep at the door’s keypad.

Click. The door swung open. You squinted against the flickering red glow—and saw Dr. Eikmo burst through, gun in one hand, terror written all over his face. "Come on," he rasped, dropping beside you.

You whimpered as he fumbled at the back of your collar, jamming a small key into the lock mechanism. The click of release was the sweetest sound you’d ever heard. The SDC fell from your neck with a heavy clang. You gasped in pain but felt lighter—free. “Thank you,” you croaked, voice thin and broken.

Eikmo didn’t answer. He yanked off his blood-streaked coat and wrapped it around your shaking shoulders. His hands moved quick and efficiently, trembling just slightly.

“Dr. Eikmo,” you mumbled, voice slurring. "What's happening?"

He dug into his pocket, pulling out a small folded square—papers. He opened your hand and pressed them into your palm, curling your fingers around them. “Your file. Copies. Keep it safe. Don't lose it," he whispered. His eyes darted to the door, then back to you. "You don't understand everything yet. This...this will help.”

You stared, dazed. File? None of this made sense.

“I need you to follow me exactly,” Eikmo said. His voice cracked, raw with urgency. "No powers. No matter what. You understand?"

Your throat felt thick. You nodded.

He moved fast, keycard in hand, swiping the inside lock. The panel blinked green.

This was happening. You were getting out.

Before he opened the door, you found your voice again. “Doctor…what happened?” The question came out broken, childlike.

He hesitated. Something flickered across his face—fear, regret, sorrow. "We pushed the little girl from A-Ward too far," he said hoarsely. "She opened a...rift. A gate between worlds. We pushed too hard. Now were facing the consequences." Before you could even react, Eikmo grabbed your arm, yanking you into the corridor.

The world outside your cell was on fire. Bodies sprawled across the gleaming floor, blood slicking the tiles into a grotesque mirror of the pristine halls you once knew. Red warning lights bathed everything in violent, shifting shadows. The stench of iron and smoke clawed at the back of your throat. The screams in the distance. A cacophony of agony ricocheting off the sterile walls. You stumbled, your bare feet slapping wetly against the floor as you struggled to keep up. Eikmo’s strides were wide, desperate. Your legs burned trying to match him—but you weren't trained for this. You had been locked away, contained. 

The maze of corridors blurred together—twist after twist, endless white walls smeared with crimson fingerprints. Every heartbeat was a drum against your ribs. Every breath a razor in your throat. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Eikmo skidded to a halt at an unmarked steel door. He slammed his keycard into the scanner. BEEP. The lock clicked. He shoved it open with his shoulder, ushering you in, glancing back one last time. He turned to you, face grim. "This is a ventilation pipe," he said pointing to a hatch on the opposite side of the empty room, voice low but steady. "It was meant for maintenance or emergencies...chemical spills, that kind of thing. But instead of experimenting with chemicals," his voice broke slightly, "they chose to experiment on kids." He grabbed the heavy hatch wheel, straining as he twisted it open. The hinges groaned in protest, screeching against the silent red gloom. Beyond the door yawned a narrow black tunnel, pitch dark. A throat in the earth, swallowing light whole. 

"You need to crawl through," Eikmo instructed, urgency sharpening his voice. "Don’t stop. No matter how tight it gets. Keep moving forward."

You swallowed hard, peering into the suffocating darkness.

"You'll come out in the woods, far from the facility. It's the safest way out. Trust your gut when you get there. Avoid the roads. Avoid police if you can. They might not be on your side."

You looked up at him, heart hammering so hard it blurred your vision.

He crouched down to your level, fierce and unblinking. "And listen to me carefully—do not use your powers." His words were carved from stone. "If you do, they’ll find you. They built machines to track you. Equipment designed to catch you if you broke free." 

The thought made you instinctively draw your arms in closer. Hide yourself.

"Find people you can trust," Eikmo continued, softer now. "I’ll contact you when it’s safe."

You nodded, your fingers tightening around the crumpled file still tucked into his your coat. You turned your eyes toward the tunnel again. The black endlessness made your knees weak. Your breath caught. The fear clawed at your insides like a living thing.But then—Your gut stirred. It said move, go.

But still, you turned back toward Dr. Eikmo, heart clenching tight. "Thank you," you whispered, voice trembling at the edges. Tears stung your eyes—not from pain, not from fear, but from something deeper, something new. Gratitude. For the first time in your life, someone hadn't hurt you. Someone had helped.

Eikmo met your gaze, and for a moment, the cold, clinical mask he always wore crumbled. He looked at you like a father seeing a child walk free for the first time. "You're welcome," he said, the words cracking around the edges. He exhaled sharply and gave a small, shaky chuckle. "Just... don’t do anything stupid, alright?" 

A distant crash echoed down the corridors—a door being battered open. Shouts followed, sharp and commanding, growing louder by the second. Eikmo’s head snapped toward the sound. His face paled. "That's the military reinforcements," he hissed, urgency slicing through the last of his composure. "You need to go, now."

You shook your head. Without looking back, you dropped onto your hands and knees, the cold metal stinging against your skin. You crawled forward, into the darkness.

Behind you, Eikmo sealed the hatch. The heavy clank of the door echoed down the pipe, sealing your fate. You were alone. But you were free.

Please like, comment, and repost if you enjoyed and want to see more! <3

[crappymixtape]

plus one

your roommate, steve, has a wedding to go to, but he doesn't have anyone to go with him, so you go as his date – he asks you to dance and that's when it hits you...could you be more than just a plus one? | (  2.7k, banter, fluff, grumpy x sunshine, friends to lovers, steve x you, steve x reader )

P L U S O N E 🎵 sophisticated lady, taft jordan

It was supposed to be easy. A simple solution to an annoying problem: Steve needed a plus one to his best friend’s wedding, and his roommate, you, were definitely, 100% available. The only thing was that you were a total skeptic who didn’t believe in true love, and liked dancing even less than you liked forced small talk.

“C’mon, what d’you have to lose?”

Leaning against the doorframe of your bathroom, Steve absentmindedly picked at a loose thread along the bottom hem of his shirt. His chestnut locks tumbling over his forehead, still mussed from sleep, the tank top stretching across his chest showing off his bare shoulders and all the new moles and freckles that summer had gifted him.

You pushed a sigh through your nose, trying your best to ignore him as you swiped mascara across your lashes.

“I have my dignity,” you said flatly to his reflection in the mirror, his brown eyes turned amber in the early morning sun.

“Please,” he whined, “Listen, I’ll set you up. You know? So you can do your thing. Be your wingman–er–whatever.”

“My wingman?” you asked, brow quirked, your skepticism pushing Steve off the doorframe.

“Fine. Anti-wingman?” His eyes flickered playfully, teasing, and you turned away from the mirror to look at him in real life.

“You know I hate weddings,” you protested, lips firmed in a line.

“But there’s free food, and booze, and–” Steve’s brow furrowed in thought, “–and I’ll do your laundry and the dishes for a week.”

“You seriously don’t have anyone else to ask?”

The silence that followed told you he didn’t.

You sighed. “Two weeks.”

“Two?”

“Alright, you have fun,” you replied dismissively, turning around to lean over the bathroom sink again.

“Okay, okay–two weeks.”

Your eyes flicked up to meet his in the mirror again, his expression edging on desperate.

“Two weeks,” you echoed. “Also, you’re the worst.”

“And you’re a menace.”

“Get out of my bathroom, Steve,” you quipped, pinning your hair back. “I’m gonna be late for work.”

“You’re never late.”

Nudging his knee into the crook of yours, he made you buckle, grabbing at the lip of the counter so you wouldn’t fall.

“Shit–Steve!” you swatted at him, and he dodged it with a laugh.

“See you at five!”

Summer weddings were all the same: big, bright peonies, light, gauzy fabrics, and wood circles under everything. The ceremony was always under a flower arch, the groomsman always wore brown chelseas and grey suits, and the bride always cried halfway through her ‘handwritten’ vows.

“So sweet,” Steve whispered, elbow gently bumping into yours, and you shook your head.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve seen that speech on Pinterest.”

“Hey.”

“What? I could’ve done better than that, and I don’t even have anyone to write them about.”

Fixing you with a look, Steve clicked his tongue just as the officiant announced the newlyweds.

“Let’s go, Robs and Nance!” he cheered, pushing a whistle between his fingers while you clapped begrudgingly next to him.

The last time you’d been to a wedding was four years ago when your brother married his now ex-wife, and everyone saw how that turned out. Still, you had the bridesmaids’ dress, but when you tried to squeeze into it, it didn’t fit anymore. Grumbling, you’d dug around in your closet for something, anything, that wouldn’t have you sweating before the ceremony had even started, until something bright caught your eye.

Shoved at the very back of your closet was a light, floor-length, skinny-strapped, peachy colored sundress that dipped down to the small of your back. It still had the tags on it, but when you tugged it over your head, the reflection looking back at you in the mirror was pleasantly unfamiliar. Someone softer, not so sharp around the edges, and with an easy confidence. Even though you didn’t recognize her, you wondered for a minute if maybe this version of you could exist.

When you’d walked out into the living room to show Steve, you couldn’t help noticing how his sunkissed cheeks had gone warm and rosy.

“Wow–er–I mean–you look really nice.”

He stumbled over his words, the lack of teasing catching you off guard, and you left the house in Steve’s BMW with a foreign kind of tension between you. Air pulled taut like it was before a thunderstorm, thick with words unsaid until you pulled up to the venue and picked up your usual charade of banter.

Just friends.

“While we let the brides have a minute to themselves, please make your way over to the reception!” the officiant announced through squealing feedback on the mic, pulling you out of your thoughts. “You’ll see name cards have been placed at each table – find your name and a drink, and we’ll see you soon!”

Piano notes picked up, joined by a brassy trumpet, and smooth bass guitar thrums that wove through the late-afternoon heat. A haze had settled over the wide expanse of lawn dotted with tables and chairs, dappled in the rays of sun that crept between a stretching canopy of ash and oak branches. A very classy affair in a ‘rustic’ setting that you were sure had been orchestrated by an overpaid coordinator determined to avoid a bridezilla moment.

“This is nice,” Steve hummed at your side as you queued for a drink at the bar.

“Nicer after I get a drink,” you joked back at him, and it earned you a long side-eye.

“C’mon. It’s not that bad.”

Dropping your gaze to her feet, you pushed a sigh from your lungs, picking at the new manicure on your fingers.

“Let’s have fun,” Steve murmured, bumping the toe of his boot into your espadrille. “When do we ever get to let loose for a minute? You’re always working, and I’m always being obnoxious.”

You snorted a laugh and looked up at him, “I don’t know if you’re always obnoxious.”

He grinned, “Well, then I’ll have to double my efforts. Let me get you a drink.” Sticking his arm out, you looped yours into the crook of his elbow.

When he tugged you into his side for a brief second, you found herself wrapped up in the tart scent of neroli, fresh laundry, his woodsy aftershave, and the coconut sunscreen you’d made him put on right before you got out of the car. Your gaze drifted down, noticing how he absentmindedly smoothed his fingers over the bump of your knuckles, and your cheeks warmed at the sensation, your body hyperaware of every single touch point between you. The loop of your arms, his fingers on your hand, the crisp fabric of his button-down on your bare skin, the hem of his sleeve as it stretched across his bicep.

“You in there?”

You sucked in a gasp and blinked up at Steve.

“What?”

“What would you like to drink?” he asked through a chuckle.

“Oh–uh–rosé would be great, thank you.”

Steve’s mouth tugged up at the corner as he gave you that boyish, lopsided grin. “Great,” he said, turning back to the bartender. “One rosé and one whiskey, neat, please.”

“Actually, I’m gonna go find the bathroom. Meet you back at the table?” you said through an uncharacteristically weak smile.

His brows pinched together, You okay? But nodded at you anyway. “Sounds good.”

As soon as you turned away from him, you exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. “What the hell?” you muttered under your breath, hands gathering up fistfuls of the long fabric of your dress. “He’s your roommate. Your super fucking annoying roommate who leaves trash all over the apartment. God–” you shook her head at yourself, “–get it together, you idiot.”

When you came out of the tiny, but ‘bougie’ bathroom trailer, the reception was fully underway. Guests milled around the lush, green lawn, drinks in hand, laughter growing by the minute as they imbibed in the waning, late-afternoon heat. An ocean breeze had decided to pick up as the sun crept further down the horizon, its rays splaying out and washing everything in gold.

Weaving your way through the crowd, you looked for Steve in the buzz of conversation and occasional exclamation of recognition – Haven’t seen you in forever! – But it was harder to see now as the strings of bistro lights looped around the property, casting shadows to dance across the lawn.

“I love your dress!” A hand reached out to touch the soft fabric of your outfit.

“Oh,” you stuttered, startled, "Yeah–thanks. Thank you.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“Uh–I can’t remember. Maybe somewhere down off Melrose?”

“Well, it’s perfect. Bet your boyfriend loves it too,” the woman grinned, nodding just to her left where you finally spotted Steve talking to a man with navy suspenders and horn-rimmed glasses.

An awkward laugh caught in your throat, “He’s actually not my–”

“Vicki?? Sorry, hon. One sec–Vicki, oh my god! You look amazing!”

The woman pushed past you, completely abandoning your conversation to gather up what was apparently a long-lost friend in a giant hug.

“Nice to meet you, too,” you mumbled to yourself, walking over to Steve until you were within earshot of his conversation.

“Isn’t that your roommate, Harrington?”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah, yeah it is.”

You stopped at the mention of your name, watching as Steve talked with this friend of his. Now that you could see them better, you recognized him. You couldn’t remember his name, but knew he tried to get lunch or coffee with Steve every couple of weeks.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen her with her hair down. Doesn’t she work in design?” the friend asked, and your cheeks flushed pink. Your hair was thick and a lot of work, of course, you never wore it down.

“She’s a producer for Valley Film, they just finished up a short for some director out of San Diego.”

“Oh shit, that’s cool.”

Unsure of how much longer you could linger that close to them without looking weird, you shifted on her feet, uncomfortable at your eavesdropping, but what Steve said next froze you in place.

“They’re starting to get some awards buzz, so she’s been super busy; everyone wants to work with her.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. She’s one of the most talented producers on the West Coast. I’m really proud of her.”

I’m really proud of her.

Your eyes flicked away from the band to look at Steve to see he was looking back, the smile on his face one you hadn’t seen before. Fond, sweet, and something else.

Something warmer.

“Hey, I’m gonna grab a bite. Catch you in a bit,” Steve excused himself and moved around his friend, heading straight for the charcuterie board table – and you.

The tension that had stretched between you before reappeared; had it ever left? And as Steve walked across the lawn, you became acutely aware of him.

Steve.

Your roommate.

Your best friend.

All of his little idiosyncrasies.

The way his fingers twisted at the silver band on his thumb when he was bored, the little crinkles that appeared at the corners of his eyes when he was really smiling, the low rumble in his chest when he knew he shouldn’t be laughing, but did anyway.

His voice and the way it sounded wrapped around her name.

“Hey, you.”

Your stomach flipped over, caught, “Hi.”

His smile softened, tinged at the edges with what was maybe the same anticipation that had reached up and grabbed hold of you.

Lifting a hand to your face, Steve tucked a flyaway behind your ear, dashing what little confidence you had left with a single touch.

“Who’s that?” you asked, anything to scramble back to ‘normal’ as he shot a glance over his shoulder.

“Eddie? Oh, we roomed together in college.”

“Right.” Eddie. “Just catching up?”

“Yeah. Talking about you, actually.”

Your pulse fluttered against your neck; so much for back to normal.

“Me?” you huffed an awkward laugh, grabbing a couple of grapes from the appetizer table and shoving them into your mouth. “You tell him you’re on the hook to do my laundry for two weeks? Sucker.”

Steve chuckled, shaking his head. “That’d blow my cover,” he shot you a lopsided grin. “No, Eds, I definitely didn’t bribe my plus one.”

Soft drums picked up on the other side of the room as the band started playing opening notes for a new song, and Steve glanced down at you, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Hey, would you want to dance with me–”

“–is this a date?”

Your questions blurred together, asked simultaneously, cutting both of you short, and Steve’s face flushed up to his ears.

“Steve…” you said, quieter than usual, hesitant.

You watched as he swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, a look on his face you’d never seen before. A muddled mixture of guilt, curiosity, and something else. Something that swam through your bloodstream, slow and warm.

“I mean, you’re my date to the wedding?” he joked weakly, but the way you were looking at him had his half-facade cracking and falling away. Loosing a sigh, he ran a hand through his hair, tongue jammed into his cheek like he did when he was thinking through things. “We’ve been roommates for…”

“Two years,” you said, filling in the gap he’d left behind.

Glancing up, Steve’s eyes met yours, all brown sugar and burnt caramel in the low light.

“And friends since…?”

“Fourth grade,” you finished, lips tugging up at the corners in a small smile.

“You’re my best friend,” he confessed, voice low like a secret, his words planting themselves between your ribs like wildflowers; bright little things that brushed at your insides, hummingbird wings against your chest, pushing you to be brave.

“Mine too,” you realized, then gently teased, “Except when you leave your half-empty ramen cups on the coffee table.”

Steve huffed a guilty laugh, pulling his lower lip between his teeth, then sobered, “I was hoping maybe if you came with me it’d–I dunno–show you that we’re good together. You know. Like…more than just friends.”

More than just friends.

More than just your obnoxious roommate.

Your friend.

Your best friend.

The one who picked you up from work when your car broke down. The one who remembered how much you hated celebrating your birthday and stayed home to binge-watch old horror movies with you instead. The one who told his friends how proud he was of you. Told you you were beautiful with your hair up, and humored your jaded attitude, and pushed you to try new things. Things you learned to love, not because they were new, but because he was there.

“Good together,” you echoed softly, lifting your gaze to meet his brown eyes, warm and hazy like whiskey, long lashes fanning out across his cheeks.

“What d’you think?” he asked tentatively.

“I think I’m grumpy and you’re…you’re like sunshine,” you said through a small grin, “How’s that work?”

Steve laughed, a low, warm thing that turned your insides to goo.

“You keep my feet on the ground, and I remind you it’s okay to have a little fun sometimes,” he assessed, solving the last piece of the equation for you.

“I like fun,” you pushed, grin growing, and he gave it right back.

“You do,” he mused, tangling his fingers up with yours. “Is dancing considered fun?”

“Only at weddings.”

“Well, I don’t know if you know,” he teased, “But we’re at a wedding.”

“We are?” you played along.

“Mmhm, and there’s a dance floor right over there,” he pointed with his free hand.

“What a coincidence.”

He lifted his brows at you, Come with me? And it made you put your hands on his shoulders, gently pushing him backwards, the heels of his shoes clicking against the wooden platform as he stepped up to the dancefloor.

You took one of his hands and pressed it to your waist, warm and wide at the plush of your hip, and started moving you both in time with the smooth notes coming from the band.

“Not my fault if I step on your toes, by the way. I’m shit at dancing,” you confessed, voice small, a little playful, and a lot vulnerable, and it made him smile.

“Worth it.”

The soft sounds coming from the piano wrapped around you, and Steve pulled you a little closer, your head gently resting against his chest. His heartbeat thudded in your ear, warm and steady, and you smiled into his shirt, content to stay just like this.

His more-than-friend.

The grumpy to his sunshine.

His plus one.

crappymixtape™ • steve harrington masterlist // stranger things masterlist♥️ reblogs and comments keep me going, friends! ily! ♥️

[stevesgother]

dad!steve harrington x mom!fem!reader cw: hospital setting, mentions of miscarriages

On a gloomy, overcast Saturday morning, nine weeks to the day that you found out about your pregnancy, you fall to your knees in the cramped kitchen of your shared apartment.

Steve hears your clattering from the other side of the room before he sees you, rushing to your aid once he does.

"Hey, woah, what's going on?" He rushes out in one big breath. Sweat has begun to prickle at your hairline, your temples– an awful cramping sensation burning through your lower belly.

"Something's not right," you grit with one hand white knuckling the vinyl countertop as your other plants firmly to the floor.

"Should I call 911?" Steve asks hurriedly. You really would love for him to stop panicking, but you know that's not realistic.

"No– ah! Too expensive," you reply, clutching your middle, "just– help me up."

The pain doesn't ease up even as Steve lowers you into the passenger seat of your Chevy Impala. Or as you dare to touch a hand between your legs only to find blood. Or as you're being admitted to Hawkins General Hospital for an emergency ultrasound and exam.

The sound of your name startles you, chirped from a bright-eyed, brunette ultrasound technician. It felt as though you and this woman– squirting gel onto your still mostly flat stomach and making peppy small talk– couldn't be more dissimilar.

"And how far along are you?" The woman asks, smacking a piece of spearmint gum between her perfect teeth.

Steve blurts, "Nine. Weeks. She's– nine weeks along. Today." Before you get any farther than opening your mouth to respond. His hand is gripping yours with an intensity you've never seen him wear before, not even in all the years you've had the pleasure of knowing him.

The technician nods, moves the transducer across your abdomen a few more times; suspiciously blank-faced. You wonder briefly if they're trained to be so expressionless.

"Okay!" She chirps, snapping off her gloves, "The doctor will be in with you shortly." And with that, she's out of the room just as quickly as she appeared.

"Well? What did you see?" Steve presses, almost accusatory.

"The obstetrician on call will go over the results with you." She reassures in a generic tone, like she's said it hundreds of times.

The only sounds in the sterile room for the next several minutes are the beeping of various machines, and the hushed whispers of worried conversations between you and Steve.

"Steve–" you breathe, "what if–"

"No," he cuts off your spiraling at its source, "let's just wait to see what the doctor says. Something like this happened to my older sister when she was pregnant with my niece, it ended up being nothing. Okay?"

"Okay," you reply, but your breath trembles on its way to push the words out.

A noticeably older woman enters the room a handful of minutes later. The obstetrician.

"I'd ask how we're doing, but I think I already know the answer to that." Doctor Richardson-- as per the badge on her hip– says with a sympathetic wince.

"I'm Doctor Richardson," she continues, "what brings you in today?"

So, you tell her. About the intense cramping and the collapsing in the kitchen and the blood in your underwear. How the pregnancy was unplanned, and how you'd been taking birth control when you conceived.

"Well, the good news is that you're not miscarrying."

The immediate relief you're flooded with makes everything else out of Doctor Richardson's mouth sound like it's being spoken underwater. You hope, for your sake and your child's, that Steve's listening better than you are.

You catch snippets of her spiel, phrases like 'subchorionic hemorrhage', 'not usually dangerous', 'larger than usual', 'prescribed bed rest', but it's all lost on you. Your baby is okay.

You're sent home with a pamphlet on your condition and your doctor's best wishes. In the car, Steve tells you about the shorthand notes he took on a loose napkin he found beside your hospital bed.

"She said it's relatively normal in early pregnancy, just that yours was a little bigger than usual. Which was what the bleeding and the cramping was all about." He informs you; eyes trained on the road.

"What's normal?" You ask, staring out the passenger side window, watching droplets of rain streak through the fogged-up glass.

Steve casts you a weary sidelong glance, "The sub-whatever, I can't pronounce it right. It's like, a hematoma on your uterine lining, she said."

"Oh."

His hand that's not on the steering wheel finds your knee, squeezes, "Hey. It's gonna be okay, honey. The baby's okay."

"I know," you say softly, rolling your head to look at him, "I'm just tired."

Steve's lip curls up in a gentle smile, "We'll get you nice and cozy in bed. I can make you some of that tea you like. Or I can read you a couple chapters of that book I'm reading."

"That sounds nice," you tell him, because it does. Steve makes even the most mundane sound wonderful and exhilarating.

In bed later, as Steve drifts sleepily beside you, eyes heavy from hours of reading and chatting, you press a warm hand to your belly and try to channel every ounce of your love to the life growing in there.

divider credit to @/enchantingthings-a

[strangelysamantha]

heart to heart ❀

steve harrington x fem!reader.

warnings: mention of being drugged, but otherwise pure fluff.

words: 987.

summary: at the starcourt mall bathroom, you and steve have a heart to heart.

request? no

a/n: it won’t let me insert links anymore and i’m very upset about it. but i’m happy to be writing again so i guess i have that going for me! can’t wait to produce a bunch of stranger things content.

my masterlist

—————————————-

you lay on the floor of the bathroom, your back slouched against the wall. your head wasn’t spinning as bad so that was good, but now the spiral to sobriety made your mind rush with thoughts. the starcourt mall had harsh lights, and you struggled to stick with any thoughts, overwhelmed by the torture you had barely escaped from. steve harrington was quiet in the stall next to you. a groan emitting from your lips. “are you okay steve?” you find the courage to question. you were nervous to break the silence, but if you had to endure it any longer you would explode. he hesitates, “yeah, i think uh,” he waits, “i think im alright.” you nod, although he’s unable to acknowledge it. “how about you? are you okay over there?” you stay quiet, unsure how to answer. “hello?” there’s worry in his voice, and he doesn’t wait to slide under the stall door to comfort you.

you grimace at him, “do you realize how gross the bathroom floor is?” you crack a smile, amused. he shrugs, “after all that fighting today, i already needed to wash the uniform, what difference will it make?” the two of you break out into laughter, “maybe it’s not fully out of our system yet.” this makes you laugh even harder. you take a moment to catch your breath. “steve?” he hums in response, “i’m glad i was with you in the battle against the russians.” he makes eye contact with you, “true, i’m pretty badass aren’t i?” you bite your lip nervously, “yes but you did deal with alot though.” he looks away, “i just want you to know im here for you. i mean what else can we go through that’s going to top breaking into a hidden russian lair?”

“i hope nothing… but this town is crawling with bad people. you can’t ever be safe.” his demeanor hurts, the pitiful comment causes your heart to sting. “yeah that’s what scares me.” you admit. “we’ll get through it together okay? we’re a good team.” you nod at his reassuring words, “let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that.” you collect your thoughts, “it’s funny to think that just last week we scooped ice cream for a living, and then we almost died.” steve smirks, “it’s quite the story to tell though.”

“don’t you miss high school? the only worry we had was about homework due dates, and trying not to fall asleep during lectures?” he reminisces, “it was easier, but time moves forward, and you get hardships thrown your way. i don’t know where i’ll be in a few years.” he continues, “it’s hard to think about the future, when the present is not enjoyable.” “i know, we should be out having fun, not worried about our hometown being invaded.” saying the words made the situation real, and the idea of your future was unimaginable. “do you still love nancy?” you question. he sighs, “yes, and no.” he thinks about it, you can tell by his face. “i miss what we had, the love was real, but time passed. we both grew into ourselves; there’s no point in ruining that growth.” his stance caught you by surprise, but you appreciated his honesty. “i had a first love too. it was different; it was a love that consumed me, but i lost who i was in the process. it’s hard to go back to someone when you know it didn’t work out for a reason.” he silently agrees, “have you moved on?” he asks. “yes, and no.” you giggle, “i’ve moved on, but sometimes i long for it. it was safe, predictable, but i know in my heart that things will work out for me.” steve’s eyes lock with yours.

you can’t read what he’s feeling, you’re filled with nerves. “i like you steve.” his lips curved, “you do?” you laugh slightly, “of course i do steve. you saved my life today. you make working at scoops ahoy fun. you’re playful, and witty. you treat me with so much kindness. and maybe i’m misreading this thing between us.” you back peddled slightly, worried you might have overstepped. “i like you too, today you brought out a side of me, one i hadn’t seen in awhile. you gave me hope, a reason.” you stomach fills with butterflies as his gaze lingers over you. you scooch forward, placing your hand over his. “steve, i really-.” unfortunately dustin and erica barge into the bathroom, before he rolls his eyes. “okay… what the hell?” steve and you glance at each other before returning your eyes to dustin. together you both emit into hysterical laughter at dustin’s comment. “get up we have to go.” he urges you up and rushes you to the door, erica’s face is stern and her hand is on her hip as she impatiently waited for you two to stand up. the four of you leave the bathroom, determined to escape the mall. you stay back, letting erica and dustin lead the way. you glance over at steve, your hand instinctively reaching for his as the nerves wash over you. he happily holds it, he looks over to you, his teeth bright. “you make me really happy.” he squeezes your hand. “you make me really happy too steve.” he chuckles slightly. “maybe after we escape, i can take you on a date?” a rose tint lifted to your cheeks as shyness crept up. “yes please.” the two of you continue to hold hands as you hurriedly tried to blend in with the crowd of people leaving the theater; however you see men in all black, guarding the exit. dustin tells you guys to abort and to turn around, and you frantically run to the lower level. fear was instilled inside you, however; with steve by your side you felt confident that you would make it to your guys first date.

🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

[wonderlandwalker]

Developments

𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 / 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 / 𝐩𝐭. 𝐈𝐈

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x fem!reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.7k 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Steve keeps finding Polaroids of you in… compromising positions. Each one burns hotter than the last, until his ‘just friends’ act is ashes 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: pining, explicit language and insinuations, pure smut too, Steve is a disaster really, hurt, comfort and whole nine yards of my ramblings, au where mario kart existed in the 80's

𝐚/𝐧: had an anxiety attack while abroad in Germany. Slept for 14 hours. Debated deleting my blog. Wrote this instead

The first time it happens, Steve is three beers deep at The Hideout, loose-limbed and laughing at something Robin just said—something crude, probably, given the way Eddie’s wheezing into his whisky, shoulders shaking. Steve’s still grinning when he reaches into his jacket pocket for his lighter, fingers searching for the familiar shape.

Instead, they brush against something stiff.

What the hell?

He pulls it out under the dim, beer-stained lights of the bar, and—

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

It’s you.

Not just you—your bare skin glowing in the grainy tint of a Polaroid, the flash catching every curve, every shadow. One knee is drawn up, giving way to the perfect view, and your arm is thrown across your face like you couldn’t bear to be seen. But your mouth—Christ, your mouth is open in silent ecstasy, lips swollen and parted, and your fingers—

Jesus Christ.

Your fingers are buried in your cunt, working deep like you’re trying to feed an insatiable ache, the wet shine unmistakable even in the cheap film. His throat goes dry. His pulse kicks so hard he can feel it in his fucking teeth. Eddie says something then, some smartass remark that has Robin snorting into her drink, but Steve doesn’t hear it. Doesn’t care. All he can think about is how you’re sitting right across from him, legs crossed, sipping your drink and quipping back like it’s the most normal evening in the world. He slaps the photo face down against his thigh, grip so tight the edges crumple.

How the hell did this get in here?

He doesn’t remember you giving it to him. Doesn’t remember touching it, period. But now that he’s seen it, he can’t unsee it—the curve of your hip, the desperate arch of your back, the way your brows were scrunched together like you were right on the edge—

Stop.

He shoves it back into his pocket, but it’s too late. The image is seared into his skull—it’s just a stupid Polaroid, but now it’s all he can think about. His pulse thrums under his skin, restless and too warm. He shouldn’t be this affected. He shouldn’t. But his traitorous mind keeps circling back to it— how easy it would be to move closer, to let his hands settle where they’ve been itching to go, to see if your breath would catch the way he imagines it would. All he can think about is how badly he wants to tiptoe that thin line between friendship and sex, but it’s a dangerous game. One he’s played before and lost spectacularly. He knows the rules—knows how quickly almost turns into too much, how just friends becomes we shouldn’t have done that in the space of a single reckless moment.

But god, the temptation is killing him.

The way your knee brushes against his under the table like it’s an accident, but he knows it’s not. The way you lick salt off the rim of your margarita, eyes locked on his, like you’re waiting for him to break first. The way you shift just slightly, just enough for him to catch the ghost of a smirk—like you know exactly what he’s picturing.

It’s a slippery slope he’s sworn off.

Or at least, he tried to. But then you catch his eye, lips quirking like you can read every filthy thought racing through his head, and—Fuck. He’s too far gone already.

The following four days, Steve lives in a special kind of hell. The photo should’ve been forgettable. Just some stray Polaroid lost in the chaos of his life—another piece of clutter tossed onto the pile of things he doesn’t have the energy to deal with.

But it’s not. It’s you, branded into his brain with the precision of a lit match pressed to skin. No amount of pretending—no amount of jerking off in the shower with his forehead braced against the tile, teeth gritted around your name—dulls the ache. If anything, it makes it worse. Every time he closes his eyes, there you are.

The worst part?  Nothing’s changed. You still sling your legs over his lap like it’s nothing, like you hadn’t ruined him with a single fucking square of film. No sly glances, no secretive smirks. Just normal, like you haven’t been haunting his dreams with your fingers between—

God. He’s losing his goddamn mind.

The next one hits him like a slap to the face. He’s rummaging through the disaster zone of his coffee table—shoving aside empty beer cans, a half-eaten bag of chips, a crumpled pack of cigarettes—when his fingers brush against something that isn’t his keys. Cold dread slithers down his spine even before he pulls it free.

Another fucking picture.

It steals the air from his lungs.

You.

On your back, sheets a mess beneath you, your hair fanned out like some kind of halo. The angle is intimate, almost reverent—the curve of your bare hip, the dip of your waist, the way your fingers dig into your own thighs, holding yourself open.

Wet.

Exposed.

Your head is tipped back, lips parted around a moan he can almost hear, eyes half-lidded, lost in it. The flush on your chest, the way your body arches—like you’re caught in the thick of pleasure, like you’re drowning in it. Steve’s not sure if he’s surprised or jealous or just furious that he wasn’t the one to pull that expression from you.

He knew you were beautiful—that wasn't news. Everyone with working eyes and half a brain could see that. But this? The way golden light caressed the sweat-slick curve of your throat, the way your pleasure wasn't performative but private, intimate, real—

Christ.

It wasn't just erotic. It was sacred.

The Polaroid nearly slips from his trembling fingers before he catches it, the glossy surface warping slightly under his desperate grip. He forces himself to relax, to breathe, but the damage is done—the image already tattooed behind his eyelids.

Are you leaving these on purpose?

The question claws its way up his throat like a living thing.

It can't be.

But God help him, he needs it to be

His thumb traces the edge of the photograph as he drinks in the details: Your lips—swollen, glistening, the faint indentation of teeth where you'd bitten down to silence yourself. Your eyes—black as spilt ink, heavy-lidded yet startlingly aware, staring through the lens like you were seeing him, like you wanted him to witness this unravelling. A voice whispers through the static of his thoughts: You're missing something, and the realisation hits like a sucker punch—he's been here before, trapped in this limbo between wanting and having, between friends and something else. He remembers the exact moment he first knew you held his heart: The air in family video had been thick with the scent of stale popcorn and the hum of the ancient AC unit fighting a losing battle against the summer heat. You'd laughed at something he had said—and the sound had punched through him like a bullet. Your tongue darted out to catch a drop of Cherry Coke from your lower lip, and suddenly his hands were sweating, his collar too tight, his entire body electric with the need to move, to touch, to— "Steve?" You'd caught him staring, your head tilting in that way that made his ribs ache. "You okay?"

Now. Say it now.

But his tongue had turned to lead. Three words lodged in his throat: I want you. Then the bell chimed, Robin bursting in with arms full of candy, grinning as she spoke, “Okay, who wants to bet Eddie eats all the Red Vines before the movie even starts?” and the moment shattered like dropped glass.

Now, staring at this damning photograph, the same fear coils in his gut—what if he's wrong? What if these Polaroids aren’t for him?

What if they’re just—

Lost.

Left behind.

Not meant for his insatiable eyes.

The thought sends acid flooding through his veins. Because the alternative—that you planted these for him to find, that you wanted him to see you like this—that wasn't just hope. It was arson. And he was already burning; the way you look at him sometimes, like you’re waiting for him to figure it out; the way your fingers linger when you pass him a drink; the way you smile when he stumbles over his words, like you like that he’s flustered.

And now—

The Polaroids. Left where only he would find them.

Taunting him.

Testing him.

Tempting him.

The third Polaroid nearly fucking kills him. By the time your group crowds into the diner booth, Steve's almost convinced himself he imagined it all. Almost. But then, after about an hour of comfortable familiarity, his fingers brushing the edge of his milkshake glass, the coaster shifts –

There.

Tucked beneath it, glossy and damning. He chokes so hard Eddie has to thump him on the back. "Jesus, Harrington, are you allergic to strawberries now?" Eddie's voice is all amusement, but Steve barely hears it over the blood roaring in his ears. He doesn't answer. He's too busy slipping the picture under the table, pulse hammering in his throat as he glances at you across the booth. You're stirring your drink absently, the neon diner lights catching in your hair. And then he risks a look at the Polaroid.

Fuck.

This one's... worse. Or better. He doesn't fucking know anymore. It's a close-up. Your face, tilted up toward the camera, tears streaking through smudged mascara, pupils blown wide. And Christ— there's cum dripping off your chin, your lips parted like you're showing off. The flash had caught every detail: the wet shine on your bottom lip, the way your eyelashes stick together, the way you look up with a glint in your eyes like you were looking at him, like you wanted him to see – His jeans grow uncomfortably tight. He shifts in the booth, pressing his thighs together as heat floods his face. It turns his brain to static.

Obscene. Perfect.

No.

Across the table, you tilt your head, voice dripping with sweet concern. "Steve? You okay?"

That's what really drives the stake in. The way you sound normal, like you're not the same person in the photo — wrecked and wanting. Like you haven't been systematically dismantling his self-control. He forces a smile, fingers twitching against the sticky diner table. "Peachy." His voice comes out strangled. Robin kicks him under the table, her eyes sharp with knowing.

He spends the rest of the evening in quiet agony, debating whether to bring it up, tearing himself apart for an answer that won't come. Every time you laugh at something Eddie says, your throat bobbing, he remembers how it looked in the photo – stretched taut as you tilted your head back. Every time you lick ice cream off your spoon, he thinks about your lips, shiny and parted. His mind drifts back to the first time he met you — Robin's bright smile as she introduced you, her "You two will get along so well!" ringing in his ears like a prophecy. Then, the first flicker of something more – that slow, dawning realisation as you sat there, a giggling mess from the joint he'd rolled, clumsily teaching him pat-a-cake like it was the most crucial lesson in the world. Your fingers had brushed against his palms, warm and sure, and something in his chest had clenched tight. Every moment since has been hidden torment. Every glance across the Family Video counter when you'd come to visit Robin, your eyes lingering just a second too long. Every laugh you'd smothered behind your hand when he'd fumbled his words. Every time he'd caught himself staring at the curve of your neck, wondering how you'd sound if he pressed his mouth there. Every time he caught himself wondering if you felt that same invisible pull.

And now?

Now he's stuck with this.

What the hell is he even supposed to say? "Hey, so, funny story—I found a Polaroid of you fucking yourself the other day. Any reason that might be lying around?"

Yeah. That’d go over real fucking well.

But who else would be leaving these? He knows it has to be you. Because no one else looks at him like that. No one else smirks like that when he stumbles over his words. And God help him—he loves it. But he's Steve Harrington, and Steve Harrington doesn't ruin good things. Doesn't risk friendships for fleeting moments of pleasure, no matter how badly his hands itch to touch. So he tucks the Polaroid into his pocket, lets Eddie tease him about spacing out, lets Robin shoot him looks that promise future interrogation, and pretends his heart isn't pounding loud enough for the whole diner to hear. And when you brush your foot against his under the table, he doesn't pull away; he wonders.—

How much longer can he keep pretending before he snaps and does something stupid? Like pin you against the nearest flat surface and find out if you taste as good as you look in those photos. The thought sends another wave of heat through him. He takes a too-big gulp of his milkshake to hide the way his breath hitches. You smile at him over the rim of your glass, all innocence and sharp edges, and Steve realises with dawning horror that he’s already in too deep to climb back out.

The fourth photo is the last straw. He finds it in his glove compartment that same night, the edge jutting out like a taunt as he sits there, engine off, the silence of the parking lot pressing in around him. For a second, he just stares.

Jesus.

A mirror shot—the kind that feels private.

Except now it’s in his hands.

And fuck, it’s— You’re on your knees, but you’re not facing the glass. No. Your face is tilted up, lips stretched obscenely around your own fingers, glistening with spit, your tongue pressing against the pads like you’re imagining them as something else—someone else. Your lashes flutter, heavy with the kind of pleasure that borders on pain, like the strain is its own sweet torment. And shit, your ass—arched high, round and perfect, the curve of it taunting him, the dimples at the base of your spine begging for his thumbs to press into them. The way your hips tilt just slightly, like you’re already waiting, already needing the sharp bite of a handprint blooming across your skin. He can almost hear the sound it would make—the sharp crack of his palm meeting your flesh and the punched-out whimper you’d choke on right after. Your other hand claws at your own tits, fingers digging in, squeezing hard enough to make your breath hitch. The fabric of your shirt is rucked up, your bra shoved aside, and the sight of your nipple pebbled tight under your own touch—

Christ.

His hands shake. The photo nearly slips from his grip, and he has to white-knuckle the steering wheel just to steady himself. His throat is too tight. His jeans are too fucking tight; he shifts, grinding his hips down against the seat just to relieve the pressure, but it’s worse—so much worse—because now he can feel the rough drag of fabric, the heat of his own desperation, and God, he’s dripping, already slick with the image of you burnt into his skull. This isn’t—

This isn’t fair. He’s imagined it a hundred times. Fantasised about the way your mouth would look wrapped around him, the sounds you’d make when he finally got his hands on you. But never like this. Never with the cruel twist of being nothing more than a spectator to his own undoing.

Fuck.

His head thuds back against the seat, eyes squeezing shut like he can erase the image burnt into the backs of his eyelids. But it doesn’t help. The photo is branded into his soul.

He should stop looking.

He should.

But he can’t.

Because this isn’t just some fantasy anymore. This is proof. Proof that you think about this. Proof that you want this. Proof that you might—

Might—

Want him.

And that’s what terrifies him. Because if he’s wrong— If he misreads this—He’ll ruin everything.

But God, the way your back curves in the photo. The way your lips glisten. The way your fingers dig into your own skin like you’re aching for someone else’s touch. His fingers twitch against his thigh. He could—

He could find you.

Right now. Pull you into the backseat. Make that look in the photo a reality. But what if he’s just—

Projecting. Hopeful. Pathetic. His jaw clenches. He can’t risk it. He won’t. The photo goes back into the glove compartment. His keys twist in the ignition. The engine roars to life. But he doesn’t drive away. Not yet. Because one thought won’t leave him alone—

What if she wants you to come find her?

So he plans to ask you about the Polaroids—if he can ever figure out how the hell to bring it up without sounding like a complete creep.

His apartment is spotless, scrubbed down in a frenzy of nervous energy. Just a regular movie night, he tells himself. You’d had dozens. Nothing to panic about. And for a while, it is normal. You steal his fries, mock his shitty taste in films, and press your ice-cold hands against his thigh just to hear him yelp. It’s easy. It’s you.

But then—

Halfway through, as he gathers empty food containers, something flutters to the floor. Upside down. He knows what it is before he even turns it over. His heart stops. You’re still on the couch, laughing at something on screen—but he can’t help himself. He picks it up. And—

Fuck.

It’s you—sinking down onto a toy like you need it, like you’d die without it. Your eyes are closed, lips parted in relief. One hand braces against the bed, the other at your throat, fingers pressing in like you’re chasing more, like you want to feel it everywhere. The angle is obscene, the slick shine of your arousal glistening where you’re spread open for the camera. Steve swears he can feel it—the phantom roll of your hips, the way you’d clench around him if it was his cock instead— "Something wrong?"

Your voice is too soft, too normal, and it guts him. The photo sticks to his sweat-damp palm as his brain short-circuits between this you—wanting, wrecked, fucking yourself like it’s your only salvation—and the you standing in front of him now, all wide-eyed concern and bitten-pink lips. Ask her. The thought burns through him. Just fucking ask her. But what comes out is, "Nah, just—uh—dropped a napkin." God fucking damnit. You tilt your head, and for one heart-stopping second, he thinks you know. That you’ll smirk, step closer, and whisper, "Like what you see, Harrington?" But you don’t. You just hum, "You’ve been weird all night."

Weird. Yeah. That’s one word for it.

He shoves the Polaroid into his back pocket like it’s evidence of a crime. His crime. Because, Christ, he shouldn’t have looked. Shouldn’t be hard right now, straining against his sweatpants as you blink up at him, all wide-eyed innocence. Like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing to him. He forces himself to step around you, putting the couch between you like it’ll save him. "Just tired," he mumbles, grabbing his half-finished beer. The bottle is slick with condensation, and he clings to that—the cold—instead of the sliver of skin exposed when you stretch, the curve of your waist he knows by heart. Intimately. He’s catalogued every dip and slope of you—the way your hip fits perfectly under his palm when he guides you through a crowded room, the way your waist nips in just enough for his fingers to span it. He’s thought about it. Too much.

You don’t push. Just flop back onto the couch, tucking your legs under you. "Well, hurry up. This movie’s shit, but I want to see how it ends." Steve exhales through his nose. Right. The movie. Except all he can focus on is the weight of the photo in his pocket. The way you’d looked—fuck—like you were made to take cock, like you’d beg for it, like you’d whimper his name if he just—

That’s the problem, isn’t it? He knows you. Knows the way your nose scrunches when you laugh. Knows how you cling to your coffee mug in the morning, both hands wrapped around it like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. Knows the way you’d held his hand that one time he got too high and swore the ceiling was breathing, your thumb brushing over his knuckles like you were anchoring him. But this?

This is a version of you he isn't allowed to have, isn’t allowed to need.

One he is desperate for.

The movie drones on, some cheap horror flick with terrible effects, but Steve’s pulse hasn’t slowed since he found the damn photo. You’re curled into the corner of the couch, knees drawn up, fingers idly tracing the rim of your soda can. Innocent. Bored.

Too innocent.

Because he’s seen the way your gaze lingers on him when you think he’s not looking. The way you bite your lip when he rolls his sleeves up. The way you lean in just a little too close when you laugh. Steve exhales, rough, dragging a hand down his face.

Fuck.

He should say something. Should’ve done something. But the truth is, he’s fucking scared. Terrified of being wrong. Terrified of ruining this—whatever this is—with his stupid, greedy hands. Because what if the Polaroids aren’t for him? What if the way you look at him, all slow smiles and heavy-lidded glances, is just him, reading into things? What if he reaches for you, and you pull away?  Every time you shift, his gaze flicks to your thighs. Every time you laugh, he imagines the way your breath would hitch if he dragged his teeth over your pulse. Every time you look at him, he wonders—

Is this a game to you?

Are you waiting for me to break?

Because he’s close. So fucking close.

When you leave, you linger in the doorway—just a second too long. Your fingers toy with the hem of his shirt, the fabric slipping between them like a secret. It’s innocent. It’s not. The way your knuckles brush against his hip, featherlight, makes his breath catch.

You’re tempting fate.

You’re torturing him.

"Night, Steve," you murmur, lips quirking in that way that drives him insane—like you know exactly what you’re doing to him. And for a wild, reckless moment, he considers it: Pinning you against the door. Trapping you with his body. Letting his mouth finally, finally ask the question that’s been clawing at his ribs for weeks—

Are you doing this on purpose?

But then you’re gone. The door clicks shut. And all he’s left with is the ghost of your perfume—something sweet and sharp, clinging to his clothes like a promise—and the Polaroid in his pocket, burning a hole straight through to his skin.

The get-together on Friday is a grand fucking disaster from minute one. Steve's apartment swims in a haze of cigarette smoke and the stale tang of spilt beer, the kind of party atmosphere that usually feels like second nature but tonight just makes his skin itch. The laughter rings too loud in his ears—Eddie's wheezing cackle from the couch, Robin's snort-giggle as she loses at poker again. Normally, he'd be right there with them, tossing out stupid jokes and soaking up the chaos. But tonight, every word sticks in his throat like gum, and every forced smile makes his jaw ache. And you.

Fucking hell, you.

You're everywhere. Perched on the arm of Eddie's chair, your knee brushing his. Leaning over Robin's shoulder to peek at her cards, your hair falling in a curtain that smells like vanilla when it grazes Steve's arm. Laughing at some stupid story Nancy's telling, your head thrown back, the column of your throat working as you swallow your drink. Every glimpse is a fresh punch to the gut. He's two beers deep and still wound tighter than a spring when it happens. You turn just as he steps forward, and his drink sloshes over the rim, drenching the front of your shirt in cold amber liquid. "Shit—fuck, I'm sorry—" Steve stammers, already grabbing for napkins he knows won’t help.

You look down at the mess, then back up at him with an expression he can't quite read. "Real smooth, Harrington," you deadpan, but there's no real heat in it. Just that same unreadable something that's been in your eyes all night. The fabric clings to your skin as you peel it away, and Steve's mouth goes dry. He forces his gaze up to your face, but it's too late—he's already seen the way the wet cotton moulds to the curve of your breast, the shadow of your nipple through the thin material. "Do you mind if I use your bathroom?" you ask, and your voice is so normal, so casual, like you didn’t just notice him staring. Like you're not standing there half-drenched because of him.

Steve swallows hard. "Yeah, no, I mean—go ahead." He gestures vaguely down the hall, his face burning. "Towels are under the sink if you... you know." You nod, sliding past him so close the heat of your body sears through his shirt, your arm brushing his in a way that sends sparks skittering down his spine. The party's dying embers surround you—empty cups littering sticky tables as the four of you remain in the hollowed-out quiet of the now-empty apartment, and when you disappear into the bathroom, Steve exhales like he's been holding his breath for hours.

Robin materialises at his elbow like the world's smuggest ghost. Her grin vibrates with barely contained glee, fingers digging into his bicep hard enough to leave crescent moons in his skin. "Dude," she stage-whispers, her breath scalding his ear, "you're a walking fucking disaster." Steve doesn't deny it. He's been digging his own grave for weeks – every aborted reach across the Beemer's console, every confession drowned in stale beer, every time he's nearly had you pinned against the Family Video horror section only to choke at the last second. "Christ, Buckley," he hisses through gritted teeth, "not now—" The bathroom door creaks open. You. Polaroid pinched between your fingers like an executioner's blade, edges worn soft from how often he's traced them. Steve's stomach plummets through the scuffed floor.

Oh, fuck.

Oh fuck, oh fuck—

The drawer. He'd forgotten about the goddamn bathroom drawer he left the Polaroids in.

Your approach is lethal. Purposeful. The sharp staccato of your boots on hardwood echoes like a firing squad cocking their rifles. The air between you curdles – thick with tension and something darker, something that makes Steve's pulse stutter in his throat. When you speak, your voice drops to that register—the one that turns his bones to liquid, something that makes the fine hairs on the back of Steve's neck stand at attention.

"Where did you get these?" Not a question. A goddamn death sentence.

Robin's nails bite deeper. "Holy shit," she breathes, eyes darting between you like she's watching the best tennis match of her life. "This is better than my parents' divorce." Steve's heartbeat riots against his ribs as you stop just beyond reach—close enough that your perfume coils around him. The Polaroid dangles from your fingers, the image facing him like an indictment: your lips swollen, lashes fluttering against tear-stained cheeks, fingers twisted in sheets that should be his. The lights hum overhead as you tilt your head, catching the sharp challenge in your gaze. "Where did you get these?" you repeat, each word dripping with deliberate intent. Steve's throat seals shut. Every lie he'd prepared withers under your burning stare, under Robin's vibrating presence at his side, and under the way his body betrays him with every inch you close between you.

"I—" His voice cracks like dry kindling. "My jacket. And—fuck."

You step closer. The brush of your knee against his sends electric currents through the denim. "And?"

"My glove compartment." The admission tears from him like flesh from a wound.

Robin makes a sound between a wheeze and a dying air horn. Your smirk could strip paint from walls. "Interesting."  Another step forward, and now your chest nearly grazes his with each breath. He can't tell if you're moving in for a kiss or a kill shot.

"And what were you planning to do with them, Steve?" His mouth floods. A dozen filthy images flash through his mind—his teeth marking your thigh, your back arching against the employee break room wall, that broken moan you'd make when—

You lean in. Your lips ghost over the shell of his ear as you whisper, hot and deliberate: Steve's vision tunnels to pinpricks. "You—you've been—" Your grin cuts deep. "Leaving them for you?  Yeah." The world tilts on its axis. Steve stares at you, caught between outrage and a hunger so deep it terrifies him. "You've been messing with me this whole time—"

A careless shrug as you step closer—so close your thighs slot between his, your skirt riding up just enough to make his hands twitch with the need to touch. "Maybe I wanted to see if you'd crack."

"Why?" It's barely more than a breath. Your expression turns sweet, soft. "Because I like how you look at me when you think I'm not watching." A heartbeat of silence stretches between you, thick and charged.

"Did you like them?"

The question hangs suspended, heavier than the humid air between your bodies. Steve's control shatters. “I hated those photos,” he grits out, voice shredded.  “Not because—fuck, not because I didn’t want you. But because every time I looked at them��”  His jaw clenches so tight it aches. “All I could think was it should’ve been me making you look like that.”

Your lips part, just slightly, and you step closer. Just one more step. But it’s enough to make his pulse riot. “Prove it,” you murmur, your lips brushing his with provocation.

His hands find your waist.

Your breath hitches.

The space between you collapses. And when he kisses you, it’s not sweet. It’s desperate. It’s what I’ve wanted forever. It’s why the hell did we wait so long? You gasp against his mouth, fingers twisting in his shirt, pulling him closer, every desperate inch of his body imprinting itself on yours like he’s trying to melt into your skin. Then his mouth crashes down—hot, demanding, lips moving with a possessive hunger that rewrites your pulse into something wild. You whimper into the kiss, fingers scrambling at his shoulders as Steve licks into your mouth like a man starved. There's nothing gentle about it – he kisses like he's determined to rewrite your DNA with teeth and tongue and the relentless press of his hips until every cell in your body sings his name. It's everything he's fantasised about and so much more – the heat of you pressed flush against him, the crescent moons your nails carve into his shoulders, and the broken little whimper you make when he nips at your bottom lip. When he finally tears away, you're both panting, foreheads pressed together, his ragged breaths scalding your swollen mouth.

"Took you long enough," you murmur, voice wrecked. Steve huffs a laugh, thumb swiping across your kiss-slick lips with a reverence that belittles the hunger in his eyes. "Yeah, well. You could've just told me."

You grin, all teeth. "Where's the fun in—" "Hell no," Eddie's voice cuts in, strangled. "I am not witnessing Harrington's sexual awakening live and in colour—" Robin's already dragging him backwards by his collar. "We're leaving! Enjoy your— Jesus Christ, Steve, just— use protection—!"

The door slams. Steve's on you before the latch clicks – no hesitation, no space between. He pins you against the wall hard enough to knock the air from your lungs, his body a furnace against yours. One hand fists in your hair while the other slides up your thigh with deliberate roughness, calloused fingers branding your skin through the fabric. "Should've done this years ago," he growls against your throat, thumb circling your nipple with just enough pressure to make you arch into him. "Why the hell didn't we?"

His forehead drops to yours. The warmth of his breath ghosts across your lips as he confesses, "Because you're Robin's best friend. Because Eddie would've never shut up about it." His hips grind forward, the hard line of his erection leaving no room for doubt. "Mostly because I was fucking terrified of losing you."

"You?"

"Thought you'd get bored of me," you admit, the wall biting into your shoulder blades as he presses closer. "Worried I'd just be... another conquest." Steve goes utterly still. When he meets your eyes, the raw intensity in his gaze makes your stomach flip. "You were never just anything." His whisper is rough, like the words were clawed from his chest. "I've been in love with you since you beat me at Mario Kart drunk off your ass in '86." A surprised laugh punches out of you. "That was like our fifth hangout."

"Yeah." His grin is all boyish charm, obscenely at odds with the filthy drag of his fingers on your inner thigh. "Fucking devastating." Then his mouth is at your ear, teeth scraping that sensitive spot that makes your knees weak. "Gonna spend the rest of the night proving it to you," he promises, voice dark with want. Something feral flashes in his eyes. In one fluid motion, he hauls you up — arm hooked under your thighs — and carries you toward the bedroom, your laughter dissolving into a moan as his mouth finds yours again. The last coherent thought you have before he drops you onto the mattress is that you should've let him find those Polaroids much, much sooner.

𝐩𝐭. 𝐈𝐈

[mercurial-chuckles]

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Delirious Decisions

Note: Do not Steal, Copy or Plagiarize any part of my work! Banner Credits to me. Photo Credits to the internet. Thank you :)

Just FYI: Masterlist is undergoing major editing!

Updated: January 25, 2025

Indulge Away!

Don't Flip your Wig, Steve

Steve and you time traveled. Your Steve is not happy meeting the old Steve because he shows interest in you.

His Fiore

Steve smexy Rogers moves into the neighborhood, and one evening, he catches you sneaking into the building opposite his through the fire escape. He watches curiously, slightly amused and, quite frankly, amazed by you. Guess what he does next? He writes a note, signs it with his middle name, Grant, and slips it under your door. How will you discover that Grant is none other than Captain America?

Love's Sanctity

Steve is there when you feel like you're falling apart, when the weight of stress becomes overwhelming. He sees right through you and always knows exactly what to do to make you feel better.

Berserk Captain Rogers

Steve has gone feral, and you are the only one who can calm him

Subdue

Alpha!Steve is giving a preview on what happens when someone dares to harm his mate.

Drugged Delusion of Mrs. Rogers

Some angsty goodness with the misunderstanding arc, and Steve fucking the misunderstanding out of you.

Wise Men Say

100-word drabble for Flash Fiction challenge

Not so Vanilla Man

Steve proves to you he is far from Vanilla. You catch my drift? This is just overloaded fluffiest smut. (My first attempt at Smut! :D)

Fortuitous Fate

You travel to the 40s, and meet Steve Rogers. That meeting marks important in their journey

Havenbrooke Trails

To finish your novel, you go to Havenbrooke for inspiration on the insistence of your editor. However, you find more than some inspiration for your novel there.

Oblivious Heart

Summary to be written

Hide 'N' Boink

Summary to be written

Drugged Courage

Steve gets drugged on a mission and inhales sex pollen, but no one notices any difference as he is very impassive. He has been craving y/n, and he takes her to his quarters as soon as he returns from the mission.

A Tale of Timely Interventions

You were sent on a mission in the 40s. It was highly unusual, and you play a bigger role in Captain America's life than you can even remotely comprehend. You also had no clue that Steve Rogers feels strongly for you. (Final Part Jan, 2025)

Snowed In

You were not supposed to be on that mission, but you were, and it was a trap. There was also a snowstorm, and you were stuck. Steve is furious when he learns about this and goes to lengths to reach you.

Starlord Ruffles Steve's Feathers

Steve jealous of Peter Quill flirting with you.

Captain's Boinking Escapades

Guess what Tony has found!

Crimson Tranquility

There is more to your husband than meets the eye.

Giddy Affairs

A congressman drabble!

On the qui vive

A fluffy drabble (ft. mafia!Bucky)

Yield to me

A fluffy drabble (ft. adventurous Alpine)

Strings

Bucky's housewife kink gets activated!

Pluvial Kisses!

Tooth rotting fluff, Bucky being the absolute fuckin dream of a man! *heavy sigh*

Catharsis

Summary to be drafted

The Time Thor Third-Wheeled

The title sums about it!

Confessions of Mr. Grumpaholic

I really need to draft a summary for this. :D

Enlivened Mornings

Summary to be drafted

Bucky Barnes vs Ethan Stark

Dad!Bucky fic set in the Sappy Sunday Thought universe.

Your Restive Man

This is a simple fluffy blurb. Clingy Bucky who cannot stay apart from you.

Stranded & Succored

You were having a bad day and decided to drive to calm your nerves. However, you get stranded in the middle of nowhere with no phone. And this tall, gorgeous man is pulling up in his truck and claiming your heart and body.

Wish Come True

100-word drabble for the Flash Fiction challenge

Stucky x Reader | Steve x Reader x Bucky

Captain Softly Stern and Sergeant Toughly Tender Vignettes

Collection of oneshots set in a universe.

Unwaveringly Homebound

100-word drabble for the Flash Fiction Challenge

I met them, and now I'm their queen

Angsty fluff & confessions to get it off their chest before the new year starts.

Half-baked, damn

Easy peasy, sweetheart. They’d said. It’s for the people. They’d said.

Permanence (F!Reader version)

Love transcends time.

Permanence (OFC version)

Love transcends time.

Sneaky & Sly

A blue hoodie, a sly man, and domesticated bliss

Blissful Summer Bruises

Some domesticated bliss with two hot super soldiers

The Pantry Affairs

A day in your life with two extremely wonderful and protective men

The Curious Affairs of Mr. Holmes

Waltz Into My Heart

This is the chaos corner. I'm still figuring out an efficient way to organize these. So, don't mind the mumble jumble.

Flash Fiction Challenge

Weeklong Thingamajig

SMUTTY SEPTEMBER FEST

ASKS

Alpha Steve

Blissful Adventures of Mr. Softly Stern & Mr. Toughly Tender

Bucky QuotesJust Wondering 01 Wanna be Tagged?

[storyofyourlife-withavengers]

"Who Let the Fox Out?"

[Avengers x Reader]

The Avengers Compound lounge is a lively evening hub, the team scattered across couches with drinks and laughter, a card game in full swing. Your nine-tailed fox, ravenous for flustered emotions, hijacks you again, its seductive charm cranked to maximum. The team, unaware your fox can take over, thinks it’s just you being outrageously bold. You’re a puppet to your fox’s whims, toying with them until reality crashes in.

Your fox kicks off with Steve, who’s dealing cards. You slink over, draping yourself across his shoulder.

“Stevie, why play cards when you could play with me?” you purr, winking as your fingers graze his neck.

His cards scatter, face flaming.

“Y/N, you’re... uh... really forward tonight,” he stutters. Your fox hums, gorging on his fluster.

Next, you glide to Tony, sipping scotch at the bar.

You snatch his glass, leaning close.

“Tony, bet I could make you forget your own name,” you tease, voice sultry, brushing his hand. He spills his drink, cheeks pink.

“Hell, Sunshine, you’re a walking hazard,” he mutters, rattled. Your fox feasts.

Natasha’s shuffling cards nearby. You slide onto the couch, tossing her deck aside.

“Nat, let’s make our own game, something hotter,” you murmur, smirking. Her cool mask cracks, a blush creeping up.

“You’re trouble, Y/N,” she says, voice tight. Your fox revels in her unease.

Bucky, brooding by the window, gets the boldest hit. You saunter over, climb onto his lap, and cup his face.

“Bucky, that scowl’s begging for a kiss,” you whisper, tracing his jaw. His breath hitches, cheeks flushing, but he growls,

“Doll, you’re pushin’ it.”

Your fox drinks in his hidden fluster, toying with his restraint.

A fever spike yanks you back to yourself. You’re on the couch, holding a soda.

Clueless.

The team’s staring, Steve’s red as his shield, Tony’s mopping his shirt, Natasha’s smirking, and Bucky’s gripping his chair, ears pink.

“Why the faces?” you ask, frowning. “Did I win at cards?”

Sam cackles. “Win? You just turned the room into a soap opera!”

You scoff, sarcasm sharp.

“Soap opera? Please, I’d need a script to cause that much drama.”

But their stunned looks, spilled drinks, scattered cards, Bucky’s flush, hit you.

Your fox’s takeover dawns on you, and panic creeps in.

“Wait, what’d I do?” you ask, voice small.

Tony points. “You flirted us into next week! What was that?”

You freeze, realizing your fox’s chaos.

“Uh, just… me being extra, I guess?”

You stammer, sarcasm failing.

Bucky mutters, “Extra’s an understatement,” his eyes locked on you, amused but rattled.

The team’s chaos, cards everywhere. Tony’s soaked shirt, screams your fox went too far, and you’re left scrambling to cover it up.

"It's... a fox thing...?" you said with an awkward smile.

See my Fox Tales Masterlist