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what does joe keery need all that fucking ass for

steve’s ass in his basketball shorts

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lordy lord

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the fucninf shorts GOD

dorks

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joe keery has officially started wearing paul mescal length shorts. everybody cheer

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everyone: steve harrington is a big beefy jock dom top

me, staring directly at 💕🍭💄season 3 subby babygirl princess lipglossed scoops ahoy steve harrington💋👠🎀 and NO other version of him: mhmmm, yeah i just don’t see it

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never thought i’d see the day— but here’s my first steddie fic

Sunday/Monday

pairing - steve harrington x eddie munson wc - 6.9k Summary/warnings- Summer camp AU, eventual smut, angst, hurt/comfort, eventual happy ending, language, time-period typical homophobia, internalized homophobia, depictions of drowning, depictions of death/grief, depictions of substance abuse. 18+ MDNI

The air was thick, balmy. Robin stuck her ringed fingers out of the window to let them dance on the wind rushing past the car. She became chirpier with each mile they put between them and Hawkins, Steve noticed, and he couldn't blame her. The distance had a certain lightness to it.

She was thrilled to be leading the arts and crafts activities with the kids this summer, and despite Steve telling her that they definitely would provide her with supplies, she insisted on using fifty percent of the space in her duffle to bring her own. ‘Just in case’, she said.

Steve wished that he felt even a fraction of the giddiness that Robin did. For her– this summer was like an endless array of opportunities. For Steve, it felt like a mousetrap. His knuckles turned white against the steering wheel thinking about who was waiting for him there.

“Do you think that maybe, hypothetically, I might meet someone at camp? I mean, I feel like all female camp counselors are a little gay, right?” Robin wondered aloud beside Steve in the passenger seat. Just a few miles out now.

“Yeah, maybe.” He humored her absently.

“Dude, what crawled up your butt and died?” Robin elbowed him, “You’ve been like– suspiciously silent today and I’m not used to the lack of bitchiness.”

“That’s not even an actual expression,” Steve rolled his eyes, avoiding the question.

“Hey, I'm serious,” she paused, considering her next line of questioning carefully, “it’s not about– seeing him, is it?” Robin’s voice was a little more brittle then, and it didn’t go unnoticed by Steve that she wouldn't say Eddie’s name. Like merely mentioning it aloud would cause him to appear behind them in the backseat.

 “No– what? No.” He lied, “I’m just nervous. I don’t know– what if the kids hate me? Or something?”

“You? Nervous?” Robin eyed him skeptically.

“Yes, me, nervous.” Steve argued. Robin didn’t buy it and he knew it, but it didn’t matter as long as he could get her to quit interrogating him about it. Steve always thought she might’ve been a damn FBI agent in a past life.

Robin shrugged, hummed a noise of resignation and shoved a hand into the bag of trail mix between her thighs. “Want some?” She asked Steve through shoveling mouthfuls.

Steve spared her a weary, side-long glance, “When was the last time you washed your hands?”

She just looked at him, blinked. “Right,” Steve said, refocusing his eyes back towards the county route in front of them. A sky with clouds that migrated across the endless expanse of blue like buffalo; evergreen trees as far as the eye could see surrounded them on either side.

Robin shrugged, continuing to snack on her stale peanuts and raisins.

“Dude. You’re late.” Dustin admonished over the sound of gravel crunching under Steve’s tires.

“By what?” Steve mocked a glance at his watch, “Four minutes?”

“Three o’clock means three o’clock, Steve– I talked a big game about you to Patty to get you this job!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve dismissed the curly-haired boy with a wave of his hand. He might’ve been a thorn in Steve’s ass sometimes, but he had to admit that the familiar sound of his lisp was oddly comforting right now. “Help me carry this shit to my cabin, would you?”

Dustin’s mouth opened and closed like he was about to scold Steve for this language and decided it wasn’t worth the breath. He only huffed and pointedly took the smallest bag out of Steve’s trunk, leaving the heaviest duffle for the older boy to carry himself.

The camp was scenic as ever– a crystally, cyan-colored lake washed upon a sandy shore lined with kayaks that looked like they hadn't been replaced since the sixties. Towering pines lined the border where the forest met the main campground, and then there were the cabins. Small, water-damaged wood that was shaped vaguely like sheds. They looked just big enough for exactly how many campers were supposed to live in one– no more, no less.

A spark of nostalgic joy bloomed in Steve’s chest, the place reminded him of the summer camp his own parents had shipped him away to as a kid. The camp where he first met Tommy Hagan. Steve might not have been a huge fan of swimming in lakes anymore, but maybe a little exposure therapy would do him good; even if looking at it made his stomach drop.

“You must be Steven!” A shrill, maternal voice called across the field in his direction. Steve stood up straighter at the mention of his government name, and also the fact that this was presumably his boss.

“Just Steve,” Dustin corrected her.

“Steve,” Patty rolled his name around in her mouth, trying it out for size, “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Steve. I’m Patty.” She held out her bony hand for Steve to shake. He took it and didn’t think about how much it felt like his mother’s.

“Nice to meet you, Patty,” he cleared his throat, itching to fidget with the hairs that curled around the nape of his neck the way he did when he was nervous.

“Let me show you where you’ll be staying,” Patty chirped, “You guys will be in cabin eight–”

“‘Guys’?” Steve repeated. Patty ignored him, and they continued walking.

“There are fresh sheets on the bed– but of course, you can use your own if you have them. Wake up call is seven-thirty every morning, and you’ll have until eight o’clock to get yourself and your kiddos to the dining hall for breakfast. I’ll come by with your daily schedule in a little while. You’re welcome to stay at camp during the weekends while the kids are gone, but you won’t be paid for it. Kapeesh?”

Steve’s brain tried to keep up; tried not to climb the walls at the idea of waking up at seven-thirty for the first time since high school, “Kaposh?”

“Great then!” Patty exclaimed and pushed the cabin door open with her foot, “This is you. Make yourself comfortable, and if you need me– don’t!” And just as abruptly as she’d arrived, Patty was gone.

Steve just nodded dumbly as his boss walked away. He heard shuffling inside the cabin, wondering if some of his campers had already arrived and felt guilty he hadn’t gotten a quicker jump on the day. But when he finally gathered the courage to meet whoever was waiting for him inside, it wasn’t a wide-eyed middle schooler at all. It was–

“Hey, stranger.”

From across the dining hall, Eddie Munson looked almost the same as he did before. Before the world almost ended, before Steve had to administer one of the highest stakes CPR of his life, before the wires and the tubes and the surgeries beneath buzzing fluorescent lights. He almost looked the same.

He wore a blue and grey checkered flannel over that Metallica shirt he never seemed to take off, despite the temperature. Steve wondered if it was to hide the puckered scars on his arms and tried not to stare for too long, pushing around the shitty boxed mac and cheese on his plate. Across from him, Robin ranted through shoveling spoonfuls of noodles. To Steve– it all sounded like he was underwater.

“Earth to Steve,” Robin waved her slender hand in front of his face, “You still with us?”

“Yeah, sorry,” he mumbled, barely glancing up from his plate. He could hear Eddie's signature cackle from where he sat, the kids eating up his charisma already. 

“You coming to the staff bonfire tonight, Steve?” Another counselor– Heidi?-- asked him.

“I’ll probably stop by for a bit,” Steve told her, not missing the glint in her eye that a lot of girls had when they looked at him. He couldn’t bring himself to flirt back the way he would’ve done effortlessly in the past– didn’t want just another warm body under his arm. Not after everything.

So he pretended not to feel Heidi staring at him, pretended not to see Robin and Dustin exchanging worried glances with each other, and pretended that eating this meal didn’t make his stomach churn.

Before lights out, when all of their campers had officially arrived, they did ice breakers on the cabin floor– going around the group, introducing themselves. Eddie and Steve were responsible for six twelve-year-old boys for the next five weeks, and he just prayed he wouldn’t screw this up too. Eddie seemed to be such a natural with them, even if Steve could tell that his grin only reached just short of his eyes.

“Alright, gremlins,” Eddie had told them, “Away to your bedchambers. Big days are upon us.” And the group had listened begrudgingly, crawling into their bunks and squirming for a bit before Steve was sure they’d all finally fallen asleep.

Whoever had started the bonfire clearly wasn’t fucking around. The flames licked up high in the blue oil spill that was the night sky, and Steve realized for the first time just how many stars shined without all the light pollution from the city.

He was a bit late to the party, it seemed. Counselors were already lounging in adirondack chairs with sweating beers in their hands– which he was almost positive were not permitted on camp grounds. There was chatter and laughter, and somewhere around the fire, someone was plucking out chords on an acoustic guitar. Steve didn’t need to see to know who it was.

“Hey, you made it,” Robin looped an arm around his shoulders where he sat on a log carved to look like a bench.

“I made it,” Steve tried something like a grin and she offered him a beer.

“Blondie over there has been making googly eyes at you since dinner,” Robin groaned, another one of her future prospects stolen from her by the devilish charm and wit of Steve The Hair. “You gonna talk to her?”

“Not unless I have to,” Steve breathed a laugh, a genuine one this time. His eyes kept drifting towards that lanky frame without his permission, lingering on the way Eddie’s fingers hammered the E string on his guitar. The tune he was playing was only distantly familiar.

“Have you talked to him?” Robin asked, nodding in Eddie’s direction.

“Not really. Only in front of the kids.”

“And you haven’t since…” Robin trailed off the end of her question.

“Not since that night. Right before his first surgery.” Steve confirmed what his best friend already knew, that he was a coward– a scared little boy in a man’s body. Someone who couldn’t even look at Eddie without hearing the cracking of his ribs beneath Steve’s hands or the nauseating gurgle that erupted from the blood pooling in Eddie’s throat as he begged Steve to help him. The memory made his eyes clench shut so tight he could see those tiny white spots.. “I’m not sure he even remembers.”

“It’ll get easier, you know.” Robin assured him, because she wasn’t sure what else to say, “With time.”

Steve nodded absently, hoping she was right. Counting on it, in fact, because this was about to be a long fucking six weeks if it didn’t.

Heidi sauntered over to their bench from wherever it was girls like her spent their time, sat her pretty backside in the open space next to Steve, their thighs touching.

“Hey, thought I recognized a familiar head of hair,” Heidi grinned, smacked her gum. She sort of reminded Steve of Carol. The mention of his hair made Steve want to comb his fingers through it, just to have something to do with his hands other than sit there like a fucking idiot.

Robin had abandoned her spot beside him, never one for being able to tolerate sitting still for too long. Heidi was still talking about something, it sounded like  it sounded like the teacher in Charlie Brown to Steve– nonsensical, droning blabber. But across from him, face slightly warped from the heat waves coming off the fire, Eddie was laughing at something one of the other guys had said. Steve had to go.

“Sorry,” he muttered to the disappointed girl beside him. “Sorry–” but he didn’t mean it.

The collar of his shirt felt too tight around his neck and suddenly the bits of ash falling at his feet were starting to look suspiciously like the motes that floated and got caught in your eyes and teeth in that dank, dark alternate dimension and he just–

The steps of the cabin were moist with the humidity logged in the wood, cooling with the night and seeping into Steve’s legs where he sat trying to remember how to breathe. How was he going to survive an entire summer if he couldn’t even enjoy one night? He felt that sickness burrowed inside his chest begin to scratch and claw its way to the surface, begging for air– to be fed and nurtured.

Things really kicked off the next morning.

The entire camp was awoken with the magnified sound of a bugle horn being projected through a stereo system at seven-thirty A.M. sharp– just like Patty had said.

“Jesus H–” Eddie groaned before Steve cut him off.

“Language, Munson– there are young, impressionable ears in this cabin.” Steve admonished through a barely stifled yawn.

Eddie shot him a pointed glance from his bed across the room, stretching his arms over his head. It was too hot for anyone, even Eddie, to sleep in something long-sleeved, and when he stretched, Steve caught the tiniest sliver of scar tissue on the backs of his biceps. It made the acid in his stomach curdle.

“Alright–” Eddie grunted as he swung his legs over his bed and began shaking the kids awake, comically snatching the blankets off their sleeping bodies just to be a pain. “Up and at em’!” Steve flinched a little at the turn of phrase his mom used to use when she was still consistently sober enough to wake him up for school in the mornings.

He thought he felt Eddie’s eyes lingering on his back, waiting to see if he’d catch a glimpse of their matching set of healed wounds. Steve hoped he was just imagining it as he pulled his shirt off and over his head by the neck, ruffling his hair in the process. Steve grabbed the t-shirt closest to the top of his duffle and threw on his swim trunks, just in case. By the time he’d combed his fingers through his hair enough times to make it stop sticking out at odd angles, the kids and Eddie were badgering him about being late for breakfast.

Serving a bunch of children boiled eggs before eleven A.M should be punishable by death, Steve thought. He knew Eddie must’ve been thinking it too, if the sour look on his face was any indication. The entire table– no, the entire hall smelled like straight sulfur. Steve would be skipping breakfast today.

Camp policy was that the counselors had to serve the kids their meals, including second helpings, if they so choose. Something about ‘stopping the spread of germs’, or whatever. Once Eddie and Steve had finished serving all of their little twelve-year-old fiends, they were allowed to sit and eat their own meals.

“Skipping breakfast, Harrington?” Eddie tsked, “Most important meal of the day you know,”

“That’s interesting, I’ve never heard that.” Steve deadpanned, observing the empty plate that sat in front of Eddie, “Could tell you the same thing. Not gonna eat?”

“Nah,” Eddie waved, “thought I might eat some dirt out by the lake later. Anything’s better than these boiled farts.” That elicited a real laugh from Steve, maybe the first one since he’d arrived here yesterday afternoon.

“Mister Steve?” One of the boys asked– Eli, maybe? “Can I have another–” And then the kid cut himself off with a violent sneeze.

In an instant, Steve's face was covered in bits of chewed up boiled egg, and he severely hoped this wasn’t a premonition of how the rest of this summer would go. Eddie’s laugh of pure shock was poorly stifled, but he acted swiftly to help clean Steve up.

“Sorry!” Eli or Evan or Elijah was yelling. He was a nerdy kid, glasses and a big gap between his teeth. He reminded Steve of Dustin when he was that age.

“It’s okay, bud. Could you hand me a napkin?” Steve asked, eyes squinted to keep out the pieces of yolk.

“Here,” he heard Eddie say, and then a wet paper towel was being shoved into Steve's open palm.

“Thanks, man.” Steve wiped his face, swallowing down the bile that threatened to climb his esophagus if he thought about exactly what he was cleaning off his face. It didn’t help that he still couldn’t get that sulfuric smell out of his nostrils.

He looked at Eddie when he was done, lips sealed in a tight line. “You got a little– here–” Eddie said, reaching over to pluck a stray piece of egg white out of a strand of Steve’s hair. He stayed stock still, let Eddie get it for him. The only thing that managed to breach the smell of egg was the scent of Eddie’s skin: sunscreen and something like incense. Cinnamon.

“Thanks,” Steve said much quieter this time, almost imperceptibly. And when breakfast was over, Steve was still trying to correct the rhythm of his heartbeat.

Steve could hear the offbeat banging of drums and the nonsensical strummings of various guitars drifting from the shed where Eddie led his music lessons while Steve set up dodgeball for the herds of children making their way to him now. Maybe dodgeball was cliche, or overused, but Steve had always loved it as a kid; loved having an excuse to wail rubber balls at the other kids. Especially the ones he didn’t like.

He laughed inwardly at the idea, and secretly hoped some of the other kids might be grateful to him for giving them the same opportunity. Maybe they’d be less asshole-ish if Steve let them get some of their anger out.

As the laughter and overlapping shouts grew nearer, Steve happened to spot a familiar silhouette making its way down the hill after the gaggle of campers.

“Dingus!” Robin called, waving a lanky arm in the air.

Steve waved back, smiling wide. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have campers?”

“It’s my free period,” Robin told him when she was out of shouting range, “thought i’d swing by and watch you get pummeled by a bunch of fourth graders.”

“That’s sweet.” Steve said dryly. Sometimes Robin was the only person Steve felt even halfway normal around. Something about her soothed him– that firecracker of a girl, as if she saw that rottenness nesting in Steve’s chest and didn’t care. Loved him despite it.

Steve explained the game to the kids with an air of authority– some of them hemmed and hawed while others cheered, already strategizing their plays. Team captains were decided via a vote, and Steve a Robin would be moderating– their excuse not to join in.

But when every last kid had been picked, Steve quickly realized he’d miscounted, and there was an odd number of campers. The one who was left out– a scrawny boy with deep set eyes, clothes that were most likely hand-me-downs or thrifted from a Goodwill, and wire-frame glasses sat atop a smattering of freckles– slouched in the field; begging with his eyes for someone to rescue him from this especially unique form of humiliation.

While the teams chatted amongst themselves, Steve approached the boy.

“Hey, kiddo. I’m Steve, what’s your name?”

“Ben.” The kid spoke softly, almost intelligibly.

“Ben,” Steve repeated, “Who’s team do you want to be on, Ben?”

Ben hesitated, eyes flitting between the two groups and practically cowering, “I– I don’t know.”

Suddenly and quite all-consumingly, Steve felt a rush of sympathy for him. Not in the way of recognition, but something more like guilt. Steve didn’t see himself in this shy, bony kid the way Robin or even Eddie might have, no– Steve saw himself ten years ago, the version that would’ve bullied this kid; would’ve made sure that he was picked last and wouldn't have felt an ounce of remorse about it. Maybe that’s why he did what he did next, some pathetic attempt at redeeming the irredeemable parts of himself. Or maybe it was because this awkward little boy reminded him of someone.

“Tell you what– I need you to do something for me, Ben.” Steve whispered to him conspiratorially.

Ben nodded, so Steve continued, “It’s very important though, do you think you can handle it?”

The boy seemed more determined now, nodded more fervently and said, “Uh huh…”

“I need you to take my job and be the coach, so that Robin and I can play,” Steve told him.

Ben giggled, “You want to play dodgeball?”

No. “Heck yeah, ‘course I do.”

“Okay,” Ben giggled again in that contagious way kids do, his cheeks flushing. Steve reached around his neck and pulled off his whistle and badge, set them gently around Ben’s much smaller neck. The boy’s eyes widened like Steve had just hung a gold medallion on him.

“You blow this whistle if you see anyone breaking the rules, ‘kay?”

Ben was a boy of very few words apparently– just head nodding with varying levels of urgency. He walked over to stand next to Robin and she looked at Steve with an eyebrow quirked, not having heard their conversation.

“C’mon, Buckley–” Steve yelled, waving her over, “Guess who’s playing dodgeball?”

Robin was violently shaking her head, arms out in protest, but the kids erupted in whoops and cheers– taking extra delight at the idea of hurling balls at the people who’re meant to be in charge of them all summer.

It reminded Steve of PE in elementary school, except that he took extra care not to use all his strength when getting people out; conscious of the fact that he wasn’t eighty pounds anymore. Steve and Robin were on opposing teams, and actually, Steve didn’t hate it half as much as he thought he would.

That was until he got hit square in the balls by a rubber ball moving at such a velocity that it could’ve been considered assault.

“Robin Anne-Marie Buckley–” Steve groaned through gritted teeth as he keeled over, eyes pinched shut as he tried to breathe through his nose and out through his mouth.

Steve can count on one hand the amount of times he’s had to hold a bag of frozen peas to his groin, each time just as miserable as the one before it. That’s where he was now: propped up on his starchy camp mattress with the cold compress icing his dick, supervising while he and Eddie’s campers participated in various boardgame activities around the cabin.

Speak of the Devil– Eddie kicked the door open with a flourish, the kids all whipping around to see who had caused the sudden intrusion and finding themselves pleased. They liked Eddie more than Steve, and who could blame them? Certainly not him.

“Hey, goblins,” Eddie greeted, his eyes scanning the room for his co-counselor. When he spotted Steve, his left eyebrow quivered in confusion. “You–?” Eddie pointed a finger towards Steve's afflicted groin.

“Dodgeball. Robin.” Steve explained.

“Say no more,” Eddie grinned, always grinning, but it was twinged with sympathy. It was as if every single one of Eddie’s emotions could be portrayed solely by different variations of that same damn grin.

“Eddie,” whined one of the peskier boys, “when’s it time for dinner?” He asked, elongating the last syllable for extra measure.

“Soon! Patience, young grasshopper.” Then Eddie said to Steve, quieter, “Can you walk? Do you want me to take them?”

Under the attention of Eddie’s big, brown cow-eyes, Steve’s tongue felt like lead in his mouth– God, what is wrong with him? “I can– I can walk,” Steve swallowed.

The remainder of the day went quickly. Turns out time flies when you’re under constant pressure to keep a gaggle of school-aged children safe twenty-four seven. Steve would know, after all.

Dinner that night was goulash, and the kitchen manager– an older lady around Patty’s age named Sandra– asked Steve to help her prepare the meal, as she was short-staffed. Sandra was sweet, with sharp brown eyes and streaks of gray invading her black hair. Born in Korea, her parents immigrated to the United States when she was four, she told Steve as she prepared the ingredients.

“Harrington…” She said after a comfortable silence, chewing on his last name like she was reaching for some distant memory. She kept stirring the pot of sauce in front of her, “Is your mom Christine?” Sandra finally asked.

Steve’s eyes widened a little in surprise, “Yeah… how’d you know?”

“Oh!” She seemed delighted to have remembered, to be able to recall the memory to Steve now in this stuffy kitchen, “I have a son about your age– went to Hawkins Elementary. Your mom and I used to be on the PTA together. How is she now?”

Steve wished he could tell this sweet woman that his mom was still the same person she was when she made muffins for the PTA bakesales, that she still smelled like cherry blossoms and hairspray– but the years had not been kind to Christine Harrington. He thought about his mother now: wrinkly skin loosely draped over brittle bones, like a few twigs tied together with twine and wrapped in cloth animated into something resembling a person. At some point between then and now, the floral smell that always followed Steve’s mom had morphed into something more acrid and sour, like sweat and pain pills and alcohol. She was rarely lucid when Steve saw her, and he still loved her the same as he did when he was six. But there was something under the surface of that adoration now that felt more like resentment than pure, childish love.

“She’s– yeah, she’s good. She’s…” Steve trailed off, not wanting to ruin Sandra’s picture of his mom, “She stays at home a lot now. She got sick– a while ago.” You could call it that.

Sandra frowned up at him, Steve might as well have been a giant compared to her. “I’m so sorry to hear that. Send her my best, will you, son?” She asked, with painted fingernails resting over where her heart beat.

“‘Course– Of course, I will.” Steve swallowed hard. The rest of the meal was prepared in a comfortable silence– Steve and Sandra moving around the kitchen together in a sort of choreography. Coincidentally, it reminded Steve of what it felt like when his mother would let him help cook dinner when he was young.

He and Eddie served their campers at their table. Eddie scarfed his down, groaning in a way that was almost obscene for the children they were surrounded by.

“Who knew you could cook, Harrington,” he lamented around a mouthful of sauce and noodles.

“It was mostly Sandy. I just helped with the prep, and stuff.” Steve told him, pushing his food around his plate with his fork to try and make it look like he had been eating. He hadn’t really had an appetite since he arrived yesterday afternoon– mostly surviving off of bologna sandwiches and a prayer.

Eddie noticed because of course he did, “Hey– you okay, man? You haven’t taken a bite in like, ten minutes. Or at all.”

Steve’s eyes snapped up to Eddies, “Oh, yeah.” Steve wished someone would smack him with something every time he used the word ‘yeah’ as a response. Just to see how long it would take to condition him to say literally anything else. “Just– haven’t really worked up an appetite today, I guess.

“Suit yourself, Amigo.” Eddie said as he shoveled more food into his mouth, surely setting a pristine example of table manners for all the impressionable youth sitting adjacent to them. He ate like a teenage boy just beginning the long, tortuous road of puberty.

It was camp tradition, according to Dustin, to have a group campfire on Monday evenings. There would be music and weird, almost ritualistic singing, games and smores. Steve tried his hardest to look forward to it as he doused himself in bugspray, his stomach growling. He was starting to seriously regret his refusal to eat earlier.

A dramatic, violent hacking came from Steve’s right, startling him. “Can you watch where you’re spraying that shit, Harrington? I’m not a huge fan of inhaling aerosol–” Eddie choked, waving his hands theatrically in front of his face.

“Oh– sorry– I didn’t realize anyone else was out here,”

“I’m stealthy like that,” Eddie grinned that same Cheshire grin, “You gonna be at the campfire, or are you sitting that out too?”

“No, no. I’ll be there,” Steve paused, shaking his head. “Will you?”

“‘Course, someone’s gotta provide the music, right?”

Steve swallowed hard, the thought of hearing Eddie play again thick in the back of his throat. He felt like an idiot, who else here could play the guitar? “Oh yeah, right.” Steve breathed a self-depricating laugh, “Duh.”

Eddie indulged Steve with another sheepish smile, Steve could tell he didn’t want him to feel embarrassed. “Are you okay wrangling the kids down there yourself? I need to tune my guitar before–”

“Oh yeah, for sure, man– go for it. How hard could it be?”

Very, as it turns out. Steve’s gone through three cans of bugspray by the time he’s confident his campers won’t be waking him up tonight with complaints of mosquito bites in places they can’t even reach.

“Where’s Eddie?” Bryce, a taller kid with bleach blonde hair asked as they trek down the hill towards the firepit. Bryce seemed to be the ring-leader of at least Steve and Eddie’s cabin, if not all the boys his age at the camp. He reminded Steve of himself when he was young; back when he could still look in a mirror and recognize himself.

“He’s already down there–  why don’t you have shoes on.” Steve sighed, not as if he was truly asking.

Bryce looked down at his feet like it was news to him that he was walking through the woods barefoot. Whatever, Steve thought, and hoped Patty wouldn’t be pissed.

Some of the other counselors were already surrounding the firepit, attempting to settle their own groups of campers. Robin and another male counselor were lighting the fire, stoking the flames until they were big and orange and singed the side of Steve's face if he got too close. He chose the two logs closest to where Eddie sat, and ushered the kids down beside him. Eddie was plucking away at the strings of his guitar, bathed in the glow of the fire. His hair was frizzy, the sun setting behind him illuminated the rogue strands like a halo. Eddie smiled at Steve when he noticed him.

“Hey,” Eddie said, his voice rougher the quieter he spoke. Smokey.

“Hi,” Steve replied, rubbing his damp palms up and down the thighs of his khaki shorts, “What were you playing just then?”

“Going To California," Eddie grinned when Steve looked at him to continue, “Led Zeppelin.” Eddie clarified.

“Oh,” Steve said, lips parted prettily. “That’s cool. I mean– that you can do that,” Steve told him, gesturing vaguely to where Eddie’s calloused fingers still rested limply on the strings of his acoustic.

“My Uncle Wayne taught me,” Eddie informed with a quiet air of pride, “It’s a technique called ‘Travis Picking’.” He began to demonstrate as he talked, still gazing at Steve and not missing a beat, “Your thumb picks the bass note while your other fingers pluck the melody, like this–”

Eddie resumed playing the same melody that he had been when Steve approached earlier, light and airy. Not at all what Steve thought Led Zeppelin’s music was supposed to sound like. The firelight glinted off the silver on Eddie’s fingers where Steve’s focus was glued like a moth to a flame. This unrecognizable fixation.

“Yeah–” Steve chuckled breathlessly, always breathless. “I can’t really do anything like that…” He admitted, scratching at the nape of his neck and wishing he was good at something.

“Nonsense,” Eddie waved, “Don’t ever let anyone tell you that you can’t do something. I’ll teach you– when we get back home. If you want.” Steve tried to listen, tried to respond, but the phrase ‘when we get back home’ just bounced uselessly around the corners of his skull like an echochamber, rendering him mute.

Patty spoke in a booming voice before either of them got the chance to speak again: “Well, hellooooo, Camp Nowhere!”

The kids erupted in a chorus of varied greetings, laughing and shouting and kicking their feet. Steve could tell which campers had been here before and which ones were new this summer based on their levels of enthusiasm.

Eddie and Patty kicked off the night with a frankly tear-jerking rendition of Landslide, and Steve was pleasantly surprised to find out that Patty could sing. He thought her voice was soothing in that raspy, maternal way that all middle-aged women’s voices were. It reminded him of his own mother, how she used to sing while she folded laundry.

He hadn’t even realized he was crying until Ben, the little boy from dodgeball, tapped his shoulder, “Why are you crying, mister Steve?” Ben’s sweet, mousy voice pulled him temporarily out of whatever pit he had fallen into. The boy had been stuck unwaveringly to Steve’s side since this afternoon, and Steve felt a deep, almost brotherly affection for him. Protective.

“I just really like Miss Patty’s singing,” Steve sniffed quickly and smiled down where Ben was peering up at him through long lashes.

“That’s okay, mister Steve,” He loved how Ben called him that even though he didn’t have to. “It’s okay to be sad sometimes.” The boy told him in a cadence that made it obvious he was parroting something a parent had told him, rubbing his freckled hand along Steve’s arm in an attempt at comforting him. Steve smiled, genuinely this time.

“Thanks, buddy. I think I feel better now,” the sentiment elicited a toothy grin from Ben, “Want me to make you a s’more?” Steve nudged his knee with his own and Ben nodded excitedly. He could feel Eddie staring in his peripheral vision, though he couldn’t be certain what for. It made a heat crawl up his neck, wishing for just one goddamn second that he could be normal around him.

Steve was washing his hands free of marshmallow residue as Eddie wrestled the kids into bed one by one, high on sugar and good music. Eddie complained, but he knew well and good that he was always the one that riled them up in the first place.

Steve could feel a headache brewing just behind his eyes, and he severely hoped that that’s all it was. The fluorescents in the cabin bathroom were harsh, they made the porcelain look whiter and more sterile. He began to zone out, scrubbing at the back of his hands and underneath his fingernails with such fury that he’d temporarily forgotten that he wasn’t at Hawkins Memorial Hospital, ridding himself of bacteria in preparation to enter the ICU–

“Hey,” Eddie's voice called from just behind him. Steve looked up, meeting his gaze in the mirror, “You okay?”

“Yeah, just– covered in marshmallow. All sticky.” Steve tried a laugh, but it fell flat.

“Your hands are all raw,” Eddie observed worriedly, taking Steve’s hand in between his own with the palm facing the floor, inspecting it.

“Probably just the soap,” Steve offered, “sometimes hand soap irritates my skin.” Not a complete lie, his hands would occasionally break out in hives when he did the dishes. But Steve knew that wasn’t why his hands were raw now.

Eddie looked skeptical, but by some miracle, whatever expression Steve was wearing must’ve convinced him to drop it. Steve’s hand and the subject itself. He splashed cold water over his face once Eddie exited the cramped bathroom, practically begging  himself to get it together.

It was lights out around twenty minutes later, the kids all tucked into their bunks: eyelids heavy with the aftermath of belly laughter. Steve sat idly on his bed, thumbing through a book that he wasn’t actually reading. He’d find himself scanning the same sentence over and over again, willing himself to comprehend the words on the page and still not being able to. He sat up, pulled on his slippers. A walk around the campground would tire him out surely, or maybe even a visit to Robin and Vickie’s cabin.

But when he’d swung the door open on its creaky hinges, he was met with a big cloud of curly black hair instead of the wide expanse of the field in front of their cabin.

Wordlessly, Steve sat down on the step next to Eddie. Eddie glanced at him sideways but didn’t turn his attention away from the guitar in his lap. He was strumming the tune from Sunday night, at the campfire. The one that sounded vaguely familiar to Steve, he just couldn’t seem to put his finger on it.

“What’s this one?” Steve asked softly, leaning over subconsciously to watch Eddie’s hands.

“Born To Be My Baby,” Eddie told him.

“Bon Jovi,” Steve responded dumbly. He couldn’t understand why his brain turned to soup and dripped from his ears whenever they interacted. Steve had taken to assuming that that was just the effect Eddie Munson had on folks. “I didn’t recognize it at first.”

“That’s ‘cause this is the acoustic version,” Eddie grinned, but not in the smug way that Steve was used to. It was tender, like they were sharing a secret. Gentle and warm between them.

“I like Bon Jovi,” Steve added, picking at the skin around his fingernails again. The skin on the back of his hand was starting to burn now, so he shoved them between his thighs.

“I know,” Eddie replied. Steve didn’t ask how he knew, even if he wanted to.

The two of them sat in a full, comfortable silence for a few more minutes. For the first time since Steve arrived at camp, he didn’t feel like he needed to be looking over his shoulder constantly.

Eddie pulled the guitar strap over his head and Steve’s heart sank: That was it. The moment had ended and now they were going to bed. Steve would wake up tomorrow feeling exactly as he had until the moment he stepped out onto these rickety stairs and it would be over–

Something heavy was being set in his lap, Steve looked down and saw that familiar brown of Eddie’s acoustic. “You try,” was all Eddie said.

“I don’t–” Steve choked on his breath, “I don’t know how–”

Eddie scooched impossibly closer, the faint smell of weed and cinnamon and something earthy filling Steve’s senses. He could hardly breathe right now, let alone play a six string. “Here–” Eddie said, positioning Steve fingers on the second fret and his other hand on the strings.

Steve’s hand felt like it was in rigor mortis, stiff and unyielding. But Eddie was determined, “Relax your fingers– there you go– now, put this finger here and these two right above it…” Eddie's breath fell over Steve’s neck in concentration, unwilling to give up.

Much to Steve’s shock, he’d managed to mold his fingers on the fret in the position that Eddie had instructed, “Okay, what now?” Steve asked.

“Now strum, but avoid the top string. That’s your E string,”

“Okay,” Steve breathed, and did as Eddie said. An out-of-tune chord reverberated from the cavernous middle of the instrument. Steve winced but Eddie looked utterly elated.

“You did it!” Eddie exclaimed, conscious of being quiet enough not to wake the children sleeping just behind them. “That’s your first chord– an open C. You’ll be a proper Lindsey Buckingham before you know it,” Eddie patted Steve’s shoulder, using it as leverage to stand up and head back inside, but the notion didn’t make Steve want to sink into a hole in the ground this time.

“You don’t even like Fleetwood Mac,” Steve pointed out, chuckling over his shoulder.

“I know. But just you wait, Harrington– I’m gonna turn you into a real metalhead. Mark my words.” Eddie said, forming an ‘x’ over the portion of his chest where his heart rests.

Steve turned back towards the vast abyss of wilderness in front of him when he felt a blush start to creep up his neck.

“You comin’ in?” Eddie asked.

“No. I think I’m gonna sit a little longer. Keep honing my craft.”

He heard Eddie breathe a laugh from behind him, “You do that. Night, Harrin–”

“Just Steve.” He interrupted without truly meaning to, he turned again to meet Eddie’s eye, “You can– you can just call me Steve.”

“Okay,” Eddie smiled and God, it was so earnest. “Goodnight, Steve.”

He heard the cabin door click shut, and only then was he able to fill his lungs to capacity with the damp summer air. Fireflies danced all around his head, and he wished he had a mason jar to catch one in, just for a moment. He would set it free– he always did. Steve was good at that: catching things and reluctantly letting them go.

divider credit to @saradika-graphics

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spot the difference (impossible edition)

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When Steve Harrington was young-- eight or so-- he'd wait until his mother and father fell asleep before wrapping his blue blanket around his neck, stuffing his favorite action figure in the waistband of his pajama pants, and sneaking down the stairs towards the door in the kitchen that led straight into the garage.

Despite how popular, how handsome and charming he was destined to become, when Steve was small, he had little to be proud of. He was cute, sure, but he was homely. His hair was a bright, bleach blonde-- not yet the crisp chestnut brown it would grow into, and he wore glasses. Thick lensed, coke bottle glasses that made his eyes look bigger than they were. Steve didn't have a lot of friends, didn't like all the popular things that his classmates liked. His hair stuck up at weird angles because of the two cowlicks on either side of his forehead.

Steve Harrington did have one friend though, and he was on his way to visit him tonight.

If Steve was unpopular, the Eddie Munson was practically an outcast. His mother having died when he was a baby, and his father a drunk because of it, he was sent to live out the remainder of his childhood with his uncle in a dingey trailer park on the sketchy side of an already sketchy town. Eddie was a year older than Steve, but that hadn't stopped him from trying his luck at a conversation with the boy-- hanging upside down on the monkey bars one afternoon.

Eddie's uncle Wayne let the boys stay up when Steve came to visit late at night, let them curl up on the thrifted sofa and watch cartoons or reality game shows like Family Feud. Steve hadn't understood it then, but perhaps Wayne knew. Knew that just because Steve wasn't an orphan like his nephew was, didn't mean he was all that better off. Knew that Steve was lonely, because he didn't have an uncle to love him the way Wayne loved Eddie.

They shared Steve's blue blanket and would stare at the ultraviolet of the television screen until their eyelids grew heavy. They'd fall asleep, heads knocking together as they dozed off, hair sticking out at all sorts of funny angles. When Steve woke up in the morning, he felt different than when he woke up in his own bed at home. The sun shone differently here, in Eddie's trailer with the sleeping boy clonked with his head in Steve's lap.

Things changed as they grew. Steve's brown hair grew in, and he ditched the glasses for contacts. His father made him join the basketball team; girls liked him, wanted to talk to him.

And Eddie. Well, Eddie was Eddie. Still trailer trash, who loved DnD and sold Ketamine to jocks and addicts make enough money to get the hell out of this shithole town. Eddie who missed Steve-- the only real friend he'd ever had. Before everything changed.

Weird that they've been thrown into each other's lives again in such a peculiar way. Interdimensional demons? Wonder what might come of that.

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*Me sitting down to write smut.*

But first! We must thoroughly understand this man's fractured and devastated sense of self. Only then can we truly appreciate how connected he feels to her while finger-banging the soul from her body.

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don’t mind me. being horny online again.

today i am thinking about being on tour with indie rockstar steve this has nothing to do with djo being on tour rn and he gets done with a show, looking so mmmmmmm you wanna jump his bones right now but you have to wait until you have a moment alone which is almost never :(

GENIUS

and you wait for him on the bus, and he comes in all sweaty and beautiful and you kiss his entire face and tell him how amazing he is-- how amazing he always is. but it's late and you're both exhausted, so you squeeze into one of the way-too-small bunks you're meant to sleep in while you're driven to another major city.

but see the issue (or nonissue?) with the beds being so small is that you're soooo close to stevie. i mean like, there isn't an inch of you that's not touching and you're horny and he's horny and neither of you can sleep so you just. start pushing your ass back against his dick?

and he puts his face real close to your ear and whispers, "I dunno, baby-- are you gonna be able to stay nice and quiet?"

you respond with a nod, so he grabs your hips and grinds his dick into you and he's so big it's actually immoral. you can't stand to not be facing him for one more second, so you quietly shift so that you're face to face.

he kisses you, hard. shoves his tongue into your mouth, bites your bottom lip, sucks on it until it feels swollen and you're making out so aggressively that it almost hurts but not more than it feels so good.

but you can only go on like that for so long until hands start wandering right? and then the next thing you know you're grinding over his fingers while they circle your clit and he's thrusting up into your hand and you're breathing into each other's mouths because that's the only sound you can make that the bus engine will drown out.

under the sheets, you're both naked now, and he's lining the head of his cock up to your entrance and this is literally all you could think about all night. when he finally pushes in to the hilt it's as if he knows you're about to make some sort of obscene noise, so he clamps his hand over your mouth.

"Quiet, sweetheart. Good. Good girl--"

so he fucks you like that-- nice and slow. and because his pace is so much more languid than it usually is, it takes so much longer for either of you to finish so you just fuck lazily like that until you fall asleep and wake up in a new city to explore.

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okay i’ve never requested smut before but i always have ideas so it’s time to face my fears 💀 what ab having a nice valentines night in w steve but not being able to keep their hands of off each other during the movie they’re watching and just being tipsy on champagne and giggly and all the sweet stuff

sorry that this took me 18,000 years to get to? i was waiting for inspiration to strike bc i wanted your first smut request to be everything you've ever hoped for! <3 18+ mdni, fluffy tipsy little guys, needy kinda sub steve, dry humping mmm, stevie coming in his pants :(, alcohol consumption, established relationship

buzzed

"Can we watch Top Gun again?" You giggle with your lips wrapped around a bottle of cheap champagne. Steve only wants to watch you.

"You just wanna ogle at Tom Cruise for two hours without facing the consequences," Steve accuses through a giggle of his own, reaching for the bottle in your greedy hands.

"Nooooo,"

"Yessssss," He mocks, successfully snatching the alcohol from you and taking a long pull. Your eyes follow the column of muscles in his neck moving as he swallows, longing to reach over and have a taste for yourself. So you do.

Steve makes a surprised noise as you climb into his lap, bracketing his hips with your thighs. You let your hands roam freely with a mind of their own-- ending up tangled in his hair. Steve has to struggle in order to set down the open beverage before it has the chance to spill all over his mom's expensive rug.

"Mph-- someone's eager," he tries to play it cool, but you can hear the barely suppressed moan when your lips suck softly on the spot just below his ear.

"You know how I get when you give me booze," you hum, "starting to think this was your plan all along,"

You hadn't realized until Steve grabbed your hips to keep you moving that you'd started to roll your hips lazily over his crotch; the boy's sweatpants tenting where your pelvises meet.

He was starting to lose his composure, and you could feel it. It was in the way he kept his grip bruising on your waist and how he began thrusting harder into your clothed core. You hoped the wet patch forming in your pajama shorts wouldn't stain his pants. Or maybe that it would.

"Can I take this off?" Steve asks, referring to the thin t-shirt you were wearing, your nipples pebbling underneath the fabric at even the suggestion of his mouth on them.

You nod, your head thrown back in pleasure as a particularly firm roll of Steve's hips catches on your sensitive spot of nerves. He wastes no time taking your breast into his mouth, using his rough palm to knead the other one and trusting you to keep up the rhythmic grinding that you two had fallen into.

Steve hums around your nipple, licking and sucking and making genuinely obscene noises before switching sides. You tangle your fingers once again in his hair, because you know it'll make him groan louder; the vibrations shooting through you all the way to your needy core.

"Thought you wanted to watch a movie," Steve pants.

"I'm good like this, I think,"

You reach to undo the tie in Steve's sweatpants, but he stops you abruptly, "No-- keep them on. Feels so good." Theres a dark patch where the tip of his cock would be when you look down, turning the light grey of his pants into something darker. You don't know if it's from his arousal or yours, and you don't particularly care to find out, but it makes your mouth water all the same.

Every push and pull of your bodies shoves you that much closer to the edge of your pleasure, and you make sure to tell Steve as much. Your boyfriend loves to run his mouth, but he won't admit that he loves it even more when you're to one talking filthily. It's not something you find the courage to attempt often, making it that much more erotic when you do. In this haze of alcohol and bliss you've found yourself suspended in; you find it easier than ever.

"Don't stop, baby--" you gasp, "your cock feels so good like this,"

Steve's eyes widen beneath you, his brain trying to catch up with his ears, "Yeah?" He says, dumbly.

"Yes." You bury your head in the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply. He smells like cedar and sweat and Steve. "Gonna come like this--"

If you both weren't so wet, the friction probably would've hurt. But the mixture of champagne and weed and pure, unadulterated love had you leaking on Steve's lap, and you imagined he was probably fairing similarly to you now.

Your vision whites and your hearing goes, and everything is dark for one, beautiful moment. You let yourself fall into it-- fall into Steve. A long, sweet noise of release escaping from between your teeth, straight into Steve's ear.

"There you go, baby," he ruts faster, chasing his own pleasure and holding you as you come down. You don't cease the rocking of your hips-- wanting him to fall into this post-coital bliss with you.

"Gonna make me come, oh-- oh," and you can feel the hum of his soft moans through your chest, settling somewhere deep in your bones. You stroke his hair, talking him through it, "That's it, good boy. Coming in your pants for me, poor baby." He can hear your pout before he sees it.

Steve almost comes again. Something he's pretty sure isn't even anatomically possible right now, but you've never talked to him like that before and he's beginning to discover some things about himself.

Before he has a moment to process any of what just happened, you're climbing casually off his lap and walking topless to his bedroom. He doesn't move, not an inch. Just sits there, trying and failing to force his breathing to return to normal.

You return with a new pair of boxers for him, his favorite plaid pajama pants and a warm washcloth. Without a word, you slip his soiled pants from his hips-- cleaning his release from his skin with a loving touch, making sure to avoid the areas where he's still sensitive.

"Here," you smile softly at him when you've finished. Steve takes the new clothes from you, awestruck. His eyes sparkle in the glow of the television behind you. Or maybe it's the love he feels for you seeping out of every orifice in his body.

"Okay," he whispers, refusing to move his gaze off of you. He's been taken care of before, of course-- satisfied, if you will. But not like this. Never like this. And when he lets you hold him once you've both regained your decency, falling into a soft sleep on his couch, he knows it's you, or nothing at all.

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for the beloved chalkboard hearts au -

i've been thinking about how having steve in her & abbey's lives after being on their own for so long is such a big change for reader, esp since jeremy seemed like not a very doting partner

& that must be multiplied by 100x once steve moves in. i'd love to see something about steve moving in / becoming a part of their lives & routine, & what that experience is like for reader (like logistically & emotionally lol)

i love this little family to pieces - thank u <33 🌼

thank you sm for this ask anon and sorry it took me so long to get to it <3 you raise a great point & it was really fun exploring this specific scenario in their relationship :) chalkboard hearts au steve harrington x fem!reader

It just seemed to be one of those days. One of those days that felt never-ending, impossible; like you couldn't do anything right. Adding to your anxiety, it was a Sunday-- universally recognized as the second worst day of the week.

You were on maternity leave now with Luke only being a few weeks old, but the dread of the looming week ahead of you still made itself known on days like today.

A baby strapped tight to your chest, and a six-year-old sat rambling at the table; you stirred the boiling pot of chili on the stove in front of you. The added weight of your newborn attached to your front was beginning to make sweat bead at your hairline and under your boobs, but your son's colic prohibited you from being able to set him down for longer than ninety seconds at a time.

"Mommy can we play I Spy?" Abbey yells over the sound of abandoned cartoons playing on the television the next room over.

"Not now, babe. I have to make dinner," you tell her, flicking open the top to a container of garlic powder one-handed.

"Well please can I have some juice then?" She whined, and: "Can we play after dinner?"

"Give me one second, Ab. I'm cooking. Mommy can only do so many things at once, you know?"

You should've known there'd be trouble when you didn't hear her response, but your senses were rapidly approaching blackout levels of overload.

Luke started to fuss in his baby wrap, so you bounced to try and appease him. Just a little longer, you try to telepathically communicate to his tiny brain, your dad will be home soon.

And then you felt guilty. You felt inadequate. Shouldn't you be able to do this on your own? You raised Abbey perfectly fine-- if you didn't count all the sleepless night and the almost-check ins to the psych ward.

Lost in this train of thought, you let your guard down for only five seconds too long. Abbey had reached for the juice in the fridge, her shorter than average stature not sufficient enough to successfully take the gallon off the shelf.

The container of apple juice hit the floor with a loud crash; the top flying off on impact and causing sticky fruit juice to spray all over everything in its immediate vicinity. Including Abbey, your legs, the cabinets, and of course, the floor.

"Abigail Jane!" You shout, her expression instantaneously turning sheepish. You felt terrible before the words had even left your mouth. You knew it had been a mistake, but that knowledge didn't do anything to take away your overwhelm.

"I'm sorry, mommy..." Abbey says, mousy.

"It's fine," you sigh, "just--"

In all the commotion, you hadn't heard the front door open and shut, "Woah," Steve observes as he enters the kitchen, "what happened here?"

Abbey begins to plead, scared he won't believe her, "It was an accident I promise I was just trying to get the juice and--" she explains, all in one panicked breath.

"It's okay, baby, I see that. It would be super helpful if you could go grab a couple of towels from the bathroom, though. Could you do that?" Steve asks her, so patiently that it nearly pisses you off. You feel like he's out to make you look like a bad parent for losing your temper, even if logically you know that your husband would never do that to you.

You turn your attention back to the chili, not even acknowledging him. You know it's petty, but you're not thinking rationally right now. Hormonal from your recent birth and overstimulated from an entire day spent tending to two young children alone: your inability to ask for assistance surely not helping.

"Hey," Steve's hand meets the space between your shoulder blades. He could tell something was afoot the second he saw you, "What's the matter, honey?"

"Nothing, Steve. Just go help her with the juice."

Rarely did you use this tone with Steve, and he knew it. He was mature enough to know it hadn't had a thing to do with something he did, but he didn't appreciate it, nonetheless.

"She's getting towels, I'm not worried about that right now. I'm asking you what's wrong."

Your hands shake as you try and open the onion powder now, consequentially spilling way too much of the seasoning into the food, "Shit!"

"Alright, enough." Steve says sternly, turning the stove burner off. "Give me Luke and go take a minute."

You're momentarily taken aback by his own tone of voice, usually the ever-doting spouse; but the firmness in his voice had snapped you out of your acute rage. Perhaps that was his goal.

With tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, you lifted Luke from his cradle against your torso-- handing him off to Steve. His expression softens as he takes the baby from your arms, nodding in the direction of your bedroom.

You oblige, carefully stepping over the juice to exit the kitchen. Not that it mattered, it was already all over your legs and your pants and your feet.

Looking in the mirror, the dam finally broke. You thought you looked a trainwreck: hair frizzy and sticking out in places, a mysterious food stain on your shirt beneath your left breast, forty pounds heavier than you'd been a year ago. You can't understand how Steve could be bothered to even look at you, let alone love you.

After a few minutes of silent, self-pitying tears, Steve knocks gently on your shared bedroom door before pushing it open to reveal your splotchy, saddened face.

"Hey, baby." He says so softly that you start to weep again. Steve notices, of course, and sits beside you on the bed, wrapping you in a firm embrace.

"Where's Luke?" You sniffle.

"He's in his rocker. Sleeping." He assures you, pressing a delicate kiss to the crown of your head.

"I haven't been able to set him down all day," you sob. What was wrong with you?

"I know, sweetheart. I know." Steve coos while a strong hand rubs soothing circles into your aching back, he pulls you into his lap now. "I'm sorry I got short with you earlier. You were scarin' me, that's all."

"I'm sorry that I got short with you," you say helplessly, feeling like there's not a thing in the world you can just get right.

"'S okay, baby. Had a long day, huh?"

"Yeah," you respond meekly.

A few moments pass with your head hiding in Steve's neck and him rocking you gently where you rest on his thighs, "Can you do something for me though?" He asks quietly, scared to disrupt the calm silence that's washed over the two of you.

"Hm?"

"I need you to start letting me help you when you need it. You're not a single mom anymore, you know."

"I know," you sniff, "It's just hard sometimes. When I feel like a bad mom if I can't do it all myself."

"Stop this madness," Steve says into your hair, "you're such an amazing mom, it's absurd. Knew it since the day I met you."

You giggle. Then you blush. Then you remember: "Where's the chili?"

"It's done, very onion-y though. Kinda tastes like Shrek made it." he teases, and you crack your first smile of the day. It certainly won't be your last.

taglist - @soulxiez @sadieshairbrush @the-witty-pen-name @ilovetaquitosmmmm @micheledawn1975 @cherryc1nnam0n @paleidiot @adaydreamaway30 @mrsnarnian @negomi123 @twinkling-moonlillie @royalestrellas @jamdoughnutmagician @cali-888 @kolsmikaelson @1deverland @borhapparker @alexa4040 @chiliwhore @weonlysaidgoodbyewithwordss @paddockspookie42 @foxes-n-frogs @j-mlover383 @i-love-gfv @the-fairy-anon

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https://www.tumblr.com/stevesgother/783075089530961920/constantly-thinking-about-how-steve-was-alone-in

okay thinking about this again but maybe steve comforting reader this time?? like maybe they’ve been kind of staying with each other for a few weeks because it’s the only way either of them can get any sleep or peace of mind and it’s not quite strictly platonic but you also haven’t had the energy to have a “what are we” conversation but the energy between them is so tender and loving and ugh

alright i love this and i might just have to keep writing for them bc they're so sweet canon typical violence, depictions of night terrors, dangerous levels of sweetness 18 +

You could hear his screaming again, echoing in every vacant corner of your subconscious. Opening your eyes to take in your surroundings, you realize with a stark clarity exactly where you are: The bunker. Starcourt.

You kick and scream against the restraints that constrict your wrists and ankles to no avail, and then a soldier is dragging Steve's limp body through the heavy iron door; blood staining the concrete underneath him. It makes your stomach curdle, fighting the sudden rise of bile in your throat at the sight of him. Steve-- sweet, selfless Steve, who gave himself as a martyr so you wouldn't have to be interrogated by them. You can't reach him, no matter how hard you thrash and shout.

"Hey--" You hear him say, but his mouth doesn't move. He stays lifeless in front of you.

Hands on your shoulders. How? How could that be possible? You struggle harder.

"You're okay-- hey! C'mon, wake up--"

Your eyes shoot open accompanied by a shuddering sob. The setting had changed. Cold metal walls morphed into comforting blue and beige plaid wallpaper; the chair you were once tied to was really just a bed-- Steve's bed. The ropes constricting your wrists were only Steve's hands, gripping your limbs in an attempt to get you to stop writhing.

"Steve?" You ask through tears, scared that he might not truly be there-- another figment of your imagination. A false comfort. Nightmares in the shape of a Russian nesting doll.

"Yes, it's me. Hey, I'm right here, see?" Steve palms your cheek, forcing you to look at him. He can see you still look hesitant to believe him, having had dreams just like this before; thinking you were awake when you really weren't.

"Gimme your hand," Steve requests, so you do. He pushes a finger to your palm; you feel it press firmly, and it doesn't go through the barrier of muscle tissue there. This is real. Steve's real. His finger would've gone through if you were dreaming.

You heave a trembling sigh of relief once you realize you've been safely thrown back into reality, out of that dank and awful place underground. More importantly, Steve is next to you-- alive and breathing.

He's still staring at you expectantly, waiting to for you to come to your senses again. It's all you can do not to throw yourself against the secure weight of his body, clinging to him with your arms around his neck. You only have the strength to weep quietly into his neck for what feels like hours.

Steve shushes you, rubbing a firm hand up and down your back, continuing to ground you in the here and now, "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. Do you want to talk about it?"

You shake your head, "We were back there," you shiver hard in his grasp, "you--"

"Okay," he cuts you off, not out of impatience but to spare you from reliving it. He knows exactly what you were going to say, anyway. "That's okay. You don't have to say it"

A few more minutes pass. He rotates between rubbing your back, to stroking your hair, to rocking you gently where he holds you in his lap. Sometimes all three, before your grip on him finally loosens a fraction. He lays you gently back down on the bed, in his spot this time. You make a soft sound of protest, so he plants a kiss to your forehead.

"I'm gonna get you some water, I'll just be right there," he gestures to the ensuite bathroom not five feet from the bed. Steve had taken to keeping water glasses in the cabinet beneath the sink, having realized a while ago that leaving you to go all the way downstairs after a night terror was simply too far for you to bear. You needed to be able to keep him in your sights.

Steve was back at your side in thirty seconds flat, kneeling beside the bed to help you take the glass to your lips. You took a microscopic sip, "Little more than that, please," Steve told you. Obliging him, you took a few sizable gulps.

"Good, there you go," he says, appeased. You would've done anything to get him back in bed with you then-- would've chugged the whole glass and then some.

Steve climbs back under the covers next to you. He knew you liked to sleep on his side of the bed on nights like these; the smell of his shampoo on the pillowcase lulling you back into a considerably more peaceful sleep.

Steve slips an arm under your shoulder, inviting you to curl into his side. "Will you stay awake until I fall back asleep?" You mutter into his shirt.

"'Course I will," he assures you, rubbing a thumb over the soft skin on the back of your hand. You fidget with the hair that curls at the nape of his neck-- twisting the silky strands around and around your fingers until you doze off with your hands nestled in his head.

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emmmm!!!!!!!! i’m thinking “well you are cute, ah! i mean- you’re not cute, but you are? i’m just going to shut up now.” with steve & coworker!reader please and thank you love you mwuah mwuah

oh em gee this is so sweet ! i changed the dialogue of the prompt just a teeny bit but it's still the same idea hope thats okay <3 sfw, fluff, coworker!steve being flustered, fem!reader, two idiots crushing on each other

stumbling

"So," a greasy-haired ginger man leans against the checkout counter in front of you, "What kind of songs do girls like on mixtapes?"

You have to entertain this conversation for the sake of your job, but if someone were to ask, you'd rather be shot. "I dunno, depends on the girl, I guess," you tell him absentmindedly, collecting his change from the cash register. You swear this dude comes in here at least once every other day; it gives you a headache to fathom how much of his paycheck he's spending each week just to torture you with creepy pick-up maneuvers.

"Well, what kind of music do you like?" He lilts.

"Death metal. Is there any else I can help you with today?" You deadpan, hoping your lack of interest in anything that's coming out of his mouth will be enough to get him to leave the damn record store.

"Noted," the man winks, it makes your stomach churn, and you have to try your hardest to school your expression quickly, "I'll see you around then."

The smile you give him isn't in response to his terrible flirting or bad breath, but out of pure relief that he's finally left the building.

"God, that guy is insufferable," Steve laments from where he's reshelving this week's new release vinyls.

"Astute observation, asshole. Would it have killed you to throw me a lifeline?"

"Sorry, you know Cathy doesn't like me scaring off the customers with my charming disposition and devilish good looks," he shrugs, and you hurl a pencil cap eraser at his big block head.

"I just don't understand what I need to for him to get the goddamn hint. I mean, this is ridiculous, right? Am I overreacting?"

"I mean, I don't know-- is it such an awful thing to be flirted with?" Steve asks, pushing the shelving cart to begin stocking closer to you.

"By that greaseball? Yes."

"Well, you know, you're cute so--" his eyes widen as he realizes the admission he's just made, "I mean-- ah-- i mean, not like that--" Steve stutters, practically tripping over himself. You narrow your eyes at him, gesturing for him to continue making a fool of himself.

"Not that you're not cute, I just mean. What I meant was." He leans against the CD shelf adjacent to him in an attempt to play it cool. Or maybe because suddenly his collar was too tight, and his armpits were sweating and had you turned the heat up when you went on lunch earlier?

"Geez, Harrington, tell me how you really feel," you try to joke though secretly your stomach sinks a little each time he recovers from saying he thinks that you're cute. Steve Harrington, the boy you've had a crush on since junior year, can't even admit that he might find you objectively pretty. Ouch.

With a sudden crash, the entire CD case becomes top heavy and spills its contents all over the floor. Steve's cheeks redden to a bright crimson; he wishes he could go back to three minutes ago and suture his lips shut with the staple gun you've been using for the packages.

"I'm going to just...stop talking. And clean this up." He says timidly, crouching down to collect the scattered merchandise. You abandon your station at the checkout counter to help him; there weren't customers inside anyway.

The two of you pick the shelf up and clean in silence for a few excruciating minutes, the tension brewing between your bodies like a tea kettle, until Steve clears his throat and says, "For the record, I do think you're cute. Beautiful, actually."

You're momentarily stunned at his confession, so he continues, "And if I didn't work here, I'd probably just be another one of those losers coming in everyday just to see you," he chuckles, maybe a little self-deprecatingly though you can't understand why.

"You think I'm beautiful?" You breathe in partial disbelief. It's not that you weren't confident in your appearance but hearing it from someone you've admired since you were a teenager feels unbelievable.

"'Course I do," Steve says, deathly serious, "I have eyes. Plus, you're like, super funny. I used to think I was quick witted until I met you."

You're grateful for the wooden barrier of the shelf blocking the way you flush at his words. Once the shelf is picked up and properly arranged again, you make your move: "Hey, um, I was thinking about going to see The Princess Bride tonight? At The Hawk?" You're not sure why you're infecting your voice as if every statement is a question. Nervous habit, you suppose. "Would you wanna come with?"

Steve physically trips over himself again and you're nervous he's about to knock another display case over, "Uh, sure, yeah--definitely." He says, a little too enthusiastically, "Pick you up at eight?"

You can't seem to stop fidgeting with the loose strands of baby hairs curling behind your ears, twirling them around your fingers to give yourself something to focus on other than the way Steve's looking at you now with his big, hazel doe-eyes.

"Yeah, yeah that's perfect," you grin.

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hey yall— name update

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joining twitter only to realize there are in fact people who unironically ship mileven and don’t fuck with byler was actually jarring

[alphabetsoupcup]

constantly thinking about how steve was alone in the back of the ambulance at the end of season 3 watching everyone else reunite with their families

baby boy needs a hug

STOP it. i will throw up.

his sailor's uniform that was once so cheesy and endearing is covered in blood and sweat and vomit; his left eye so swollen that he can barely see out of it.

he can't find his car keys, so he's kind of resigned himself to walking all the way from the mall with a definite concussion and probably at least one broken rib. every intake of breath hurts.

and you spot him from over your mother's shoulder, though you're not sure what to say. what could you possibly say to console anyone who just went through what the whole of you went through?

you can barely get your mom to release you from her iron-clad grip long enough for you to go see if he needs anything. a ride home or a hug or a joint. something.

he's the only person here who doesn't have a mother holding him in her arms. the EMT's have even stopped paying attention to him. there's no reason for him to still be sitting there-- wrapped in that tinfoil blanket-- and yet, he hasn't left.

steve offers you a weak, barely there smile that doesn't reach anywhere near his eyes when he spots you approaching. his grins usually incite the cutest crow's feet by his eyes, smile lines adjacent to his lips. but not tonight.

"hey," he whispers when you reach him

"hey," you whisper back, "what did they say about your--" you gesture around your head, your torso.

"pretty gnarly concussion," he tries to play off, "bruised...everything else," he chuckles but it's so obviously not funny. you don't even crack a smile.

"steve..."

"listen, um," he clears his throat, "this is so--lame, god-- but could i maybe crash at your place tonight? i swear, i'll go home in the morning--"

"steve--" you take a microscopic step forward, hesitant to touch him, to comfort him, but aching to. "of course you can. you can stay as long as you need to. c'mon," you settle on offering him a hand to help pull himself up. at least that could be played off as simply friendly-- if either of you are capable of remembering this night years from now.

steve takes it, his hand clammy and blood-streaked in yours. you hope you won't have to do much convincing for your parents to let a boy stay over, given the circumstances.

"mom, this is steve. he needs somewhere to stay tonight--"

you aren't even able to finish your sentence before your mother, ever the caretaker, interrupts you, "of course, sweetheart. oh, you poor thing." you're not entirely sure whether she's referring to you or steve. maybe both.

after refusing your mother's several offers to swing by his house on loch nora to grab a change of clothes, she finally accepts and lets him borrow a pair of your father's sweats and a t-shirt. he's settled into the pullout couch in the basement.

"um, if you need anything, my room is the first door on the right upstairs."

he nods, you can tell it hurts him to do so, "thanks. and thanks for letting me stay, you didn't have to--"

"don't." you tell him firmly, "you shouldn't have to be alone."

you're unsure what time it was-- having never checked your alarm clock-- when steve trudged his way up to what he really hoped was your bedroom door, nudging it with his foot. you were still awake to no one's surprise, staring blankly at your ceiling fan as it spun in an endless, hypnotizing circle-- it's only job in life. how enviable.

you let steve crawl into your bed beside you after he'd confessed he couldn't fall asleep downstairs. mindful of his injuries, you pet his hair, smoothing it away from his face as you did. you hugged him close to you after that, rubbing soothing circles into the tense muscles of his back. you were acutely aware of his shoulders shaking at one point, a wet patch on the shoulder of your sleep shirt where his head rested. you wondered when the last time that anyone held him was. you didn't call attention to his obvious weeping.

"you're safe, steve. you can rest now." you whispered softly into the shell of his ear.

his nod was nearly imperceptible, but he did sleep that night. and even despite the circumstances, better than he had in a long, long time.