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corroded-chrissy · 3 years ago

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Not Just On Christmas

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: steve’s parents are coming home for the holidays and he’s in need of a fake date. who better than you, his best friend?

word count: 8.2k

warnings: steve’s parents (derogatory), negative comments about his job, fake dating, friends to lovers, christmas themes, fluff, first kiss!

a/n: i had lots of fun with this one and i hope u guys like it!!! merry christmas and happy holidays i hope they treat u all well <33 consider this my gift to you :D

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The phone ringing forces Steve out of bed. Floors cool on his feet, the air a chill on his bare chest, he rubs his eyes lazily and picks it up.

“Hello?” He clears his throat to get rid of the sleep in his voice.

“Steve, why do you sound tired, it’s nearly noon!”

It’s no surprise that the first words aren’t asking him how he is. He’s shocked she cared enough to pick up on the tone of his voice at all. “Hi, mom.”

He doesn’t even know where she’s calling from, doesn’t know what business trip they're on. He can’t remember the last time he got a phone call that wasn’t you, or Robin, or Dustin, or anyone else other than his parents.

Steve’s not even excited to be hearing from them, because it’s a reminder that they’re not around, that they haven’t forgotten about him, they just don’t care.

He wishes you were the one that called.

“Listen, sweetie, your dad and I are coming home for Christmas this year, isn’t that great?”

He deflates, “yeah. Super.”

“There’s a business event he wants to take you to. And we’ll find you a date,” there’s the catch. There’s always a catch. “You can make some connections, maybe get out of your job at that video store soon.”

The thing is, he actually likes working at Family Video, but he knows that doesn’t matter. Then there’s the topic of the girlfriend, or lack thereof. His parents are always nagging him about when he’ll settle down, grow roots, or something.

Maybe that’s why he says, “I can get my own date. I have a girlfriend.”

“Oh! That’s fantastic! She’ll have dinner with us, won’t she? What’s her name?”

Like an idiot, he says your name. The first one that came to his mind.

You’re his best friend, and it’s easy to let his thoughts drift to you. The problem is, he has no idea how he’s going to explain this to you, how he can ask you to fake date him just to satisfy his parents for once.

If he wasn’t still on the phone, Steve would be groaning into a pillow right now.

“Okay, sweetie, your dad has a brunch we have to get to. We’ll see you soon!”

“Bye, mom. See you.”

He hangs up and sighs in relief. That feeling is quick to fade when he remembers that he had just named you his girlfriend in the midst of his phone call. He drops his face into his hands, runs them through his hair, and tries to figure out how the hell to bring up the subject with you.

To go along with that, he has to worry about his parents coming home. Though, can they really call it ‘home’ when they’ve been gone for so long? When they’ll leave again after a few days, a week at most?

Most people would be happy, excited, about their parents being around for the holidays. Steve’s not. He’d rather spend it how he has since the two of you became friends. Breakfast at your house with your family—who have become family for Steve, too—presents opened with scented candles burning and Christmas albums spun on the record player.

You went out of your way to include him, and he’s never felt so welcome in his life as he does when he’s with you.

At least, if you agree, you’ll be with him this year, too.

It’s the next day when Steve decides to bring it up. You’re at his house for movie night, which has become a weekly ritual for the two of you. He’s been trying to figure out what exactly to say since he hung up the damn phone. He’s given up and instead hopes it’ll come to him in the moment.

Today, Steve’s quiet, which is unlike him. You know something’s on his mind and you try to avoid asking him about it, trying to let him talk about it on his own time. It’s about halfway through the movie that you change your mind.

He didn’t complain when you showed up with your cheesy Christmas movie choice, he didn’t light-heartedly tease you about your outfit of choice (some festive patterned pajama pants and a sweater that’s so worn there are holes in the neckline), and the most unusual, he didn’t make a single joke or comment as the movie played.

He’s really, really quiet.

You pick up the remote and pause it, “what’s going on with you, Steve?”

He looks at you, catches your eye and sees nothing but genuine concern. Sometimes he hates the way you know him so well. He can never hide anything from you.

“What? Nothing.”

You blink at him, “come on.”

“Fine, okay. Just, don’t say anything until I’m done, please.”

“Okay,” you pretend to zip your mouth shut, ready to listen.

“My mom called yesterday and told me they’re coming home for Christmas, and that there’s this business thing they want me to go to, and that I need a date for it,” he scrubs a hand down his face, trying to hide his embarrassment. “And you know how they’re always on my ass about me being single and stuff so I kind of told her I already had a girlfriend, and maybe I told her that girlfriend is you.”

What?

There’s a lot to process there. Mostly the fact that out of all of the names he could have chosen, he said yours. You wait for him to explain some more, but he’s looking at you like he’s waiting for a reply, so, your mouth is now unzipped.

“So, what exactly does that mean?”

He mutters a curse under his breath. “Um, so, I need you to pretend to be my actual girlfriend while they’re here.”

His use of the word ‘need’ is telling. Steve’s not one to ask for help, not even when he needs it the most but here he is, nervous and a little pink-cheeked, asking for your help.

You let the thought sit in your head for a bit. It’s not hard for you to want to agree. Steve’s your best friend, and you’d do pretty much anything for him. Though, that might also have to do with the fact that you’ve been in love with him for years.

You know more about his relationship with his parents then most do, so if you can make their visit more bearable for him in any way, why wouldn’t you?

“Okay,” you say.

“Okay? Like, you’ll do it?”

“Yeah, sure. I’m happy to help.”

That was a lot easier than Steve thought it’d be. You barely even questioned him before agreeing, and that’s not lost on him.

“Thank you so much, seriously,” he throws his arm over your shoulders, squeezes you to him in a side hug. “It’s only a few days, then we can go back to normal.”

“Easy peasy,” you say, reaching for the remote and hitting play.

Aside from your wanting to help him, to be there for him like you know he would for you, you’re also curious to see what it’s like to be with Steve that way, even if it’s fake. It’s hopeless, the way you love him, like the moon orbiting the earth around and around. Constant.

Sure, those feelings will probably only swell because of the fake relationship, but you’ve been housing them for long enough anyway.

What could go wrong?

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Robin says from the other side of a clothing rack, sifting through the pieces.

She’s the first, and only, person you told about the fake dating thing. Naturally, she decided she’d help you shop for a dress to wear to this business thing and talk about it at the same time.

The mall is decorated, garlands and lights strung, a big Christmas tree lit up in the middle of it all.

“It’s only a couple of days. It’ll be fine.”

“I’m talking about you being in love with him,” she deadpans.

“Robin, not so loud.”

“I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

You know she’s being honest, and though the thought has been at the back of your mind, a whisper, you’d like to believe that you can handle a fake relationship without ruining things because of your big, big feelings.

“I spend time with him alone a bunch. It’s not that much different, okay?”

“Besides the fact that you’ll be calling him boyfriend and acting like it, too, you mean.”

Actually, you’ve been trying not to think about what exactly pretending to be his girlfriend entails. You don’t know if he’ll hold your hand, if he’ll hold you closer than he has before, if he’ll kiss you. You think it might be better to wait and see, to not let the possibilities eat at you.

“I know it sounds bad, but it’s Steve. Nothing major will happen. We’re friends and I’m helping him out.”

Robin’s in a tricky spot. She knows how you feel about Steve, obviously, and though he doesn’t see it yet himself, she knows that Steve feels the same, too. It’s taken a lot to hold herself back from speeding things along, and as much as she wishes this fake relationship plan might be a good push, things usually aren’t so easy.

She can also tell that there’s a lot you’re thinking but not saying, but instead of pushing it, she returns to looking at the dresses. It’s not long before she gasps, pulling one of the rack to show you.

“This one,” she says.

“I don’t know. That won’t look good on me.”

It’s pretty, though. You’ll give her that.

“Shut up, everything looks good on you. Will you at least try it on?” She wiggles the hanger in her hand, “for me?”

“Fine.”

You take it from her, walking back towards the fitting rooms with a grinning Robin in tow. She waits outside the door while you change into the dress.

Once it’s on, looking in the mirror, you don’t even know what to think. You’re not one to feel all that confident in what you wear, or in how you look, but this dress makes you feel pretty. Maybe you should make Robin pick out all of your clothes.

“Let me see!” Robin calls.

You step out of the changeroom, doing a shy little spin when she asks. She’s smiling proudly, like she knows she chose well (which she did). She can’t help but think of how Steve will react, because she knows he feels something for you, she can see it on his face everytime he talks about you. He’s just a dork and he doesn’t realize it. Not yet, at least.

“What do you think?” You ask.

“If Steve’s not already in love with you…”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

If she does, your brain will conjure up way too many ideas of what could possibly happen. If Steve could really feel the same. If maybe he’ll feel those same butterflies in his stomach that you do, if his heart feels bigger when you’re around. In your dreams, he does.

“I’m trying to tell you you look hot!”

December twenty-third is the day that Steve’s parents come home as well as the night of the business event. You and Steve have tried to figure out how to act like a couple, quizzing each other on things you already know, setting loose boundaries, but you figure after knowing each other for so long, being so close, it won’t feel much different than now. Besides the extra touching, the possibility of kissing.

You’re already at his house when his parents get home, your makeup and outfit for tonight sitting in Steve’s room. The two of you linger near the front door waiting for their arrival, a nervous and jittery welcoming committee.

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway grabs your attention. It’s a clapperboard snapping shut, marking the scene. Action.

“You ready, babe?” He holds out his arm for you to grab, and you do.

“Time to be the best couple ever,” you reply.

Steve grins at you. He has no idea how to thank you for agreeing to do this, how to even explain to you the relief you’re sure to bring. It’s one less thing for his parents to pick and pry at.

The door opens, and you can already feel a change in Steve’s demeanor. He’s standing straighter, stiffer. You squeeze his arm, a reminder that you’re there.

“Steve, sweetie!” His mother barely greets him before moving onto you, “and this is your girlfriend?”

“Hi, Mrs. Harrington.”

If it were someone else’s mother, you’d be hit with the usual ‘oh please, call me (insert name here).’ However, where the Harringtons are concerned, formality is a must. Besides Steve, of course. From what you know, the apple had fallen very, very far from the tree and you mean that as a compliment.

Even after being friends for so many years, this is the first time you’re actually meeting Steve’s parents. It’s clear that he’s never jumped at the opportunity to have his friends around when they’re home. He’s told you about them, and that’s enough for you.

“Steve! Come help me with the bags, would you?” His dad calls from outside, though he says it as a demand rather than a question.

“Yep, coming,” he replies. He kisses the side of your head before going outside, quick and sure, like he’s done it hundreds of times.

“How was your trip, Mrs. Harrington?” You fill the silence.

“Oh, just lovely, thank you,” she moves to the kitchen, expecting you to follow. “The house looks clean. Do you have something to do with that?”

Despite her trying to sound like she’s joking, you know that she truly doesn’t believe that Steve could be the one keeping the place going. As if he hasn’t been doing just that for ages.

“No, no. It’s really Steve.”

Her eyebrows raise, surprised.

Steve and his father walk in before anything else is said—thank God. You shake hands with Mr. Harrington, saying hello and wearing a tight smile. Steve’s quick to come to your side, an arm over your shoulders like a shield. Your hand moves to hold the one resting on your shoulder.

He’s even more tense when his father’s in the room, you’ve noticed. You hold his hand a bit tighter. You wish you could do something to make him feel better, and you hope that this fake relationship will do that at least a little bit.

Meanwhile Steve’s wondering how your presence could make him feel much better than he usually does with his parents around. You’re a comfort beside him, and when he gets the chance, he kisses your head again, whispering a ‘thank you’ into your hair.

The first few hours with Steve’s parents go by dreadfully slow, even with his touch on you most of the time. You’re quickly learning that as a boyfriend—even fake—Steve’s love language is easily physical touch. He has an arm around you, a hand in yours, on your leg, anything.

You’re also learning just how strained his relationship with his parents is. He’d trusted you enough to tell you most of it, but seeing them interact in front of you was different. The backhanded comments, the faces whenever he mentions his job, it makes your heart ache for him.

It’s bad enough that his parents are hardly ever around, but having them act like this when they are? You’re amazed at how good Steve has remained through it all.

When it’s time to get ready for the business party, you’re thankful for the reprieve.

“Think we’re doing a good job?” You ask Steve as he shuts the door to his room.

“They seem to be buying it. Thanks again for doing this.”

“You’ve thanked me like a hundred times, Steve. It’s okay, really.”

You want to tell him that you’re sorry these are the people he has to call family. That he shouldn’t listen to any of the shit they give him about his job or his lack of post-secondary education. That he’s the best boy you’ve ever known.

The problem is, you don’t know how to say all of that without making your feelings for him painfully obvious.

“Just gotta keep it up ‘til Christmas. That’s when they leave.”

“They’re only here for two days?” You knew the trip was going to be short, but forty-eight hours?

“Yeah, something about getting a deal on a cruise. I don’t know.”

He says it so casually, like it’s normal. You guess that for him, it is, but it doesn’t make it any less upsetting.

“Does that mean you’ll come to mine for Christmas day? Like usual?” You ask, hopefully lightening the mood.

“If you’ll have me.”

“Shut up, you’re always welcome. Think my mom likes you more than me anyway,” you nudge his shoulder with yours, then move to bring your stuff into his bathroom to start getting ready.

He leans on the doorframe, watching you set your makeup out on the counter, “she does not.”

“Steve, you have your own stocking hanging on our fireplace. And it’s bigger than mine.”

He smiles genuinely then, the first one since his parents have arrived.

He leaves you to get ready, shutting the bathroom door for when you change. You can still hear him through the door. The opening and closing of his drawers, a curse when he stubs his toe.

So far, pretending to be with Steve has been easy. You’ve acted the same save for the touches or small pecks he’s decided to keep placing on your head or your cheeks. The story you settled on was simple: you met him picking up a movie at Family Video, he asked if you needed company to watch it, the rest is history, blah blah blah.

Steve knocks on the bathroom door when you’re pretty much ready, you glance at yourself one more time in the mirror before opening it.

He stands with his tie in hand, wearing a button up and dress pants. You assume there’s a suit jacket to go along with it, and you think it might kill you. He’s so pretty, and he looks it all of the time but seeing him dressed up is really something.

“You look good, Steve,” you say. Good doesn’t even begin to cover it.

“Thanks. You look- you too.”

Steve’s stunned. He realizes he’s never seen you in anything formal and it’s making him feel all fluttery in his stomach and he doesn’t know what to think of it. He’s always known you’re gorgeous, in an obvious way like how the sky is blue. Now, though, it’s like he can feel it.

He clears his throat quietly and remembers the reason he knocked in the first place, “you don’t happen to know how to tie a tie, do you?”

You’re thankful for the time you decided to learn how when you were bored one day. You take the fabric from his hands, “it’s your lucky day, Steve.”

“Thank you. Didn’t wanna have to go ask my dad.”

He’s almost shy about wanting your help over something so small, his cheeks a little pink, his head bent. You give him a reassuring smile—or what you hope is one—and place the tie around his neck.

His eyes are on you as your hands fiddle with the fabric, doing it up for him. Your eyebrows are slightly scrunched, and he wants to reach out and smooth it out with his thumb. He’s not used to having that urge.

You finish up successfully after having fumbled a little bit, adjusting the tie so it isn’t crooked.

“There you go,” you pat his chest and he hopes you can’t feel his heartbeat, the way it’s quicker than normal.

He has no idea what that’s about.

“Thanks.”

“‘Course.”

He’s still standing close to you, enough that he has to keep his head tilted downwards just a little to be able to look at your face. Your eyes lock onto his, and time seems to slow. You’re so gone for him and you know it, but it almost seems like maybe he’s feeling something too. Just for a moment.

His father calling out that it’s time to go snaps you out of it.

Steve grabs his jacket, shrugging it on then offering you his hand to hold, “let’s do this, girlfriend.”

The hall is oozing Christmas when you walk in, Steve’s hand in yours. Ornaments hang down from the ceiling, warm white string lights line the top of the walls, Christmas music hums through the speakers, and an extravagant Christmas tree sits in the middle of the room.

You’ve never been to an event like it, and you have a hard time keeping your nerves at bay.

Pretending in front of Steve’s parents alone was one thing. Now, the stakes are higher. You have to be convincing and though it’s not difficult for you to pretend to be in love with Steve (you don’t have to fake that at all), you worry that you’ll slip up somehow and give yourself away. Both in the sense that the relationship is fake, and that your feelings are anything but.

It’s not long before Steve’s father gets pulled into a conversation, and his mother goes along with him. You’re left standing near the doorway with Steve, biting at the inside of your cheek.

“Relax,” he leans his head close to yours and whispers.

“Sorry. I’m just nervous.”

“We’re fine. You’re fine,” he squeezes your hand, something that’s quickly become a wordless reassurance between you. “We’ve done good so far, right?”

“I guess so.”

“Okay, so there’s nothing to worry about.”

Except for the fact that I love you and that you being a really good fake boyfriend isn’t helping.

“Okay.”

He smiles and leads you further into the room. The smile he gives you is different from the one he gives the people that say hi to him, the people that stop him for a chat. For you, it’s honest. For them, it doesn’t reach his eyes, it doesn’t mean anything.

“About time you tied someone down, Steve,” a man says to him. A coworker of his father’s, just like most men in the room.

“Think she’s the one who got me, but yeah.”

“That’s sweet. Next step is to get you a stable job, huh?”

It seems like all anyone here is concerned about is what people do, who they know. It’s no fun for you and they aren’t even speaking to you directly most of the time.

“Sure. Good to see you,” Steve excuses the both of you from the conversation.

“These people suck,” you say to him, leading him to the bar set up in a corner.

“Tell me about it.”

You order water for the both of you, something to get rid of the dryness in your throat and occupy you for a bit. You drink quietly before Steve speaks up.

“You look beautiful, by the way.”

He doesn’t know why it slips out now, but it does. The thought has been on his mind since he saw you standing there in his bathroom, and it’s getting harder and harder to ignore.

“You don’t have to say that, Steve. Nobody’s listening.”

“I mean it, seriously.”

“Oh,” you look down at your glass, at the condensation running down the side. The corners of your mouth lift, “thank you.”

“I know this isn’t the most fun, but I’m glad you’re here with me,” he admits. He’s always been sweet to you, but this feels different. You don’t know how or why, but it does.

“I am too.”

Steve’s dad interrupts your moment, pulling Steve off to meet some people. Already, there’s a guard being put up by him, a shield he saves for his father.

For those few minutes, where it was just you and Steve, you realized that he’s probably the best date you’ve ever had. He pays attention to you, he’s comforting without even trying, and he compliments you with so much honesty you could melt.

He’s the best date you’ve ever had and it’s fake. It’s becoming a mantra repeated in your head; it’s not real, it’s not real.

Lost in thought, you don’t notice the boy who’s sat next to you now.

“I’ve never seen you before,” he says.

“I’m not usually at these things. I came with my boyfriend,” you tell him, unsettled by his stare.

“And where is this boyfriend now?”

“He’s out there. I just needed some water but he’ll come back soon.”

You’re trying to get him to go away, to take the hint. He won’t.

“Why don’t I keep you company in the meantime?”

You’re about to reply when someone else does it for you, “not necessary. She’s my girl.”

My girl. Steve. He stands behind you, wraps his arms around your waist. It’s like he knew you needed him then, showing up as soon as you felt like you wanted to search for him. He runs his hands over your sides, a possessive touch that has your skin tingling.

“My bad, man. Thought she was lying about the boyfriend,” the guy says.

“She wasn’t. Even if she was, maybe you should learn to tell when someone isn’t interested, yeah?”

The stranger nods and walks off.

You spin in Steve’s hold, facing him. “My hero.”

“You know me,” he shrugs.

What he doesn’t say is that seeing another guy talk to you made his gut churn, bringing something that he didn’t want to admit was jealousy. He also saw the look on your face, the discomfort, and felt his feet carry him over before his mind could think it first.

His hands are still on your waist, even with the stranger gone.

It’s not until Steve’s parents are ready that you leave. They’ve taken advantage of the champagne that sat on trays, free for the taking, as well as the opportunity to talk up their son to many, many people. It seems they’re only proud of him when there’s other people around, and even then, the praise doesn’t hold much weight.

He’s trying his best. At least he’s working. He’s got a girlfriend now. No, he doesn’t host backyard parties while we’re gone anymore.

You wish you could speak up, but you know, with this many people around, it’d cause more harm than good. It’s hard to listen to the people that raised Steve talk about him the way they do. You want so badly to shout in their faces how brilliant he is, no thanks to them. How he has the kindest soul and a sort of midas touch that makes everything shine.

At least, you think he does. You promise yourself to love him better than they ever did, even if it’s in secret.

One memory from the night overpowers the rest, luckily. ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ played, a slower rendition, and a slow dance ensued. You watched couples split off, and when you looked at Steve, he was already looking at you, a question on his face and a hand outstretched.

You fell into step with him quickly. It wasn’t awkward for a second. One of your hands in his, the other on his shoulder, his on your waist. You swayed together, unknowingly moving closer until you were close enough to rest your head on his chest. And you did.

He rested his head atop of yours and hummed the song softly. You’ll dream about that dance, probably.

Now, you sit in the car with Steve, who’s become the driver. He drops his parents off at his house first, leaving the two of you alone for the drive to yours. He sneaks glances at you at stop signs and red lights, turning back to the road when he thinks he’s been caught.

His mind is full because he’s looking at you in a way he hasn’t before. He sees parts of you that he was blind to before. The shape of your lips, for example. The dip of your spine and the way it feels to hold you. It’s dizzying and warm, confusing and sparkling all at once.

Once he’s pulled up to your house, he offers to walk you to the door. Ever the gentleman. A romantic no matter how much he denies it, you think. He gets misty-eyed when you watch rom-coms, opens doors for you, has bought flowers for nearly all of his dates, as far as you know.

What must it be like to receive flowers from Steve Harrington?

He faces you on your front porch, hands in his pockets, “thank you again for doing this.”

“How many times do I have to tell you it’s okay. I’m happy to help you, Steve. You’re my best friend.” Who I love more than anyone.

“You’re mine, too, honey.”

It’s not the first time he’s called you that. Turns out, it was his default to use in your fake relationship. It is, however, the first time he’s said it when it’s just the two of you. It sounds sweet coming from his lips, sticky. Just like honey itself.

“What time should I be over for dinner tomorrow?” You ask. It’s the last hurdle of the fake dating.

“How ‘bout I come pick you up after I finish work?”

“Yeah, okay, that’d be great, thanks.”

You wrap your arms around yourself, the cold of December biting your skin.

“Here,” Steve notices, of course he does, and he reaches out with his hands, rubbing them up and down your arms to warm you.

“How’re your hands still warm?” You ask.

“I'm magic.”

You smile at that. He has no idea.

He reaches up with one hand to cup your cool cheek, and you nudge your face into his touch. For the warmth, you tell yourself. That’s it. His thumb runs over your skin, once, twice.

“Did I ever tell you that you have a pretty smile?” He says it so quietly you almost miss it. You don’t, though, and there’s a swarm of butterflies in your gut because of it.

“Shut up,” you try to mask your bashfulness.

Then, just like that, his face is close to yours. So close that it looks like he might kiss you. His eyes flick from your mouth up to yours, like he’s unsure of what’s happening while he’s doing it.

You can feel his breath tickling your lips, the ghost of his mouth on yours. Before that can happen, he’s swerving away quickly, planting a kiss on your cheek instead. The one he isn’t holding. His mouth lingers for a second.

“Goodnight,” he whispers against your skin.

“Night,” you say, dazed. And he’s walking away.

Steve’s not at all sure what’s come over him. He wanted to kiss you just then, to tangle his fingers in your hair and kiss you stupid. What the fuck was happening to him?

When you let your eyes flutter shut, your mouth parted slightly, like you’d let him kiss you, like you wanted it, too, he panicked. Couldn't do it.

No, he doesn’t know what just happened, why it did, or why he’s resisting the urge to go back and knock on your door and actually kiss you when you open it. What he does know is that his heart seems to be doing something funny when you’re around, and that your fake relationship has been better than any of his real ones.

He knows he needs to talk to Robin about this.

Steve had to work the next morning—Christmas Eve—which he was actually thankful for. Thankful to get away from his parents, though the comments about his job followed him out the door this morning. Especially thankful because he needs to talk to Robin and sort out the mess of his feelings that has occurred in the last twenty four hours.

He couldn’t stop thinking about how much he wanted to kiss you. About how his stomach was all twisty when you slow danced with him. There are so many moments playing over in his memory. Not just from yesterday, either.

He remembers the way his stomach would sink when you’d tell him about a date you had or how he’d often reach out a hand to tuck your hair behind your ear, or to wipe something away from the corner of your mouth.

So many things over your friendship that he never thought about are coming back to him and he’s realized he doesn’t act that way with any of his other friends. Only you.

He also realizes that he hasn’t really been pretending with you at all.

“I think I love her,” Steve blurts out while he and Robin are organizing returns, the store luckily empty.

Robin reaches into her pocket, barely fazed, and tosses a handful of confetti at Steve. Some pieces stick to his hair, some to his clothes, most of it at his feet.

“What the hell?” He shakes the flecks out of his hair, “we have to clean that now.”

“I’ve been carrying around confetti for like a year waiting for this to happen!”

“Wait, what?”

“Steve, you’ve been loving her for a long time, hate to break it to you.”

“And you didn’t tell me?” He’s no longer preoccupied with the confetti.

“I was letting you do it on your own time. You’re welcome.”

Steve had only just deduced that he’s in love with you and yet, when he thinks about you, he feels the same way he has for years. He finds it hard to believe that he’s been blind to it for that long, but he has been called an idiot enough in his lifetime for it to make sense.

Then, there’s the fact that you’re not done fake dating yet, that there’s still dinner today to get through and he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to keep himself together.

“What am I gonna do, Robin?”

“You’re gonna tell her how you feel and I will finally know peace.”

“What if she doesn’t feel the same? What if I freak her out?”

“Steve, she looks at you like sun shines from your pores,” she places a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”

He picks you up after work as promised, his hands holding the wheel a little tighter, his greeting a little louder than normal. You figure he’s just nervous about dinner.

Nobody brings up the almost kiss, and you don’t plan to. Maybe you read things wrong. Maybe he was aiming for your cheek all along. Maybe he’s been thinking about it as much as you have.

It seems that your feelings for Steve are present now more than ever. Impossible to ignore. It might have something to do with the Christmas spirit floating around, the lightness of the holidays. It definitely has something to do with you being Steve’s fake girlfriend.

Because it turns out, he’s an excellent boyfriend, real or not.

He opens doors for you, even if he has to jog ahead of you to do it. He’s always got at least one hand on you, warm and sure. He looks at you with so much care, his brown eyes stuck on you.

It’s all adding up and you feel like your love for him is overflowing, pouring out of you before you can reel it in. You just hope he doesn’t notice that you’re not acting, that you never were.

Walking into Steve’s kitchen, you pause in the doorway, him behind you, “this smells great, Mrs. Harrington.”

Though Steve knows she probably bought most of the stuff and then put it in pots and pans to make it look like she cooked, he agrees, “so great, mom.”

She turns to look at you both from her spot by the stove, “thank you. Oh!” She cuts herself off with a gasp, her gaze drifting above your heads.

Oh no.

“Mistletoe,” she says, pointing.

“Look at that,” you laugh, short and awkward.

“Steve, sweetie, kiss your girlfriend for tradition's sake, won’t you.”

He kisses you on the cheek.

“A real one, son,” his father pipes up from his seat at the table.

Steve finds your gaze, his eyes wide and questioning. Are you okay with this? He’s asking without saying it. You nod, barely there, but you nod and he sees it.

He cups your cheek in his hand, flashes of last night on your porch come to you. He leans in slowly, like he’s waiting for you to stop him. Instead of doing that, you hold his wrist in your hand, squeeze it. Your silent communication.

In a blink, his lips are on yours. Pillowy and almost shy, but he’s kissing you and you feel like you’re floating, your feet off the ground and everything. He pulls away before you can even register the fact that it happened.

Your heartbeat is loud in your ears, your lips still burning with the memory of his.

Steve can't believe he hasn’t kissed you before. You’re soft and you fit together so well, like the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle clicking into place. He’s kicking himself for not doing it last night, when you were alone, when it was real. Next time he kisses you, he thinks, it will be real.

He clears his throat, tearing his eyes away from you, “so, let’s eat.”

Just like that, he’s moving to the table, pulling out a chair for you and kissing the top of your head once you’ve sat down. Already, the extra affection he’s been giving you has been dizzying. Now, it’s dialed way up.

He helps his mom serve the food before he sits down, though all he gets as a thank you is a pat on the cheek. Next to you, you can see Steve’s leg bouncing up and down. You reach out and place a hand above his knee, stilling him and drawing his gaze to yours.

You smile, and you hope it’s enough to say it’s okay, it’s all gonna be fine. He rests his hand on top of yours, fingers laced together.

“So, Steve, have you been looking for jobs?” His father speaks up. The never-ending topic.

“No, dad. I have a job,” Steve doesn’t look up from his plate, pushing mashed potatoes around with his fork.

“Well, a real job, I mean.”

At Steve’s silence, his mom adds, “we just think, especially now that you have a girlfriend to support, you should look for something… better.”

You look up when she says it, eyes wide and hand tensing on Steve’s leg. You don’t understand how they care so much about what he does and so little about how he feels. He likes his job, you know that, and he’s tried to tell them multiple times over the past couple of days.

And still.

It’s impossible for you to sit by and listen to them talk to him the way they do, like he isn’t good enough. Like the only defining thing is his job, which isn’t even a bad one. What defines him is who he is as a person and he’s the best one in your life.

“Why does it matter so much?” You ask.

His parents look at you, surprised to be questioned, it seems. Steve looks at you, too, with something more like astonishment, appreciation.

“I’m sorry,” you continue, “it’s just, you haven’t seen your son in how long? And all you guys keep bringing up is his job, which he’s told you he actually enjoys. Shouldn’t that be enough for you?”

Steve’s world is tinting pink, heart-shaped lenses over his eyes hearing you defend him. Nobody’s ever tried to go against his parents for him, and here you are. Fuck, he loves you.

They’re quiet, and you’re not finished. “Steve is the greatest person I’ve ever met, and that’s no thanks to you. I’ve known him for a long time and not once have I seen you guys around. How can you judge him so much when you don’t even take the time to know him anymore?”

The room is dead quiet. Nothing but the clinking of forks against plates for the rest of the meal. You feel lighter, after saying what you did. Though you’re also terrified that you’ve overstepped, that Steve will be upset with you for causing a scene.

As if sensing your worry, he holds your hand just a bit tighter.

It’s not until after dinner, hidden away in his room, that you talk about what happened. Not the kiss; your outburst.

He shuts his door and you’re already apologizing, “listen, Steve. I'm so sorry if I made things worse, but I couldn’t just let them shit on your job anymore. I couldn’t. You’re my best friend, you know that, and-”

His arms are around you in a blink.

“Thank you,” he breathes into your hair. “Nobody’s ever done anything like that for me. Thank you, honey.”

“Oh,” you blink away your surprise and wrap your arms around his shoulders. “Anytime.”

“You’re really special.”

Your smile spreads, spilling before you can do anything about it. You hide your face in his neck and stay that way until he lets go, a flush in his cheeks and stars in his eyes.

Steve wanted to tell you he loves you right then, but the words seem stuck in his throat. They won’t come up. He wants to be with you for real, and though it happened in a rush, it also didn’t. His brain just needed to catch up to his heart.

He doesn’t say it, but he will. As soon as he can.

“Wanna go watch a movie?” You ask.

“Yeah, okay.”

Movie night. You and him. That’s real.

Steve’s parents seem to have gone out somewhere, the car missing from the driveway. They haven’t left, though. You and Steve checked for the suitcases (they’re sitting, already packed, in their room).

Playing the movie, yet another Christmas pick that Steve couldn’t say no to, you share a blanket. There’s plenty of room on the couch, you’re the only people there, and yet, Steve still tosses an arm over your shoulders and pulls you to lean against his side.

Maybe he’s just doing it in case his parents come home while you’re downstairs. That’s gotta be it.

“Is it bad that I’m sort of relieved they aren’t here right now?” Steve says to you, quiet.

“Not at all. You deserve better than what they give you, Steve.”

“You think so?”

“Are you kidding? I know so.”

He lets his head lean atop of yours, and that’s that.

You want to bring up the kiss, but then again, why would you? It’s not real. It’s not real no matter how much you wish it was, no matter how much it feels that way. You knew going into this that you might end up kissing Steve, you just didn’t know it’d fuck you up so much.

Part of you hopes that mistletoe will appear above your heads yet again, just to be able to feel the way you did when he kissed you. Heart fluttering, stomach twisting, warm all over.

Though Steve’s head feels relaxed, resting on yours, it’s overflowing with thoughts. You, his parents, the way you defended him, how it felt to kiss you, how much he wants to do it again. You. The entire length of the movie, he’s trying to think of a way to tell you he loves you. The best he comes up with is to wing it.

When the screen fades, and the film ends, you remember the gift you’d left in Steve’s room, buried at the bottom of your overnight bag (you decided to sleep over, something you’ve done too many times to count, and head to your place in the morning with Steve). You sit up, only to face him.

“I have something for you. C’mon,” you tug on his hand, leading him all the way to his own bedroom.

“What?”

“Just,” you make him sit down on his bed when you’re in the room, digging through your bag and finding the present you’d wrapped last night. “Here.”

He takes it from your hand slowly, like it’s the most precious thing in the world. He doesn’t open it right away, staring at the red and green patterned wrapping paper and the gold stick-on bow sitting in the middle of it.

“Open it,” you urge, shuffling nervously on your feet.

He shoots you a shy smile before tearing at the paper, revealing a scrapbook of sorts. Flipping through the pages, he finds memories upon memories. Pictures of you and him, of him and Robin, all three of you. Some with the kids or with Eddie. Most of them he doesn’t even remember taking.

And it’s more than just pictures. There’s movie tickets and receipts from random fast food dinners, confetti from a surprise party for Dustin and a piece of a plate Steve broke once.

It’s the most thoughtful thing anyone’s ever given him. It reminds him that he does have a family, no blood relation needed.

“Honey,” he says it quietly, his eyes watering ever so slightly. “This is- I don’t even know what to say.”

“I know it’s not much, but I thought you’d like it.”

“No. I love it. It’s perfect, seriously,” he runs his finger over a picture of the two of you, your faces squished together and your smiles absolutely ridiculous. “Best gift ever.”

He means it.

“I had some help with the pictures. Everyone in that book loves you, Steve.”

Everyone in that book. That means you love him, too. He knows that you could mean it platonically, but something about the way you look at him when you say it makes him think that he has to tell you. He has to try.

He’s suddenly very glad he bought you a locket for Christmas, and that he left it unwrapped because of his lack of skills in that department.

“Close your eyes,” he says.

“Steve-”

“Please,” he trades spots with you, sitting you on the edge of his bed, “close your eyes for a minute, ‘kay?”

“Okay,” you shut them tight, placing a hand over them as well, “double closed.”

He rushes to grab the locket from the bottom of one of his drawers, then grabs the tiniest bit of paper and manages to write as small as he can on it, placing the message in the necklace and closing it with a small click.

Steve reaches for the hand that isn’t covering your eyes, opening it up and placing the delicate piece of jewelry in it. “Okay, open.”

You do, glancing down to what rests in your palm. It’s gorgeous, dainty, and the corners of your mouth lift at the sight of it.

“It’s beautiful, Steve. You didn’t have to.”

“It’s a locket,” he says. His head is bent, shy and visibly nervous. “Open it, too.”

Your heartbeat picks up, like you know, subconsciously, that something big is hiding inside despite the small size of the necklace itself. You wedge your fingernail into the gap, pushing the locket open. The note inside makes your stomach drop.

In his messy, rushed writing, the words ‘I love you.’

You look at him, mouth agape and hopes way up. “Steve?”

“I mean it.”

“How-”

“I mean I’m in love with you, and I think I have been for a really, really long time. I guess it took you being my fake girlfriend for me to realize it.”

“You’re not pranking me, are you?”

You’ve spent so long loving him, and convincing yourself that he could never love you the same, that it feels unreal. Hazy, like a dream.

He sits beside you, cupping your face in his hands softly to make you look at him, “I’m not pranking you. I love you.”

“Holy shit. I love you, too. For so long. I never thought I had a chance with you.”

“I think you’re the only person who’s had a real chance with me since I met you, honey.”

Right there, discarded wrapping paper on the floor, the glow of Christmas lights shining through the window, you doubt you’ll ever take that locket off once it’s on.

You can’t stop yourself from rushing forward and kissing him. A small press of your mouth against his at first, then, it’s more. It’s slow and every single thing you’ve ever wanted. His lips move with yours like they’re the only ones that know you.

This time, when you kiss, there’s no question. It’s real and it’s thawing every single worry you ever had about this. This is real, you get to think now.

Steve pulls away only when your breathing gets heavier, only when he absolutely has to. His thumb trails over your cheek, a lover’s touch. He takes the necklace from your hand, puts it on for you and kisses you again when he’s done.

“Do you think this was a Christmas miracle?” You say, teasing.

“I think this was just me being too stupid to notice how I feel about you. I know now, though.”

“Because you needed a fake girlfriend.”

“Because I needed a fake girlfriend,” he confirms. “But, I’d like a real one now.”

“I think I can manage that,” you nod, a lovesick smile on your face.

For once, Steve’s glad his parents came home. He never would have asked you to fake date him if they hadn’t, and he wouldn’t have realized his very real feelings for you, either. So, maybe it is a Christmas miracle, after all.

༄

hey you! if you enjoyed please consider leaving a reblog, it would mean a lot and helps a ton more than you’d think! help support creators like me <3

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corroded-chrissy · 3 years ago

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corroded-chrissy · 3 years ago

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“But if you forget to reblog Madame Zeroni, you and your family will be cursed for always and eternity.”

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corroded-chrissy · 3 years ago

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Steve’s nail bat 👀 I’m screaming—

alright gang let me assign you a minor stranger things character using a complex scientific method of pure vibes and my own sense of humour

#stranger things #stranger things quiz

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corroded-chrissy · 3 years ago

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hi! can i request steve with, “It’s pouring rain why are you here?” + “I love you.” “Tell me that when you’re sober.” from the prompt list? (maybe reader randomly shows up to steves drunk?) <3.

Hey anon! I'm so sorry I'm such an awful human being and this took so long, but here it is! It's over 3k so hopefully worth the wait ahssnndks

“What d’you mean you don’t know where she is?” Steve demanded, incredulous.

It had been no more than twenty minutes since you’d called him, words slurred down the phone and practically incoherent over the sound of music blaring from a stereo in the background. He managed to determine that you were at yet another of Chelsea Carlton’s parties, which shouldn’t have been hard to guess since all you seemed to do these days was hang around with people you never used to be able to stand, and get drunk in the process.

He wasn’t sure if you’d been asking him to come get you, the call cutting off before he could really make sense of why you were calling. But if there was even the smallest chance that you needed him there, he couldn’t risk not showing up.

***

It had been almost a month since you’d broken up, and it definitely hadn’t been a mutual thing. Steve had walked around in a perpetual daze for at least 48 hours, trying to make sense of everything you’d said.

“I love you so much, but it’s not enough if you don’t feel the same.”

“You know everything about me, inside and out. There’s nothing I wouldn’t tell you, but you’re holding something back from me, and I need to know what it is.”

“I can’t do this anymore if you’re not gonna be honest with me.”

“If you really loved me, you would tell me. If there’s someone else, please just put me out of my misery. Please.”

(That one? Yeah, that was kick to the fucking chest.)

“This - us - it’s over, okay? I can’t do it anymore.”

Those words lived inside his head on a constant, tortuous loop. Three, four, five times a day since, he’s considered telling you the truth.

About the Upside Down; about what really happened to Will Byers; how Barb and Chrissy really died; how he got those scars he could never explain to you; why he slept with the hallway light on and woke up in the night, sweating and panting and scrambling for his baseball bat he kept under the bed.

But he couldn’t be that selfish.

He couldn’t turn your whole world upside down, drag you into the danger that came with knowing about all that stuff, the fear that would plague you once you knew the truth.

He’d have done anything to keep you.

Anything, except the one thing you needed him too.

He wouldn’t ruin your life.

So he didn’t deny it when you said he was keeping something from you. He didn’t object when you implied he didn’t love you enough, and fuck, he didn’t correct you when you asked him straight to his face if there was someone else.

He just stood and watched you fall apart, let you sob and hit at this chest with frustration when he couldn’t even do you the courtesy of answering out loud. He hoped the look in his eyes would be enough; a silent, unspoken apology for everything he was putting you through. But you still left his house that night in tears, car tearing off down his driveway only to pull in a couple hundred yards down the street, head falling back against the headrest - eyes closed and streaming with tears as your hands beat at the steering wheel.

Steve smashed up his house that night - his fist through the bathroom mirror, the desk by his window flipped over and contents scattered across the floor, beside lamp smashed with a swing of his bat, until he was sitting amongst broken glass and splintered wood wondering how the hell he had fucked this all up so badly.

***

He’d been a little surprised that first weekend when he heard you were at a party. Sure, you’d always been up for a good time with your friends - but Chelsea Carlton and her minions? Those people weren’t your friends.

Curiosity had gotten the better of him that night and he’d shown up at Chelsea’s house, loitering in the doorway trying to catch a glimpse of you.

And he did. And you looked beautiful. And he felt his chest crack open at the sight of you.

Then he watched on as half the basketball team circled you like sharks, all bright smiles and dark eyes that raked over you and Steve felt his keys dig into the palm of his hand as his grip around them tightened.

You may have been drinking, but you still had your wits about you and he’d be lying if he said his heart didn’t swell a little with pride as he watched you shut them all down, a sweet but stern smile on your face as each of them cut their losses and moved along.

By the next week, word had reached him that you were going on a date, and he was almost sick then and there over the counter at Family Video. Robin being Robin made an excuse for him to dip, and he made his way to the bathroom, hands on his knees and back against the door as he caught his breath.

The following Sunday, he was at work again when he overheard that the date hadn’t gone well at all. Two girls, who didn’t even know you, were giggling over the fact they saw you storming out of Drew Kellerman’s truck at the drive-in, door slammed behind you and tears in your eyes.

His first instinct had been to reach for the phone, to call you and make sure you were okay. To ask if that asshole had hurt you or touched you or so much as looked at you in a way you didn’t like. But Robin had caught his wrist, told him she’d already checked and you were fine - just embarrassed by your own public outburst but totally okay. His shoulders sagged in relief, but he still set the receiver back down with a bang, cursing under his breath as he headed outside for some air.

What Robin didn't tell him was that you also told her the only thing wrong with her date with Drew Kellerman was that he wasn't Steve.

The next weekend, by some miracle, both Steve and Robin had the Saturday off and Nancy and Jonathon were both back visiting from college.

They were heading out for a day on the lake when Steve realized they needed to stop for gas. He was so preoccupied trying to fish his wallet out of the glove box that he didn’t realize the car in front was yours.

You had just set the pump back into place and turned around to head inside to pay when you spotted him, only a few feet away. Your chest felt tight, like suddenly there was no air and all you could smell was gas and all you could see was Steve and you were sure you were on the verge of passing out. He cleared his throat then, shifting awkwardly on his feet and you darted around him, legs moving on their own accord and taking you inside.

The cashier was serving painfully slowly, so you were still in line to pay by the time Steve joined the queue behind you. He kept a safe distance, but it was still too close. He could smell the faint strawberry scent of your shampoo that used to cling to his pillows and the coconut body lotion he used to help you smooth over your shoulders. Your breath hitched, and you swore you could feel the heat radiating from his chest onto your back. Your knees felt shaky, like any second now they’d just give out. You thought about what would happen then - how you had no doubt Steve would catch you, strong arms wrapped around your waist, mouth against your ear asking if you were okay, and suddenly you wanted to run out of the gas station and risk the repercussions of skipping out without paying.

That was the last time he’d seen or heard about you, until the phone call.

***

“What d’you mean you don’t know where she is?” Steve demanded, incredulous.

His eyes scanned the crowd of bodies surrounding them in the kitchen of Chelsea’s mansion, the air cloudy with cigarette smoke making it hard to see and the music thumping from the stereo system one room over making it even harder to hear and he couldn't think straight.

“Like I said, one second she was here, the next? Poof!” Robin explained, a typically exaggerated hand gesture accompanying the ‘poof’.

“And you didn’t think to call me?!” Steve worried, one hand running anxiously through his hair, the front pieces falling into his eyes.

“I didn’t exactly know you two were on speaking terms now!” Robin yelled back, defensive and kind of offended at being so out of the loop.

“We’re-” Steve started, exasperated at not being able to finish the sentence because quite frankly, he didn’t know what you were to each other now.

“We’re not.” He finally settled on. “But she called me. And if she called me, of all people, then something must be wrong.”

Robin sighed, a sympathetic but frustrated expression on her face. “Look, Steve, I get it. You’re in love with the girl, and you’re miserable without her, and she’s miserable without you - but you're both my friends, so until you get your heads out of your asses, do me a favor and leave me out of it?”

Steve knew it was unfair to put Robin in the middle like this, so he didn’t argue when she turned her attention back to an unusually tense game of flip cup that had drawn in quite the crowd, mumbling something about how you probably just caught a ride home with someone and she’d call you in the morning.

***

By the time Steve had searched every room, closet and outbuilding on the Carlton property and confirmed you were nowhere to be found, the weather had taken a turn. The already dark sky was thunderous, raining falling harsh against the sidewalk as he made his way back to his car. He hadn’t been driving more than five minutes when the first flash of lightning forked across the sky, cursing under his breath at the thought of you wandering around on your own drunk on a night like this.

He went to your house first and parked two houses up, like always, to avoid waking your dad. The single-story layout made it easy for him to look in through your window, your bed still made and room in darkness.

“Shit,” He muttered, wiping rain from his face and heading back to the car.

He spent the next hour driving around the streets of Hawkins, stopping off at any place he thought you might be until he decided to go home and try to call you again.

As his car rolled up the driveway, the headlights illuminated his front porch, and all the air left his lungs when he saw you sitting on the bottom step.

The rain was still falling, hard and fast, but you were already soaked and so was Steve. He yanked the keys from the ignition and climbed out the car, leaning his forearms on the top of the door and dropping his head down on to them.

He stood like that for a second, letting the relief settle in that you were okay - that all the worst-case scenarios of you being hurt or in trouble that had been running through his head for the last hour and a half hadn’t amounted to anything.

You stood up before he moved, taking a few tentative steps towards him, the car door he was still leaning on separating you both.

When he finally lifted his head to look at you, he could tell you'd been drinking, and he was instantly angry that you’d walked all the way across town so out of it and in this weather. Your dress was clinging to you, the once floaty skirt of it stuck to your mid-thighs, tendrils of hair plastered to your face and droplets of rain dripped from your lashes. He could tell you’d been crying, eyes rimmed red and make-up smeared around them from where you had rubbed at it.

You pulled at the collar of the jacket you were wearing, it having slipped off your shoulder with the weight of the rain, and when you pulled it tight across your front, Steve realized it was one of his that he thought he’d lost a few months back.

It swallowed your frame, but the look of comfort that swept over your face as you clung to it made his chest hurt and all he could think about was how you were still the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.

“‘You alright?” He asked, pushing off of the door and stepping around it to close it.

You nodded, eyes fixed on his and fingers tugging anxiously at the sleeves of the jacket.

“It’s pouring rain." He stated, as if it wasn't obvious. "What're you doing here?”

You swallow hard, taking another step forward.

“I found it in Chelsea’s guest room closet.” You finally speak up, gesturing to the jacket as if he didn’t know what you were talking about. “You must have left it behind the last time we were there-”

Your voice caught in your throat when you realized the other reason it could be there.

“I mean, unless…” You trail off, head swimming with the idea of Steve with Chelsea, or Steve with any girl that wasn’t you, and suddenly you feel that familiar sensation of being about to pass out wash over you again.

You begin to pull it off, and Steve knows you well enough to know exactly where your head is at, so he reaches forward and takes a gentle but firm hold of your wrists, stopping your hands in their tracks.

“Look at me,” He says, and it's halfway between a command and a plea.

Your eyes lift slowly from where they’d fixed themselves on his hands around yours until you're staring up at him.

“I know I’ve made it hard for you to trust me,” His voice is barely above a whisper, and if you weren’t so focused on clinging to his every word after not hearing his voice for so long, you’d probably struggle to make it out over the sound of the rain.

“But I need you to believe me when I tell you there’s no one else. Never has been.” He says with a shake of his head as if the very idea was ridiculous, because to him it was. “And I never should have let you think for even one second that it was ever a possibility.”

You release a painful, jagged breath you didn’t even know you’d been holding, and suddenly his grip on you is the only thing keeping you upright.

His eyes feel like they're burning into yours and you want desperately to look away because it's too intense with his fingers still pressing into your skin, but you know instantly he’s telling you the truth.

You swallow and nod, and you're almost relieved when he finally drops your hands back down by your sides and you can think half-clearly again.

“You never answered the question,” Steve presses, filling the silence that’s swallowed you both whole.

“What question?” You ask, head still cloudy from the alcohol and just being near him again, although you’re mostly sober now from the long walk you took in the rain.

“What’re you doing here? At my house. Why’d you call me at all?”

He seems genuinely confused, as if there’s no possible reason why you’d still give him the time of day, and you know it’s because he doesn’t feel like he deserves it.

And then you take him by surprise, and you laugh.

It’s short at first, one huff of air from your chest that shakes your shoulders, and then another until your hands are running through your hair before falling down at your sides with a shrug.

“I love you.”

You say it as if it’s so obvious, so simple. And it is.

“Don’t say that.”

“I love you.” You repeat, walking towards him. “I was at Chelsea’s, and I was sad. Even sadder than usual, and so I drank more than usual. But that didn’t help. It just made me miss you more. And all these people were talking to me and crowding me and I couldn’t breathe because none of them were you, and that’s all I wanted. You're all I ever want. When I’m sad, or happy, or lonely, or scared… and I just had to get away from them all, y’know? So I went upstairs to the guest room, and I found your jacket and it smelled just like you and when I put it on it was like I forgot every bad thing that’s ever happened. All the reasons we don’t work just didn’t matter anymore and I needed to hear your voice. So I broke. And I did the one thing I swore I wouldn’t do and I called you. But it was so loud and I couldn’t hear you, and I needed to hear you, Steve. So bad. And I didn’t know if you were coming, so I came here-”

“Can you do me a favour?” He asked, cutting you off mid-ramble and you just nod, taken aback.

“Can you tell me all this when you’re sober tomorrow?”

“Steve, I walked 30 minutes in the rain. I’m sober.”

“Good.”

And just like that he’s on you, all around you, and you feel the horrible, suffocating weight that’s been holding you down for the last month just disappear.

His hands are cupping your face, thumbs grazing your jaw, fingers tangled in the wet knots of your hair and his mouth is warm and familiar against yours. You’re clinging to his wet t-shirt, pulling at it in an attempt to get him closer to you, but his chest is already flat against yours. He drops one hand from your face to tug at your waist and you gasp into his mouth, his tongue slipping in and pulling a moan from you that he can hear even over the rain that’s still falling around you both.

His hand slams down on the roof of the car as your back collides with driver’s side door, arms tangling around his neck and fingers pulling at his hair.

When you’re forced to tilt your face to side, away from his lips to catch your breath, he plants a trail of open-mouthed kisses the length of your throat until he’s met with the wet material of his jacket still hanging off of your shoulders.

“I can drive you home,” He mutters against the warm skin of your neck, face buried in the crook.

“Or?” You ask, breathless as you use both hands to pull his face up to meet yours.

“Or you can stay here.” He offers, and your face lights up, bottom lip pulled between your teeth to try and contain the smile at the thought of spending the night in his bed again.

“With me. If you want. We don’t have to do anything.” He clarifies, hand pushing wet strands of hair out of your face before you lean up and kiss him again.

“I wanna stay. With you.” Your arms loosen from around his neck, hands sliding down his chest until you reach his wrists and pull him towards his front porch.

He lets you lead the way, only dropping your hand to fish his keys out of his back pocket and he laughs so contentedly when your arms wrap around him from behind, your cheek pressed between his shoulder blades as he fumbles with the wet keys in the lock.

You both stumble into the door as it opens, immediately pulling your wet clothing off and letting it drop to the floor. You're back on him instantly, pulling and kissing him towards the stairs to his room and it takes all his strength to take hold of your shoulders and push back lightly.

“Baby, baby, wait,” He breathes, chest heaving as he stares down at you. “There’s a reason this - we didn’t work. There’s so many things I want to tell you, but I can’t. And I don’t wanna go backwards and do anything that’s gonna hurt you or confuse you or-”

“Steve, please,” You cut him off with a shake of your head. “I know all of that but- Can we talk about it tomorrow? I just, I need to be with you. Please?”

“You’re sure?”

You nod, hands bringing his lips back down to yours again, and you feel him give in against your mouth before he pulls away from you, taking your hand guiding you in front of him and up the stairs.

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corroded-chrissy · 3 years ago

Text

This is so good!!!!! I live for a good enemies to friends to lovers 🥺🥺🥺

𝕟𝕠 𝕘𝕠𝕠𝕕 𝕒𝕥 𝕨𝕒𝕚𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘: 𝕤𝕖𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕞𝕓𝕖𝕣

a farmer's market steve harrington x reader au part 1 [7.2k] | au masterlist

SEPTEMBER

You haven't called home in two weeks. But then again, no one has tried to reach you, either. It took one to drive here and the other you’ve spent settling in. The main house is quiet most of the time, except when Bob turns up the radio as he cleans. If you try really hard you think you can hear the gentle hum of the hives, a soothing buzz that never ceases. Bees are like that: always working, always caring for their queen. Never unsatisfied to do so forever.

"It must be nice," you'd said to Bob when he showed you a piece of comb for the first time. The beekeepers at New-Bee's farm only wear netting on their faces, which made you only a little bit nervous but you'd pushed it down.

"What do you mean?" your new boss asked you.

"To know what your life means," you said softly. A single worker bee crawled onto your hand to explore. Her tiny legs tickled a little. "To know how you're supposed to spend it." Bob gently clapped a hand on your shoulder and smiled at you.

"I think you're going to learn a lot from the bees while you're here. And from this town. If you want to."

And right now you're wondering if you want to. If this hadn't been a huge mistake -- snatching at the vague opportunity your parents had presented after you dropped out of college. To work at and live on a bee farm in Hawkins, Indiana owned by a college friend. To help out for the last few months at the local farmer's market. To see if you can figure out what's next before the goodwill of everyone around you wears out.

It's still a little warm for September. You and Bob had been a bit red-faced unloading the beeswax candles, soaps, and jars of honey onto the wooden stand you're running. You'd reassured him you could handle selling by yourself until he came back to help you pack up when the market ends at 2 pm. The other stands are looking thinly staffed -- school starting has taken away most of the summer hires -- and you see plenty of people your age. A boy with a tangle of long hair and a black bandana around his neck is organizing mushrooms a few stalls over while laughing at something the tiny woman you know to be Joyce Byers says to him. She's got a clipboard in hand and looks very serious. A pretty girl in a Hawkins Band shirt sporting a backwards baseball cap is bickering with another boy whose back is turned to you, but you can see the work gloves tucked into the back pocket of his jeans, his arms straining against his t-shirt as he gesticulates wildly.

You sigh and yawn, checking your watch. 8:50 am. Market opens in ten minutes, and you can already see people milling around on the surrounding sidewalk. It's going to be a long day.

"Hello? Anybody home?" You startle out of your stupor to see the boy with the gloves standing in front of you. He's alarmingly pretty -- messy hair and cheeks dotted with faint freckles, chewed lips pouted as he looks at you with annoyed eyes. His baseball shirt is tucked into his jeans and the gloves are in one hand now, a hand he's settled on his hip like he's about to chastise you.

His name tag is crooked. It reads Sara's Farm: Steve.

"Hi," you say, a bit dazed. "Can I...help you?"

"Who are you? Where's Melanie?" He sounds impatient and almost rude, glancing over his shoulder as if checking for someone.

"Uh," you point to your own name tag to answer his first question, wondering if he actually cares about the second. "She's back at field hockey. So can I help you...Steve?"

He starts at the sound of his own name before his brows narrow again. He seems to have a very quick conversation with himself before he leans on your stall, his demeanor changing completely.

"Well, she put aside some candles for me. Any chance you can hand 'em over?" It's almost like he's flirting with you, but he's still glancing over his shoulder, his fingers tapping on the wood betraying his impatience. Maybe he's buying them for the girl he was talking to earlier.

"I'm really sorry," you say, bending down to check the crates of glass jars. "I don't know anything about that." You hate to disappoint this cute boy on your first meeting, even if he's not exactly charming you.

He sighs and rubs his free hand over his face. "Look," he says. "Are you sure? You're new, so maybe you just didn't see them, or maybe you're not looking in the right place--"

"Do you want to do my job for me?" you snap. It doesn't feel like he's being rude on purpose, but you're bristling. This is your stall and yes, you're new, but you know what you're doing. Steve throws up his hands and backs away a little.

"No," he mutters. "Sorry. I'll just -- come back later." He turns away without another word and you feel your mouth twist into a frown. Hopefully not everyone is as sour as this guy.

"Harrington, be nice to the new girl!" calls a rough voice. "Don't mind him, he's not usually such a sourpuss." It's the long-haired boy by the mushroom stand. He waves.

"Fuck off, Munson!" Steve sends his middle finger in that general direction and does not look at you.

"Christ," you mutter. But you can't think about it for long, as Joyce unties the thin rope at the entrance and townspeople spill into the square.

It's not a hard job, not really. And you do like talking to people -- hearing about how much they love Bob, love the candles. How they use the honey in their tea or to fend off seasonal allergies. It's nice to have people smile at you, to have their hands brush yours as you take their change. It makes you feel lighter, makes you feel needed. Most people are charmed by your newness, giving recommendations of local businesses to check out and asking you how you like Hawkins, their Midwest kindness making your cheeks ache.

The morning rush dies down a little around 11:30, so you resolve to look for those stupid candles again. Because no matter how unpleasant this Steve Harrington might be, you don't like that he thinks you're bad at your job. And he looked pretty anxious to get his hands on those candles. You search every crate for anything with his name on it until you finally find a small parcel tied with twine and labeled "SH."

"You're welcome," you mutter. A glance at the stalls around you proves fruitful as you get a glimpse of Steve for the first time since this morning. He's standing close to the mushroom stall whispering furiously to the same girl from earlier. You slide out from behind New-Bee's and trot over to where they're standing, parcel in hand.

"She couldn't find the...uh...stuff I ordered weeks ago, Robin. I mean, keeping track of stock isn't hard. I don't know where she came from anyway. Maybe she'll be gone once Bob realizes she's losing stuff like an idiot." The girl -- Robin -- has the decency to grimace when she catches sight of you. You're tempted to drop his candles on the ground right then and there, but you instead put on a smile that your mother once called "extremely unsettling."

"Steve," you say loudly, putting a hand on his shoulder. He's warm through the fabric. He turns, eyes wide. A flush spreads across his cheekbones.

"Uh--"

"I found your things." You make sure to keep your voice sticky sweet. "So sorry it took so long. I'm just so new and stupid." You shove the parcel into his hands, leaning into his space. His pupils dilate and he smells a little like sweat, a little like apples. "You don't know a thing about me," you hiss, "so I think you should go fuck yourself." You flash your teeth at him and turn on your heel. Robin bursts into laughter but you don't look back. Your fingers tingle and Steve's scent fills your nostrils. Why are you getting so worked up over a random boy?

Maybe because you're staring down the barrel of three Saturdays of farmer's markets and you've already made an enemy.

___

By 1 pm you are very hungry.

"Damn," you say to yourself. You'll have to bring a snack next time.

But then, as if by magic, a girl appears in front of the stand. She's young, probably high school-aged, with long hair pulled back in a ponytail. She sports a Sara's Farm name tag that reads Jane.

"Hi," she says. Her eye contact is intense immediately, but something about her makes you smile, even if she works with Steve.

"Hi," you echo. She holds out a brown paper bag. You raise your eyebrows but reach out to take it from her. "Thanks?"

"My dad told me to welcome you," she says. "It's just an apple and a scone we made this morning. I figured you forgot your lunch. Eddie always does." You must look confused at her name dropping, so she points to the mushroom stand first, and then to the white tents where Steve had disappeared earlier. "Eddie. And my dad's farm."

Your chest is doing something messy as you take in that this girl has brought you food. "Thank you," you say, softer this time. She beams at you.

"Was Steve mean earlier?" You open the bag and pull out a gorgeous red apple rather than answer. She huffs. "He's been so rude this week. I think it's because he doesn't know what to get Robin for her birthday." Girlfriend, maybe?

"Candles," you mutter. He must have bought the candles in advance for her. It doesn't make you like him anymore, but it makes you see why he was a little desperate. But he didn’t have to call you stupid.

"So, who are you? Why are you in Hawkins?" the girl asks. You point to your name tag for the second time today. "Oh!" she says, just realizing that she never introduced herself. "I'm Jane, but you can call me El."

"Hi, El." Her question doesn't carry any accusation like Steve's had. She’s genuinely curious with a child-like kindness that makes you want to hug her. "I don’t have a fun story or anything. I didn't want to be where I was, so I thought I'd try somewhere new." You shrug and take a bite of the apple. It's crisp and fresh.

"Maybe you can start making one now that you're here."

"Making what?" You wipe juice from your chin.

"A story."

___

You realize very quickly that you don't have much to do to fill the week. Bob insists that you take a while to settle in before helping out around New-Bee's and he gives you the keys to one of the farm pickup trucks to explore whenever you want. But most of your days during the week are spent wandering the property or taking as long as possible to buy groceries with the money you're being paid -- money that you feel a bit strange taking, considering you're living in Bob's house and only working here because he knows your parents.

But goodwill is goodwill, you suppose. By Wednesday you've made two different kinds of muffins and one loaf of banana bread with a cookbook tucked away on a shelf.

"Not that I'm complaining, but I think it might be good for you to go into town," Bob says through a mouth full of the latter. "Go for a walk in the square. Go to the library! Maybe you'll see some of the kids your age who aren't in school." You smile thinly at him as he whistles his way to the hives. He's being kinder than you deserve, like a cool uncle or something. No one else who works on the property really talks to you.

"The library," you mutter. You could do with something to read. Or at least another place to sit and waste time. You scowl at the idea that you'll run into some other "kids your age" if their name is Steve Harrington, but it's worth the risk because you're so bored.

The parking lot is empty except for some bikes in the bike rack when you arrive. The truck sputters a little when you put it in park and you hop down into a fairly nice day. The chill has finally started to set into Hawkins, the sky a mess of fluffy white clouds and enough sunshine that you shade your eyes.

The front desk is deserted when you go inside. There's a small bell on the dark wood that is begging to be pushed and your hand is midair when a voice comes from your left.

"That never does anything," it says. You turn and see the girl from the market -- Robin -- with a stack of books in her arms. One of them teeters off of the top and you surge forward without thinking to grab it so it doesn't fall. She beams at you. You want to smile back but remember that she's maybe Steve's girlfriend and probably remembers how rude you were on Saturday so you step back quickly, clutching the hardcover. History of Art, it reads.

"Sorry," Robin says. "I've been walking around with all of these trying to find someone to check them out for like, 20 minutes but this place is a ghost town." She plunks her stack on the front desk with a sound far too loud for a library but no one shows up.

"We didn't officially meet," you say, biting the bullet. Steve Harrington be damned, you will not be known as the rude new girl in town. Even to your apparent nemesis's girlfriend. "You're Robin, right? And uh, you might have seen me at the farmer's market? I'm--"

"Oh, I know your name!" She says it with such warmth that you feel the corner of your mouth lift. "How could I forget? You burned Steve better than I could ever hope to. Seeing pretty girls be mean to him is like, the best thing ever."

You can't tamp down your confusion in time and Robin clocks it. Her eyes widen and her mouth forms an "o" before she bursts into laughter. Not just a chuckle, either. She's bent over, hands on her knees, shaking.

"Sorry," you say. This is the loudest you've ever been in a library in your life. "I think I'm a little lost." She straightens and runs a hand through her bob.

"You probably thought I was his girlfriend, right? Everyone does at first." You tap your fingers on the front desk and chew on your lip, nodding.

"I mean, he was buying stuff for you when we met." When he was rude, you don't say, but Robin picks up on the way your shoulders tense because she sighs.

"Yeah, he told me all about that. And he deserved the telling off you gave him!" Robin rings the bell just once, almost absentmindedly. "I feel like I need to apologize for him but he obviously should do that himself."

You huff. "Yeah, well. It's fine if he never does. We don't need to be friends." The thought causes a pang in your chest that you don't totally understand -- maybe it's because this lovely, kind girl is friends with him and that makes you yearn for companionship, too. Maybe it's because when you saw him for the first time you couldn't look away.

"He's a good guy," Robin hedges. "I met him when I started working at Sara's in high school and he's been there like, forever. He worked the market in the summer and then Hopper -- the guy who owns it -- took him on full time after graduation and he moved onto the property. Which is a pretty sweet gig if you ask me because he doesn't have to pay rent and he gets to like, be outside all the time." She sighs, examining her nails as she keeps talking. "I don't know how much you know about the whole thing, since this is your first time here. I mean, we all know about you because Bob told us you were coming and all that. But most of us do summers at the market growing up and maybe a little after when we can. It's just part of the town, part of our lives. Everyone there has a story, you know? And for Steve, the market and Sara's are like, his things." She seems to want to say more but stops herself. "Sorry," she says, a little sheepishly. "I talk a lot."

It must be nice to have a tether like that, you think. To have a place to gather, to know that you can always come back to. Your chest aches again and you blink rapidly, trying to think of something else to talk about. "What are you here for?" you ask instead. Robin takes on your change of subject kindly.

"Gotta rent these for school." She pats the top of her stack of textbooks. "I'm in college nearby enough that I come home a lot. And I forgot to get everything on my course list in time so there aren't enough copies at school. I don't have class today and I drove back yesterday because it was my birthday and Steve threw this party for me and all that stuff, so." She shrugs like it's no big deal.

"Happy birthday," you tell her, and you mean it. She winks at you.

"Thanks for the candles," she says. You roll your eyes but huff out a laugh. "He's really not that great at gifts. Better at doing stuff, you know?" You nod. Robin cracks her knuckles and rings the bell one more time. A woman finally pops out from the hallway behind the front desk as if she's hearing it for the first time.

"Library card, Dolores," Robin says, jerking her head at you. "Then all of these for me." The woman doesn't say a word but holds her hand out for your driver's license, which you pass over.

"You were here first," you mutter.

"Yeah, but my best friend was a dick to you, so." She examines you for a long second and you want to squirm, but you meet her gaze. "You're not bad at your job," she says. "He'll get over himself, I promise. But I hope you like it here and I hope he didn't ruin my chances of becoming your friend."

"I--"

"Here," the librarian says, shoving your license and a plastic card that says Hawkins Library under your nose. You take them from her as she starts to scan Robin's books.

"No late returns this time, Ms. Buckley," she says. Robin makes a face that says 'who, me’?

"See you on Saturday!" Her words echo behind you as you give her a little wave. Maybe you could be friends with her. And Steve, if he apologizes. And stops being such an asshole. And they're not dating, so Robin wouldn't have vouched for him unless she really meant it. How else are you going to spend the next few months? You can't sit in Bob's house every day. So maybe you need to suck it up and try harder this weekend, try to be nice. But something in you doesn't want to -- something that feels like Steve sees you as an outsider. As someone who doesn't belong at his market, this place that is clearly the center of the community. And the last thing you need is someone telling you that you're not welcome here.

You're so busy thing about Steve fucking Harrington that you don't realize until you're halfway back to the farm that you didn't even check out any books.

Unloading everything yourself for your second ever Hawkins Farmer's Market is probably not a good idea. But Bob was stressed this morning because a new queen was being introduced to one of the hives so you told him you had it covered. One box of honey and candles and soap is easy. But by box five? Holy shit, your arms hurt.

You're hauling your last box to your stall when you hear a low whistle from the Sara's Farm tent. You flick an errant piece of hair out of your eyes and glare in that direction only to find Steve Harrington with his arms crossed, frowning. He's in dark blue work pants today and a white shirt with a flannel pushed up to his elbows. And a stupid baseball cap on his head, backward.

"Have you been standing there this whole time?" Your voice is more disbelief than anger. But then he shrugs.

He takes a step forward. "Damn, why didn't you ask for help?" His hands form fists on his sleeves as he looks at all of the stock you've carried by yourself. It looks like his stand is all set up already.

"Don't you know how to put on a hat properly, Harrington?" you snarl, perhaps a bit harsher than you intended. Steve takes a step back and his eyes widen before he turns on his heel without so much as a wave.

You think about saying something else but it's then that you realize your stool is missing. And something in you deflates. Sure, you could stand for the next five hours but who really wants to do that? You look around as if it'll appear by magic, as if it's hiding behind the crates you brought in. But it's nowhere to be found, so you just start to unload, setting up your display and trying not to worry a hole through your lip.

"That looks nice!" Joyce Byers has her hair pulled up in a rather frazzled ponytail but she's all smiles as she compliments your work. "You okay over here?"

You shove down your discontent and nod. Joyce has been nothing but kind so far, coming to check on you at New-Bee's more than once, and she does her best to keep the market well-run.

"Well, actually," you say, grimacing. "I think the stool I had last week has moved somewhere? Would I be able to get another?" Joyce scribbles something on the clipboard she's holding before nodding.

"Oh, of course. I'll have Jonathan find something. Stuff can get moved around when the stalls get put away, so I'm sure it's somewhere!" Movement over her shoulder catches your eye.

It's Steve. Moving your stool behind crates of apples and plopping his annoying ass onto it. You clench your fingers into fists and any goodwill you were considering after running into Robin this week totally evaporates.

Fuck him.

"You okay?" Joyce asks. You blink and smile at her.

"Just a little tired," you say. "I'll be okay standing until Jonathan has a second." Not even a single part of you wants to tell her that Steve took your stool. It would feel like defeat. In what, you're not totally sure. Joyce pats you on the arm and heads off on her rounds.

You sell a few soaps and a very large jar of honey to a strange man called Murray who asks your opinion on wiretapping. He's just left for Rick's Mushrooms when a boy with a mop of hair and kind face approaches carrying two wooden crates.

"Uh, hi," he says. "My mom said to bring you these?"

"Oh thank god," you moan, louder than you probably should. "Jonathan, right?" You step around the stall to grab them from him. He's got a name tag on that says "Byers Flowers."

"That's me. Sorry I couldn't find a stool. But if you stack these it should work." You do as he says and plop down and sigh so big that Jonathan laughs. "Who is watching the flowers if you're here?" you ask. Maybe this boy could be your friend.

"My little brother, Will." A smile spreads across his face as he keeps talking. "He's better at it than I am, really. Really good at selling people on big bouquets."

"I'll have to buy one sometime," you say, and you mean it. "Thank you for these, really." You kick at the crates with your heels.

As soon as Jonathan goes back to his job you feel your good mood slowly slip away. Someone must have it out for you because you can see Steve perfectly from here. He hasn't flipped his hat around all day and he's barely using the stool that he stole from you. You watch him flirt with old ladies and girls your age alike, watch him juggle apples for kids and recommend different kinds of tomatoes and potatoes and squash and it makes you furious.

It makes you so mad and you don't dare think about why.

A nice girl your age is admiring some soap when she notices you staring. "Do you know Steve Harrington?" she asks you.

"Uh," you say, embarrassed to be caught. "No?"

"Probably best," she sighs. "You're new in town, right?" You nod. News spreads faster in Hawkins than wildfire. "I've got nothing against him, not really. People change, right? But he was a piece of work in high school. Lots of girls, lots of broken hearts." She shrugs.

"You ever date him?" you ask. She laughs.

"No. Had a boyfriend the whole time. But he's a flirt, that's for sure. I'd be wary, I guess is what I'm saying." She picks up the soap she's eyeing. "Can I get this?"

"Sure," you say, grabbing the purchase pad. "And thanks, I think. But I don't think I'll be going anywhere near him."

"Hi, Brenda," the boy in question interrupts. The girl -- Brenda -- grabs her soap and hands you some cash before grimacing and giving Steve a wave. "Thanks," she says to you. "Hi, Steve." He rocks back and forth on his heels as she walks away, hands in his back pockets. You want to knock the hat off of his head.

"Harrington," you say, sitting back on your crates.

"On a last-name basis, are we?" You cross your arms. He nods to himself before taking a deep breath. "Okay. I wanted to apologize for last week." Your eyebrows raise but you say nothing.

"Well, Robin told me that I was a real dick, and I--"

"Oh, Robin told you," you say, slapping a hand on your thigh. "So you're here because Robin told you to apologize, not because you realized you were an asshole?" Steve looks gobsmacked that you've turned this into an argument, and you’re a little surprised yourself, but you keep going. "Save it, Steve." You say his name like it stings to have in your mouth.

"Woah," he says over you. "What is your problem?"

"What's my problem?" you grit out between your clenched teeth. "My problem is you think you own this place and you make assumptions about people before you know them." Watching him all day has made you like a pipe fit to burst. With loathing, you tell yourself. "And you stole my stool."

"I...what? Your...stool?" he sputters. He takes off the godforsaken baseball cap to run a hand through messy hair before replacing it. "I have no idea what you're talking about." His eyes harden and you realize you've actually pissed him off, maybe for the first time. The smile he sends you is sharp and you don't like it. It makes him less handsome. "Well, I'll leave you to your beeswax. Good luck wrangling those bees, bee girl. Can't be that hard if you can do it."

It's a cutting remark you don't expect. "Bee girl?" you say in disbelief. "I have a name, Steve! What is your problem?"

He starts to walk backwards. "Or should I call you honey?" He ignores your question. "Nah. That's too sweet for you." He barks a laugh at his own joke and it's a bitter thing.

When you're packing up your crates at the end of the market he brings back the stool. It slams on the pavement, startling you into turning around with a yelp. Your mouth tugs into a frown at the sight of him, his hat on the right way this time. He's got that same ice-cold smile on and you fight a shiver.

"Here you go, honey," he says, the word sounding like an insult.

"Go away," you say before you can stop yourself.

Steve just shrugs. "See? Doesn't work too well." He salutes you. You flip him the bird as he turns because what else can you do? Strangle him? If only, you think. If only.

___

The details of your life in Hawkins start to fade into the background. You've been here for over a month and have been at two farmer's markets and you've got hardly anything to show for it. A few arguments and not a single friend to speak of, though there are a few friendly people. And you're hardly friendly these days anyway, still smarting from the argument you had with Steve.

Okay, so maybe he didn't steal your stool. But he was mean to you! And... you were mean to him. What a mess. An embarrassing, juvenile mess.

It only gets worse when you start to see the Sara's Farm pickup truck everywhere. In the parking lot at the grocery store, stopped at the Arcade, just driving through town. You only actually see him once -- heading into Family Video with Robin -- but it makes your cheeks heat and your fingers twitch every time. Why does he get such a reaction out of you? How is one boy single-handedly causing you to become a recluse in your new home?

"I'm sure he's not that bad," your mom says. You've finally caught your parents at home and have spent the last twenty minutes being uncharacteristically detailed about your life. You can't help it -- you just want to talk to someone.

"He's rude," you huff. "He's rude, and everyone knows him and he won't leave me alone."

"Is he cute?" Her voice is tinny through the phone line. You scoff, and she laughs. "Yes, then. Always makes it worse." Your mother sighs. "Maybe you just need more work, baby. Ask Bob."

Bob, who continues to be so kind to you even though you do hardly anything. You know she's right. The whole purpose of this relocation to Hawkins was for you to find something you liked, something you were good at. To figure your shit out and to work hard. To get the ground under your feet again. So you take her advice and see what you can get your hands dirty with. He’s thrilled and soon you find yourself in one of the property sheds.

"It's fairly simple, but you do need to pay attention," Bob tells you. "The other beekeepers and I harvest the beeswax, so it's all ready for you." He gestures to a metal tub covered with what looks like a cheesecloth next to the stove. "I've written out the steps to take for making soaps and candles and everything is labeled."

The small workroom has a kitchen sink and a fridge. The shelves are stocked with lye, bottles of oils, and plenty of pots and jars. "It smells wonderful in here," you say. In truth, it's a little overwhelming but not unpleasant.

"You can make any scent you want, just write it down so we can label it right." Bob gives you a smile. "And be careful with the hot wax. I've burned myself tons of times."

He leaves you to it. You turn on the radio and set it low to keep yourself company. And the work is easy, Bob was right. You decide to make candles first, melting the beeswax on the stove and adding some of the oils to make it smell good. You lay out the jars with the wicks pulled tight across the tops and start to pour.

"Fuck," you hiss. A bit of the hot wax splashes onto your fingertips but you don't drop the pot, instead finishing your pours as your skin throbs. You set the empty pot back on the burner and move to the sink, peeling the now-hard wax off of your skin to reveal a reddening welt.

"Damn." You run it under cool water for a second before steeling yourself to do it again. Because you finally feel useful. And so you do another batch and another. And the next day you try soaps. You put colorful bandaids on your fingertips until your hands look like the rainbow but you get better and you stop getting wax on your skin. And by Friday night, when you and Bob are labeling everything you've made, you feel proud.

"You're going to be selling stock you made tomorrow," he says. "How does that feel?"

You smile and you mean it. "Like I'm doing something right."

___

You've finished your setup early for your third farmer's market and decide to talk a walk around the stalls. There's a jewelry table next to a stall selling loose-leaf tea across from Rick's Mushrooms. A curly head is barely visible over the stall's counter, whoever it belongs to clearly organizing something underneath. You wrinkle your nose at the array of gilled fungi, one of your least favorite foods.

Eddie pops up from his crouch and grins at you. "Hey there new girl." Not your name, but better than bee girl. "Wanna buy some 'shrooms? I'll give you an early bird discount."

"Nah," you say. "Don't really like them." You admire how he's got them all laid out like he's taken care to make the stand pretty as well as thoroughly stocked. "We haven't really met, I'm --"

Eddie says your name, eyes on your name tag. "Talk of the town!"

"Really?"

"Nah," he scoffs. "I mean, I know you're new at New-Bee's. And with Harrington's antics since you got here I'm sure everyone else does too." You scowl at the mention of Steve, who you haven't seen yet. "Oh, looks like he's gotten under your skin!"

"He's everywhere," you grumble. "And he's nice to everyone but me."

Eddie hums, tucking his hair behind his ears. "Well, we've all got good sides and bad sides, sweetheart." He seems to eye how you take the pet name, but from him it feels friendly. "Harrington is used to this place. He's known it for years, worked summers here since he was in high school. I think he's unsure how to deal with a new girl."

"That's what Robin said." You rub your arms a little against the morning chill, your bandaged fingers throbbing dully. “But I heard he was…different in school?” Eddie whistles long and low, crossing his flannel-clad arms. He’s wearing silver rings on almost every finger and he’s got dirt under his nails, you notice.

“Total douchebag. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but he started at Sara’s because he got community service hours for vandalism or something. Took the fall for some shit his asshole friends did.” Eddie shrugs. “But it did him good. Less of a douche after that. And how he’s pretty close to being a good guy.”

You drum your fingers against your thigh and wince, forgetting they’re blistered. There’s a story there and despite yourself, you want to know more. "I just don't get why he's so hot and cold with me."

"Probably bothers him that you don't like him very much." Eddie's got a sly smile that looks suspicious.

"Well, if he was less of an asshole maybe I would!" He laughs at you, not unkindly.

"Okay, sure. It'll be an interesting end to the season!" He cracks his knuckles. His next words are softer, more earnest. "You ever want to hang out, let me know. I know it’s hard to be new somewhere."

The market goes by as usual. Every time you sell a bar of soap or a candle that you made it's like the slight throb of your fingers ebbs for a moment. You tell a few mothers that you made them yourself and they fawn over you. But even so, there's a whisper in your head that you haven't seen Steve all day. Is he working today? He doesn't seem like the type to take time off.

You realize that you've spent so much time thinking about Steve Harrington that you could be considered obsessed. You've only really spoken twice as it is, and neither time has been pleasant. But there's something about him.

Maybe that something is how he sidles up to stand next to you behind the New-Bee stand with an expression so worried you don't refuse him. There's a part of you that never wants to refuse him, a part of you that is tired and lonely after three weeks without friends. You let that part take over for today with Eddie’s words top of mind, let him stand next to your stool with his hands in his pockets.

"Do you ever actually work, Steve?" you ask, his first name rolling off of your tongue in your tired tone. "Seems like you come to bother me a lot."

"Hi," he says softly. He doesn't take your bait. "Uh, what happened to your hands?" He juts his chin at the bandaged fingers in your lap. They've felt tender for the last few hours.

"If I tell you you'll just make fun of me." You huff. "Bee girl is so bad at her job she burns her fingers, or something."

"C'mon, now." His concern doesn't fade but it hardens. "I'm trying to be nice. I'm here to apologize, actually. Though I'm not sure what I'm apologizing for."

You cross your arms and study him as if you could discern his intentions from his soft yellow sweater, his belted jeans, his mussed hair. He looks so lovely you could scream. "I burned them making all of this." You gesture to the candles and soaps around you. Steve steps up to inspect them, closer than you were that first day when you cussed him out. His arm brushes yours and he gently traces the outline of a comb-shaped soap you'd made.

"These are pretty," he mutters. Your mouth falls open.

"Are you being nice to me?" He scoffs and...is he blushing?

"Robin told me to --"

"Oh, Robin told you. Again." Steve scowls at you but it's got less heat than last week.

"Fine. I thought I'd try to be nice to you." He runs a hand through his hair, eyes on your hands. "Just for today, though," he says, teasing. "Since you're injured."

Maybe it's your hands hurting or Steve's light tone or the things Eddie said this morning, but you can't find it in yourself to argue with him. "Okay," you say instead. He looks a little surprised.

"Okay," he echoes. "Uh..." Clearly, he didn't think he'd get this far. You smile a little and let him waffle for a topic of conversation. "Did you meet Jane?" he settles on.

"El? She brought me lunch the first week." You haven't spoken with her since, but she waves at you whenever she runs back and forth across the market doing whatever her dad needs -- you haven't met him, either, but you expect you will eventually.

"She told you to call her that?" Steve asks, sounding surprised.

"Yes?" Have you messed up somehow and soured this remarkably pleasant conversation already?

"Damn." He laughs a little. "She wouldn't let me call her El until I'd worked at Sara's full time for three months." You watch to see if this will make him sour, if you need to queue up a barb, but he seems incredulous rather than mad.

"Hey, listen," he says. "I wanted to ask you --"

"You don't work here!" Four teenagers have appeared in front of the stall and Steve's easy expression turns to a scowl.

"Good to know you've been paying attention, Henderson." Steve's voice isn't cruel, though it is annoyed. You wonder what he was going to ask you. "What do you want?"

"We're here to see Will but thought we'd meet the chick you won't stop talking about first," says the only girl, her fiery hair in a braid down her back. She eyes your reaction to her words as you send Steve a confused look.

"Sorry, what --" Steve doesn't look at you.

"Alright, alright, that's enough. Go bother someone else." They don't move and Steve sighs like a put-upon parent. "Fine. Meet the biggest pain in my ass: Dustin Henderson, Mike Wheeler, Max Mayfield, and Lucas Sinclair."

"Hi. Are you all...students?" They stand close like kids who've been together a long time, used to orbiting each other's space.

"Juniors," Lucas says. "We haven't been to the market in a few weeks because we're working on college applications."

"You're old," Dustin says. Steve swears softly next to you. "Do you know anything about college?"

"Um, no." You fiddle with the sleeve of your flannel. "Well, a little. I went but I dropped out.” You feel Steve turn towards you but you don't look.

"Ask Nance when she's back next time, yeah?" he says. Mike smacks his own forehead.

"Shit, I didn't think of that. My own sister!"

"Go take that big brain of yours to bother Will, okay, shitheads?" Max nods at you and tugs Lucas away by one hand, Mike's jacket sleeve in the other.

"I'm gonna...go," Steve mumbles, stepping out from behind the stall without another word. You don't realize that Dustin hasn't left until he speaks again.

"You don't look mean," he says. He crosses his arms like he's looking at a puzzle.

"Excuse me?"

"Steve is probably so obsessed with you because you're like, really pretty. But he won't admit it."

"Oh, so he's pulling my pigtails because he likes me?" you grumble but your face feels hot. "How mature of him." You don't really believe it. Dustin must be willfully misunderstanding Steve's complaining. Plus, he's a heartbreaker, right? Not someone you'd want to be involved with, no matter how nice he is to look at. No matter how good some people say he is.

"He's just a bit of an asshole sometimes," Dustin says fondly. "Don't hold it against him."

"I've heard that before," you say. "Why is he friends with a bunch of high schoolers? No offense." Dustin grins and you see that he's got almost perfectly straight teeth under braces.

"None taken. He was...kind of our babysitter? But now we're too old for that so we just hang out with him because he needs more friends."

"Wow," you say. "Harsh." But you're smiling. You don't want to find the story endearing but you do and it makes you sad more than anything. To see these kids so obviously bonded to each other and their older friend. In another life, you'd wonder if there was something going on here that made them this way, that made this town so close. But as it is, you feel the ache in your chest that's been bothering you for years -- since you went to school, since you left, since you arrived in Hawkins. The ache that wakes you every day, that feels like a bruise in your chest when you fall asleep.

The ache that disappears when you talk to Steve but returns full force as soon as he walks away.

tags: @cheerupbarry @srrybutno @97soroka @sunlitide @gloryofroses19 @carpediem1219 @themarvelousbee @sunshinehollandd @katsukis1wife @imherefortea @spideyboipete @lonelywidow @louderfortheback @actual-mom-steve-harrington @steveharringtonscarkeys @pennyllanne @ducky-is-dead-inside @ih3artcry1ng @escape-in-time-x @sea040561 @manyfandomsfanvergent @blandyton @liberhoe @annaisweird

reblog, send feedback, requests open, masterlist here!

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corroded-chrissy · 3 years ago

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let's hear it for the boy - s.h.

summary: an impromptu dance party in the kitchen with your boyfriend after breakfast wc: 1.2k warnings: literal just softness and domesticity ugh a/n: this was supposed to be a blurb LOL but it might honestly be one of my favorite things i've written omg. i don't even know if the writing is that great, i'm just obsessed with the idea and the pure joy in this. please listen to let's hear it for the boy while you read it (or after!!) bc it's such a bop.

Masterlist

“Let’s hear it for the boy!”

You shriek with laughter as Steve spins you out of his arms, grip still tight on your hand as he holds you at arm's length before you spin back in, pulling another peal of laughter from you. You’re not quite sure how cleaning the kitchen after breakfast with Steve has devolved into dancing and singing — equally as bad — together, but you can’t say you mind. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants low on his hips, and you’re still only in a t-shirt and underwear. You know that you probably look a bit crazy, but it’s just the two of you in your small apartment, singing your hearts out in the soft morning light filtering in through the kitchen window.

Steve has a tight grip on you now that you’re back in his arms, and he dips you down, leaving you scrambling to grasp his shoulders. You know he won’t drop you. Probably. But you still don’t particularly like feeling like you could slip at any moment. He’s grinning down at you, soft hair falling into his face as he leans down to press a quick kiss to your lips — so quick you almost think you imagined it — before he’s pulling you back up, singing along with the song loudly, “Let’s hear it for my baby!”

Pressing a sloppy kiss to Steve’s cheek, you pull back so you can jump around your cramped kitchen to the beat of the song. You spot a clean spatula on the counter and grab it quickly as you walk by so it can be your microphone for the time being, singing dramatically as you turn to face your boyfriend again, “My baby may not be rich, he’s watchin’ every dime.”

Having followed you the short distance, Steve is up on you again, hands on your hips, pulling your body into his as you dance together, absolutely beaming at each order. One of the chairs at the tiny table tucked into the corner of your kitchen is still pulled out, and you seem to have the same thought at the same time. You jump slightly, Steve’s strong hands on your hips lifting you up and guiding you so the seat of the chair is under your feet. You’re at least a foot taller than him now, and his hands linger against your bare thighs, staring up at you in what you can only describe as utter adoration, his hazel eyes wide behind the frames of his glasses, lips quirking up at the corner.

Clutching the spatula in your hand, you bring it back up to your mouth as your microphone, your other hand resting over your heart, eyes closing and hips swaying as you sing, “But he loves me, loves me, loves me,” you quickly open your eyes, pointing at Steve with a grin as you sing the next part, “we always have a real good time.”

You give Steve a knowing look at the next part and are barely able to hold it together, giggling through the line, “And maybe he sings off key, but that’s alright by me.”

He can’t even pretend to be annoyed; he now has his own spatula in his hand and shoves his free hand into his hair to get it out of his face as he also props one foot up on your chair to lean up towards you. You lean down to meet him halfway, nose brushing his as the fingers of your free hand caress his jaw. Both of you are still singing loudly, even this close, “‘Cause what he does, he does so well, makes me wanna yell—“ You give him an over-exaggerated wink at this, and stand up straight on the chair, throwing one arm in the air and nearly hitting the light hanging above the table near you as you bounce on your toes in the chair, “Let’s hear it for the boy!”

Steve keels over with wild laughter, a sound you want to hear for the rest of your life. A sound you hope you’ll hear every day from now on. Because of your friends, and stupid jokes, or funny stories, and impromptu dance parties, or even nothing in particular. If this was life with Steve, you wanted nothing more.

He finally pulls himself together enough to look up at you, eyes crinkling with pure happiness in the way you adore as you wiggle your eyebrows dramatically and point to him again, “Maybe he’s no Romeo, but he’s my lovin’ one-man show! Let’s hear it for the boy!”

As you start singing the next line, something about him pulling you near, Steve wraps himself around your torso, one arm firmly around your waist the other hooked under one of your thighs. Before you can even ask what he’s doing or process what’s happening, Steve whisks you off of the chair. You let out a another shriek, clinging to Steve’s shoulders with one hand in his messy hair as he spins you off of the chair until your feet are on the ground again, “Steve!”

There’s an unapologetic look on his face as he giggles, planting another kiss to the corner of your mouth. You’re unsure if that was his intended target, but you don’t mind either way, breaking out into a grin. The smile you’re giving him is blinding, brighter than the morning sun, and he returns the grin, shouting over the music, “I love you!”

“Love you too!” you reply, even though he can’t hear you over the loud song. You’re quickly back to singing, jumping up and down, moving your body to the rhythm however it wants. Steve wishes more than anything that he had a video camera with him to capture this moment. A moment he’d consider one of the best of his life thus far.

The song is winding down but you’re still going, and you turn to Steve, eyes and hair wild as you point to him from across the kitchen, “Let’s hear it for my man!” Something about you draws him in until you’re meeting halfway, “Let’s hear it for the boy! Let’s hear it for my baby!”

A laugh is caught in your throat as the next song starts, but you’re out of breath, cheek pressed into Steve’s bare chest with his arms around you. His own chest heaves under your touch as he tries to catch his breath, his hands pressing to the small of your back to keep you close as you both dissolve into another fit of giggles.

When you finally catch your breath and look up at Steve, he’s already staring at you, and the light coming in through the kitchen window is making him glow. His hand smooths over your hairline before sliding down to cup your jaw, “You killed that, baby.”

You huff out a laugh at that, leaning up so you can rest your elbows on his shoulders, fingers sliding into his hair, “Pretty easy to get into it when I'm singing about my boy."

Soft pink crawls up Steve’s neck, dusting over his cheeks and coloring the tips of his ears at your statement, though he’s smiling again. He pulls away to look through your shared collection of tapes, calling behind him, “Okay, round two. Gotta find a song to sing to you this time!”

also!! if you want to know when i post something new, follow my library blog @sunflowerhollandd and turn on notifs so you know when i post a new fic!

steve friends ily xoxo

@cagethemunson @summertimestyles @sparklingsin @familyvideostevie @toms-gf @captaindanvxrs @harringtown @storybookholland

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corroded-chrissy · 3 years ago

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Re-blog this if:

- you’re gay - can read - support gay people - want to hold a match between your fingers as you wander the halls of an ancient castle because it’s your only source of light amidst the ghosts of people long past - are an antelope - or want a chocolate bar.

No one will know which applies.

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corroded-chrissy · 3 years ago

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the road not taken

this became much longer than I was planning so it took a while but!!! no joke i was plotting this fic and had a moment of ‘wait they storm into the road, literally the road not taken cuz its outside steve’s house’ and had to sit back for a second cuz I impressed my own damn self w that one. anyways I hope u enjoy anon!!!

requested by anonymous

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: au based on tis the damn season by Taylor Swift (aka the reader left Hawkins, and Steve, but the past is hard to run from, aka some second chance almost romance w a happy ending)

word count: 6.8k

Hawkins hasn’t changed much in eight months.

Last August, when you left—when you fled, if you’re being technical—the town was slipping into it fall. Bare trees and chilly winds saw you off, but now, spring is poking its head up like the flowers sticking out of the concrete sidewalks.

The train station drops you at the far end of main street. Eight months ago, when you made this walk in the other direction, you kept your eyes down and your breath held, like Hawkins might get stuck in your lungs.

Keep reading

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corroded-chrissy · 3 years ago

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— covered in the colors of you | steve harrington

+ steve harrington x afab!reader

summary: a date night of leisure painting turns into soft and messy love making.

tags: just pure softness and fluff, kinda messy smut ⚠ 18+ MDNI ⚠, paint on skin, steve pov

a/n: big shoutout to my angel @royalmaybank <3 for brainstorming with me and being an absolute sweetheart! ily!! i wanted to try a different style of writing and this is honestly just a love letter to yearning self-insert readers, like me, out there. i see you and i feel you! feedback is appreciated!

Steve's large hand is languidly stroking your inner thigh. The other clasps your own, as you move the brush across the canvas in sweeping motions, coalescing the carmine with a canary yellow.

He's being a tease intentionally.

He barely pays attention to what you are painting onto the canvas. There's a reason. He's distracted by the sweet scent of your tender skin, an alluring canvas of itself, beseeching his lips to create an artwork of their own.

Sewing his lips onto the softness of your skin, he lets everything rushing through his blood pour out into the kiss.

"Stevie," he hears you whimper, but your voice is painted wanton, not reprimanding and he takes it as encouragement. He lets his hand wander towards your core, shy but determined and smiles into the crook of your neck when your breath hitches. He rubs gentle circles onto your core, littering your neck with kisses and tiny bites.

You moan softly, making heat travel down his body with rapid fervency. God, he relishes the way you react to his affections. To his untamed touches.

"What are you doing, Steve?" you manage in between gasps, as he moves to the soft cartilage behind your ear— a spot that he knows turns you into a writhing mess.

In answer, Steve meticulously takes the brush from your hand and lets it fall to the floor, eyes trained on the exposed part of your shoulder that he has been obsessing over. He wants to taste every inch of your skin; the need becoming imminent as he spins you around in his lap, seeking your lips with a vigor that has you whimpering against his mouth.

His arms bracket your body as his tongue slips into your mouth, a swirling mess of heat and there he finds your surrender, complete and whole. You want this too, you seem to say as your hands circle his neck, pushing your bodies closer.

He cannot tear the clothes off of you sooner. It is a heated quest— your shirt flutters to the ground, followed by a white, lacy bra he mourns for only a second. Your shorts and underwear follow suite. His own shirt he’d discarded ages ago— you had cheekily smeared paint on his neck and tee, grinning mischievously— which was what had riled him up in the first place. He pauses for a second, taking in the sight before him. He knows your body like the back of his hand now, but it never ceases to drive him feral. In the moonlight that spills over the windowsill, the valley between your breasts is a shadowy tavern he wants to get lost in.

"Steve," — there it is again, a whimper of his name that makes his blood run hot and thick. He pushes you gently, laying you down onto the canvas itself, not realising in the frenzy that the paint is yet to dry.

Cursing, he gently hoists you back up to him. His hands are streaked red and so is your back. On the canvas, the little mess has created the likeness of your back, imprinted upon by his large hand. Something poetic must be said about it, he thinks, as he lays you back onto the canvas, leaving a print of his hand on your arm.

"Steve - the paint?" you question, eyebrows furrowed and he leans over on his knees, sinking onto your body to tuck your lips in between his.

"I'm not afraid to make a little mess," he rasps against your mouth before moving to kiss your neck. Then your right collarbone. Each of your shoulders. Featherlight kisses that birth soft hills on your body. He trails a finger down the base of your neck, leaving a trail of blotchy orange in its wake. The other, paint-laden hand kneads your breast as he moves to the swell of the other, pressing up soft kisses and nibbles. There is a sweeping stroke of three vermilion lines over your midriff and Steve can’t help but admire his handiwork.

He is feeling particularly artistic today.

You draw him towards you, caressing him with your hands. It’s the gentlest of touches, but with disguised urgency. You pull him in for a light kiss, then something deeper, until he's all weightless and falling.

He doesn't know when his hands knock over the can of blue paint, the liquid spilling over the expensive carpeting. Doesn't realise until he pulls away to look at you, that he's smeared the blue across the plush skin of your left hip.

The dip there is one of his favorite places on your body. He kisses it chastely, before moving downwards, trailing towards his other favorite place that you're squeezing in between your thighs.

He sucks gently at first, holding your thighs apart with force— head nestled safely in between— before increasing his pace as your cries get louder. Your taste is sweet saccharine, of which he can never have enough. His ministrations elicit the prettiest noises out of you and he perks up to steal a glance. Your hair is matted with sweat that glints in the moonlight, hands clutching at the bare threads of the carpet, skin hot and sultry under his touch— and your lips, they pull apart into a perfect 'o' as pleasure ripples across your bare body. He loves to see you come undone like this, proud that he's the catalyst for it.

He kisses you again, in your blissed out state and your swollen core delectably presses against his own length.

"Wanna be inside you," he virtually whines and you nod, as he brings himself up to your entrance, burning desire and temptation getting the better of him. He slides in swiftly and your walls clench to adjust around him— a feeling he always experiences like it is the very first time.

“S' good,” he grunts, already feeling that tight coil start to wind up in his abdomen. His eyes flutter shut on their own accord, as he starts to thrust inside you, mouth falling open at the feeling of you taking him in without trouble. He cups your face, dragging onto your lower lips with his teeth and kisses you with the ferocity that is currently coursing through his veins. Your quiet moans against his lips, as he rocks his hips into yours, only invigorate him further.

You’re perfect for him; he has never doubted it.

Your nails scratch at his shoulder blades, as you pull him into you and he thinks that you’re as close to him as you can be and yet, it isn’t close enough.

He can hear the soft gasps that escape you with each push as he takes you to the very edge of your precipice. He opens his eyes to see your face, and comes undone at the sight before him.

You look heavenly, riding out the ecstasy that he has been chasing all this while; a sheen of sweat glistening right up to where your bodies meet to make whole. Your skin is streaked with a myriad of hues— red, yellow, blue, green and every color in between— prints of his rough touches, smears of his own skin against yours. There is a mark of his hand, bright carmine - dried maroon, by your collarbone. One finger of the imprint extends towards your jaw and Steve thinks he finally understands art.

He casts a glance at the canvas that now lies beside you two. A multitude of colors blending into each other abstractly cover it in places, the landscape you had been painting over it long lost. The shape of your back and his hand continue to stand out. To an onlooker, it might look like a conventional abstract painting but only he and you would know the clandestine origins of the creation.

He knows the perfect place to hang the painting— right above the headboard on his bed, to hopefully inspire dreams of you when he slumbers.

“Steve….” you whisper for the millionth time that night, not tiring of the way your tongue shapes his name, and he leans back in to press a sloppy kiss to your forehead.

“You good, baby?” he coos, gently pulling out of you.

“The best,” you mumble sluggishly and a smile tugs at his lips. There is an inebriating warmth that settles over him, as he pulls you close.

“We should get washed up,” he whispers and you hum in question.

He nuzzles his face into your shoulder. “Got paint all over you.”

A beat of silence passes and he wonders if you’ve succumbed to sleep.

You turn over then, and he notices that you've got paint on your fingers. He has a brief second to brace himself, thinking you're about to launch an attack but your fingers move to your chest instead.

He watches, enraptured, as you draw something over your left breast— a heart, highlighting what was already there. An imprint of his hands coincidentally in the same shape.

His breath catches in his throat.

“This is where I’ll always keep you,” you whisper and his own heart morphs into a mush.

You reach over and paint the same heart across his chest, finger trailing over the soft curls of his hair, leaving gooseflesh in its wake.

“And this," you whisper, eyes bright, "I want this to be mine forever.” There is a subdued hint of a question in your voice, pure adoration on your face and a flutter inside his chest tells him he never wants to part sight with what’s in front of him.

He brings your hand to his lips, kissing the tips tenderly and then laces his fingers with yours.

“It was only ever yours to keep.”

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