#is that just like. a normal parental obsession? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rauspberries · 3 days ago

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ALPHABET SOUP!

lessons in chemistry series.

summary: you feel like you've been fighting all of your life to keep your head above water, with school being the only place you thrive. steve harrington has had everything handed to him on a silver platter, including a full-ride basketball scholarship and a threat to your valedictorian spot. normally, you'd avoid him like the flu, but when he offers you money to tutor him in chemistry, you just can't refuse his offer. tags: afab reader, college & modern au, grumpy!reader x sunshine!steve, trust fund baby!steve x financially struggling!reader, r & steve are both education majors, r works at a bar, mentions of alcohol, r judges a book by a cover & dislikes steve, steve is lwk already obsessed with r, steve has dyslexia & dyscalculia word count: 5.0k

Water droplets paint the glass of the windows, the gloomy day outside perfectly adding to your exhaustion. After a considerate amount of time studying and an eight-hour late shift at the bar, your eyelids felt like lead, your head heavy and cloudy. The last place you want to be at eight in the morning is in this plain-walled building, surrounded by people you either didn’t know or didn’t care much about, listening to someone drone on and on about a topic that you’d just reteach yourself in your apartment later.

Don’t get it wrong, you didn’t hate college in a general aspect. For you, school has always been a place to thrive. Good grades seemed to come easy to you as long as you put in effort and taking notes was more of a hobby than a necessity. The only part you hated was the early wake-ups and the people you were forced to surround yourself with.

Your eight AM chemistry class was very high on your list of hated college classes. Too early in the morning, too bright of a classroom, too many students that were too chatty for any night owl. Worst of all, there was Steve Harrington.

You knew Steve solely by being in his orbit. Basketball player with a full-ride scholarship, a shiny BMW and rich parents. Perfect hair, perfect face, perfect clothes, perfect grades. It was alarming how well he managed to keep his almost-valedictorian (after you, of course) status despite his extremely active social life. No matter where you went, or how far you tried to stray from it, someone had something to say about him, whether it be actual fact, fawning or simple rumors.

Yeah, he hooked up with so-and-so at so-and-so’s party last week. I’m pretty sure she’s still waiting for a call back.

Did you see his ass in those shorts during his last game? Not as good as him in that one pair of jeans, but still phenomenal.

I’m pretty sure his parents own houses all throughout the country. A house for every seasonal vacation. Think he takes people there?

The existence of Steve was infuriating. Never had to work for anything, never seemed to try very hard, yet the two of you were constantly at each other’s necks when it came to best in their class. It didn’t help that the professor seemed to adore him, laughing at the small jokes he threw her way when he was leaving class and congratulating him on every single good grade he received. Her intense focus on Harrington had you wondering if she was a cougar looking for a young college boy to frolic alongside.

Steve sat in front of you in class, which you took as an opportunity to constantly lean over his shoulder to glance at his scores whenever he pulled them up on his laptop. Every time that his grade was higher than yours, you cursed. Every time you had gotten better grades than him, you celebrated. Sometimes, he even raised his computer, as if he had sensed the distaste radiating from you and wanted to rub it in your face.

Infuriating.

You were jolted back to reality by the sound of a clap, blinking your blurry eyes and glancing around in bewilderment. As soon as the professor waved her hands and dismissed the class, you stood out of your seat, shoving your notebook into your backpack and throwing it quickly over your shoulder. To keep your time in this classroom as brief as possible, you had claimed the seat closest to the door, ensuring the quickest exit and not getting stuck behind a crowd of young adults clogging up the thin aisle between the rows of seats.

You can practically taste freedom when you’re suddenly stopped by a hand on the crook of your elbow and the sound of your name, turning around so fast you swore you heard a muscle in your neck snap.

“Hello.” Steve greets the minute you glance at him, leaning his shoulder against the doorway of the classroom. He’s effectively blocking one of the two doors that were open for the students to leave, although he doesn’t seem to mind, all of his focus on you. He doesn’t say anything else other than the greeting, a stupid grin on his face and a strand of perfect hair falling over his forehead.

Brow furrowing and lips pursing in annoyance, you cross your arms over your chest, watching his puppy eyes flicker down to them before he glances back at your face. “What do you want, Harrington?”

With a dramatic mix between a sigh and a groan and one step back, he raises a hand to run it through his hair, pushing it back and doing nothing to tame the stubborn stray lock. “Hello, yes, I am having a good day, thank you.”

“That’s not what I asked,” you deadpan. It’s too early in the morning to play games, especially with the late shift you had worked the night before, leaving irritation to prickle at your skin and your eyes to stay half-lidded as they stopped him with a harsh glare.

He lets out a soft hmph of discontent, obviously having expected this conversation to have gone a totally different way. He stares at you silently until you give up, turning around and walking away from him without a goodbye.

Unfortunately, Steve doesn’t give up. He's on your heels as soon as you move, the front of his shoulder brushing against the back of yours as he walks alongside you, skillfully dodging everyone that was on the other side of him. “Okay, okay. Here’s the deal.”

His fingers brush against your bicep in another attempt to stop you from moving, guiding you into a much-emptier hallway and standing in front of you. “I need help.”

“I’m not a therapist,” you quip.

“Be nice,” he whines.

“No. Continue before I walk away.”

“Okay,” he groans again. You mentally note to insult him for sounding like a zombie and a petulant child. “I need a tutor.”

Right as your mouth opens to shoot another sarcastic comment his way, he’s speaking again – quickly, as if he’s afraid a single bout of silence will send you running. “We both know that you and I are in the running for valedictorian. I have no intent of taking that from you. Maybe.” In what he means to be charming, he winks before continuing. “But the only class I can’t seem to fully grasp is chemistry. I’m assuming that someone as smart as you is doing amazing in that class. Which means I want you to tutor me.”

“You don’t get everything you want, Harrington,” you remind him chidingly, leaning to press your back against the wall behind you. Your feet ache way too much to stand straight any longer. “I’m too busy to worry about your grades alongside mine. Some of us have things to do other than party. There’s over a handful of people who’d be willing to tutor you and one of them is not me.”

Steve’s brow furrows, evidence of his disappointment written all over his face, eyes softening in a pout. “C’mon. I don’t want anybody else to tutor me.” It’s his turn to cross his arms over his chest, jean-clad hip pushing out into what he thinks is a defiant stance. “What’s your price?”

That pulls a bark of a laugh out of your lips, head shaking. “Nothing.”

“You’ll do it?” He perks up foolishly, arms falling to his side.

“No.” You swear you can hear his hope shatter. Good.

There’s a soft slap as one hand perches on his hip, the other rubbing at his face. “You are so goddamn stubborn.” It comes out as a growl of annoyance, although when his eyes find you, his gaze isn’t anything but pleading. “Please. I’ll pay you. Fifty an hour.”

“I could make more than that standing on a corner,” you deadpan. Fifty an hour overall does sound tempting, especially since that’d allow you to lower your amount of shifts at the bar and maybe actually give you a day off, but he can’t know that. It’s insufferable Steve Harrington staring down at you, only a few inches taller than you are and yet attempting to loom.

Another sound of pique grumbled in his throat. “A hundred.”

Now, you’re just messing with him, raising your hand to flex your finger and point at the sky, asking for more. You don’t expect anyone to want to pay more than a hundred dollars an hour for tutoring, especially for something as simple as chemistry and not as intense as the SAT. But Steve isn’t just anyone and it’s obvious that he’s desperate.

“Fine. Three hundred. But I’m not going above that.” Steve’s arms cross over his chest again, a divet forming on his forearms as he clenches in fingers in slight annoyance, brown eyes glaring. “At that point, I can pay someone to take all my tests for me.”

You don’t even attempt to make fun of him, or to spit back a snide comment. Your lips are parted in shock at the idea of someone having so much money that they could spend that much money on tutoring. He catches your shock, a radiant smile pulling on his lips as he reaches into his back pocket.

Quickly, Steve steps forward, sliding a piece of paper between the cover and first page of the notebook in your arms. “My number’s there. Text me and we can choose a time and place, yeah?” With a wink that makes you want to rip his eye out and a very dramatic spin, he slides out of the hallway he had pulled you in, disappearing into the sea of students.

You don’t text Steve.

Surprisingly, it’s not because you don’t want to. After weighing your intense dislike for Steve against the amount of money he was offering, you wouldn’t be able to say no to his offer without feeling the hole in your pocket burn just a bit brighter and bigger. You had kept telling yourself that as soon as you had a free moment, you should text him, nonchalant and easy, telling him to meet you in the library at some point.

But you never had a free moment.

Between attending classes, homework, studying and picking up shifts at the bar, the only breaks you had were to shovel food into your mouth just to keep you alive or to sleep like the dead for a couple of hours before you did it all over again. One day turned into two, then three, until you had ignored Steve for an entire week, his phone number abandoned on your cluttered nightstand.

The thought of texting him has completely left your mind as you flounce behind the bar, grabbing bottles and ignoring the stick of your non-slip shoes against the liquor-covered ground. It’s a busy Wednesday night due to the small band performing on the half-moon stage in the corner, college kids and young adults that peaked in college ordering more than alcohol than they’ll be able to drink before they’re sent home in a cab. Smoke fills the air from puffs of nicotine and loud voices are everywhere.

You’re leaning across the bar to catch some frat boys’ order when you see him. Steve Harrington strolls into the bar like he owns the place, a dark green sweater stretched across his chest, too tight on his biceps and yet rolled at the bottom near the waistband of his mid-wash jeans. Despite being dressed casually, it's like there’s a spotlight on him, your focus trained.

He’s never been here before. The college kids that usually came into the bar were seniors, out of your grade, or had no idea who you were. Very rarely was there a recognizable face, or at least one that you cared about seeing you.

But this bar isn’t a level playing field between you and Steve. It’s hours into your double shift, sweat sticking all of the unmanageable baby hairs that snuck out of your ponytail to the nape of your neck and forehead. Your black shirt doesn’t show any stains and yet is damp in spots, clinging to your skin, with the scent of your perfume completely encumbered by the smell of copious amounts of alcohol. The cut-off jean shorts that were once fitting on your waist and ass have become slightly baggy as you lost weight, hanging low on your hips, fraying at the bottom so that strings brushed against your legs every time you walked.

You looked a mess and he looked like the world never touched him. The unstoppable Steve Harrington.

Nodding at whatever Chad, Brad and Matt (at least, that’s what you assumed their names were) said without catching a lick of their orders, you turn and head directly towards the end of the bar. The employee’s-only door is right there, your exit, your escape, when there’s suddenly a thud as Steve smacks his palms against the bar and leans towards you.

“You have been ignoring me,” he accuses. An index finger raises to jab in your direction reproachfully.

Your response is a scoff, shoulders raising defensively. “I have not.”

Steve’s elbows hit the bar as he slants the entire top half of his body over the dark wood, no doubt getting his sweater sticky. “Then what do you call not texting me, huh? Or leaving class before I can talk to you?”

He’s right. There was no doubt that you had completely forgotten to text him, especially when you could’ve easily done it right after he had given you the piece of paper. But your stubborn streak always won out over your common sense. “I call it being busy, Harrington. God, you’re clingy.”

“Uh-uh. Don’t turn this on me.” He sounds like a child and looks like one, too, with his wrinkled nose and furrowed brow. A full pout is unfolding on his features and you’d laugh if you weren’t so exhausted and growing irritated. “You’re ignoring me. You said yes and then you made me wait a week. A week! Who does that? You cruel, cruel woman.”

You can’t help it. You laugh. It bubbles in your lungs until it hurts, head falling back and air rushing across the exposed, sweat-slicked skin of your neck. It’s not a pretty laugh, not contained. It’s bordering on being described as a cackle, high-pitched and loud.

When your eyes catch onto Steve’s face again, you can see the pink on the tips of his ears, lips parted in shock. As your laugh ceases into small giggles, you shake your head at him and his incessant need to stare at you like you sprouted four heads. “What, Harrington?”

“I didn’t know you could do that.” His lips smack together before he’s gaping again, puppy eyes wide.

Your hand lays flat on your stomach, willing the cramp to settle itself as you fix him with a confused look. “Do what?”

Steve snorts, finally leaning back to slide onto the barstool next to him. “Laugh. Have a good time.” The toe of his shoes hooks into the bar at the bottom so that he can lean back, arms crossing over his chest.

“Oh, fuck you,” is your response, although it’s lacking any malice. Unfortunately, you hadn’t been sure for a while that you were still able to have fun. The most fun you got was playing some horribly-plotted procedural drama in the background while you worked on homework. You couldn’t remember the last time you picked up a book, much less read it, or took a walk just to take a walk.

It’s his turn to laugh, showing off a pretty smile with too much top teeth, a curve of a wrinkle forming near the base of his nose and crow’s feet near the corners of his eyes. Despite his obvious mirth, he doesn’t try to speak again, filling the space between you with shouts of drunkards and the clinking of glasses.

You let out a heavy sigh, shoulders relaxing as you allow yourself to look at him for just a moment. Because while you knew Steve was handsome, had heard all about it from eavesdropping, it was different when it was staring you right in the face. The darker spots decorating his throat and jaw, the indent above his left eyebrow when he pursed his lips in confusion, the way his hair curled at the ends despite no evidence of him being curly-haired. For a split second, you allow yourself to consider him pretty. But for just a moment.

“I’m sorry I didn’t text. I got too busy with school and work and I forgot.” Your hands raise to gesture around you at the bustling crowd as your eyes stay fixed on him, watching his confused face turn into a very faded smirk.

Steve reaches out to grab a wadded-up straw wrapper from the bar, rolling it between his index finger and thumb nonchalantly. “Didn’t know you were capable of that, either,” he teases, just to laugh and take it back when your eyes turn steely. “Kidding! Kidding.” A pause. “Are you free tomorrow night?”

You’re never free. It’s a common fact. But you could always count tutoring as studying, especially since you had a chemistry quiz coming up. You take a few beats of silence to answer, watching him scoot forward in his stool to get closer to you out of the corner of your eye. Then, you nod, gaze finally landing on him just as his shoulders relax in relief. “I guess I can take some time out of my busy day.”

“You won’t regret it.” He’s fucking beaming, lips pulled back into a big large grin.

“I’m sure I will,” you chirp back bittersweetly.

In the few moments you’ve taken to speak to Steve, you’ve forgotten where you are, even with the bitter stench of liquor clouding your senses and the placebo effect of being around drunk people. You’re brought back to reality by the call of your name, head turning to glance at one of your fellow bartenders just as he waves you over to help.

Your mouth opens to bid Steve goodbye, only to shut when he speaks first. “Can I get a rum and coke?” He asks, voice too sweet to not have any hidden meaning, filled with mischief and cheer.

Fixing him with a concerned look, you nod before turning and starting to make his drink. He sits at the end of the bar even as you walk to the other side to start tending to a birthday girl and her drunk friends. He’s there, eyes burning into your skin as you gracefully go from one customer to another.

And then, at the end of the night after you’ve already locked up and everyone’s gone home, he walks you home with his hands shoved into the back pockets of his jeans. He talks your ear off like you’ve been friends for years, regardless of you being silent and only interrupting him to reply with something snarky.

The annoyingly unshakeable Steve Harrington, who walks you to the threshold of your door before pulling his car keys out of his front pocket, turning and heading back the exact same way you had both just walked.

Unlike the majority of your days, Thursday moves slowly. Classes take twice as long to finish, the words on your homework turn blurry as you stare at them in boredom, your mile-long walk home seems to be never ending.

By the time the sun sets over the horizon and the majority of things you needed to get done that day have all come and gone, nothing but dread sits in your guts. The night before with Steve had been fun, even if it tasted like bile to admit it, but it wasn’t going to happen again. You were in this situation for one reason, and one reason only – the paycheck at the end. Then, you and Steve would live your separate lives again. You, in the background. Steve, underneath the spotlight.

Stepping into the library, you pull your backpack up a bit higher on your back as you head directly for a study room. Once inside, you lay out everything you may need. Pens, markers, pencils, textbooks, the homework the both of you had been assigned that morning open on your computer. It’s almost meticulously laid out, as if you were trying to prove that you were studious enough to be capable of this, as if your high grades and obvious determination were not enough.

Steve strolls into the room four minutes after the time you had set to meet, backpack hanging loosely off of a singular shoulder as he apologizes for being late, rattling about how he had trouble with the time.

It’s almost comical, the difference between the two of you. Your neatly organized bag, with your laptop, then your books, then your notebooks, then your charger, zipped and tucked into a corner. Steve’s bag, hanging open with loose, wrinkled pages peaking out, which he tosses on the floor as he flops into a chair.

Your attention is only fully captured when he sets a coffee cup on the desk, three fingers prodding it closer to where you stand, hunched over the table. “What’s that?” You ask skeptically, looking up through your eyelashes at him.

“Coffee. Just how you like it, not poisoned. Figured you’d need it, since you didn’t get much sleep last night.” A shoulder raises in a lazy shrug, trying to act nonchalant despite the way he watched you take a sip. Surprisingly, he had gotten your order exactly right. He must note your surprise because he speaks again, words coming out rushed. “I took a picture of your coffee cup tag today when you turned to unpack your bag.”

Sweet, yes, but also notably creepy. “Jesus Christ, stalker,” you grumble beneath your breath.

“You’re welcome,” he sings in response. Leaning down, he yanks his expensive laptop out of his bag before letting it flop back onto the floor, peeling open the top as he sets it down on the desk. There’s a brief silence as you both finish setting up, interrupted by a clearing of his throat. “Okay. What’re we doing?”

“Chemistry,” you deadpan. A slow grin pulls on your lips as you watch the mock annoyance blossom on his face, head shaking with a quiet chuckle. “We’re just gonna do the homework she assigned this morning. I can re-explain anything you need help with. It’s just stoichiometry, so it shouldn’t be too bad.”

He lets out a noise of acknowledgement as he stares at the assignment, full eyebrows knitting together. Rather than comfortably, a slightly awkward silence falls over you as his focus continues to shift from the computer screen to your face, as if he’s expecting you to say something. “Can I help you?”

Steve squirms in his chair, letting out a deep sigh. “I already don’t get it,” he mumbles. “I didn’t get a single thing she said up there. It was all just a bunch of letters and numbers.” His lips purse, as if holding in more words, brown eyes looking at you expectantly.

Letting out a huff, you cross your arms over your chest. “Well, maybe you should focus a bit harder on the screen than what my coffee order is.”

“It’s not that,” he argues. His eyes narrow defiantly, real annoyance manifesting there. Something’s struck a nerve, although you’re not sure where exactly you’ve pushed the line, especially when the last few days had made it seem like there wasn’t one.

But it’s written all over his face, the secret he keeps. Curve of his brow, pouted top lip, frustrated eyes.

“What aren’t you telling me, Harrington?” You ask, standing up straight and shoving your hands into your front pockets. “Because I can’t help you if you aren’t clear and honest with me.”

With a heavy sigh, he flops back against the chair, butt scooting forward as his legs stretch out beneath the table. It’s a few heartbeats before he finally takes an intake of breath, gaze moving from the floor to the ceiling and then back to you. His mouth shuts and then opens, tongue running against his bottom teeth. “I don’t get these things like other people do. Math has never been easy, not even addition, subtraction. So, this? Not easy. Not fun.”

You stare at him for a moment, arms crossing over your chest before it finally all connects in your brain. Your lips roll into your mouth before you glance at the whiteboard behind you, gesturing to it. “Is it easier if I… draw it out?”

The tips of his ears turn pink, palm pressing into his closed fist to crack his knuckles. Then, subtly, he nods. “Yeah. That’d be good.”

Nodding, you turn around, grabbing the Expo marker from the small ledge at the bottom of the board. Taking a quick glance at the problem on the laptop, you copy it onto the board before starting to draw it out. Circles for each mole, labeled with a symbol rather than a letter. It takes you longer than it would’ve to just solve it yourself, but you’re now determined to find a way to make it make sense to him.

His focus burns into your skin as you stay turned towards the board, heat curling in every spot his gaze touched. You’re able to shake it off until it’s all laid out in a messy scrawl of black marker, turning back to face him and explain what you had laid out.

It’s extremely late by the time the both of you decide to call it quits, the library emptied out hours ago. You’ve walked Steve through balancing chemical equations for what seems like a million times, finger pushing into the whiteboard and faded charcoal streaks staining the white of the board. The both of you only agree to tap out for the day once the worksheet is completed, both of you exhausted from lack of sleep and too much brain power used.

He insists on driving you home, especially with how dark it is outside. When you explain that you only live a block away and walking in the cool air of the night is soothing, he responds by matching your stride as you head towards home.

For a moment, you don’t speak. You want to think he’s not talking because of his exhaustion, or because you’ve spent the last four hours constantly chatting, but you know better. Embarrassment washes over him in waves, radiating over to you. “When did you find out?”

Steve’s face contorts in confusion for only a brief moment before he finally registers what you mean, shoving his hands into the pocket of his jeans. “When I was younger, my parents just thought I was dumb. Not that they’d say it like that. It was always hidden sweetly. Stevie just needs some extra help sometimes,” he mocks in a higher-pitched tone, complete with a rolling of his eyes. “When I was a teenager, I heard about it from a guidance counselor while talking about college admissions and scheduled myself to see an educational psychologist without them noticing.”

“And it was a relief,” he admits. “I always just thought I was stupid, that cheating on homework and tests would be the only way I’d pass anything. But then I got the accommodations, the extra help I needed, and everything got easier.”

You nod, not wanting to pry too much into the subject in case he closed up. “Why don’t you use the accommodations now?” You question, head tilting as you look up at him.

He shrugs, right foot kicking a bit harder at the concrete as he walks. “I guess I didn’t want anyone knowing. Everyone sees me as this person that everything comes easy to, and sometimes it’s just easier to fit that, I guess.”

A laugh bubbles in your chest, gravitating a bit closer to him until your elbows brush as you walk side-by-side. “God, I feel like an ass,” you breathe out, eyes staring straight ahead at the streetlight-lit streets.

Steve’s head whips to look over at you, looking stricken by your words. “What do you mean?”

The look on his face breaks out another laugh, head shaking. “You don’t want to know the names I’ve called you in my mind. For being so good at school, for being able to go to parties, to be the star of the show and not visibly struggle like I have been. I’m the fucking person people are speaking to when they say don’t judge a book by its cover.” Then, sheepishly, to lighten the mood a bit more, you glance up at him. “Sorry for being an ass to you in my head.”

“And aloud,” he quips, although it's obvious he doesn’t mean it by the grin that spreads on his lips and the chuckle that splits it apart. “I forgive you. But I am taking it as a challenge.”

“A challenge for what?” You snort.

“To make you like me.” He beams, eyes glancing up at the sparse speckle of stars in the sky. Shaking your head, you curl your arms around yourself, shoes scuffing against the ground. “I already like you, Harrington.”

Without warning, Steve’s arm wraps around you, a warm palm on your hip to pull you closer to his side and away from the drunk frat guy stumbling on the grass and sidewalk. The touch is gone as quick as its there, leaving you frazzled as you stare up at his smirking face. “I meant to make you like me enough to say my first name.”

“Not happening.”

He doesn’t have time to answer before you’re at the bottom of the stairs leading to your apartment, his body turning towards you to say goodbye. Slender fingers reach out to adjust the flimsy collar of your jacket before his hand returns to being tucked inside of his pocket. “Thank you for today. Really.” And, to your surprise, he seems genuinely sincere. Laying your hand on his bicep, you give him a soft squeeze and smile before stepping back towards the entrance of your apartment. “Same time next week?”

Two of his fingers raise to his forehead to give you a small salute, grinning as he watches you put the key in the door and slip inside.

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