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atinylittlepain · 11 months ago

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Split Seam

steve harrington x f!oc

part of the girl boy series

18+ allusions to smut, stuffy family dynamics, overall just a fun time tho

a/n | marriage done the standy way, this was fun to write :')

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It’s raining in Philadelphia and chocolate hearts are on sale at the CVS down the block from his apartment. Valentine’s cards too, pink and purple and red and everything must go. He buys a bottle of seltzer and a chocolate rose. When he gets to the station he unwraps the red tinfoil and takes a large bite out of the bloom. He’s starving, didn’t get lunch at the office today with the usual end of the week scramble of numbers and numbers and suits and numbers. But he’s only got an hour and change on the train. He can hold out, Hershey’s aside.

He’s done this train ride sixty-two times now. This is number sixty-three, but he’s not keeping track. All he knows is that it still feels like relief when he’s seated and the train starts moving. It’s always felt like a relief to be moving in the same direction as her again.

They’ve gotten this right, he thinks. As right as they possibly could, at least. The first year of what Andy called moderate-to-long distance was hard. Awkward phone calls with long swaths of silence, calls that were missed altogether, crossed wires, cataclysmic blowouts that were and weren’t about the things they argued about. But they’ve made it this far, nearly two years of this perpetual back and forth ache that’s only soothed with train rides, with closing that gap.

There’s been three apartments in New York, and he’s pretty sure he likes this last one that she’s in the best. Greenwich Village, old brick and pock-marked sidewalks and tall windows that wash warm over lightwood floors, and he likes being the one making this trip because he likes getting to see her in a space that feels like her. And he likes this too, the same as the first sixty-two trips, she’s waiting for him at the station, that brief moment, miracle, within which he sees her but she doesn’t see him. Checking her watch and running a hand back through her hair, in her brown leather coat, sharp and smooth and too cool for a banker from Philly, but she’s here for him, smiling big, smiling everything when her eyes finally catch his.

This always the same too, a soft, sweet rejoining, her hand curling at the nape of his neck, other arm slung over his shoulder and here, here, she presses her lips to his cheek, her nose sliding in line with his and hi, baby, another kiss, quick, and he’s home.

“They have you staying late again, don’t they? Or did you get all dressed up just to see me?” Little tug to his tie as they thread through throngs of people, out into the cool damp night in as close of a tangle they can be without getting heckled for it on the street.

“Catch-up from the holidays, or at least that’s what everyone keeps saying.”

“Right, right, crunching numbers and murdering secretaries American Psycho-style?”

“You think you’re so funny, don’t you?” Little squeeze to her hip, little mean as they continue their walk back to her place. Her grin gets lit up by the neon creeping into the oncoming night.

“Kidding, your colleagues however, well, yeah.” Well, yeah, Andy had come into town right before Christmas to go to his company holiday party with him, and had gotten into not one, not two, but three verbal altercations with his co-workers about the invisible labor of women, as well as the recession. Not that he would admit it, but he had been impressed, and maybe a little flustered, watching her hold her own amongst the suits. They had left early on account of said flustering, as well as the little snap he had given to one of the suits who told him something about needing a muzzle for that one. The partition in the company-ordered limo was raised when they got back into it, the green velvet of her dress hiked up and up and up exposing sheer black nylon and skin, and they both had forgotten all about the suits and the snap by the time they got back to his apartment. He still gets a little hazy, sweet gauze in his mind when he thinks about it.

“How are the feminists this week?”

“Oh you know, angry, hairy, generally awesome and oppressed. I turned in my third draft on Wednesday.”

“That’s amazing, honey. It must feel good to be almost finished.”

“It feels good to finally get my advisor off my ass. Bigger and better things, et cetera, et cetera.” He knows not to ask after bigger and better, having made the mistake once of asking if she had heard back from any of the PhD programs yet. She had smiled a watery thing, and promptly dissolved into a pool of sound and tears, too much, don’t ask. She’ll tell him when the news comes in, he knows, though there still remains a selfish slice of him that hopes and hopes and hopes UPenn comes back with a yes, and she answers with a yes too. But for now this is enough, here, and stopping her on the stairs up to her apartment to press a curved kiss to her mouth, so proud of you, honey. She beams, scoffs, thank you, and it drips with sheepish sweetness, her eyes rolling up to hide the truth of it, but he still catches it, lets her believe he doesn’t when she tugs him into her apartment.

It’s true what they say about absence and fondness, at least in the case of Sylvia, who lately has been greeting him with a desperate peel of cries, twining around his legs with such a fervor that he has to try hard not to trip over her. No petting though, she still likes to scratch if it isn’t on her terms.

“Nice flowers.”

“Thank you, someone sent them on Valentine's day.” A veritable flame of roses sits preening in a vase on her kitchen counter. He had asked for the biggest, the best, no expenses spared because he’s making money now, real money, and any gifts for her have to be a sneak attack because of it.

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmhmm, you better watch out because it looks like you have some competition from another suitor.” She lays the accent on thick, her family’s accent, soo-tah, throws in a waggle of her fingers, ring glinting for good measure. The ring, and the whole ordeal of it. There had been no family heirlooms left to ask Frank and Kitty Broder permission for, just a nervous conversation the day after Thanksgiving, the one before last, sweating hard beneath his collar and hands shaking. Because while Andy is anything but traditional, Steve picked up pretty fast that this was not quite the case with her parents. A fiance of the second oldest had clued him in on as much the first time Steve was brought home to meet the family, summer break and a big reunion, plenty of hands to shake and names to forget. And the second oldest’s fiance had sidled up next to Steve with a sloshing glass of prosecco and the grin of someone who had figured this whole production out. Somewhere between the mafia and the Vatican, you do the math, man.

Frank was unmoved, tolerant of the idea at best, considering him over the dark rims of his Buddy Holly-esque glasses, a stylish man, tall and thin man with a slick of gray hair and a thick gold ring that could blind you if it flashed the wrong way. He only had one question for Steve which, mercifully, he could answer correctly. Yes, he told Frank, raised Roman Catholic, though he left the non-practicing part out. Meanwhile, Kitty was already designing the invitations in her mind.

And that wasn’t even the hard part. Because yes, hasty by some judgements (Eddie’s), and unlikely by other judgements, given Andy’s views (Robin). But he knew, he knew, spent a few months looking for a ring in the evenings when he’d get off work. When he did find one, he didn’t even wait a week, letting the black velvet box burn a hole in his pocket on the train ride to New York that very same weekend. And the proposal itself was simple, no fuss or fanfare, if not a little nerve-wracking. He spoke honestly, plainly. He spoke love. And he’s never known relief like he did when she smiled and told him there’s no one else I’d ever say yes to, baby. So maybe it’s hasty, and maybe it’s all skewed a little unorthodox. But it’s theirs.

“They better act fast then, got that appointment tomorrow and all.”

“Did you bring all your documents?”

“Driver’s license, social security number. We’re set, honey.”’

“I’m still not changing my last name.”

“No, I know, I don’t care about that.”

“My mother is pissed about it, apparently so is yours.”

“I think when all this is said and done, those two are gonna leave their husbands and move in with each other.”

“God, that’d be good for them, or maybe terrible.”

“Little of both, probably.” One of the stranger outcomes of this whole wedding thing, the alliance that’s formed between Diane and Kitty. Though maybe not that strange, he thinks, certainly plenty of common in between them. At the very least, this wedding wouldn’t be happening next month without the pair of them leading the absolute battle charge of planning they’ve accomplished. Kitty’s words, knowing my Miranda, she’d be happy with a shotgun wedding in Reno, and Andy hadn’t disagreed, happy to leave all the cake and the flowers and the tulle up to their mothers. Steve was more than happy to stay out of the fray too.

“You didn’t eat lunch, did you?”

“How can you tell?”

“Steve, you never eat lunch. I ordered Thai before I left to get you,Tom Kha Gai and egg rolls, the usual. It should be here soon.”

And the rest of the evening is very boring, very mundane, a third-floor window lit up warm, and framed inside of it, them on the couch with a smattering of takeout boxes. His tie undone and hanging loose around his neck, top three buttons of his shirt popped as well. Warmth and salt and sour sating him, he goes slack when she tries to teach him how to properly hold his chopsticks, moreso enjoying the feeling of her hands fidgeting with his fingers, her careful concentration. He goes right back to using a fork when she’s finished, grinning at the roll of her eyes. And afterwards, stomachs full and eyes heavy, worn weary from their respectively long weeks, they get into the shower, all kind touch, simple pleasure, her fingers kneading back along his scalp and his hands soaped and slipping over her skin, working into the spots that he knows ache, satisfaction in her sighs.

Soon, he thinks, hopes, this won’t be a thing they have to ration, all this touch, all this sense, all this closeness. This will simply become the thing they do every night, getting into bed together and talking about things that don’t really matter while their bodies relearn one another. He wants these things in a near dizzying way, big, bold, brazen want that simmers and sighs in her presence, tired kisses, and it’s enough, her hand in his hair, and it’s enough.

He wakes up the next morning bleary-eyed with want, eager for this early morning appointment at the county clerk’s office, because this is another step, big step, making it even more real step. They both seem to feel it, quiet over the rims of their coffee mugs, smiling, and what? What? What’re you smiling about? It’s a big day, isn’t it? Yeah, nervous? No, you? Not at all, no. And he means that when he says it. There are few things in his life that he has been so certain about.

And yes, maybe they had a romantic idea of how this would go, but it really is just paperwork in a dimly lit cubicle, and signatures here and here and yes, wedding will take place within sixty days. Steve tries to make a joke about cousins, and is only met with a blank look from the clerk, and a swift side-eye from Andy.

But when the paperwork is signed and there’s a manilla envelope with their wedding license in his hand, there is a lightness, a lift, a giddy kick, like kids getting away with something when they leave the office. Tucked in close to each other, a little oblivious, and maybe a little obnoxious, and a man walking the other way lets them know as much, bumping right into Steve’s shoulder and watch it! And without missing a beat, Andy’s head whipping around and hey, fuck you, we just got married! Which, well, technically not, but it still makes them both laugh a breathless thing, wild, wind-bitten smiles. And they’re still running on all that flare and fluster when they get back to her apartment, open-mouthed kisses and greedy hands and she has to hold him back by the lapel of his coat to grin an awful thing and you wanna see the dress?

“You have it?”

“Yeah.”

“Like, here, right now?”

“Yes, Steve, it’s been fitted and everything. Locked and loaded and ready to blast me off into marital bliss with you, et cetera, et cetera. Now, do you, or don’t you, want to be the first, the very first, to see it on me in all its matrimonious glory?”

“Isn’t that bad luck?”

“Baby, please.” She groans, pressing her forehead against his, and really, he’s just giving her a hard time, because he knows what this means to her, beneath all the snark. The first to see it before anyone else, before the rehearsal, and the aisle, and all the family that neither of them really care to have present. A moment for them, just for them, and no one else.

“You really want me to see?”

“Mmhmm.” Quiet, crackling murmurs, whispered between smiles.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’d like to see.”

“Go sit on the couch, I’ll be right back.” And so he does, a little shake in his hands, a little burst and batter of his heart against his ribs. Nervous now, and he’s not sure why, the ticking of the clock pulling taut and loose all over like melted taffy. And then, and then, the padding of bare feet, and the hard rush of blood in his ears, and the sweet exhale when he does finally see her.

“Honey.” Bordering on pained, the word is said with a sigh, and he’s not going to, no, no, just a little flush of heat behind his eyes and in his throat and Andy’s baby, don’t cry makes him sniff hard and swallow, his hand settling on her hip when she steps closer between his legs. Smooth white silk and simple, and her hair is still gathered in the clip she tucked it up into this morning and she’s still wearing a smear of Vaseline on her lips and she’s the best thing he’s ever seen, he thinks. Tells her as much and she smiles big, chin tucked down and her thumb stroking along the column of his neck where her hand is loosely curled.

“Well, thoughts?”

“Wow, just wow, yeah, no other thoughts.” He knows she’s going to start wilting under any more compliments, never one for them, a warbly Steve that makes him smile, squeezing at her hip, coaxing her to c’mere, c’mere, even as she resists his pull.

“If you fuck up this dress we’re gonna have a problem.”

“Not gonna fuck it up, just come a little closer. I wanna, uh, look at the stitching.”

“You’re so full of shit.” Even as she says it, her smile is starting to slip and spread, another shuffled step closer as his hands splay across her low back, and lower, and lower, and a squeeze that’s just a little mean, making her laugh while he starts to hike all that silk up and up into his hands.

A few weeks later, when he’s met with the sight of her in that dress in a very, very different context, all he can think about is that afternoon. No one will ever know that he got to see her first in that dress, before anyone else. Nor will they know that they spent the rest of that afternoon splayed on her living room floor with the fabric of her dress bunched up around her hips and his hands curled into the plush of her thighs and his mouth, open and taking, watching the dip and fold of fine fabric, the arch of her back, pleasure for pleasure’s sake. No one will know that in the after, his hips stilled and flush against hers, both of them panting and preening into each other’s kisses, they found the smallest tear at her hip, and that she couldn’t be mad about it, not even a little, when he sunk back down between her legs and laid his apology at the open hinge of her hips.

He’ll find that tear again, when the vows are said, and the family and friends are clapping, and they’re walking down the aisle together, his hand on her hip. He’ll find the tear then, the perfect secret shared between them in a quick glancing smile.

#steve harrington #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington smut #steve harrington au #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington stranger things #steve harrington series #steve harrington story #girl boy

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random-imagines-blog · 1 year ago

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Struck Blind {Steve Harrington x Reader, Part 6}

Wordcount: 2641 Chapter Summary: There's some strangeness around Billy. Steve-free chapter.

Previous Chapter can be found here. Next Chapter can be found here.

Something was going on with Billy. You couldn’t quite put your finger on what it was but he was spending more time out than usual. He was yelling back at Neil more than usual. He wasn’t playful with you or Max, he wasn’t teasing or offering to spend time with you. He only really came home to sleep. At first, you thought perhaps he found himself a girlfriend rather than fucking around all the time, that could be an explanation for being out at all hours of the night. But not the surly attitude. And not him ignoring you like this. He had never done that before. What if he had found out about your date with Steve - what if he had overheard Max asking you about it when you got home afterwards? No, even that wouldn’t account for this. He’d be mad but he’d most likely try to lecture you about it, to remind you of what a piece of shit Steve was. He wasn’t the type to keep it bottled inside - he took it out on the world.

But it also wasn’t as if Billy was the kind of guy who would let loose his feelings if he was pestered to. So you just watched him from afar, and hoped for the best. There was nothing else for it.

You grabbed a Popsicle and sat outside on the front porch, trying to catch any of the breeze that was supposed to be out here, according to the weatherman. But there was no breeze - just clouds starting to form, threatening a storm. You sighed and went over my options for the day - bus to the mall, bus to the library… all involving buses because Billy was MIA. There was only a small oil patch on the ground where his Camaro usually was. You licked the cherry Popsicle and stared at it, thinking about the night that we got into that accident. And how that really showed Billy’s character. That he just took off after that. Left you there because you wanted to help. Maybe you didn’t know your cousin as well as you thought that you did.

“Do you know where Billy is?” Max’s voice hit you. You looked up to see her and Eleven starting to walk up towards the house. Their expressions were extremely serious. Much more serious than someone their ages should be.

“No idea, he was gone before I was awake,” You said, looking between the two. “I don’t even know if he came home at all last night.”

Now the two girls looks at each other.

A moment later, after filling you in about what they had done last night, Eleven with her astral projection or whatever it’s called, you were in Billy’s room with them, keeping a look-out though everyone was at work. “Why do I get the feeling we’re going to find all kinds of wrong in here?” Max asked.

“Just don’t touch any tissues, they’re not used for sneezing,” You advised, wishing you had thought to put on some dish washing gloves. But you were too curious not to be in here. Too concerned not to.

Billy’s room was messier than it usually was - not that he kept it clean exactly but this was the room of someone that had been distracted. Dirty clothes spilling out of his laundry basket and onto the ground; his radio still on and playing metal music; his ashtray overflowing and so he started using a plate that still had sandwich crumbs on it. You remembered making him that sandwich. That was days ago.

Max went to his night table, opening it up and peering inside. “Ugh, gag me with a spoon,” She said, closing it back up quickly. You didn’t have to ask what was in there. Teenage boys. Disgusting.

You don’t find anything in the bedroom, other than the signs that he hadn’t been cleaning, so you three went into the bathroom. It had changed since you had taken a shower yesterday afternoon. The bathtub was filled with water, and empty plastic bags were swimming on the surface. Bags of ice from the corner store. The ones used to fill coolers and the like.

“Max?” El asks. Your redhead cousin stepped forward, grabbing one of the empty plastic bags.

“Ice,” She said, reading the bag. “It’s just ice. It’s probably for his muscles or something. He works out like a maniac, right y/n?”

“He does,” You had to agree with that, but the fact that he would just leave the mess in there despite knowing that Neil would get on his case about it … that was a bad sign. And then your eyes caught on another one. Blood. You definitely hadn’t noticed that today. El noticed too. Her breath was trembling, and you lightly put your arm around her, trying to reassure her that everything was going to be okay, that there was an explanation for this, a reasonable one, there had to be. But she pulls from you and opens up the cupboard beneath the sink. She pulls out the garbage bucket that was in there. The one that you cleaned a few days ago, emptying into the trash bin.

“What is it?” You ask with a tremor.

El pulled out the red lifeguard first aid kit, and then there was a lanyard, with a bright yellow whistle. Or it had been bright yellow. Now, like the lanyard, it was blood stained.

“Well shit,” You sighed.

And somehow, you ended up in the locker room of the pool, after discovering that Billy wasn’t there, and that the lifeguard first aid kit, and the whistle, belong to Heather Holloway. The locker room smelt like wet clothes and unwashed feet, something that was noticed by Max too as her nose curled up once you were in there. But there wasn’t much time to waste.

You start flooding the locker room, turning on showers, sink taps, everything that we can in order to help El find Heather. Find Billy.

“This could just be .. jerk Billy behavior right?” You asked Max, as El was putting duct tape over a diving mask. “You don’t think it’s…”

“I don’t know. He’s always been weird,” Max said, which you could understand. “But he was doing a lot better since you came here so…”

Although that was a really nice thing to hear, it didn’t help that much right now. “Wish it worked enough that he would actually talk to me when something is wrong,” You mumbled.

The two of you fell into silence when El put on the blacked out diving mask, and began to look for Heather. You sat on one side of her, Max on the other, your shoes becoming soaked by the flooded floor. You just looked at her. Her powers were fascinating to you. This was the first time that you had ever seen her use them.

“What do you see?” Max asked.

“A door. A red door.”

After another minute or two, El takes off the mask. Her nose bleeding. You immediately get up to find a towel while El collapses in Max’s hands. Your cousin and yourself look at each other, and you're both thinking the same thing.

Whatever this is - it’s not good.

She comes around a short time later, and she tells everything that she saw. The red door. Heather, the missing lifeguard, she’s screaming, she’s reaching to El for help, but then she gets quickly taken away by … something. And if it wasn’t something to do with the Upside Down, then El should have been able to see it. But it wasn’t clear what it was. Something was stirring in Hawkins again, and you were apparently going to be here for it.

In your still wet shoes, you flirt with the manager of the pool, and you get him to tell you the address of Heather. It took some eyelash batting but you got the job done, thanking him for being so helpful, and how he’s such a good man to do this favor, and you even wink at him, sticking your tongue out as you turn back around.

You take the address with me back to Max and El, who are getting ready on their bikes.. “Let’s go,” You said, jumping onto the back of Max's, holding on to her shoulders.

The streets aren’t flooded yet but if the rain continues, they just might be.

Max knew the city better than you or El, but the three of you were squinting through raindrops, trying to read the numbers on the mailboxes to find the right one and then - red door.

“Is this it?” Max asked.

El nodded and together, you three walked up. You felt responsible for these kids now. Was this how Steve had felt, when he watched over them at the junkyard? When he nearly sacrificed himself to take care of the demodogs, as Dustin had called them? Whatever, you just knew that you were going to go through everything that they did. Not leave them alone in the off chance that there was something, anything that you could do.

Especially if Billy was somehow involved.

We didn’t bother knocking. Or rather, El didn’t, since she somehow unlocked the door with her mind. You walked in behind them and noticed that the interior made everything really look like it was the perfect family home. As you walked down the hallway, you saw a large family portrait. Professionally done. Mother, Father, Daughter, happy posing smiles. Looking like something straight out of Leave it to Beaver.

You hear a laugh and the three of you looked at each other. It was the last sound that you expected to hear, if Heather was really in trouble. And then seeing the happy family together, with Billy sitting there, was the last thing that you had expected to see.

“Isn’t that cute, huh?” Billy was saying.

“He’s too funny,” Mother was saying to Father.

And that’s the scene that we walked in on. And just because we were in the shot of it now, didn’t mean that it was over, apparently. Billy saw you. He saw Max. He said your names out loud.

“We didn’t mean to barge in,” Max said, speaking for the three of you. El and Max both looked like they were in disbelief. You were studying Billy, trying to figure out what was so different about him. “We tried to knock, but maybe you didn’t hear us over the storm.”

“I’m sorry, who is this dripping all over my living room right now?”

“I’m sorry,” Billy said. That was one of the startling things right there. He didn’t apologize for anything. Not unless he was being forced to and even then, it only ever came out as sarcastic. “Janet, Tom, this is my sister Maxine, and my cousin Y/N.”

He stood up, and started to walk over to you, El and Max. You stood your ground, dripping but not moving, and you were looking straight into his blue eyes.

You had known Billy all of your life. You spent time together in the same crib. The same playpens. He was at almost all of your birthday parties until they had moved here to Indiana. He was the one that you went to when you were angry, because he either helped hype up that anger until you burnt yourself out, or he was able to help you, when he didn’t even know how to help himself. He was the boy that was only scared of his dad and of dark places, like caves, or even the tubes inside of McDonalds play-places when the lights were dimmed.

So essentially, you knew Billy. Better than his father did, better than Max did. The only person who might have known him better was his mother. The person whose eyes that you were looking into right now - you knew that it was not Billy. It might have looked like Billy. But it was definitely not him. Like someone made a doll of him, a puppet. There might have been a trace, far back, but right behind those eyes was someone else. Something Else.

“What on earth are you doing here? Is something wrong?”

Your immediate reaction was to protect these girls, despite the fact that Eleven was an actual weapon and that Max could definitely handle herself, as she showed Billy last fall. You are the adult here. You need to act like it. So you pushed yourself between the two girls, standing in front of them, even as they spoke.

“We just wanted to make sure everything was okay,” Max said, her confusion showing through her voice. And now here was fake Billy with his fake concern.

“Okay, why wouldn’t it be okay?”

“Where is she?” Eleven asked.

“I’m sorry, where is who?”

Coming out of the kitchen, carrying a tray of cookies, the smell hitting you before the realization of who it was that was carrying them, came Heather. Not a scratch on her. Almost too squeaky clean. Not at all the way that Eleven had described.

But because of how Billy was acting, you believed Eleven. There was something not right going on here.

“Well, they’re a little burnt, I’m sorry-” Heather said, in her usually sweet voice. It was definitely her own voice, her own face. But whether it was actually Heather, you didn’t know. This whole scene was looking a bit too.. domestic bliss.

“Heather, this is my cousin y/n, and my sister Maxine,” Billy introduced. “And I’m sorry, I did not catch your name.”

“That’s not important,” You spoke, staring at Billy. “What are you doing here?”

That’s when El spoke, not to say her name, but to stare at Heather. “I … saw … you -”

“Your manager, at the pool,” Max said quickly. “He said you guys didn’t come in to work today, so we got worried.”

“Heather wasn’t feeling so hot today, so we thought we’d take the day off to nurse her back to health. But you’re feeling just fine now, aren’t you Heather?”

“I’m feeling so much better,” Heather agreed.

Billy looked past you at Eleven. And the look that was in his eyes - it proved to you even further that this was not your cousin. This was not the Billy that you had grown up with. There was something else in there, wearing his skin. Pretending that this was Halloween and that this boy was simply a costume. The three of you were offered cookies by Heather and her mother but you weren’t going to take them.

You didn’t want to leave without Billy. “Could you drive us home?” you asked him, pleaded with the Billy that still had to be inside of there somewhere. You couldn’t believe that he was gone. “It’s raining pretty hard out.”

“I can’t be rude,” Billy said, which was … not true. Billy could be rude. Billy was rude. The light drained from your eyes then, and you turned to the girls behind you. “Let’s go.”

The three of you in disbelief, you headed back outside into the rain. You didn’t skateboard this time. You just tucked it under your arm and walked along with the girls as they moved slowly, not able to see too much as the fog rolled in with the pelting drops. You took one last look over your shoulder at Heather’s house, and saw Billy, watching through the window. The look that he exchanged with El was more chilling than the cold rain.

“That wasn’t him,” You said, as you made your way back to Max’s house. El looked at you, like she believed you. Like she had seen it for herself, even if she didn’t have the most experience with Max’s brother. But your red haired cousin - she didn’t look so sure.

#Steve Harrington x reader #Steve Harrington story #Steve Harrington #Stranger Things #Stranger Things story #x reader #Struck Blind #SteveH

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reading-the-stars · 6 months ago

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This was so fluffy and sweet!!!🥰 Beautifully written!

Driving For Dummies

Steve Harrington x Reader

Steve wasn’t sure how you managed to rope him into this.

He didn’t let anyone drive his car.

Yet here you were in the driving seat for a change and he was sat next to you, slightly scared for his life and definitely scared for his car.

“Steve you’re meant to be teaching me!” You hissed, eyes unmoving and both hands clasped to the steering wheel. “How do you make this look so easy!” You yelped out as you narrowly dodged someone cycling.

“Jesus Christ sweetheart can you just, just concentrate.” He responded looking nervously over the dash and at the road ahead.

“Well tell me how I’m doing, what am I doing wrong?” You asked frustrated, it was around 8pm the sun only just setting across Hawkins and the breeze through the car was helping you relax.

A little.

“You’re doing great just, ease up a little. You get any closer to the steering wheel you could make out with it.” He told you in a sarcastic tone.

You did relax, your knuckles no longer white from clutching the wheel, knees not so locked up.

Rolling your shoulders back you took a deep breath.

“Think I’m ready for my test?” You asked jokingly and Steve’s scoff made you glare at the empty road ahead of you.

“You are a useless teacher.” You grumbled making him laugh out loud.

“And you are a lousy driver.” His tone was teasing but made you want to hit him nonetheless. “How have you made it to twenty four without a license anyway?” He quizzed as he fiddled with the radio station.

“I’ve always had you to drive me.” Your tone was sickly sweet, and it warmed him to hear you speak of him like that whether it was a joke or not.

He loved that it was true, you did have him, in any way you wanted him truth be told.

He did take you to school, and drop you off, he then took you to work and dropped you back home. He even drove all the way to Chicago a few times to take you back to college or to pick you up when you were home sick.

“Great, I enabled this.” Was his reply instead with a playful eye roll.

Less pathetic.

“You did, and that’s why you have to teach me how to drive. I want my own car without nagging you every five minutes for a ride.” You whined as he finally settled on a station, Foreigner playing one of their soppy love songs he refused to admit he loved.

“What if I love you calling every five minutes for a ride?” Steve asked looking over to you.

“I know you don’t.” You mumbled pulling over to the side of the road. “Can you drive us back please?” You’d asked making him grin.

“If I do am I enabling this habit further?” He asked making you giggle.

“What if I love you enabling my habit?” You joked right back, using his own words against him.

“You look prettier sitting passenger anyway.” He stated and reached over to run his thumb over the crease lines between your eyebrows to soothe them. “You frown when you concentrate.” He added in a softer more gentle tone.

Nothing else was said but you both got out and crossed each other walking round the car to swap sides, his fingers brushed your arm as you did and you drove back through Hawkins in silence.

“How many more lessons do you think I need?” You asked rolling your head onto your shoulder and taking him in.

Sun kissed skin and a slightly red tint on his cheeks suggesting he definitely didn’t put on SPF like he told you he did this morning.

He sent you back an easy smile and wink.

“One hundred, and I’m going to start charging.” Smiling fondly at his words you reached over to poke his cheek.

“It sounds like you want to drive me around forever Harrington.” Your teasing words once again warmed him.

“Let’s test that theory sweetheart.” He finalised pulling up outside the small place he’d bought a year back, the other side of Hawkins to his parents but it suited Steve.

It was small and cozy but it was his and he loved it. He loved it more when you were there, which in all honesty was most of the time, he’d told you a hundred times just to move in but you never officially did.

“Same time again tomorrow?” You asked pushing the door open as his arms wrapped around your waist from his place behind you.

“Hmm maybe.” He offered dropping a soft kiss on the side of your neck.

“Maybe?!” You screeched outraged turning in his arms and wrapping your own around his neck.

“I said I was going to start charging.” He reminded before pouting for another kiss that you reached up to plant on his lips.

“What’s the cost Harrington?” Playing along as he walked you backwards to the sofa.

He pretended to think before kissing you again.

“I can think of a few things.” He purred once more before you were both laying on the couch, Steve hovering over you. “Besides, I think I’m pretty happy driving you around forever.” He informed making you smile up at him.

“Well if that’s the case you don’t need all the kisses in lieu of payment.” You mocked making him shake his head.

“Oh no, no you definitely have to keep kissing me. I might die if you ever stop.” You both laughed at the dramatic turn of his words.

“Well I can’t let that happen can I.”

“Absolutely not.” He scolded kissing you one final time.

Okay, you thought happily.

He can drive you everywhere forever.

#steve harrington fluff #steve harrington oneshot #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x reader #stranger things #steve harrington #steve stranger things #steve harrington x you #steve harrington story

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steviesbicrisis · 1 year ago

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To me it’s the fact that Steve assumed Robin had a license but still woke up 3 hours before his work shift to drive her to school everyday.

That is not a plot hole everybody, that is just the kind of person Steve Harrington is.

#you dont understand #what a great friend Steve is #this is the main reason why I don’t want his story to revolve again around Nancy #it’s him and Robin and they have the greatest friendship in the show #these two mf will get married and live together and it’s going to be 10000% platonic #if you look up platonic soulmates in the dictionary SBAM just pictures of Stobin #Im done bye #steve harrington #platonic stobin #robin buckley #stranger things

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deunmiu-dessie · 9 months ago

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he misses you. he misses you like a flower misses the sun. like the desert misses the rain. like you are the entirety of his being. as if you hold the key to his fierce, thumping bloody heart within the palm of your hands, like he is nothing without you— and perhaps he isn't. he doesn't feel like himself, no, in fact, he feels empty. like a shell of the man he used to be before you. he feels as though the world has lost its color, its meaning, and it makes him feel bare— it makes him feel.

he misses you. he misses the warmth of your perfume, a sweet and spicy blended aroma of saffron and sugared lavender. he misses your smile, all wide and pretty— genuine and charming, and always all for him. he misses the sound of your laughter, raw and boisterous, but sometimes soft and breathy, intimate. he misses your kisses, shy and cloying— yet fierce and angry at times as well. he misses the small things, like the scatter of moles across the expanse of your body that he finds himself counting when he can't fall asleep. or the way you fuss over him, mumbling curses and your love for him all in the same sentence.

he is nothing without you, and he knows it all too well.

the soft jangle of your keys in the lock makes him look up from his journal, the door swinging open. and despite himself, he finds that he's softened underneath your warm, loving gaze. ah, he also misses the sound of your voice, euphonious and soft, a tone you use for him specifically.

❝why are you looking at me like that?❞

he can feel his heart dance within his chest, pounding fiercely as you slant your hip to the side, the very same hips he adores holding onto when swaying with you to music. your eyes, which always seem to sweep him under with their intensity with no fail, are glittering with mirth, it knocks the breath from his chest. ❝ i adore you,❞ he utters— he sounds like a fool in love, and he doesn't particularly mind it. your cheeks flush with color and you playfully roll your eyes. that's alright, you don't need to say it back, he knows.

❝help me with the groceries?❞

he? ⸺ SIMON, gojo satoru, DAMON SALVATORE, soap, older!TANJIRO, scott mccall, GAZ, clark kent, EMMETT CULLEN, leon kennedy, STEVE HARRINGTON, giyu tomioka, JOHN PRICE, loran, ULYSSES, rick grimes, KÖNIG, dick grayson, SPENCER REID.

honestly it can be anyone you envision.

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morganbritton132 · 4 months ago

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Eddie: *overhears some girls gossiping about how Steve and Nancy got in a fight in an alley and the police got involved*

Eddie: *hears someone else say that Nancy Wheeler was taken to the police station*

Eddie: *sees Steve jumpy as hell with bruises on his face*

Eddie: *notices that Steve doesn’t talk to his friends anymore. notices that Steve and Nancy always seem miserable together. notices that only one of them is trying to please the other*

Eddie: *witnesses the halloween bathroom fight*

Eddie: *sees Steve confused, beat up, bruised to hell, and single the literal next time he sees him*

Eddie: *puts the pieces together and draws a conclusion*

Conclusion: *is wrong*

Eddie, accosting Steve at lunch: Hey, did you know that if a guy is getting hit by somebody that it’s abuse? Even if it’s a girl doing it.

Steve, confused: Oh-kay?

Steve, deciding that Eddie is reaching out to him for a reason and draws the same wrong conclusion about Eddie: I mean, yeah. That’s - yeah? That’s true. And messed up. You should tell someone if that’s, uh…going on.

Eddie: Yes, exactly. You should.

#And then 50k words of good intentions and miscommunications #just two guys who don’t know each other trying to be supportive about things that aren’t happening #also Nancy being so confused that Eddie Munson is suddenly really antagonistic to her #I like to think that Eddie is a huge gossip but people don’t like to talk to him so he never gets the full story about anything #and somehow misses both Jonathan and Billy’s involvement #even though I’ve always HCed that neither Steve nor Billy ever actually confirmed that they fought each other #eddie munson #steve harrington

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wheneverfeasible · 3 months ago

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Steve’s used to not being loved.

He’d known his parents didn’t love him since he was a young child. He’d known that the girls he casually took on dates and occasionally fucked didn’t love him. He’d known Tommy and Carol didn’t love him like friends were supposed to. They all loved his reputation, sure, but not him. It was easy though because he didn’t love them either.

He’d loved his parents once, a long time ago. Back before they were practically strangers, but that love had been the obligation of biology. He’d thought he loved Tommy and Carol, but it had all been too surface level and focused on popularity.

He had loved Nancy though. He finally found someone he could start to be his true self with and he loved her and he thought she loved him, only…only she didn’t.

He couldn’t blame her. After a while, when the same thing keeps happening, you kind of have to look for the common factor in all those loveless relationships and see what the real issue was. Simply put…

Steve was just unloveable.

Maybe it was his past. Not that he’d actually been a bully or anything, he’d actually shut down a lot of bullying even among his then-friends and teammates, but he had been kind of self-absorbed. Or maybe it was just the fact that he wasn’t as smart as the people he found himself surrounded by. Maybe it was just the fact that he wasn’t anything special, not at the end of the day.

Except he could take a punch.

And slowly, he found people that did love him. The other kids might tolerate him, might like him, but Dustin genuinely loved him, he knew that. Dustin was his original ride-or-die. Dustin might be a little shithead that constantly treated Steve like he was stupid, but he was like his brother. And Dustin also make him feel amazing and wanted and loved.

And then there was Robin. Most amazing of all really was that Robin loved him. His Platonic soulmate. His other ride-or-die. She saw him at his lowest and saw him at his highest, was there for him when he had stuff he didn’t want to drop on a teen boy who should be worrying about pimples and bad hair days, not interdimensional monsters and evil wizards. Robin made him feel loved too, even if she also sometimes teased him a little too sharply.

There was also Max of course. He’d been surprised at receiving a letter from her too, back when Vecna had been after her. He’d read it, back when she’d been in her coma. She hadn’t said she loved him, but it was there in other ways. The big brother she should have had all along.

So yeah, okay, Steve was loved. But it was platonic. It was friends, his new kind of family even, but it wasn’t the love he’d always wanted and never had. He just accepted the fact that people didn’t love him that way.

Which was why, when he realized he was in love with Eddie, he just sighed and accepted it and never changed anything in the way he interacted with the other man. He didn’t bother telling Eddie because he knew there was no point. Besides, Robin called him out on it, said he was being so obvious about his feelings, but Eddie never said anything too.

So okay. Steve was in love with Eddie, but Eddie wasn’t in love with Steve. Eddie also didn’t treat Steve any differently despite knowing that Steve loved him. After all, if Steve was so obvious about it, then Eddie had to know too already, right?

So Steve watched Eddie come out to them, had nodded along when Eddie nervously explained what bisexuality was, having already had his own crisis before though he realized he’d never officially come out either. But then if his feelings for Eddie were so obvious, he figured he didn’t have to, so he didn’t say anything and let Eddie have his moment.

And it didn’t matter that Eddie liked guys. He still couldn’t love Steve, so Steve just accepted it and let it be. He didn’t flinch when Eddie mentioned meeting a guy in the city, was even downright friendly when Eddie eventually brought the guy around to meet everyone.

It hurt, of course, but Steve’s feelings were his own problem; he wasn’t going to let the fact that he was in love with one of his best friends make things awkward. Eddie was nice enough that he never told Steve to knock it off when Steve got a little too touchy with him, though Steve backed off in his own when Eddie seemed a little panicked about it sometimes.

Steve was even there for Eddie when Eddie came over crying because he and guy broke up. He wouldn’t tell Steve why they broke up, not entirely, but eventually Steve learned it was because Eddie had feelings for someone else this entire time.

Steve wondered who it was, but in any case he just hoped Eddie got to be happy with them eventually. He later told Eddie one day when Eddie was over that he was a great guy, obviously, and anyone Eddie liked would be a lucky person. He hoped he didn’t sound judgmental about it, didn’t want Eddie to think he was being petty or whatever, but Eddie just looked sad again and left soon after.

Steve knew he had a problem about being too much sometimes. It had pushed Nancy away, and every girl he’d tried to date afterwards never really liked him enough either. It was still just his reputation and his hair that got him dates, not who he was himself. That was fine. Temporary companionship was better than nothing he supposed.

And life continued, and Steve kept loving Eddie, and he was content that Eddie let him love him, even if there was no hope of it being reciprocated.

And then Steve went on a date with a guy.

It was…okay. The guy was a lot handsier than Steve would like, and kind of boring when compared to Eddie, but Steve just shrugged and figured that at least it’s be someone else’s hand this time. And it was okay. No great spark or anything. More of a glorified one night stand than anything, but it was fine.

He knew he needed to get out dating again. Girls and guys. His love for Eddie wasn’t abating at all, so he couldn’t bring himself to actually date anyone, but he could do hookups.

Which was how Eddie found him one day, mouth around some guy at a bar in Indy because they had forgotten to lock the bathroom door. Oops. It was a little annoying though that Eddie looked as upset as he did. He appreciated the fact that Eddie didn’t call him out for his unwanted feelings, but it wasn’t fair that he thought Steve shouldn’t be able to move on.

They got into a fight.

They never exactly said what they were fighting about with words, but Eddie yelled at him for having unsafe sex, while Steve yelled at him for being a hypocrite, and then Eddie yelled at him for leading the guy on, and Steve said that that was a bit rich coming from him.

And Eddie was yelling and yelling and yelling about who knows what, telling Steve he shouldn’t be having random hookups in bathrooms when he wasn’t even gay, and Steve yelled that bisexual men can have bathroom hookups too, and that seemed to surprise Eddie for some reason.

In any case, it caused him to shut up for long enough for Steve to angrily tell him that just because Steve loved him, it didn’t give him the right to tell Steve what he could or could not do, especially when he knew Eddie didn’t love him back.

And then…

“You…you love me?” Eddie choked out, his eyes wide as he stared across the dark alley outside the bar, where he’d dragged Steve after catching him on his knees.

Steve rolled his eyes, jutting out one hip to place a hand on while the other hand ran aggressively through his hair. It was started to rain while they were in the bar, a light drizzle that was slowly weighing down their hair, not that either of them paid it any mind.

“Jesus, Munson, are you really going to make me listen to the whole spiel again?” He rolled his eyes, throwing his hands up in frustration. “This is bullshit, I’m bullshit, my love is bullshit, yadda yadda yadda. Or are we going the other way? The sad puppy eyes and the fact that you like someone else and it could never be me? I already know all this, Munson.”

Eddie continued gaping at Steve like a fish. It was starting to make him vaguely uncomfortable. Eddie shook his head, long strands of hair whipping wetly around him. “H-how long have you loved me?” Eddie whispered.

Steve’s frown deepened. “I don’t know, man. You probably clocked it before I even did. I just barely realized like a year and half ago.”

Eddie’s eyes bugged further. “You’ve love me for a year and a half?” he asked incredulously, making Steve’s frown turn from annoyance to confusion.

“You already knew this, Eddie.”

“I most certainly did not!”

And…oh. Oof. Okay. Steve grimaced and held his hands up suddenly in a surrender sort of way. “Yikes. Okay, well, this doesn’t have to change anythi—”

“This changes everything!” Eddie exclaimed in what others might cause a shriek.

Steve winced, taking a step back and hitching his shoulders up to his ears. “Eddie…Eddie, please, c’mon,” he tried to reason, feeling dread settling in the pit of his stomach. He was suddenly remembering all the times he’d invaded Eddie’s space, how many times he’d flirted back with Eddie’s fake flirting, thinking it was okay because the other man knew how he felt.

Fuck. Fuck, he’d fucked up again.

“Eddie, I know you don’t love me, okay,” he rushed to say. “I know you can never love me. I get it, okay? I’m not trying to force you to feel any way or anything. Just like with Robin and Nancy, the fact that I like you doesn’t have to change anything.”

“Not…Steve,” Eddie said, reaching up to grip and pull at his own hair as an incredulous laugh escaped him. “Steve, I fucking love you.”

Steve tried not to let that hurt. He knew Eddie probably didn’t get how much him saying that pained Steve since it wasn’t the kind of love he was talking about, so he wasn’t going to get upset at him over that.

“I know,” he sighed, slowly letting himself relax his body posture. “I know you love me in a friend way. And that’s enough for me, really! I love you like a friend too, so the fact that I also—”

“No Steve,” Eddie cut in again, and while he seemed exasperated, a wide smile was also starting to curl over his lips. “Robin was right and you really are a dingus. I mean, yes, I love you as a friend, but I’m also in love with you. Romantic styles.”

“I…” Steve blinked. He tried to understand Eddie’s words but they didn’t make sense. “What?”

Eddie snorted out a laugh, and the smile curled on his lips stretched out into a grin. He took a step closer. “I’m in love with you, Steve Harrington. I have been since…hell, probably since you went all Ozzy on me. But definitely since I woke up in the hospital to you holding my hand.”

Steve’s stomach swooped. “I don’t understand,” he said, and even to his own ears there was a small whine there. “You don’t…people don’t love me,” he pointed out. “They can’t. There’s something about me that just makes it impossible.”

Eddie scoffed, reaching out once he was closer enough to curl his fingers in the sleeves at Steve’s biceps. They were both now well and truly wet from the rain, but neither of them paid any attention to it at all.

“Now that’s bullshit, Harrington. You’re so fucking easy to love. As a friend and as something…more. I love you, Steve.”

Steve wanted to deny it again, wanted to say that that was impossible, because…because he’d never heard those words. Sure, Dustin and Robin told him they loved him, but romantically? Even Nancy had never told him that in those words. Not even in a lie. He couldn’t fully comprehend that he was hearing them now.

“Fuck, Steve,” Eddie breathed, his hands moving to cup Steve’s jaw. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life telling you that. You’re stuck with me now, big boy.”

And then Eddie kissed him.

Eddie was true to his words. He told Steve he loved him every single day, told him with his words and his actions and when it was legal, he told him again in front of all their friends and found family when he made a vow as a his husband.

And Steve? Well, it took a while for him for actually believe it, but nowadays? When Eddie kisses him good morning every day in bed, whispering his devotion, and every night doing the same, telling Steve he’ll see him in his dreams? Well…

Steve’s used to being loved. And he spends every day loving in return.

Hi hello I have no idea what this is but I just started typing and then I didn’t stop until this was completed lol

Hostage hotties: @derythcorvinus @katyawriteswhump

#steve harrington angst #angst and fluff #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #stranger things #also there’s a hidden reference in the story lmao #kudos if you catch it #plot thots

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wormdebut · 6 months ago

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This interaction has been in my head for a while.

——

Steve Harrington was pissed. Livid, even.

All he had wanted was an adult beverage after a long ass day at work, which he certainly got. The whiskey sours were fucking great actually. That wasn’t the problem.

The problem was the model of a bartender.

This guy was—Shit.

Tall as hell, and lean, but his arms boasted enough corded muscle that Steve couldn’t help but wonder what the rest of him looked like.

Damn, horny brain.

This guy had a riot of curls stacked on his head in a bun, which had been another nail in the proverbial horny coffin. He had chocolate brown eyes and fucking plush lips that boasted a lip ring. A lip ring.

How was Steve supposed to remain sane under these circumstances.

Robin couldn’t come out tonight so Steve was alone and just—watching this hot ass bartender work. God, he was such a creep. But this guy was so—suave, laughing with patrons, acting like he owns the place—it was some type of dive bar, plastered with tour posters and framed photos and musicians. Guitars hung on the walls.

The guy—Eddie—his name tag read, had on ripped black jeans, tattoos covered his arms and neck—Steve wanted to see where else they were hiding—his nails were painted black and he had on a faded Metallica shirt that sat tight across his lithe frame.

God—he probably did own this place. Steve really just stopped at the first place he could find, on his way back into town from a meeting. Congratulations to him for making a great fucking choice.

Steve was being a creep, watching this guy interact with someone, when he turned his attention on Steve himself. Eddie flashed his a smile—Christ, even his teeth were fucking pretty.

“Can I top you off, sweetheart?” Eddie purrs.

God, you can just top me—Steve thinks. He watches as Eddie quirks an eyes brow, before he schools his expression, flashing Steve a simmering smile.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, big boy.”

Steve’s eyes go wide. He said that out loud didn’t he.

#steddie #worm brain #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie ficlet #anyway that’s the story of how Steve Harrington get his shit rocked on a Wednesday night in February #Eddie has A LOT of fun seeing what he can get Steve to say with his apparent lack of filtering

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infinite-love-42 · 9 months ago

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Raise your hand if you’ve ever been personally victimized by tumblr refreshing while you’re in the middle of reading a one shot causing you to lose it forever. So many incredible stories that I never got to finish 😭😭

#eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #steddie #eddie stranger things #steve stranger things #steve x eddie #tumblr stories #oneshot #tragedy #cry myself to sleep

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headkiss · 1 year ago

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maybe this christmas time

pairing: steve harrington x sunshine!reader

summary: working as an elf during the holidays (which he isn’t a fan of) is not how steve would choose to spend his time, neither is doing a bucket list of your creation. you end up changing his mind.

word count: 9.5k

warnings: use of she/her pronouns for r, some grumpy steve (he’s still a softie underneath it, i can’t help it!), some family issues (a phone call from steve’s mom), a rude customer, christmas activities/themes, fluff, and a first kiss!

a/n: merry christmas and happy holidays from me to you!!! i hope u guys enjoy this one, i had a lot of fun writing it!! big big thank you to @bcyhoods for sending the request that inspired me to write this fic and to @bruisedboys who helped me out when i was unsure about things <333 ily guys i hope u all have the happiest of holidays!

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆

Starcourt Mall is decorated to the brim. Fake snow and garlands, giant ornaments hanging from the ceiling, a Christmas tree that stays lit all day long.

And, in the middle of it all, Santa’s Workshop.

That’s where you are, where you’ve been for a couple of Decembers now. Every other month of the year, you work at the movie theater, scooping popcorn and scanning tickets. But, for December, you trade in your cinema t-shirt for an elf outfit, striped tights and all.

“It’s really not so bad once you get past the itching,” you tell Steve.

“Great,” he says, the sarcasm clear in his tone.

“Great,” you repeat, cheery enough for the both of you.

He wasn’t sure how it could get any worse than the sailor uniform. That is, until he saw what he had to wear for this gig.

It’s Steve Harrington’s first year at Santa’s Workshop, and you’ve been tasked with training him, though the job is mostly self-explanatory.

But unlike you, Steve didn’t volunteer for this.

“I can’t believe they picked me to do this,” he sighs. “Don’t even like elves.”

“Well they had to pick someone, Steve.” You shrug, “who knows, you might end up having fun!”

“Not likely.”

“At the very least, you’re getting paid, right?” You nudge him once with your elbow, “plus, if you’re extra nice, some moms give pretty good tips.”

You and Steve went to school together, but he never really spoke to you then. It was only after graduation that you had any sort of conversation with him. They mostly consisted of him bribing you with free ice cream to let Dustin and the gang into the movies for free.

That was after you caught him letting them into the back rooms to sneak in.

Now, Steve’s wearing a pair of slippers that jingle with every step just like yours, and in the only two shifts you’ve had together so far, you’ve spoken more than ever. Even if it’s mostly been instructions from you and an unenthusiastic comment in response from Steve.

“Do I really have to wear these fucking shoes?” He asks, following you out of the staff room.

“Yes. It’s part of the uniform.” You turn around to face him, walking backwards while he walks forwards. “Don’t worry, you’ll tune out the jingling soon enough.”

“I’ll hear these jingles in my nightmares.”

“At least you look cute!”

You spin back around, and Steve only rolls his eyes as he trudges on behind you.

Steve’s not quite sure how he feels about you, whether he finds you a little annoying or endearing. At the moment, with an elf hat squishing his hair, he’s leaning a little more towards the first.

He didn’t know you during school. Admittedly, he was an asshole for most of his time at Hawkins High, so that explains that. Even still, he doesn’t know much about you, only that you’re kind enough not to snitch on him for sneaking the kids into the movies and that you seem to seep sunshine all the fucking time.

And your sunshine seems to be dialed up during the holidays. Like you really believe in ‘holiday cheer.’

Steve knows, deep down and buried somewhere he’s not quite ready to face yet, that he’s mostly just jealous. Because if you like the holidays so much, if you’re smiling the way you do so often, you must have it pretty good at home.

To him, nothing else makes sense. Not when Christmas at the Harrington household has been absolute shit for years. First, it was the gifts he never wanted, things his parents didn’t care enough to know he didn’t like. Then, they dwindled until, eventually, Christmas did, too.

There’s a travel discount during the holidays, sweetie. We’re visiting dad’s boss’ cabin. Next year, we promise. Excuse, excuse, excuse.

So yeah, Steve’s never really understood the appeal. Walking behind you in a pair of jingling shoes and a scratchy outfit, he’s not sure he ever will.

You lead him towards the area where Santa’s Workshop has been set up, right by the fountain. There’s bright red carpet rolled out over the usual tiled floors, an area set up for the cue of families, and of course, a bench where some guy playing Santa will sit.

“Since we’re opening today I’ll show you the whole set-up routine.” You step over the rope with the sign that says ‘Gone to feed the reindeer!’ with Steve in tow. “Easy peasy.”

Steve steps over the rope behind you, shaking his head at the sound his shoes make when he lands. He chooses to listen to your voice instead.

“First, we count the props,” you nod over at the bin that’s tucked away behind a small tree, “there should be four sets of antlers, two santa hats, a red nose, and some extra elf hats.”

He stares at you—because why on earth would you have that memorized—and raises his eyebrows. For a moment, as he watches you grab the clipboard that sits atop the prob bin and start counting, Steve wonders if maybe he should be more like you. The kind of person who seems to see the good in everything.

Then, he remembers what the outfit he’s got on looks like and shakes the thought away.

“Why would anyone want to be a clown in these pictures?” He says.

“The red nose is for Rudolph, dummy.”

You say dummy with a smile, like it’s something to admire. Steve huffs.

“Rudolph’s a loser.”

“Aw, come on, he’s got his own song and everything! I’d say that makes him the opposite of a loser.”

“Of course you would,” he mutters, cursing the tiniest twitch of a smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth. “What’s next?”

“Right,” you grab the bag that you brought from the staff room and set it on the ground by the tripod that’s already set up. “Next is the camera. Here, I’ll show you.”

The only knowledge Steve’s got of cameras comes from whatever Jonathan has told him, which hasn’t been very much, considering the pair’s history on the topic despite them being friends now.

So, he steps closer to you, watches as you pull the camera out of the bag.

“You just have to switch it on and make sure the battery’s full, right there,” you say, pointing at the small symbol that lets you know if the camera’s charged or not. “And don’t forget to take the lens cap off. I did it once and this dad yelled at me, so...”

You pop the lens cap off, putting it in the bag. Steve’s standing close to you, right behind you, his chin hovering over your shoulder, the warmth of his chest just shy of brushing against your back.

“Finally,” you continue, ignoring the little skip in your heartbeat, the way you breathe just a tiny bit quicker. “Set it up on the tripod, and you’re good to go.”

He watches your fingertips move easily, securing the camera to the tripod. When you’re done, you turn around to face him, and it’s only then that Steve realizes how close he’s gotten.

Close enough that you stumble and land against his chest, his hands on your upper arms to steady you as you pull back quickly, like you’d been burned. Steve, however, doesn’t let go just yet and he’s got no idea why.

He doesn’t let go until the music in the mall is switched on, the opening notes of some Christmas song startling you both. Steve steps back and releases you, dropping his hands by his sides and ignoring the twitch of his fingers.

“Alright,” you say, trying to brush the moment off. “That sound means we’re open. You ready?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Nope!”

Your lunch breaks at Santa’s Workshop feel like a luxury, because no matter how much you enjoy the job, it’s nice to get away from the rowdy children it forces you to deal with.

Unlike your job at the theater, where your breaks are staggered, the workshop closes for an hour every day, meaning that even during lunch, Steve’s stuck with you.

The sign by the line for Santa is flipped, and parents groan whenever they see the festive font saying you’ll be back in an hour.

You take the hour spent in the staff room as a time to ask him questions, what his hobbies are (“does driving a pack of 13-year-olds around count?”), if he likes his job at Scoops (“I’m starting to appreciate it more. The lesser of two evils, or something”), if he’d introduce you to Robin someday (“I’m afraid of what that might do to my sanity.”)

Today, you’re trying to tackle the subject of his Grinch-like tendencies.

“What’s your favorite Christmas movie?” You ask.

Steve doesn’t know why he continues to answer your questions whenever you throw them at him—which is often—but he does. He thinks it might be like being mean to a puppy, ignoring you. Unnecessarily cruel.

“Don’t have one.”

“Ugh. Come on, Steve! Everyone has a favorite.” You slump in your seat across from him at the small table in the break room. Steve stares at you blankly as he takes another bite of his lunch. “You can tell me.”

“I’m serious,” he says, nudging your foot with his when it comes close. “They’re cheesy.”

“Aren’t you secretly a rom-com fan?”

“How did you-”

“So, you actually enjoy cheesy movies!”

“Okay, well you don’t have to say it to the entire mall. Gosh.”

Steve wonders how you know that about him, how you’ve been able to guess a lot of things without him telling you. Briefly, just for a second, he wonders if that might mean something.

Like, if maybe you’re in his life now for a reason.

“Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me, Steve.” You smile what you hope is an honest, reassuring smile. “So, the cheesiness isn’t the root of the issue.”

“No, I guess not.”

“I’m gonna take a guess here,” you start, “and say that you’re not a fan of Christmas.”

“You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“Steve, I’ve never heard someone complain about jingle bells so much in my life.”

“We can’t all behave like we’ve been injected with sunshine.”

You don’t think he means it as a compliment, but you decide to take it as one nonetheless. But you suppose he’s right, there’s always gotta be a balance. Dark and light, happy and sad.

“Thank you,” you give him a quick grin. “And you’re avoiding the question.”

He’s silent for a moment, twisting his fork around between his fingers. “My parents never really did Christmas.”

Your heart squeezes a little in your chest at his words, at the way his tone goes quieter, at the way he looks at the table to avoid catching your eye.

Immediately, you feel guilty for prying, because the last thing you’d ever wanted to do was force him to tell you something he didn’t want to. It’s not your place, no matter how curious you are, no matter how much you’d like to give him a hug or something right about now.

It’s not your place, but you find yourself wishing it could be.

“Shit, I’m sorry, Steve.” You reach for his hand that sits on the table and give it a quick squeeze before pulling back. “You don’t have to talk about it. I shouldn’t have bugged you.”

“It’s okay. I’ve had a lot of time to accept it.” He shrugs, like it doesn’t affect him. But from the scrunch in his brows, you can tell it does, at least a little bit. “The Harringtons have better things to do than sit around cleaning up wrapping paper.”

Steve feels embarrassed, his cheeks warm and his head bent. He doesn’t like scraping this wound open, doesn’t like to think about what he was missing out on while everyone thought his life was perfect.

He especially doesn’t want you looking at him like he’s injured or something after this.

Surprisingly to Steve, you don’t. You actually do quite the opposite. You smile brightly at him, like you’ve just had an excellent idea, like you can inject a bit of your sunshine into him with it.

“How about this: I’ll teach you how great Christmas can be.”

“I think it might be a little late for that.” Steve tries to shake his admission away, to clear the room. He points at the elf hat on his head, “this outfit has ruined any last shred of hope I had.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that you make a cute elf? You pull it off better than I do.”

“You don’t have to lie to me.”

“I’m not!” Steve raises his eyebrows at you. You ignore that look. “Whatever. I cannot in good conscience, let you keep disliking Christmas. Think of how fun it could be. Plus, you owe me for all of those movies I let your children into.”

Steve already finds it difficult to say no to you, because of how kind you remain even when he’s snarky with you, because of the same kindness you seem to offer to everyone you meet.

So, even though he’s not sure what your plan entails, he sighs and says: “okay. Fine.”

“Wait, really?”

“Don’t make me change my mind.”

You cheer, clapping a little in your seat. “Oh my gosh, we can go skating, and go to one of those Christmas light festivals, and make cookies-”

“What did I get myself into?” Steve mutters, while you’re still rambling off ideas.

“-I’m gonna need to make a list.”

Even after your break ends, you seem to have an extra pep in your step, if that’s even possible. Your smile is a bit wider, your eyes brighter, and Steve can’t help but feel a little special for being somewhat responsible for that.

Really, what did I get myself into, he wonders.

In the time between him agreeing to your Christmas plans a couple of days ago and now, at yet another shift, Steve has realized that he actually likes you quite a bit. Even though your seemingly constant optimism drives him a little bit crazy.

You treat everyone with an attitude that’s so rare, he finds that his previous annoyance for you is slowly becoming overtaken by the endearment.

He won’t admit it, not when bantering with you seems to be the highlight of his days lately, but Steve is starting to be sort of grateful that he got selected for this job.

And that has absolutely nothing to do with the outfit he wears. He still fucking hates that.

“It’s alright, cutie,” he hears your voice say, all soft and understanding. He finds you, crouched down to talk to a little girl who seems to be wary of Santa. “I bet Santa will give you something extra from your list if you smile for the picture.”

The girl nods, like she’s determined. But, when you stand back up, she grabs onto your hand by your side.

“What is it?” You ask her.

“Can you do it with me?”

You look over to the girl’s mother where she stands to the side, and she nods, eager to get the picture done. So, with that, you say, “okay, then.”

Steve’s standing behind the camera as he watches you help the girl onto the bench beside Santa. Then you’re sitting beside her and telling her to look at the nice boy behind the camera.

It takes him a second to realize you’re talking about him, but when he does, he forces himself into action, bending to look through the viewfinder.

“Say cheese,” he says.

The click of the camera sounds, and then it’s done. You help the girl down, who goes over to her mom quickly and they head over to grab their picture.

Once they’re gone, the line dies down, giving you and Steve a rare pause from the pictures and overenthusiastic welcomes to ‘the North Pole.’

“I hope that family’s okay with my face in their picture,” you say, coming to stand beside Steve by the camera. “I mean, I know the mom nodded, but maybe they’ll cut me out of it.”

You’ve become more comfortable with Steve the more you’ve worked with him, getting to know him in how his grumpiness is more related to the holidays and early mornings than anything else, in how he turns the same grumpiness down when he talks to the kids.

You think he’s grown more comfortable with you, too, because he’s started bringing you a coffee in a festive cup in the morning, leaving it in your cubby without a word.

From Steve, you think that says a lot. His actions have always spoken louder than his words, you think. Like the free ice cream he gives you from Scoops, or the small nod he’d give you whenever he’d pick up the kids from a movie.

And now, there’s the small tug of his lips, the hint of a smile that has you saying, “Steve Harrington are you smiling right now?”

“Shut up,” he shakes his head at you. “That was sweet. What you did for that girl.”

Steve lets himself say what he thinks for once, because there’s nobody else around, because he wants you to hear it.

You hide your shy smile by looking down at your feet. You know that underneath everything, Steve is probably one of the best boys you’ve ever met, because even with his attitude, he’ll never say anything to truly hurt you, and with how little you know about his family, you also know that it’s rare for someone in his situation to remain so good.

Any resemblance of a compliment from Steve feels extra special, like its own gift in itself.

“Ruining her picture, you mean?” You ask, trying to cover up how you feel about him calling you sweet.

“You didn’t ruin that picture, sunshine.”

Sunshine. That’s new.

“Well I’m glad someone thinks so.”

Before Steve has the chance to respond, the line picks up again, and it’s back to business as usual. The routine click of the camera, the sound of parents telling their kids to smile nice and big.

You and Steve catching each other’s eye when a particularly entertaining family rolls around, laughing at the way he does an impression of a mom after she leaves. With work being sort of like this every day, you wish it could be Christmas all year round. You much prefer this to the theater, you think.

Steve can't say that he likes this job more than Scoops—Robin might call him traitorous—but he finds that you’d been at least a little right when you said that it would get better when he got used to things, when he hears the sound of your laugh rather than those stupid bells on his shoes.

He finds that he sometimes has to remind himself that he doesn’t like the holidays, that they aren’t like this all the time.

At the end of your shift, as you and Steve grab your stuff from the staff room, you turn to him, leaning against the wall as he shrugs on his coat.

“So, I made a list,” you say. “We are going to have the best Christmas ever, Harrington.”

“My standards are very low, so it wouldn’t take much.”

“Don’t care. I have plans. We can make gingerbread houses and get Christmas pajamas-”

“Absolutely not.”

While Steve already agreed to letting you show him Christmas your way, he thinks he can only take so much at a time. Small doses of your jolly spirit are plenty.

“Steeeve.”

“I am drawing the line. No Christmas pajamas. Not happening.”

“But the gingerbread houses are a yes?” You ask, hopeful and smiling like it’ll persuade him.

“I’ll get back to you on that one.”

That’s what Steve decides to say, instead of simply agreeing because he finds that he’d like to spend time with you outside of work, to see if you’re really so bright all the time, to see if he can soak it up a little better when he’s not dressed as a damn elf.

That’s what he decides to say because it’s easier than spilling the rest of it out there. Much, much easier.

“But you already agreed!” You pout at him a little, exaggerated dramatics on your part. “You can’t just tell me I can teach you Christmas and then back out, I mean, I made an actual bucket list. With glitter and shit.”

“Oh no, not the glitter,” Steve places a hand on his chest, sarcastically scandalized. “That makes it serious.”

You blink at him, giving him a blank look. “Don’t diss the list. By the end of it, you’re gonna be jolly as fuck, trust me.”

“Jolly as fuck,” he repeats, shaking his head on a laugh. “You’ve got a way with words, sunshine.”

“Thank you.” You push your tote bag onto your shoulder, fishing out your keys, they clink in your palm when you find them. “I’m not letting you back out of this, by the way. The list is binding.”

“Well in that case…”

You give Steve a little smile, the flash of a sunbeam, before heading out, and he’s left standing in the break room wondering what you’ve got on that list, why you seem to care so much about it.

Huffing, he supposes he’ll find out soon enough.

Steve definitely should not have told you that he’d never been ice skating before.

It all started when you’d been talking about that damn list at your most recent shift, a couple of days after he’d accepted the fact that he couldn’t back out of it (did he really want to?).

“Hey, you have a change of clothes in your bag, right?” You’d asked him in between families.

“Um… yeah. Why?”

“Because, Steve, our festivities begin today after work!” You clapped your hands together softly, excited and encouraging, yet delicate. “I haven’t quite decided what we’re starting with yet.”

“I thought you had a list.”

“I do! But it’s not in order,” you shrugged, “I’m more of a mood-based decision maker, anyways.”

“Of course you are,” he’d said, his usual sarcasm lighter, laced with something you couldn’t quite place.

“So I’m thinking we go skating-”

“Nope.”

“You can't say no to every idea I have. Then how will you get the Christmas experience?”

“I won’t say no to everything.” You looked at him like you didn’t believe him, so, quietly, he added, “it’s just, I’ve never been skating before.”

“Steve, that’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” you reassured him easily, your voice honest in a sort of natural way, like you couldn't lie even if you tried. “All the more reason to give it a try. The point is to have fun, not to be good at it. I’m really not that great, myself.”

“If I hate it, we’re leaving.”

“Deal.”

And that’s how he’d ended up here, standing next to you at the rental counter at the ice rink, telling some teenager his shoe size so he could get a pair of skates.

Steve looks at you as you talk to the teenager, paying before he even gets the chance. He looks at the hat you’ve got on your head, the way your jeans are cuffed just enough to let your snowman patterned socks peek out of your boots.

He realizes that he’s only ever really seen you in uniform, at the theater and as an elf, and he thinks, quickly, like a car driving by, that you look really pretty like this. With snowflakes stuck in your eyelashes and all.

Though he’s never said it, barely let himself think it, he’s always found you pretty in a sort of undeniable way, like it was just a fact. Now, he finds you pretty in a way that makes him feel it.

His heart beats like it feels it, too. The traitor.

“Thank you,” you say, grabbing both your and Steve’s pairs of skates. You turn to him, smiling like always, Christmas lights reflected in your eyes, “ready to go?”

“As I'll ever be,” he says, letting you lead the way to the benches by the rink.

He watches the way you tie your skates, copying your movements on his own pair, double knotting the bow at the end. When you stand, he stays seated for a moment, suddenly more nervous than before, because the last thing he wants to do is embarrass himself in front of you, in front of everyone around.

Like you can read his mind, you say, “it’s okay, the first step is only standing. It looks harder than it is, promise.”

“I feel like you’re lying to make me feel better.”

“Why don’t you just stand up and find out, then?”

He rolls his eyes, more at himself than you, and pushes himself up from the bench. It takes him a second to get used to the feeling of the skates, of balancing on them, but eventually, he nods at you, eager to get it over with.

“‘Kay, so it’s gonna feel weird when you step on the ice, but you can just hold onto the side until you get the hang of it.” You start walking ahead of him, turning back to say, “I have a feeling you’ll be a natural.”

“Sure you do,” he mutters, shaking his head.

The rink is outdoors, the walls surrounded with string lights of all kinds, twinkling and colorful. In the middle, there’s a big tree, a shining gold star sat on top. There’s a hot chocolate stand to the side, the smell mingling with the freshness of the cold.

There are Christmas songs playing over the speakers (of course), and Steve thinks that if he hears one more rendition of “Jingle Bell Rock,” he’ll have to invest in a pair of ear plugs. On top of that, there’s the sound of laughter, kids with their parents, friends, couples, everyone seems to be having fun.

Everyone seems to be at ease except for him.

You step onto the rink first, skating a couple of steps forward to give Steve room to get on. He holds onto the side like you told him to, lifting a foot and stepping forward slowly, his foot slipping a little when it hits the ice.

You don’t say anything, don’t pressure him, only stand there with a kindness in your eyes that tells him you won’t be anything but patient.

Still, he doesn’t take too long to get the other foot on the ice, too, his feet carrying him forward a little bit, his hand gripping the side tighter.

“See? It’s not so bad,” you skate to his side, leaving space between you as Steve holds out his arm for balance. “Now all you gotta do is push yourself forward.”

“You make it sound like it’s easy.”

“It’s called being encouraging, Steve. Let me be encouraging!”

“Fine,” he stares down at his feet, his hair falling over his forehead. “So what do I do?”

“Use one foot to push, and then let yourself glide, switch feet, and repeat. You can do it.”

He gives it a go, and finds that it isn’t awful, but he moves slowly, and looking around at the other people skating, he’s not an impressive skater at all.

Steve has always felt the urge to be good at everything he does, basketball, driving, even fucking babysitting. He’s always tried so hard to do things well, like maybe, if he was talented enough, his parents would care more, would finally be proud of him for something.

He swallows that thought down and pushes forward again.

You follow his speed, gliding easily beside him, “look at you go!”

“I look like an idiot,” he says, his arm outstretched beside him, the other gripping the side, his knees bent.

When you look at him, though, all you see is the pink of his cheeks and nose from the cold, the way his hair brushes against his forehead, the focus in his eyes, the determination. No, you don’t think he looks like an idiot at all.

“You look like you’re trying, and that’s a great look on you, Steve.”

This time, it isn’t only the cold that pinkens his cheeks.

He doesn’t have time to muster up a reply, because the next time Steve skates ahead, he stumbles, his balance wavering until he feels your hand grabbing onto his arm to help steady him.

Then, your hand moves to hold his, and even through the layers of both of your gloves, he feels the warmth in his fingertips, some sort of tingling.

“This way, if you fall, so do I,” you say, squeezing his hand once, winking at him like the thought of falling doesn’t scare you one bit.

“Are you sure about that?”

“Super sure.”

You hadn’t been lying on that one, because eventually Steve does fall, and you fall right along with him, landing on the ice with a little, “oop!”

On his back, Steve turns his head to look at you, your hair a mess around you, some on your cheeks. He reaches out and brushes it away.

“You okay, sunshine?”

The response he gets is the sound of your laughter, a single loud cackle that has your eyes widening and a hand smacking over your mouth.

Your laughter fades into a fit of giggles, one so infectious that Steve—surrounded by all kinds of Christmas-themed things he swore he hated—laughs along with you.

And for the first time, maybe in his entire life, Steve thinks that the holidays might not be the worst thing ever.

Steve’s in a bad mood today, that scrunch in his brows you'd thought had been easing away back in full force.

It’s your first shift back together since you’d been skating only a couple of days ago, and you can’t help but worry that maybe it was too much, that you’d pushed him too far.

Even though, at the time, he’d been smiling more than you’ve seen him smile maybe ever, and you really thought that you had a shot at making Christmas better for him. You worry that he wasn’t as happy as he seemed, that he was pretending to have fun for your sake.

Steve, on the other hand, is actually glad to be at work for once, glad for the distraction it gives him. He’s unaware that his emotions are so visible on his face, that you think an ounce of his annoyance and anger is aimed at you.

All he knows is that after the morning he had, he needs this distraction.

This morning, it wasn’t the beep of his alarm that had woken him up, but the shrill ring of the phone on his bedside table. Groggy, with his eyes still half shut, Steve picked up the phone.

He wishes he didn’t.

“Hello?” His voice was almost a groan, scratchy from sleep, irritated at being woken up earlier than his alarm.

“Steve, sweetie!” His mother’s voice made him squint his eyes shut further. “Why do you sound so tired?”

“‘Cause it’s six in the morning, mom.”

“Oh, silly me. I forgot about time zones,” she said, though she didn’t sound the least bit apologetic. She didn’t even care enough to know what time it was for her son. “Anyways, I’m calling to let you know your father and I won’t make it home for Christmas this year. There’s this banquet we just can’t miss. You understand, don’t you?”

Steve doesn’t know why he’d been surprised, doesn’t know why her words, completely devoid of any kind of empathy towards the situation, made his stomach hurt.

“Yeah, okay,” he’d said, because it was no use to do anything but agree.

This was his normal: an almost monthly phone call from one of his parents from wherever they are in the world, no matter the time, always telling him that they’re missing this holiday, his birthday (which, at this point, he was shocked they even remembered), anything.

“That’s my boy,” she’d said, as if she knew him at all. She didn’t. Hasn’t known him—or cared to—for a long time. “I knew you’d understand.”

“Right.”

“Oh, there’s your father. Gotta go.”

And just like that, she hung up.

Steve almost wishes that they’d never call at all, because maybe then it would be easier to swallow their neglect. If they’d just forget him completely, he could get rid of that stupid, tiny sprout of hope he feels whenever they call, hoping things will be different.

At least it was his mother this time, he thinks. His father is a hundred times worse, only ever disappointed in Steve, asking about his job or when he plans on ‘getting a real life,’ never about him.

So yeah, Steve’s in a bad mood today.

The two of you don’t talk for the majority of your shift, you, afraid that Steve’s angry with you, opting to give him space, and Steve, stewing in every negative emotion that comes along with a phone call from his parents.

You don’t talk until one of the last families in line for the day comes up.

Once the kids are in place, you lean down to look through the viewfinder, counting them down and snapping the picture when they say ‘cheese.’ To the side, the children’s mom looks at you with so much judgment, Steve, even brewing in his thoughts, notices.

With the picture taken, you take the camera over to the mom, letting her see the picture the way you do with all the parents, making sure they approve.

Instead of approval, what you get is, “what the hell is that?”

You’ve dealt with your fair share of rude customers, at every job you’ve had, but this woman all but screams at you, and that’s rare. “Sorry,” you say, “I can take a new one, no problem.”

“I better be getting the new one for free with how these pictures are looking,” she practically hisses at you.

Usually, you can handle stuff like this, can smack on a smile and politely agree to get things taken care of, but today, the mixture of all your self-doubt and worrying about messing things up with Steve and this mother shouting at you, things pile up, and you feel your happy mask slipping.

“Um,” you start, voice small.

“You elves get worse every year,” she says to you. “I can’t believe people this incompetent even exist.”

Steve, hearing the whole thing, is quick to step in front of you, any thoughts about his shitty parents quickly fading in favor of helping you.

“Excuse me, ma’am, but she already offered to take another picture, and if that isn’t good for you, you’re free to leave,” Steve’s voice doesn’t slip one bit, standing his ground with every word.

You’re overwhelmed with everything going on, and when Steve turns around to look at you, nodding his head towards the staff room, you take the escape he offers you quickly, eyes blurry with tears you won’t let fall until you’re alone.

“You can’t speak to me like that!” The woman stomps her foot.

“I can, actually. She,” he points in the direction you’d gone, “is the kindest person I know, and you shouldn’t speak to her that way. I understand the holidays are a stressful time for everyone, but we spend all day helping people like you take these pictures, and the least you could do is say ‘thank you.’”

Rather than respond, the woman takes her children’s hands and stomps off.

Steve turns to find that the few families that had been in line before have decided to leave, and he takes the emptiness of Santa’s Workshop as an opportunity to follow after you.

He finds you sitting on the bench beneath your cubby in the break room, head buried in your hands, sniffling a little like you’re trying to be as quiet as possible. Steve can’t think about anything other than how much he hates seeing you upset, like a cloud covering the sun.

“Hey,” he says gently, sitting beside you on the bench. “Don’t listen to any of that. She was a bitch.”

You’re both grateful and unhappy that Steve came after you. Grateful because he’s kind, because he’s showing you that he cares. Unhappy because you’re embarrassed of him seeing you like this, because he calls you sunshine and you don’t feel like that right now.

It takes a second before you move your hands, wiping at your cheeks before turning to look at Steve, his brown eyes already on your face, unbelievably soft.

“I’m sorry,” you say, “I don’t know why I’m crying. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not,” he assures you. “She was awful to you after a long enough day. You have every right to be upset.”

“You’re being really nice,” your voice breaks a little bit, fighting any more tears that threaten to spill.

“I can be nice. I should be nicer to you.” He knows he should, but with Christmas and everything, it’s easy for him to be grouchy. “You sound surprised.”

“It’s just,” you shrug, almost defeated. “I thought you were mad at me today.”

Steve’s heart fucking aches at the sound of your voice, all small and lacking of the light he’s somehow come to like so much. And when another tear slips down your cheek, he can’t stop himself from reaching out and holding your face in his hands, thumbing the tear away lightly.

“I don’t think I could ever really be mad at you, sunshine.”

“Oh.”

His hands are warm where they hold your cheeks, a thumb still tracing back and forth over your skin. Not mad, then.

“I, uh,” Steve looks at where his thumb brushes against you, like he can’t believe it’s there, like he doesn’t want to look into your eyes for the next part. “I got a call from my mom this morning. They’re not coming home this year. Again. I shouldn’t be surprised but… anyways. That’s why I’ve been so quiet and shit today. Not because of you.”

One of your hands comes up to lay over his where it sits on your cheek, tangling your fingers with his and moving your hands down to your lap.

“I’m sorry, Steve.”

“I’m the one who should be sorry. I shouldn’t take this stuff out on you just because you like Christmas and I don’t.”

You smile a little bit, a twitch of your lips, but Steve takes it as a win all the same.

“I’m gonna change that,” you say.

“Sure you will,” he replies, the sarcasm in his voice still there the way it usually is when he teases you, but this time, he’s smiling, too.

Steve told you to go home after that, assuring you that he’d take care of the few families left, and when you’d opened your mouth to tell him you were fine, you could stay, he’d pinned you with a look and told you again to let him do it.

So, you did.

You’d thought it would be a day at least until you’d see Steve again, but it’s only a couple of hours after your shift ends.

There’s a knock at your door, your apartment one of the ones built above a shop on Main Street, and even though you have no idea who it could be, you get up, sock-covered feet padding against the floor as you go over to answer it.

You’re surprised to find Steve on the other side—one, because you don’t think you’ve ever told him where you live, and two, because you didn’t think he’d want to see you more today than he already had—a bag in his hand and a shy sort of question on his face.

“Steve? What are you doing here?”

He scratches at the back of his neck with his free hand before responding, a nervous gesture that he hasn’t been able to get rid of. “I thought that maybe, after the day you’ve had, you could use some cheering up. I could, too.”

You remember him telling you about the phone call from his parents, and something in your stomach flutters a little when you realize that his plans to cheer up involve you of all people.

“Okay.” You smile, you can’t really help it, “come in, then.”

He does, closing the door behind him and toeing off his shoes before stepping inside any further. Steve spots your kitchen table easily, and moves to set the bag he’s holding down.

“I thought we could do another thing that might be on your list,” he says. Steve tugs things out of the bag, gingerbread house kits, to be exact. “Gingerbread houses are Christmas bucket list worthy, right?”

“Absolutely,” you search his face, a little confused because last you heard, Steve was not into your whole bucket list thing, but here he is. “And you’re doing this… voluntarily?”

“I have the receipt. I can return them, if you prefer.”

“No! Don’t do that. I just mean- I thought you didn’t like Christmas or my list and that you were just playing along to be nice.”

“I might not be the biggest fan of Christmas, but,” he shrugs, opening one of the boxes of gingerbread, “you’re a good teacher, sunshine.”

You resist the urge to pinch yourself, like you might be dreaming because Steve, who you’ve grown to like an embarrassing amount, is here, offering to do this with you and giving you a compliment like it’s nothing.

When you respond, you hope your voice doesn’t give away how you really feel. Excited, happy, your heart jumping. “Can I get that in writing?”

“Shut up.” He shakes his head, pointing to the unopened box, “now will you come build this gingerbread house or what?”

“Mine’s gonna be way prettier than yours.”

Steve simply rolls his eyes, but there’s the hint of a smile there, too. He’s happy to see that your light is back, that you didn’t let what happened at work get to you too much.

You sit down beside each other at your table, gingerbread kits laid out in front of you. Icing and sprinkles, a cookie roof and chimney. You’re sure it’ll leave a mess, but right now you don’t mind.

There’s a sort of lightness in the air, the knowledge that this thing—friendship, more, whatever it is—between the two of you is something that you’re both happy to bask in. It’s unspoken, and that doesn’t bother you.

You and Steve start by unpacking all of the pieces, yours laid out neatly, his in a leaning pile that makes you bite back a laugh.

“The fucking roof won’t stay on,” Steve says once you’ve both started to put the houses together, and he sounds genuinely annoyed about it.

“Just put some more icing on it,” you say, “there’s no such thing as too much.”

“I don’t think icing will save me now, sunshine.”

You look away from your own gingerbread house over to Steve’s. His hands are holding the roof up, pushing them together so they meet at the top, and he’s staring at the thing with so much determination that you can’t help but giggle.

“You laughing at me?” Steve quirks a brow at you, but there’s a shine in his eyes. They smile even when his mouth doesn’t.

“I can’t believe you’re taking this so seriously,” you laugh, and that smile of his spreads slowly on Steve’s face, blooming like a flower. “It’s alright to admit defeat, Steve. My house is already better than yours.”

“Woah, this isn’t over yet, alright? Mine just needs time, don’t you worry.”

“Whatever you say, Steve.”

“Someone’s feeling brave tonight,” he teases, nudging you with his elbow without letting go of the roof of his house. “Don’t speak too soon, sunshine. I could be the underdog here.”

You lean over with your icing bag in hand, piping some more into the gap in Steve’s roof. “Here, let me help.”

Steve—always reluctant to accept help of any kind, even the smallest things—lets you. While he watches your face as you pipe the icing, the focus, the way your tongue pokes out from between your lips, you take his distraction as an opportunity to move, letting your icing fall onto his hand instead of the house.

“Oops,” you shrug, your tone suggesting that it wasn’t a mistake at all.

Steve gasps overdramatically, then leans closer to you, “Oh, looks like you’ve got something right there.” His hand reaches for your face, and he spreads the icing from it onto your cheek.

“You’re done for, Harrington.”

He only laughs, bright and quick.

Before you know it, you’re having some sort of food fight, putting a dot of icing on Steve’s nose, him tossing sprinkles at you. It’s a mess, but all you can hear is Steve’s laughter, all you can see is his smile. Unguarded for once, free and genuine.

By the time it dies down, there’s stripes of icing on your cheeks, red and green sprinkles scattered about the floor and on the table, and Steve’s got his own patches of icing to deal with.

“You better help me clean this, Harrington,” you say, your giggles still spilling, fizzling out softly. “What are we gonna decorate these houses with now?”

“Mine’s a lost cause,” he admits, the pieces now in a pile the way they’d started.

“So I won, is what I’m hearing.”

Steve looks at you, at the sparkle in your eyes that had been dimmed earlier at work, at the smile that spreads across your face when his eyes meet yours. Fuck. He thinks you’re completely beautiful, icing across your face and all.

His gaze snags on a piece of green in your hair, and before he can think about it, he reaches up and tugs it out for you.

“Sprinkle,” he says.

You look at his hands, messy from the gingerbread houses but never any less strong, and you remember how they felt in yours when you’d been skating. And when you flick your eyes back to his face, he’s already looking at you, gaze dipping to your mouth quickly, like he can’t help it.

And shit, you think. You really, really like this boy.

Before either of you can say anything more, you’re leaning towards each other, meeting in the middle and you’re not sure if you kiss him or he kisses you, but you end up with your mouths pressed together.

It’s featherlight at first, testing the waters. Then, Steve’s hands cup your jaw gently and pull you back to him, and you wouldn’t dream of doing anything but follow.

He kisses you again, still soft somehow, but more certain, his lips dancing with yours like you’ve done this a hundred times before.

You reach up and grasp his wrists in your hands, feeling his pulse under your thumbs. His heart is racing just as much as yours, you notice. Like your heartbeats have synced to a twin pattern, like this kiss was enough to do that.

And while you’re not sure what will happen after this, you know that something has shifted, that both of you are saying things you’re too afraid to say out loud.

When he pulls back, Steve presses one, two more pecks to your mouth, his thumbs tracing over your skin so lightly you might’ve dreamt it.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever think about kissing the same way after you. Steve feels warm the way he does when the sun beams on him in summer, and quickly, he thinks, I could get used to this feeling.

Then, he gets up and finds a small towel in one of the drawers by your sink, wetting it with warm water before coming back to sit with you.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he says, using a finger to tilt your chin up, swiping the towel over your cheeks to get rid of the icing there as lightly as he can.

And that’s that.

December twenty-fourth is your last day at Santa’s Workshop. Christmas Eve snuck up quick, and tomorrow, the twenty-fifth, the mall will be closed.

You’ve always enjoyed the job, but this year’s been your favorite by far. Usually, you and your coworkers would get along just fine, talking during shifts and laughing but never expanding outside of work, but it’s completely different with Steve.

He knocked on your door with gingerbread houses in hand and kissed you like it meant something. You like him so much that it’s in your bones, this feeling he brings out of you, how special you feel when you think about the trust he’s shown you.

But looking back, you think you were screwed from the start. From his scrunched brows asking you if the bells on the elf shoes were really necessary, to confiding in you about his parents, that list you made that seemed to be the beginning of what things have grown into now.

Green elf hat lopsided on his head, Steve smiles at you from where he stands by the camera. You smile back without thinking, like it’s natural, an instinct.

“Alright,” he says, talking to the kids sitting on the bench with Santa. “Everyone say ‘cheese’ on three. One, two-”

“Cheese!”

The camera clicks, and then it’s onto the next, the system you and Steve have created moving along smoothly, family after family.

If someone told Steve when he’d started this job, grouchy and prepared to pout about it every day, that he’d grow to like it, that he’s realized he’ll miss it when it’s gone, he would’ve laughed in their faces.

Never in a million years did Steve think he’d come remotely close to enjoying being an elf, but he has (he still fucking hates the outfit, though). You have everything to do with his surprising not-so-hatred of the job, of his careful fondness growing towards the holidays.

It’s all because of you.

Christmas Eve is a busy day at Starcourt mall, parents rushing about for last minute presents, teenagers taking advantage of holiday sales, and families lined up for their Santa pictures they’d forgotten about until now.

You don’t get breaks between families often today, but once you do, you and Steve are next to each other, making imaginary backstories for random people that pass by, dramatically reading lips of conversations.

The next time there’s an opening, you walk over to Steve, holding up your fist as if there’s a microphone in it. “So, Steve, tell me, how does it feel to have survived December as a Christmas elf?”

“I feel like I should get an award, maybe,” he says into your fake microphone. “I’ve gotten two rashes from this scratchy outfit. Two! And I’ll never hear jingle bells the same again.”

You laugh before clearing your throat and getting back into your news anchor character, “wow. You heard it here folks, North Pole outfits are not luxurious.”

“No, they are not.”

Steve can’t help but grin as he looks at you, as he jokes around with you so easily it feels like he’s known you for years instead of a month. He supposes he has known you longer, but never the way he does now.

“Now, will you be returning to Santa’s Workshop in future Decembers, mister Harrington?”

“Well, that depends,” he says. “I think I’ll require a certain presence to be with me if I come back. Can’t survive it without my doses of sunshine.”

My doses of sunshine.

You’ve never reacted to words the way you do with Steve, but when he says things like that, how can you not react? He compliments you in these indirect ways that only you could understand, and this secret language of yours has your heart skipping, your world tinted-pink.

That one makes you break character, “really?”

“Really.”

Looking up at him, at those soft, melting brown eyes that have always told you more than anything else about him, at the fondness in them, you think about that kiss.

You haven’t spoken about it, but you haven’t felt the need to. It meant something, you know that much, and by the way Steve sneaks touches—a squeeze of your hand, a palm on your back—he does, too.

“You make Christmas better,” he tells you.

He leaves you with that as the next family walks up for their picture, but you don’t miss the way his eyes linger on you, his gaze spreading sparkles over your skin.

It’s hard to focus when all you can think about is him calling you sunshine in that soft voice of his he’s only used when you’re alone, but you have to, so it’s back to work you go.

You don’t get to speak much again until your shift is over, the Christmas Eve evening rush swooping in and keeping you both busy.

It’s bittersweet, walking to the back room for the last time from Santa’s Workshop. You’re excited for tomorrow, because it’s Christmas and it’s one of your favorite days of the year, but it’s hitting you now how much you’ll miss seeing Steve nearly every day.

You’ll still see him, of course you will. Whether it’s him getting you to help sneak kids into a movie or maybe something more, something for just the two of you. Either way, you’re at least sure of one thing: Steve Harrington is one of the best people you know.

He’s the first to speak as you step into the staff room. “I have something for you,” he says.

Steve scratches the back of his neck, the smallest hint of pink on his cheeks. He’s nervous, and it’s the sweetest thing. He reaches into his bag, pulling out a small box, a white ribbon tied in a bow around it, a little lopsided, like he’d tied it himself.

You take it from him, smiling down at the box, because no matter what’s in it, he cared enough to get you a gift and that’s what matters, that’s what you’ll hold onto.

“Really?”

“Open it, please.”

You listen, tugging the ribbon loose and opening up the small box. Inside, you find a delicate chain, the pendant in the shape of the sun.

“Steve.” It comes out in a breath, your eyes welling the tiniest bit because this is the best gift you’ve ever received. He’s a gift himself, looking at you shyly, searching your face for a reaction.

“Do you like it?” He asks, his voice soft. “If it’s too much I can-”

“It’s perfect,” you say, and you mean it. “Put it on for me?”

He flashes you a grin, the corners of his mouth tugging up as he nods and takes the necklace from you, undoing the clasp as you turn around and move your hair out of the way.

You can feel his warmth against your back as he drapes the necklace over your collar, his fingers brushing the back of your neck as he fiddles with the clasp.

“There you go,” he says, taking a small step back to give you room to spin back around to face him.

You look down at the sun pendant sitting against your skin, touching it lightly. Steve’s actions speak volumes, and this one makes you feel so many things. But above it all, you feel like his.

He watches your face as you look at the necklace, the slope of your nose and the softness of your cheeks. The flutter of your lashes and the smile you don’t even try to hide. He’s been resisting the urge to kiss you since he’d done it the first time, but it’s stronger than ever now, with his present around your neck.

Your eyes meet when you look back up at him, his brown ones never failing to show how he feels, and your heart skips with how he looks at you. Like he cares, like he doesn’t intend on stopping.

He brushes your hair over your shoulder, fingertips gentle as ever when they brush against the side of your neck.

“I love it, Steve, really. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, sunshine.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything, I didn’t expect-”

“Hey,” he cuts you off, his hand shifting to hold yours, fingers lacing with yours easily, “you’ve given me so much.”

Steve doesn’t know how he got lucky enough to get paired with you for this job, how he got lucky enough to have someone look past his slight grumpiness and really see him. You’ve given him Christmas as a whole, erasing bad memories, replacing them with new ones, and he doesn’t think any present could repay you for that.

“Oh wait!” You squeeze his hand before letting go and heading towards your bag, digging until you find what you’d been looking for. You hand Steve a folded piece of paper, “you should have this.”

As he unfolds it, he realizes it’s the bucket list you’d made for him what feels like forever ago, glitter and all. There are activities with check marks beside them, the ones you’d completed, and he shakes his head with the smile he seems to only wear when you’re around.

Very last on the list, your handwriting spells out words that make his chest feel light, his heart full.

‘Make next Christmas just as good.’

Steve finally stops holding himself back and kisses you for the second time, and you’re both certain it won’t be the last.

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thank you for reading!! if you enjoyed, please please consider leaving a reblog or comment and let me know what you think! it would mean a bunch <3

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