Latest Posts by wonderweasley - Page 4

Me, not talking: Ah fuck, I am being weird

Me, talking: Ah fuck, I am being weird

Sleepy girls who get up before noon are so so so brave

long hair & tattoos (bill weasley & reader)

PAIRING: BILL WEASLEY // YOU PLATONIC: Fred Weasley/You, George Weasley/You

Summary:

You, (Y/N) Malfoy, despise your family’s views on blood purity. Unlike your little brother Draco, you won’t be roped into marrying for status. However, when your father, Lucius, puts down an ultimatum, you’re forced to find a lover for next week’s dinner. With his long hair, tattoos, piercings, and your father’s worst nightmare reincarnated in a man, who better to bring than a much older Bill Weasley?

What should’ve been one night of deceit turns to a battle of charades and wits. Just who will crumble first: your family, Bill, or you?

A/N: Guys, I am so excited for this. I was going back and forth between Bill and one of the twins. for this I know the twins would be more well-received, but Bill is perfect. So, I hope you love him (if not already) after this! I’ve wanted to write these tropes for so long: fake-dating, there-was-only-one bed, and so forth, hehe. Also, this story is heavily inspired by the song 18 by Anarbor (I dare say it wouldn’t have existed without it).

Tags: romance, faking dating, no-Voldemort-AU (the Malfoys are still awful though).

Warnings: age gap, pureblood politics

chapter directory

23, crazy (updated Feb 03, 2022)

baby, you’re in luck (updated Feb 06, 2022)

a heavy start (updated Feb 14, 2022)

i’ll play your game (updated Feb 28, 2022)

piss off your parents (updated March 08, 2022)

your daddy’s card(s) (updated March 29, 2022)

move in with me (updated April 06, 2022)

just a phase (updated April 21, 2022)

all grown up (updated May 17, 2022)

a malfoy summer (updated June 21, 2022)

white houses, red districts (updated July 21, 2022)

in love with me (updated July 25, 2022)

strawberry wonderland (updated August 3, 2022)

matters of matrimony (a mile away) (updated August 18, 2022)

that’s alright with me (end) (updated September 16, 2022)

Why does he look so serious…

don’t wanna fall in love

Synopsis: Dustin has a cool, new friend (you). Steve’s feeling threatened, perhaps even a little jealous. The fact that all he really wants to do is kiss you doesn’t help.

Warnings: enemies-to-lovers, cursing, a little angst, more than a little fluff, some hurt/comfort, kissing!

Word count: 10.3k

a/n: very excited to share this one 🥹

You’re hidden in a sea of plastic.

Cellophane, the technicolour kind, iridescent, blushing teddy bears, precariously balanced stacks of gift boxes and novelty items. Artificial bouquets saturate the counter in front of you, their thick, resin coat scintillating rays of sunshine.

You wrap a large, reduced-to-clear sticker around a bunch as you pick them up, offensively red letters bright enough to induce a headache.

You sigh, then, bringing your fingers to your temple on instinct. Gentle pressure, though the dull ache permeates. Like the static that buzzes through the air before a storm; a forewarning, a bad omen, a harbinger of disaster.

And then, a pocket-sized distraction enters the gift store.

“What do you have for me?” The boy asks in lieu of a greeting, his mess of bronze curls secured underneath a baseball cap.

“Hello to you too, kid,” you say mildly. He’s a ball of energy, as per usual; everything from his backpack to his knobbly knees bouncing as he walks. The former rocks against a sparkly card stand, a table decorated with breakable vases, expensive candles. You sigh, again. You add, “Would it kill you to be careful?”

The space between the boy’s thick eyebrows creases. He places one of his hands on the front counter firmly, cutting you one of those shrewd, almost-glares that say, “not the time”, and perhaps also, “really?”

“What do you have for me?” He repeats impatiently, his free hand fishing for spare change in his overalls. When he removes it from the front pocket, it’s to scatter a suspicious number of quarters onto the counter. A fair bit of dusty lint, too, some lonely pennies that burn ochre in the sunshine.

You hazard a guess at the amount of money he’s offering, landing somewhere between needing your staff discount and just plain stealing. “Fake flowers?” You offer hesitantly, waving the fluorescent bouquet in the air.

He frowns thoughtfully. He picks at the reduced-to-clear sticker tacked to the green stem. “How much?”

“Free,” you answer easily, though there’s a lilt to your tone, bright eyes twinkling mischief as you lean in a little close. “On one condition.”

Over the past few weeks, the young boy has frequented the store more often than every other patron combined. Whether to purchase a tacky postcard or novelty teddy bear, he’s perused the stacked shelves enough to stir your interest.

He owes you an explanation, introduction notwithstanding.

The curly-haired kid groans, he mutters a fair few, carefully chosen expletives, and then, he flashes you a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. When he speaks, it’s through gritted teeth, features pained as though he hates you.

He doesn’t. He’s a second away from disregarding every single thing he thought he knew about teenagers. About almost adults; people Steve’s age (he loves Steve), people Eddie should have graduated with (he worships Eddie), you.

“Name it,” he says finally, albeit begrudgingly.

You raise your eyebrows at his tone, taking a pause to search his features. The silence stretches, and his irritation piques, as though each second that passes is ageing him faster than it is you. Dustin Henderson is incapable of maintaining a poker-face. You find yourself strangely endeared by this revelation.

“First,” you start primly, relaxing your expression. “Your name.”

“Dustin,” he answers impatiently, tapping his fingers on the wooden counter. He’s fidgety. It’s mildly amusing. “That it?”

“No,” you say then, “tell me about the girl you’re buying these for.”

And perhaps it’s the genuine warmth you radiate, the soft, almost reverent way you say the words. Perhaps it’s the way your smile lifts your cheeks. You’ve dipped your head to eye-level, now, and perhaps it’s the way all your attention is on him.

Whatever it is, Dustin feels impossibly at ease. He deflates his lungs of expired oxygen, and when he takes a breath in, it’s in preparation of release. “So,” he starts, making a split second decision to tell you absolutely everything, “I met Suze at summer camp.”

You realise fairly quickly that Dustin Henderson is a force of nature. Once you get him going, there’s really no way of stopping him, and the weeks that follow your formal introduction are clear evidence of this fact. Biweekly visits become twice daily, minimum, filled with long-winded stories, questionable detours with no end in sight. And you learn several things about him, along the way; the kids he hangs out with, that one game he plays. The group of freaks (his words, not yours) that created his favourite school club, his girlfriend, his mom, everyone in between.

The latter of which includes Steve Harrington, apparently. As in — the same “King Steve” you’d shared classes with at Hawkins High; been ignored by, dismissed, promptly forgotten about after graduation.

You’d be lying if you said Dustin’s relationship with him didn’t perplex you. Steve Harrington didn’t seem the type to entertain dorky freshman — especially not to the extent that the young boy often described. Rides to the arcade, free candy and girl advice; he seemed as invested in Dustin’s life as you were, and perhaps a secret part of you felt a little threatened by his presence.

Like a few minutes ago, for example, when Dustin’d entered the store with a — “Just came from Family Video, and you won’t believe what Steve found tacked to the front window.”

You’d tuned him out on realising you weren’t getting a word in, though perhaps it was time to tune him back in.

“…so, anyway,” he continues, on the tail end of an hour long rant. Something about the constituents of the cinematic experience; instead of listening, you’ve been counting the number of times he uses the word ‘ambience’. “We’re planning on checking it out tonight. See if the open air gets us some more ambience,” you add another line to your mental tally. “You in?”

“Hm?” You mumble on instinct, tearing your eyes away from the greeting cards you’ve been organising. There’s a thick sheen of glitter coating your forefinger and thumb, raising iridescent dust as you bring your hand to your neck. Kinking slightly, you give your shoulder an absent squeeze. “In for what?”

Dustin scowls. “Weren’t you listening?”

“I was,” you lie, nodding your reiteration for good measure. “Movies. Ambience.”

“Fucking hell,” Dustin mutters, sending you a pointed glare. “Drive-in. Tonight. Steve, the gang, me.”

You pause, replacing a tattered anniversary card with another that’s newer, emblazoned with brilliant gold and silver. “Right.”

“So?” Dustin presses, edging forward impatiently. His forearm brushes against the stack of cards, nudging them into a pocket of lemon sunshine. “You in or what?”

“In?” You echo, eyes widening with surprise. “To come with you guys?”

Dustin’s never sought your company outside of shop hours. Especially not with all of his friends, with —

“But what about Steve?” You add then, worrying your bottom lip.

“What about him?” Dustin asks, raising his eyebrows bemusedly. There’s a pause as he studies you, the kind of sticky silence that stretches. And the concentration creasing his brows, the thoughtful way he tilts his chin, it’s as though he knows the answer to his own question before you say it.

Except that he doesn’t. He’s caught you in a dreadful, embarrassing, misunderstanding.

“Oh,” he enunciates, his mouth creating a loud oval. “No, no, don’t worry about Steve, he won’t try anything with you — he’s nothing like he was in high-school. Trust me.”

You resist the urge to grimace. Dustin doesn’t appear to notice.

“Think it’s all the minimum wage jobs,” he adds thoughtfully, stroking his prepubescent chin. “Totally humbled him. He’s like, super lame-o now, hangs out with us more than he does guys his own age.”

“Dustin,” you say carefully, shaking your head, “I don’t mean — he —”

You falter, letting out a tired sigh. “— I know he isn’t going to hit on me,” you finish awkwardly. “I just wanted to — uh, he won’t mind? Me coming?”

Dustin frowns, features taking on a confused expression. “Of course he’ll hit on you,” he says matter-of-factly, “you’re like, textbook out of his league.”

“Dude,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “You know we graduated in the same year, right? We even had math together. Didn’t even look at me, let alone flirt.”

“No, listen,” Dustin urges, practically climbing onto the counter in an effort to edge forward. His elbow knocks over the delicate stack of cards you’ve created, showering the wood with polychromatic glitter. You wince. Dustin doesn’t notice. “That’s cause he wasted high-school pining over the wrong girl,” he adds, nodding his head loyally, “he like, definitely would’ve noticed you if he hadn’t, and —”

“Dustin,” you interrupt, looking toward the fallen stack reproachfully. “I don’t care. Have you asked your friends — asked Steve — if they’re alright with me coming tonight?”

“Why wouldn’t they be alright?” Dustin returns smoothly; he thinks you won’t notice that he hasn’t answered your question. Cheeky motherfucker. “They’re going to love you. Drive-in’s at seven, but for the love of God, get there early, alright?”

—

Steve watches Dustin amble down his porch steps, backpack swinging, mildly amused by the way he’s scrubbing the lipstick off his sunburnt cheek.

“You’re making it worse,” he greets genially, watching the red stain bloom brighter with the heat of his palm. “Relax.”

“My mom’s the one who needs to relax,” Dustin mutters, hard set scowl on his features. “Seriously, what’s with the makeup when she’s staying in?”

“Oh cheer up, Dusty,” he teases with a grin, watching him fish his walkie-talkie out of his backpack, sending a whoosh of static through the air. “Pretend it’s Suze’s, or something. Surprise visit.”

Dustin pauses, nodding thoughtfully. “You know, Harrington,” he says then, reaching forward to fiddle with the car radio. “You’re not as dumb as you look.”

Steve narrows his eyes, fixing Dustin with a pointed glare. “Ever heard of humility, Henderson?”

Dustin smiles with teeth. “That’s a big word,” he says, and though Steve’s about to open his mouth in protest, he knows any argument he makes’ll be fruitless.

Because Dustin’s managed to sort through the static of his walkie-talkie, by then, tuned into the frequency him and the gang always use.

“Venkman?” He starts, bringing the contraption to his mouth conspiratorially. “Venkman, do you copy? Over.”

“Copy,” says a deeper voice then, thick and authoritative, “Over.”

“Hey,” comes another, and Steve can here an edge to it, albeit crackly. “C’mon, dude, we’ve been through this. I’m Venkman.”

“Shit, okay — fine. We’ll both be Venkman, alright?”

“But —” a sigh, a rustle, the second voice tries to deliberate, “— alright, I’m Venkman #1, and you can be Venkman #2 —”

“What? Why do you get to be Venkman #1 —”

“Holy shit,” interrupts Dustin, pinching the bridge of his nose frustratedly. “We do not have time for this. Stop. Mike, do you copy?”

“Copy,” grumbles the second voice again.

“We’re picking you up first, alright?” Dustin says, “Lucas, you’re next. Be ready. We can’t be late.”

He pushes down the springy antennae before they can respond, tapping the walkie-talkie against the edge of the window impatiently.

“Oi,” Steve scolds, reaching over to halt his movements. “You’re going to fucking break the glass. Stop.”

Dustin ignores him. “Will you step on it, Harrington?” He urges, eyes darting toward the sinking horizon. “We can’t turn up late after I told her to make sure she’s early.”

Steve furrows his brow, confusion flickering over his brown irises. “Who? Robin?”

“What?” Dustin asks distractedly, waving a dismissive hand in the air. “No, you idiot. Robin’s not even coming anymore. I invited gift shop girl, remember? I told you about it, her name’s —”

“Giftshop girl,” Steve repeats, setting his jaw firmly. “Of course.”

He isn’t sure why you bring forth such unease. The first time Dustin’d mentioned your name in passing, Steve’d thought it sounded vaguely familiar — someone he’d went to Hawkins’ High with. A beautiful someone, no doubt, who knew him as king Steve; as the cocky, insensitive guy he’d once been.

Not present day him; gentler, kinder, more patient. Perhaps a part of him resented that your presence tethered him to his former self.

Never mind the fact that Dustin Henderson acted as though the sun shone out of your ass; he adored you, point-blank worshipped you, and so what if this irritated Steve to no end? Sue him. He couldn’t help but succumb to jealousy rearing it’s ugly head.

Dustin raises his eyebrows at Steve’s hardened expression, gaze falling to his iron-clad grip on the wheel. “What’s that face?”

“What face?” Steve scoffs intently, feigning nonchalance. “There’s no face.”

“There’s definitely a face,” Dustin decides, scrutinising Steve’s features with narrowed eyes. “If this is about —”

“It’s not,” Steve interrupts, sending him a warning glance. “Drop it. I definitely don’t care that you invited her.”

“I never said you did,” Dustin answers carefully, eyebrows soaring.

“Whatever,” Steve mutters, drumming his hands on the wheel impatiently. “I don’t care that she’s really fucking cool and likes to listen to you talk about all of that nerdy crap,” he lowers his voice several decibels, words coming out a quick hiss, “or how she gives way better girl advice than me, apparently, because I’ve suddenly stopped hearing about Suze, and how the two of you are doing — but whatever. It’s fine. Totally cool with it. Drop it.”

Dustin doesn’t quite catch all of Steve’s rant; it’s barely perceptible, something about not caring (said in a voice that definitely cares), Suze’s name and girl advice and ‘nerdy crap’ thrown in there.

“Right,” he says after a pause, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Uh, Steve?”

“What?” Steve bristles, sending him an irritated glare.

Dustin raises his arms in surrender, nodding toward the stretch of suburbia to his left. “You missed the turn to Mike’s.”

Steve forces out a breath through gritted teeth. “Should’ve got giftshop girl to pick you up.”

—

The air is thick with the scent of forget-me-nots, sweet honeysuckle bathed in gelatinous humidity. The sweltering, Hawkins’ heat has burnt the grass into neat, brown patches; they make the field far easier to navigate, create pockets of drive-in goers with spaces in between.

Although, you probably don’t need them to find Dustin. He’s loud as ever, wildly unabashed; you can hear his animated voice all the way from the carpark.

Steve’s back is turned. It’s the first thing you notice as you near the group; thick, chestnut hair and broad-looking shoulders. He’s wearing a swim-team jersey that’s blue and red, it hugs his biceps, his firm torso, slightly frayed at the edges like it’s well worn in. It probably smells like him. Faint musk, spicy cologne, overwhelming chlorine; it’s one of the few things you remember about him, having sat behind him in a few classes, back at Hawkins’ High. He used to be on the swim team — that’s another thing you remember. The tips of his hair, fresh and damp, dripping beads of water onto the back of his chair, the edge of your desk.

You falter, blinking several times. Perhaps you’d seen more of Steve back in high-school than you’d let on.

“There she is!” Dustin exclaims then, forcing you out of your reverie. He bounds over to you with a wide smile on his face, dragging you right into the heart of the huddle. He diligently introduces you to each of his friends — gangly Mike, shy Will, confident Lucas and his coolly disinterested girlfriend, Max. He ends with Steve, almost strategically. You aren’t sure whether this makes you want to thank him, or throttle him for it.

“…and this is Steve,” he finishes smoothly, jerking a thumb toward the older boy beside him. “He, uh… you know Steve, right? Graduated the same year as you?”

“Right,” you say with a nod, smiling awkwardly.

Steve doesn’t return the gesture right away. The frayed edge of his jersey is far more interesting, the scuffed tips of his sneakers, the steely keyring in his hand. It’s a bottle opener. He shoves it into his front pocket and straightens, feeling overly self conscious all of a sudden.

“Oh, yeah,” he begins coolly, only then allowing himself to really look at you. You’re startlingly beautiful up close, he realises fairly quickly, a beat passing, another, as he takes you in. There’s a shyness to the way your lips curve upward. Steve’s eyes fall to the column of your throat, lower still to the osculate where your collarbones kiss. He blinks. He begins to seriously doubt his perception of time and space.

“Hey, again,” you greet.

Steve’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows. “Hey,” he returns.

“It’s — you probably don’t remember me,” you add quickly, mostly because his response sounds more like a question than a salute. He doesn’t remember you; why would he? He’s Steve fucking Harrington, king of Hawkins’ High, and you’re — “I was pretty low key when we were at school. No biggie.”

Steve knows he shouldn’t take your explanation so personally. All you’re trying to do is diffuse the tension; he’s the one who’s at a loss for words, staring down at you like he’s forgotten how to speak. You’re really pretty. Why did you have to be so, very, pretty?

“What?” He defends, voice uncharacteristically gruff, “Of course I remember you. We, uh — we had that one class together in senior year, first period with… or, wait, was it third? The one Mrs Garcia taught, you sat right behind me with the —”

“— math?” you supply helpfully.

Steve frowns. “I was getting there.”

“Right.”

“I’m not —” he falters, letting out a frustrated sigh, “— why wouldn’t I remember you? We graduated the same year. We took similar classes.”

You raise your eyebrows pointedly, cocking your head to one side. “You’re King Steve. We didn’t run in the same circles.”

“So?” Steve scowls, folding his arms across his chest. You don’t remember his biceps being so broad. He’s worn this jersey on several occasions, in the past, and you definitely don’t remember the sleeves being this tight. “That means I’m not capable of being a decent human being? Remembering all the people in my graduating class?”

You frown. “Okay,” you say then, looking to Dustin for support. “Now I’m definitely confused.”

“Well, I’m not that guy anymore,” Steve responds, a finality in his tone that hadn’t been there before. “You don’t — you don’t know anything about me, alright? So don’t act like you do.”

“Dude, c’mon,” Dustin intervenes, sending him a reproachful glance. “Be cool.”

“I’m just saying,” Steve mutters, unfolding his arms to comb his fingers through his hair, “she doesn’t actually know me —”

“You know I have a name, right?” You interrupt, raising your eyebrows.

“Right, gift shop girl doesn’t actually know me,” Steve corrects, speaking over your irritated sigh. “So she should stop acting like she does, like — like she understands the dynamics of the group, or who I am, or who I might know, or might not know, or —”

“Harrington,” Dustin cuts in warningly, “we get it, alright? Drop it.”

He turns back toward you just as the crowd hushes, flashy, movie lights painting his grimace meek, apologetic.

“Sorry,” he whispers, tugging you down onto the picnic blanket. The rest of the group busy themselves settling in, Steve’s large figure perched near the edge, beside Max and Lucas. “He’s not usually like that, I swear.”

“Don’t apologise,” you murmur, smiling softly.

Dustin’s sweet to think your exchange may have gone any other way. Sure, you hadn’t expected as much hostility as you’d received, but you’d known not to anticipate anything more than mild pleasantries. Steve Harrington didn’t waste his time on girls like you, even when he kind of, almost, shared a joint custody agreement with them.

“No, seriously,” Dustin urges, unwilling to take no for answer. He shuffles closer noisily, toppling over a bag of sour patch kids as the opening credits roll. “He’s being a total dingus. Maybe — shit, maybe he’s playing hardball because he’s into you, or something; the other day — you remember, right? When Suze was going on about that asshole computer whiz in her neighbourhood — he told me that I needed to ‘play it cool’, or —”

“Holy shit, Dustin,” Max hisses, fixing the back of his head with a pointed glare. “Shut the fuck up, will you?”

You bite back an entertained smile, reaching down to give his shoulder a pat. “Dustin,” you whisper then, shaking your head bemusedly. “Think it’s a pretty safe bet that Steve Harrington isn’t into me.”

“Why?” Dustin questions with a frown, turning around to send Steve a momentary glance. “You guys are both, like, old. And boring. And hang out with kids half of your age — so like, definitely sad and lonely —”

“Hey,” you interrupt, trying to mask your amusement. “It’s not so much that we hang out as I’m the glorified babysitter you come to for help —”

“Details,” Dustin dismisses easily, and you’re really laughing now. Steve’s been eavesdropping on your conversation ever since all of you sat down, but you’re laughing, now, and the sound hits him square in the chest. It’s the sort of gooey, heart-squeezing sensation that travels to the tips of his fingers, his toes; Steve watches your lips part, hears the laugh bubble through, and he realises that he’s in serious trouble.

You’re like, really really pretty, have a pretty laugh, too, and now he’s thinking about how it’d feel to kiss you.

It’s confusing. He should probably stop staring.

“Dude, stop. You’re embarrassing yourself,” Max mutters on queue, as though she can read his mind. (If that were true, and Steve was in trouble before, he can’t even begin to imagine the carnage that’d ensue.)

“Whatever, Mayfield,” Steve grumbles in response, tearing his eyes away from you laughing, glowing, looking suspiciously iridescent. “I don’t get embarrassed.”

“You should,” she responds mildly.

Steve narrows his eyes; he knows exactly where this is going. “Don’t,” he warns, as if that’ll make any difference.

“I — I like — of course I remember you,” Max mocks, adopting an almost caveman-like register. “I, king of Hawkins’ High —”

“Mayfield,” Steve forces through gritted teeth.

“Uh, it’s not like I’m being a total dingus on purpose,” Max continues gruffly, ignoring him. “It’s just — I’m Dusty’s best friend and I’m the one he always sits with, and —”

“Alright, enough,” Steve interrupts, fixing her with a stern glare. His eyes dart to Lucas’ figure for support, receiving nothing more than a grimace and an apologetic shrug.

“Sorry, dude,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “That was pretty painful to watch.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Steve insists.

“What was with all the,” Lucas pauses, brow furrowing as he gathers his thoughts, “‘you don’t know me’ bullshit?”

Steve frowns. He realises that he isn’t sure himself. “She doesn’t,” he says lamely.

“And all the crap about the dynamics of the group…” Lucas continues, trailing off to cut Steve a look of clear exasperation, “…seriously?”

He allows for a meaningful pause, raising his eyebrows. “Dude, we’re all, like, textbook losers. I don’t think we get to be picky about who joins the group.”

“Whatever,” Steve mutters, stealing another glance at you and Dustin. He’s close enough to you that his shoulder knocks yours, eyes glued to the screen as he whispers something in your ear. Something that Steve’s on the receiving end of, usually; a minuscule detail within the movie scene, a prop he swears been put in place deliberately. And when you nod along, murmur your approval, Dustin glows, and Steve feels another twinge of jealousy.

He’s meant to be the super suave, role model slash friend. So he adds, “I’m the fucking babysitter,” because times like this one, it feels as though they’re all he has left.

—

“We’re closed,” Steve calls, having heard the rusty bell above the entrance door chime. He holds a neat stack of returned tapes to his torso, deciding whether Risky Business, near the top of the pile, deserved a spot on the chic flick shelf. (It does, he concludes after several moments of deliberation. Not only is it a total classic amongst the ladies, he has a pick-up line ready for the ones who frequented Family Video.)

“Cut the shit,” comes Dustin’s response, the young boy trudging over, walkie-talkie in hand. “This is serious.”

Steve raises his eyebrows, surveying Dustin’s figure with mild amusement. “Tone, Henderson.”

“I need a ride,” Dustin says then, choosing to ignore his sentiment. As usual.

“Dude,” Steve frowns, glancing down at the generous looking pile at his hands. “You’re gonna have to wait, alright?”

Dustin shakes his head vigorously, jerking a thumb toward the exit. “Suze drama. Like, now. Need you to take me to the gift shop before it closes.”

“The gift shop?” Steve repeats, narrowing his eyes. “I’m giving you a ride right into gift shop girl’s arms?”

“Harrington,” Dustin groans, dragging a hand down his face. He mutters a few expletives under his breath, digressing when he’s sure he’s lamented his dramatics. “C’mon. Not the time for you to get all jealous on me. Let’s go.”

Steve narrows his eyes, taking pause to survey Dustin’s body language. He’s antsier than usual — shifting from foot to foot every five seconds, fidgeting with the walkie-talkie antenna, different knobs, and, on closer inspection, his bottom lip is chewed raw. Steve sighs. He says, “Seriously, you fucking owe me,” and he replaces the tapes in his hand with his car keys.

No bottle opener keyring.

He threw it away a week ago, at the drive-in movie, somewhere between trying to ignore you and memorising the faint bergamot, hint of lavender in your perfume.

“Alright,” he says once they’re both buckled in. “What’s the Suze sitch?”

Dustin winces at the question, glancing down at his walkie-talkie sheepishly. He mumbles a response so soft it’s barely audible, something about an anniversary with suspicious ties to “the L-word”.

Steve doubts that it’s a big deal. His mind wanders to reciprocity, to love confessions, and perplexingly, to you, and then he begins doubting whether he knows what does and doesn’t constitute a big deal.

If there were ever a Universe where he said the L-word to you (not that he could L-word someone who’s stealing his favourite kid from him — it’s just your stupid laugh and your stupid smile, the stupid way you make his heart flip-flop), he probably wouldn’t want you to forget the anniversary of it.

“You — alright, hold on,” Steve says slowly, looking over at Dustin. “You forgot the I-love-you anniversary?”

Dustin winces, again. “Yes,” he groans, burying his head in his hands. “And it’s all your fault, you know that?”

Steve turns into the complex the gift shop belongs to, parking his car right opposite the front of the store. “What?” He asks, frowning bemusedly. “How the hell is this my fault?”

Dustin unbuckles tersely, practically running into the shop. The clock on Steve’s dashboard clicks forward, a minute before five just as he catches up.

“Well?” He presses, allowing the door to shut behind him. The store is artificially fresh, as though someone’s blasted an old, air conditioner for hours, and smells disarmingly familiar, soft bergamot and faint hints of lavender. He hinges near the doorway. He tries not to think about whether the job comes with a cute uniform.

“You’re the one who told me to play hardball,” comes Dustin’s voice from a sea of trinkets, effectively breaking him out of his reverie. “You know — after that whole thing with Dave from computer camp?”

Steve furrows his brow, unsure how this relates. “So?”

“So,” Dustin repeats, sighing frustratedly. “It’s led to me forgetting our I-love-you-versary. I mean, shit, what do you even get someone to say sorry for that?”

“That’s a little unfair,” Steve frowns, taking a tentative step forward. “I never told you to forget about —”

“Give her some space, you said,” Dustin continues, voice thick with accusation. “She’ll come running back to you, you said —”

“Oof, pulling back like that when you’re already in a relationship?” Says another voice then, far sweeter than the last, though Steve doesn’t want to think about that. “Rookie mistake.”

“How?” He argues stubbornly, heading toward the source. “Playing hard-to-get always works. That shit is like, foolproof.”

You’re leaning against the side of the front counter when he appears, hip pressed into the smooth, wooden edge. “Maybe for you,” you counter, raising your eyebrows pointedly. Somewhere behind you, there’s a concerning sounding ruckus, no doubt Dustin toppling items as he makes for the discount bin. “Dustin, dude, relax.”

“Right?” Steve says then, agreeing with you despite himself. “That’s what I’m saying. The little shit needs to calm down about this Suzie thing.”

“In the store, yes,” you say, raising your eyebrows meaningfully. “In general, no.”

And whilst half of you really does mean that — the L-word is a big deal, after all — the other half of you just really wants to disagree with everything Steve’s saying.

Maybe his dismissal at the drive-in had cut deeper than you’d initially anticipated. Maybe you wanted to make certain he knew you weren’t interested in being friends, being more, with him, either.

Steve cocks his head to one side, folding his arms across his chest. “I don’t get it.”

His gaze travels to the apron tied to your neck, the plain, white t-shirt you’re wearing underneath it. It’s sitting a little funny on your torso at present, favouring your left side so your right’s a little exposed. There’s a sliver of bare skin between your waist and hip, soft and unblemished, shaded from the heat. Steve unfolds his arms.

“I mean, I’m of the opinion that the L-bomb drop’s a big deal,” you answer, shrugging easily.

Steve doesn’t want to agree. The hem of your t-shirt has ridden up from the movement, tiny sliver becoming a far more devastating rectangle. Steve blinks. You angle back a moment to free your skin from the shade, sunlight bathing you aureate, and Steve almost agrees, anyway.

“Me too,” he says carefully, clearing his throat. “But — c’mon, no way him forgetting is my fault.”

“You told him to play hardball,” you accuse.

“Not with this, though.”

“Still,” you insist, frowning stubbornly. “You’re the reason the sweet kid’s gone off his game —”

“He didn’t have any game to begin with,” Steve interrupts, scoffing his exasperation.

“Hey!” Dustin calls indignantly, voice muffled a little by the novelty items that surround him. “Uncool, dude.”

Steve grimaces. “Sorry,” he calls, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. He’s wearing a Family Video vest that’s a size too small, with strong arms that’d cover yours barely covered themselves. He looks overwhelmingly solid, rugged, handsome in that Hollywood way that’d get you a “Most likely to be a movie star” in the senior yearbook. The room shrinks. You can feel the heat radiating off his figure (as if that’s fucking possible); has he always been this close?

You frown, feeling a perplexing set of butterflies erupt within your stomach. “He’s a sensitive kid, you know,” you murmur pointedly, attempting to change the subject.

“Of course I know,” Steve responds irritatedly. “I’ve known him longer than you have.”

“So you should know,” you say then, raising your eyebrows at his tone. “That he really does care about your opinion.”

You pause, stepping forward so you’re closer, so you can cast over every crease, every wrinkle on his forehead. “Don’t know why, exactly, but he does. So maybe don’t give crap advice that’ll lead him to me with like, five pennies and a dime?”

Steve scowls, inching forward subconsciously. “What do you mean ‘don’t know why’?” He asks, fingers raised in air-quotes as he narrows his eyes. Large fingers. “Why wouldn’t he come to me for girl advice?”

“Shit, I don’t know,” you respond sarcastically, “maybe because you tend to treat girls like objects?”

Steve winces, shaking his head. “Used to.”

“Still,” you bristle, still harbouring some petulance over the way he treated you at the drive-in, at the way he ignored you back at Hawkins’ High, at the way he’s acting like he never did. “You were all Skull Rock and parties and locker room make-out sessions back then.”

“This is what I was fucking talking about before,” Steve sighs frustratedly, running his fingers through his hair. “You — you don’t know me, alright? Just because you’re familiar with some version of me, from back in high-school, doesn’t mean you can waltz into my life and act like you’ve got me all figured out.”

You let out an indignant scoff, and Steve’s gaze falls to your mouth momentarily. You’re so close, now, that he can see silver specks on your lips, cosmetic grade glitter hidden within a thick gloss. It looks freshly reapplied, untouched. Steve tries not to think about how many kisses you’d need for it to wear off.

“And,” he adds; you purse your lips then, pressed tight and almost puckered, and he really really tries not to think about it. “You also don’t know anything about me and Dustin, how we roll, and all the shit we did before you came along. Like — the gift shop is cute and all, but —”

“Guys,” Dustin interrupts, his panic rendering him oblivious of the fight that’s ensuing. “How about this?”

You turn to him just as he holds up an assortment of waxy candles — citronella, cedar and fir, fresh pine, old spice, pineapple. Steve’s right behind you, the groan he lets out under his breath rumbling through his chest, into your shoulder blades. It’s fleeting, it’s a tendril of warm touch, but it’s electric.

“Summer camp smells,” he explains, looking between the two of you expectantly. “Well?”

Your gaze softens. Steve’s becomes a touch more pained.

“It’s perfect,” you gush, just as Steve says, “pathetic.”

You frown, deciding against turning around and demanding he explain. (Mostly because he’s so close it’s like standing near a furnace. You can feel the breadth of his torso behind you, hot static that’s raising goosebumps along your skin. It’s a nice feeling, perplexingly. If you fainted, right now, he’d had no trouble taking your weight. Maybe even carrying you to safety, strong arms squeezing you tight and promising stupid things about never letting go. Steve’s big. He’s really, really close.)

“Dustin,” you reiterate, shaking your head slightly. “It’s perfect. Seriously.”

You’re exactly the right height. He realises, as he glances down at you, that there’s a perfect amount of space between your head and his chin. There’s fire in your gaze, bottom lip jutting out obstinately, and Steve focusses on that instead of how perfectly you slot together. Except, that you look unfairly beautiful when you’re annoyed, and now Steve doesn’t know what he’s meant to focus on, if not that.

“Don’t listen to her,” he mouthes, shaking his head several times. “Lame-o move.”

“But why?” Dustin asks out loud, oblivious to Steve’s pointed glare.

“Why what?” You echo bemusedly.

Steve closes his eyes, letting out a defeated sigh. “Because,” he answers, and you shift ever so slightly in front of him, surface of your knuckles brushing his jeans pocket. The tips of his toes warm. “It’s way overboard. She’s gonna run the other way.”

You furrow your brow in disagreement, turning a little more so you can look up at him properly. “I don’t think so,” you say. His eyes are disarmingly brown, rich molasses that lightens in the sun. “I think it’s sweet.”

“Kid like Dustin, though?” He mutters, voice so low only you can hear. “Can’t afford to be sweet. Gotta build up the heart-breaker rep before you can go all soft. That’s like, page one of how to get the girl.”

“But he’s already got the girl.”

“And she has him wrapped around her little finger,” Steve explains, protective streak shining through. “C’mon — you have to admit that the kid does way more for her than she does him.”

You falter then, chewing your bottom lip thoughtfully. “Hm. Guess I never thought about it that way.”

Steve furrows his brow, surveying your features carefully. He doesn’t know whether he’s imagining the subtle shift in your demeanour; your voice is softer, gaze a little crestfallen. “Right.”

“Like, I don’t know. I guess I just give him the advice I wish my exes had been given,” you continue, muscle memory prompting you to provide an explanation. “I forget that Suze isn’t me, and Dustin isn’t them.”

“I get it,” Steve says slowly, fighting the overwhelming urge to hug you. He’s scared that if he does, he won’t know when to let go. “I’m guilty of that too, for sure. He —”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Dustin interrupts impatiently, “I’m not you, either. Candles, people. Yes or no?”

There’s a beat before either of you say anything, a beat where you just look at each other, wonder whether the other person’s feeling the same way. There’s static in the air that surrounds you, it kisses goosebumps on your skin, something more in your heart. Your chest feels funny. You wonder whether Steve’s feels the same.

“Maybe just one,” you say finally, maintaining eye-contact with Steve as you do so.

“Yeah,” he affirms after another moment, one more. “Just one.”

Dustin nods his approval, deliberating over the hefty pile in his hands. “Good idea,” he agrees, deciding on sweet citronella. “Compromise.”

—

The diner’s busy, busier than usual for a Thursday afternoon, but you’re still able to hear the sound of your own slurping.

You leave a ring of pink gloss on the straw as you pull away. Condensation drips down it’s thick, plastic surface.

“I’m going to go grab us some napkins,” you say awkwardly, flashing him a smile you hope doesn’t appear as pained as you feel.

It doesn’t matter. Your date — some kid named Richie who slid you his number, half-smudged on a piece crumpled paper — isn’t really listening.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” he says distractedly, eyes glued to the small TV propped up above the Jukebox.

You sidle out of the booth with a small sigh, taking your time walking toward the front counter.

“Wait a minute… no way, scoops, is that you?”

You stumble to a halt, lips parting in surprise. Her voice is a little hoarse, just as you remember it, and the nickname —

“Buckley?” You ask; it’s rhetorical, you can already see the grin on her face.

“No fucking way,” she reiterates, pulling you into a tight hug as soon as you’ve turned to face her. “When’d you get back to Hawkins?”

“A few weeks ago, actually,” you answer, smiling wide as you draw back. “How are you?”

“Fine, whatever,” Robin replies airily, separating to wave a dismissive hand in the air. “Same old. How are you? How’s college? How’s being back? How’s everything?”

You let out an endeared laugh, shaking your head bemusedly. “Good, great, the lamest, okay.”

The clouds outside free the sun as she nods, and light streams through the window, painting her brown hair softer ochre. “Noted,” she says, linking her arm in yours. “Listen, who’re you here with? Maybe you guys can join me and Steve at the booth by the Jukebox? He’s being totally absent because there’s some stupid game on, or something, so we’ll have a good chance to catch up without him interrupting us.”

“Steve?” You echo, faltering. “Like… Harrington?”

“Oh, shit, yeah,” Robin responds, eyes widening sheepishly. “I forget that you’ve gone so long. Yeah. Yes. I’m friends with King Steve Harrington now. I know, right? Me? Steve?”

She takes a pause, clocking the skepticism transforming your features. “No, listen, trust me,” she adds then, shaking her head reassuringly. “He’s like, a completely different guy —”

“I’ve heard the Steve spiel already,” you interrupt, frowning. “From Dustin, from him — it’s whatever.”

“From… huh?”

“It’s a long story,” you sigh, raising your eyebrows meaningfully. “Listen, don’t worry about it, we’ll have to catch up another time and —”

“Dude,” comes another voice then, far deeper. Your chest begins to feel funny. You don’t want to recognise it as quickly as you do. “Come on — what’s the hold up? Are they ‘out’ of strawberry syrup again? Because, swear to God, if that stoner manning the cash register told you that —”

“Steve,” Robin interrupts, mostly because he’s about to crash into her. “Stop.”

Only then does he finally tear his eyes away, having made the walk to the front counter with them glued to the TV screen.

“What?” He asks, sending her a bewildered glance. Beside her, a blur of gold, amber hues, a stranger bathed in soft sunlight, wearing a pretty dress. She’s out of focus at first, but the familiarity of her perfume draws him in. Faint bergamot, patchouli, remnants of drive-in petrichor; he’d recognise that smell anywhere.

“You?” He adds candidly, turning to you then. “What are you doing here?”

What are you doing here in a dress with spaghetti straps, low cut neck that he’s trying his best not to stare at? What are you doing here with lipgloss on, curly lashes, sparkly eyeshadow on that brightens your irises? What are you doing here, in this stupid, mundane diner, and why are you doing it whilst looking so, so pretty?

Your brow furrows at the question, and Steve’s fingers itch to smooth out the crease it forms on your forehead. It’s annoying, almost unfair, the effect that you’re having on him. Steve knows what you’re doing here. Why aren’t you doing it with him?

“Uh,” you start awkwardly, rocking back on your heels. “Grabbing a milkshake?”

Robin raises her eyebrows knowingly, scanning the row of hidden booths behind you. “With who?”

“No one,” you answer, entirely too quickly.

“Stop it,” Robin gasps, eyes widening excitedly. “You’re on a fucking date?”

Steve tenses. His vision blurs around your figure, tunes in on subtle movements, tiny changes in your expression. Your bottom lip tucks between your teeth, pert nose flaring as you sigh your defeat. There’s a shyness to the way your grimace. Robin’s right. Steve feels an ugly pang of jealousy.

“It’s going terribly,” you concede finally, features twisting into a grimace. “He’s more interested in the game than he is me.”

“Pretty good game,” Steve reasons, feigning nonchalance.

You roll your eyes, scoffing your exasperation. “Right. Of course it is.”

“Ditch him?” Robin offers, gesturing toward her table. Steve’s wallet and keys rest on its weathered surface.

“I shouldn’t,” you sigh, sending your own booth a reproachful glance. “He’s nearly done with his shake, anyway.”

“Why shouldn’t you?” Steve asks with a frown, clearly bewildered. “He’s being a total ass to you.”

“It’s called being polite,” you say pointedly.

“Screw polite,” he scoffs. “Any loser that’s ignoring you on a date doesn’t deserve polite. Ditch him.”

Your lips part in surprise, momentarily disarmed by his honesty. “Oh,” you nod, chewing your bottom lip absently. “Right.”

Steve resists the urge to grimace, blush blooming across his cheeks. “I just — you know what I mean.”

“I do.”

“Good,” he says, shoving his hands into his front pockets. He can feel Robin’s eyes burning holes into his side; he rocks back on his heels, he halts, he tries not to fidget.

He fails.

“Good,” you echo, watching him fiddle with the frayed hem of his crew neck.

“And, listen,” he adds then, deciding to bite the bullet at the last possible moment. “The other day, the gift-shop with Dustin…”

He trails to a pause, letting out a breath of air. “…for what it’s worth, I don’t think you give him bad advice. I’m just protective of the kid, you know? Don’t want to see his feelings hurt.”

You nod, swallowing slightly. Steve’s eye contact holds an intensity that’s almost devastating; it hasn’t wavered, not once, and it’s turning your knees to jelly. The way he’s looking at you, now, it feels as though you’re the only girl in the world. If you asked Steve why, he’d tell you it’s because he means it.

Because you are, to him.

—

The arcade is a sea of fluorescence, bold yellow, indigo, green mixed with brighter cherry. The different games whir loudly, obnoxiously from overuse, the sounds they make juxtaposed by people yelling. Lots and lots of yelling — when they win, when they lose, when they’re almost there, not quite, when they’ve made it to the next level; even when they haven’t.

Dustin Henderson is very easily the loudest. You could find him in a crowd, with your eyes closed, if you wanted to. (To your credit, they very nearly are, at present, what with the overhead lights strobing at such an offensive speed.)

“Henderson!” You call, cupping your mouth with your hands. “Come on!”

Dustin’s eyes widen as he recognises your voice, and he searches the crowd blindly before finding you within it. “Come here,” he mouthes, beckoning you over urgently.

“No,” you mouth back, frowning stubbornly. “Headache. Come on.”

Dustin groans. “But I’m not done!” He yells, jerking a thumb toward the game.

You’re halfway to responding, mouth open in protest, when a familiar, broad figure sidles in beside you.

“Hey,” he greets, sending you a swift smile. “What’re you doing here?”

You crinkle your nose slightly, nodding toward Dustin. “What do you think?”

Steve frowns then, confusion transforming his features. His figure shifts a little as he angles toward you, the solid expanse of muscle on his arm knocking yours in the process. The tendril of touch sends your nerve-endings aflame, shoots up into your shoulder, your chest till you’re shivering.

“What?” He asks, furrowing his brow for good measure. “But he asked me to pick him up.”

“He — what?” You echo, eyes darting toward Dustin. “No, he definitely asked me. Just the other day.”

You pause then, forehead creasing as you gather your thoughts. “Friday, 6pm sharp, don’t be late —”

“— because my mom expects me home at 6.30pm so she can call grandma and get me to talk to her,” Steve finishes reciting, pinching the bridge of his nose frustratedly. “That little shit. I’m going to fucking kill him.”

As if on queue, Dustin (who must’ve been lip-reading from a distance) chooses that moment to amble over, features a little meek.

“Hey, guys,” he starts awkwardly, rocking back on his heels. “So… funny story —”

“Nope. You’re walking home,” Steve interrupts, shaking his head with a perplexing amount of finality. There’s something strangely maternal about his disappointed expression; you aren’t sure whether you’re supposed to find it this attractive. Your shoulders brush, again, the edge of his knuckles to your elbow as he folds his arms across his chest. Heat radiates off his figure, and you can feel his muscles vibrate as they tense. Okay — yeah, he’s definitely attractive.

He looks down at you expectantly, catching the tail-end of a pain induced wince.

“Hey,” he murmurs, faltering. “You good?”

“Headache,” you answer dismissively, pressing your fingers to your temple. “No biggie.”

“See what you’ve done, Henderson?” Steve reprimands, fixing him with a pointed glare. “You’ve given her a headache.”

“That wasn’t me!”

“Even worse, then,” Steve corrects, tutting his disappointment. “You made her come all the way here with a headache when she definitely didn’t have to.”

Dustin grimaces apologetically, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, about that —”

“Don’t want to hear excuses, bud,” Steve interrupts, again. “Apology would be great, though.”

“Right,” Dustin agrees, nodding his head vigorously. “Or — or even better, a punishment. I have to, like, walk home, or something.”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “I said that already.”

“Exactly,” Dustin says quickly, turning back toward his huddle of friends. “So — yeah. I’ll do that. I’ll walk home.”

“Dustin, no way, Steve was kidding,” you insist, shaking your head. “We’re not letting you walk.”

“You have to. You — you have to like, teach me a lesson —”

“Okay, stop,” you frown, searching his terse features carefully. “What’s going on?”

Dustin shifts from one foot to the other. He toys with the clasp of his overalls, scuffs the tip of his sneaker on the sticky linoleum.

“I —” he pauses, squeezing his eyes shut as though he’s gathering the right words to say. “— alright, so like, I came with the gang, right? And I asked you guys for a ride, like I always do, but then Eddie and the Hellfire Club got here, and like half of them can drive too, so I just thought… you know — I don’t know — maybe one of them could —”

“Dustin Henderson,” you scold, cutting him a reproachful glare. “You dragged both of us out of our respective houses, and now you’re saying it was for nothing?”

“I don’t want to leave yet,” Dustin half-explains, half-pleads.

And Steve’s about to argue when you wince again, fingers flying to the knot of wrinkles between your eyebrows.

“Alright, you know what? Whatever,” he decides, unfolding his arms and letting them rest at his sides. The one beside yours twitches closer. “We’re leaving.”

His fingers intertwine yours before you can so much as process the exchange, tugging you into his side before turning on his heel.

Above you, the fluorescent lights change again, an abrasive flash of colour that shoots right into your forehead. The ache within it intensifies ten-fold, and you find yourself leaning against him on instinct.

“Is it the lights?” He asks, unclasping your hand to wrap a strong arm around your waist. He’s a solid expanse of muscle, firm torso juxtaposing the gentle way he holds you. You tuck into his side with entirely too much ease; feel almost feather-light, though perhaps that’s because he’s carrying all of your weight. He uses his free hand to shield your eyes from the strobe lights, feels your forehead creases soften as you find temporary relief.

“Mm-hm,” you manage, nodding your head ever so slightly.

“Almost out,” he murmurs, a few beats from the exit. “There we go. How does that feel?”

Significantly better, though you almost don’t want to admit it. You’re thoroughly enjoying being pressed up against Steve, his calloused fingers on your waist, his warm breath on your hair. His crew-neck is cotton soft, smells like familiar musk, math classes and drive-in movies and all those Steve things you’ve committed to memory. You wouldn’t mind being held like this forever. A little less clothing, a little more touching, and you definitely wouldn’t mind being held like this forever.

“Better,” you answer after a beat, peeling away from his figure reluctantly. “Uh, thanks.”

“Oh, yeah. No big.”

His sincerity makes you smile, and you do so, softly. “Anyway,” you say then, reaching into your front pocket. “I better head back home, try sleep this headache off.”

“What?” Steve’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head in quick, terse movements. “No way. You’re in no state to drive. Let me take you home.”

As though on queue, another pang of pain shoots down your forehead and settles within your eye sockets.

“But,” you protest lamely, “my car.”

“We can get it tomorrow,” Steve insists, already wrapping his arm back around your figure. “Come on. I’m taking you home.”

Above you, the velvet sky is moonless. The sun has long since sent, dark ink bleeding through gentler orange; it’s a welcome relief from the lights inside, soothes the miserable ache in your head.

“Just ‘round here,” Steve says gently, guiding you through the carpark and toward his pickup. “You live on that cul-de-sac by Maine Street, right?”

You’ve been squinting at your feet (not quite on the ground; Steve’s like, really strong) for the better half of the walk, though the question’s enough for your head to snap back up.

“What? How do you know that?” You ask, eyes widening bemusedly.

Steve halts as he nears the passenger’s side, grip loosening some so he can fish his keys out of his back pocket. The loss of support prompts you to lean against the door, cool metal sending a shiver down your spine.

“Oh, I —” Steve falters, having shifted his gaze from his keys back up to your face. There’s an inch, maybe two, of space between you; your eye contact is startlingly ardent, something sticky, almost electric in the air. You lean further back into his car, and your expression grows softer as the silence stretches. You’re glowing. There’s no moon in the sky, barely any stars, but fuck if Steve needs them; you’re almost iridescent.

“— from high-school,” he finishes finally, rubbing the back of his neck. “I used to see you go for walks along there.”

You raise your eyebrows, lips curving into a sweet smile. “You remember that?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, grinning sheepishly. His insides feel warm and gooey, all of the sudden; you’re smiling, at him, and he doesn’t want it to end, ever.

“That’s…” you trail off slowly, looking up at him through thick lashes, “…I didn’t expect that. That’s sweet.”

Steve feels himself blush, feels his heart bloom several sizes. “Alright, alright,” he says then, clearing his throat till he’s all business. “Enough about all that.”

He wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you back into his torso, reaching around your figure to unlock the door for you.

The movement’s so quick you brace your hands against his chest on instinct. You try to control your breathing; try not to focus on his heady cologne, the warmth of his skin, how it appears to vibrate.

“There, alright, get in,” Steve says hastily, acutely aware of the hand you rest over his heart. He tries to control how quickly it beats; tries not to focus on the feeling of your body, this close, your lavender shampoo, the sliver of bare skin above your waist.

You both fail.

“Thanks,” you answer, pulling away reluctantly. He buckles you in once you’re settled, jogging over to the driver’s side to do the same.

“Maine Street?” He asks, turning on the ignition. The radio must’ve been blaring on his way here, because the action blasts loud bubblegum pop through the speaker. Steve winces his disdain, clicking it off before turning toward you worriedly. “Shit, sorry, did that just make it worse?”

Your heart squeezes. He cares. “No, no, you’re good,” you smile, pressing your head back into the headrest. “Yeah, right by Maine Street. Geraldine Pass.”

—

Steve’s holding a half-eaten sandwich when you stir, having spent the better half of the last hour not quite sleeping, but not quite awake.

“Shit, hey, how’re you feeling?” He asks softly, settling on the edge of your bed as you sit up.

“Better,” you answer with a smile, nodding. You rub two fingers against your temple, eyeing the empty plate in his hand hopefully. “Hungry.”

“Oh — yeah,” Steve agrees, standing back up as you amble out of bed. Sleep creases the unblemished expanse of your neck, the contour of your cheek, the soft edge of your forearm. The pain meds have done you well; you aren’t wincing, anymore, and this brings him great relief.

After dropping you home, Steve insisted he stay with you. He isn’t quite sure why, but an irrational part of him told him he had to; had to help you up to your room, dim the lights, get you some pills and water, too. What if you couldn’t manage yourself? What if something happened to you in his absence?

Steve would die. He knows that sounds unreasonable, kind of crazy, but he would.

“Sorry, I —” he pauses, glancing down at his sandwich sheepishly. “— I hope you don’t mind, kinda helped myself —”

“Totally fine,” you dismiss, smiling. “What’s in it?”

Steve’s eyes light up, a roguish grin transforming his features. “Why don’t I make you one?” He asks, nodding toward the exit. “You can guess.”

You raise your eyebrows, narrowing your eyes suspiciously. “You’re gonna poison me, huh?”

“Oh shut up,” Steve laughs, turning around to head back down. “C’mon.”

When you re-enter the living room, Steve insists you wait for him on the couch.

“No peeking,” he warns, waggling his forefinger at you. “Just, like, chill. I’ll be out in a sec.”

You frown stubbornly, though you oblige, all the same, collapsing back into the cushions with your hands folded neatly in your lap.

It doesn’t take him long to make another sandwich. He comes back into the living room with a proud-looking plate in hand, placing it into your palms before settling down beside you. He sits really, really close; thigh pressed into yours, shoulder almost tucked into your back. His eyes are an alarmingly deep brown, but a hairsbreadth away, you can see burnt orange within them, lighter yellow.

“Alright,” his breath smells like sandwiches and mint. You wonder whether that’s how his lips taste. “Try it.”

You stare down at the sandwich for several moments before picking it up. When you do finally bring it to your mouth, the first bite is small, tentative as you try to gauge how it’ll taste. Salty pickles, prosciutto, a burst of sweet pineapple. Burger sauce, maybe tomato sauce, too.

“Shit,” you curse through a mouthful, closing your eyes as each flavour hits your tastebuds. “This is good.”

Steve grins. “See?” He teases, knocking your shoulder playfully. “Gotta trust me sometimes.”

You know the phrase doesn’t have a double meaning, but the more you mull it over, the more you realise you can’t ignore it. You don’t want to.

“I know,” you nod, angling your body toward him. There’s a disarming amount of sincerity in your eyes. You add, “I get it. The whole… you changing, thing, I get it.”

Steve swallows, and your gaze falls to his Adam’s apple momentarily. There’s a shadow of stubble on his jaw, his chin; rough and rugged in a way that juxtaposes his gentle smile.

“Look,” he says then, shaking his head slowly. “We got off on the wrong foot. I didn’t — I mean, sure, I was a little jealous of how much Dustin worships you, but I think a big part of me just…”

He trails off, wincing. “… just didn’t want to face someone who knew me as King Steve. Who hasn’t seen all the shit I’ve been through the past few; who hasn’t seen me grow out of that douchebag I was.”

“Steve,” you whisper, softening considerably. “I didn’t mean —”

“No, it wasn’t you,” he interrupts. “At the drive-in movie, you were being nice. I was the one who screwed it up. I don’t blame you for giving me the same energy right back.”

You nod, chewing on your bottom lip absently. “For what it’s worth, I was only being rude ‘cause I didn’t want you to think I was like, pathetic or something.”

There’s more you want to say, and the silence stretches as you gain the courage to do so. “I mean… you’re not the only one who’s changed since high-school. We — we’re both way different now, and that’s probably for the best, huh?”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, watching you take another bite of the sandwich. Remnants of orange, burger sauce stick to the side of your mouth.

“So we’re good?” You ask then, gazing up at him through thick lashes.

“Mm-hm,” Steve answers, eyes trained on the corners of your lips. “Uh, here,” he adds awkwardly, reaching forward to wipe the sauce away. It’s fleeting contact, but your breath catches, anyway; you can feel every rough, callous on his pad of his finger, feel the warmth of his touch long after he pulls away. His lips are probably softer than his hands. They’re probably hotter, harder, more impatient.

“Burger sauce,” he whispers lamely, fingers frozen mere inches from your face. He’d leant in to wipe away the orange substance, but this close, he isn’t sure he’s capable of pulling away. Your noses are a beat away from touching, his breath intermingling with yours, a little heavy.

“Right,” you mumble, feeling a little lightheaded. It’s probably the fact that you’re not breathing, anymore. Steve moves a little closer. His warm forehead presses into yours.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks softly, tucking his fingers underneath your jaw. It’s a gentle pressure, wonderfully firm, and he inches closer, gives you an almost, butterfly kiss.

“Yes please,” you manage to answer; your noses touch then, and you can feel his thumb caress the soft expanse of skin beside your lips.

Steve doesn’t kiss his Skull Rock girls like this.

It begins as a barely there brush of his lips; careful, soft, as though he’s testing tentative waters. But when he feels you melt against him, feels your lips part obligingly, he presses harder, firmer, less gentle, teeth-scraping kisses that have you gasping for air. He tastes faint mint on your tongue, strawberry milkshakes and drive-in movies, and he slips his hand under your shirt, then, covers the smooth expanse of your waist, your hip. He kisses you like he’s trying to memorise you. Like he isn’t sure whether you’re real, and he’s trying to convince himself through your lips. They’re softer than he imagined, as if that’s fucking possible, and he’s broad and wide and could swallow you whole and a secret part of you almost wants him to.

When he pulls away, it’s to catch his breath. Your fingers have tangled themselves in his floppy, brown hair; your eyes are still half-closed, lips bruised by the phantom of his.

Steve wonders fleetingly whether you understand the effect you have on him.

“Wow,” you mumble after a beat, and he grins, caressing the soft contour of your cheek. “I take it back.”

“Take it back?” Steve echoes, searching your features in earnest. “Take what back?”

You open your eyes then, bright irises scintillating mischief. “The whole ‘you’ve changed’ thing. You totally haven’t.”

Steve cocks his head to one side, raising his eyebrows questioningly.

“C’mon,” you tease, crinkling your nose playfully. “Taking advantage of pretty girls when they’re super high on pain meds? Total King Steve move —”

Steve shuts you up with another, firm kiss, lips descending on your jaw, the spot beneath your earlobe, your neck. “Shut up, shut up, shut up,” he mumbles into your skin, over and over. “Count yourself lucky that this is happening in your living room, and not at Skull Rock.”

“Ha ha,” you half-laugh, half-sigh, bruising kisses leaving you a little breathless. “You could never.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, lips on your collarbone now, dangerously close to the neckline of your t-shirt. “You’re right. Not with you.”

—

tags: @milkiane @goddamnbabysitter @thesimpletype

steve harrington outfit rankings (as voted by my followers) ↴

11. “Malewife Blue Buttoned Pullover ” Season 4 - 161 votes

constant and cold, how do we live with this

this is super long, but!!! anyways!! I made a few adjustments to the world for the sake of the fic but! still super fun to write in a world like this!!! I haven’t read the book since I was like 12 or 13 so I had to rely on wiki a bit, but I hope you enjoy anon!!!! sorry for such a long wait!

requested by anonymous

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Summary: The reader enters a competition for the prince’s hand in marriage (aka a the selection au)

Word Count: 5.3k i kn o w

Warnings: cursing and classism

-

For the fourth time in history - written history, at least - the country of Dianna announces the holding of the Selection: a competition between girls of the provinces for the prince’s hand in marriage. Held in the castle, the girls spend days or weeks or months or, on one occasion, years whittling down their numbers until the prince chooses a bride.

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steddie + text posts bonus:

reblog to tell the person you reblogged this from that they are deserving of love and affection

im a really affectionate person once you get past my 5 layers of shyness, awkwardness, fear, vague dislike, and loneliness

Another Love - tasm!peter parker x f!reader (1/3)

a/n: here is part one of three for my April Au.

warnings: historical inaccuracies abound. views mimic those of the time to the best of my ability. those being the need for an heir. but medieval king!peter is a feminist. i swear by it.

cross posted on ao3.

NEXT CHAPTER

*

“i wanna take you somewhere so you know i care, 

but it’s so cold and i don’t know where.”

- another love; tom odell.

*

You didn’t know how you got here, and yet a part of you had prepared for it all your life. As you stared out at the crowd in the beautiful hall, your wrist tied to King Peter’s, you fully realized the immensity of your situation. A Queen to a country not your own—married to a man who barely looked at you during the vow exchange. The priest standing beside you on the dais spoke so many words, but none of them reached your ears. You could only focus on the way your hand bleeding hand presently tied to King Peter’s throbbed like a beating heart, echoing the way your mind screamed at you to be anywhere but there. 

Bound to a man who barely acknowledged your presence as he swore fealty to you. Promised to love and cherish you as your husband. To never venture from your bed chamber—to provide the kingdom with an heir. Created with love, or at least the people of the court hoped for that. 

You knew this was only an arrangement. A marriage bartered like mere goods at a market. Your country intended to supply Ayelandia with goods to sustain them through another brutal winter after a time of war. Mere politics, disguised by a charade of a wedding for the people to fawn over. 

As if anyone cared. 

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the fake scenarios in my head keep me going

I think real maturity starts when u decide other people’s actions, words, and opinions no longer have an effect on your individual journey. This life you build is about you, for you, from you.

I can't be the only one who gets really soft over like mini intimacies like rubbing someone's cheek softly with the back of your hand, tucking hair behind ears, forehead kisses, and hand kisses...can I?

someone pls. be my friend. i would like to love and cherish u and get to know u on a personal level bc i love u. thank

forgive yourself. whether you fail a test, eat too many cookies, say the wrong thing, fail a class, or spend a whole day in bed — learn to forgive yourself. the next day will be better. the next day will be a day closer to your next success. you can do it.

Reblog if..

You think bisexuals who end up with the opposite gender are still valid bisexuals.

HARRY POTTER AND THE PRISONER OF AZKABAN (2004) dir. Alfonso Cuarón

i like to think that our blogs are just our own little personal museums of all the things we like, and we can visit each other’s museums and leave nice notes at the reception.

Whether you come back by page or by the big screen, Hogwarts will always be there to welcome you home.

i’m in the process of making playlists for a:tla characters and i have a pressing question -

which song from harry styles gives off more aang vibes/sounds like something aang would listen to:

sweet creature or ever since new york?

“I have a strange feeling with regard to you. As if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly knotted to a similar string in you. And if you were to leave I’m afraid that cord of communion would snap. And I have a notion that I’d take to bleeding inwardly.”

— Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë,

to the people who are following me

thank you

im sorry

Lee Pace sitting on Thranduil’s throne for the first time.

Ivy (R.L.)

Evermore

Pairing: Remus Lupin x Reader

Summary: The reader is trapped in a loveless and neglectful arranged marriage. She hires her old school crush, Remus Lupin, to tutor her son

Warnings: Alcohol, mentions of abuse, the reader is a mother, cheating, angst

Word Count: 4.9k

A/n: i am actually so so proud of this so um i hope you like it

Your life was nothing but a monotonous cycle of sameness, every day identical to the one before. Every day you awoke to a cold and empty bed, your silk sheets barren of who should be a loving husband. And every day you sat by your bay window with a cup of tea, leaving it unsipped until it became cold. You watched your son stumble around the manor, his tiny legs still clumsy like a newborn foal. You painted or read to bide your time, hoping to make the long hours go faster, but they never did. Nearly six years of this routine but no part of you longed to break free from it. 

You had been bred for this life since you had sprung into existence. You came from a prominent pureblood family and you were taught your place early on. You were to be silent and polite and you must not speak unless spoken to. It didn’t matter your intelligence or wit, you were nothing but a commodity with good posture and acceptable table manners. You were a pawn in your father’s chess game, something to be used for business deals and backdoor dealings. Your existence was for the purpose of your father’s advancement in pureblood society and nothing more. 

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i don’t know who needs to hear this