i’ve just edited the prologue and will probably do chapter 1 tomorrow… felt like some things were missing? idk, i will probably regret staying up this late at work in the morning, but what’s writing without rereading it over and over again until it feels right? goodnight
women on the internet are my hopecore… like hell yeah you’re a mom and you’re writing fanfics?? we’re talking about cock and balls on main?? we would’ve been burned at the stake once and look at us now
summary: all that stands between you and your senior spring at MIT is two straight weeks of working with the most obnoxious programmer in the game design major. even worse, he's infuriatingly and undeniably hot.
pairing: college!walter 'keys' mckey x reader
rating: explicit (18+)
content warnings/tags: academic rivals to lovers, hate sex, face slapping (m receiving), p in v sex, unprotected sex, keys says he's sorry because he's a sweetheart deep down
word count: 8.3k
Sitting on a campus bench on a foggy October morning, warming your hands with a London Fog to pass the time before an early morning Mastering Game Mechanics class, you finally feel able to accept that fall in New England completely lives up to the hype. This was your fourth and final one at MIT, and you were committed to soaking it in as much as possible before you accepted a contract at a big, fancy West Coast developer. One last fall to breathe in the morning fog, or take day trips out to the farms that make a killing this time of year in pumpkins and apple cider doughnuts. If anything, it's a gift to have such wonderful things to miss—good friends, helpful mentors—but there's one thing you couldn't wait to shake off when you walk across the stage in May.
Being the only fucking girl in the Engine Development and Game Design Program.
Being the first to walk into orientation four years ago and seeing 20 chairs neatly arrayed in a conference room was exciting, right up until the room started to fill. You found your chair on the end of a row, and stuck on the cheesy 'Hello, My Name Is' name tag that sat waiting for you, already displaying your name in black Sharpie. The minutes ticked by and the room started to fill with a steady trickle of 18-year-old boys, the majority of them boasting summer coding program t-shirts and basketball shorts you could tell they had owned since middle school. When the boy entitled to the name tag in the chair next to you walked in, it felt a little possible that you could actually have a friend in your program for the next four years.
Your first look at Walter McKey inspired a slight, and embarrassingly awed spark of hope. At least, more hope than the current crowd of your fellow developers instilled in you. His presence once sat in the chair next to you filled the surrounding air with the scent of clean laundry, his hair looked soft and curled slightly in a charming way around his ears. The lenses of his glasses were spotless, attributed to the practiced way he would push them up if they slipped with the pad of his middle finger, right on the metal bridge. He was wearing a short sleeved button up shirt over a t-shirt, jeans that fit him nicely, not too short around the ankles as was common with the male coders you knew, and black-and-white checkered Vans, that were marked with subtle scuffs only visible if you looked too close.
You politely told him your name and stuck out your hand, which he shook with a limp hold before finally speaking.
"I'm Keys." And then he was silent for the rest of the day.
Getting to know him was impossible. He was quiet, dutifully took notes during lectures, corrected professors under his breath, his portions of group projects were done on time and flawlessly. You were never quite able to pin him for anything, not even after working with him directly for an assignment with a few other coders during your third semester. When you met up to work on it, he was near silent. Engineered his designated sections, stood up with the group to present, helped get you a good grade. It didn't matter if he seemed different at first glance—Keys wasn't interested in anything that wasn't a 95 or higher on his transcript.
It was after your fourth semester of putting up with the verbal jabs and rolling eyes that you decided to devote every second of your college career to proving him and all of the other Mountain Dew guzzlers in your major wrong. If you couldn't prove yourself in class by being as good as them, you would simply have to be better.
Progressing through semesters of having nearly every class with the same crowd of 19 fellow developers gave you the nearly scientific ability to split them in half and classify them—the gawkers, who never totally got used to having a girl in their midst. They stared with parted mouths when you presented your work, blushed and stammered when you were forced to partner up for projects. Never quite mellowed despite the now four years of being in your presence. The other half wrote you off the second they laid eyes on you during that orientation. Reddit-frequenting, girlfriend-less, snickering and whispering to each other conspiratorially when you spoke up in classes. You assumed that Keys fit firmly in the latter category. He didn't exactly laugh like the others, but he was prone to eye rolling, and definitely didn't stare at you with looks of awe and astonishment like the former.
Truthfully, and totally unbeknownst to you, Keys wasn't in either category. He didn't like you because found something in you that he didn't get from anyone else—you offered him an actual challenge.
A glance up at the clock tower tells you it's time to get on your way to class, and you sigh, steeling yourself for another two hours of stares and shit-eating smirks. Maybe it was good for you. You were always going to be in the minority in this field, and while you still hope you would end up in a company that had at least a few women on staff, the future was going to involve an uphill climb if you were committed to making games. At least the walk to the CompSci building was peaceful. Campus was still sparse, the only sounds around being the gentle rustling of red and orange leaves and your footsteps against the brick pathway. You liked being early for classes. It gave you the best chance to get moments like this, and limited the number of heads whipping around to look at you as you pushed the classroom door open.
Your usual chair sat dutifully in the front row, and you slip your backpack off of your shoulders, sliding into the seat. As you push up the screen of your laptop and start to enter your password to unlock it, the door opens behind you, and the footsteps of nearly spotless checkered Vans make their way to the front row table to your right. Keys had a similar and infuriating habit of being early.
"Morning," he mumbles as his own laptop meets the table and your spine stiffens, surprised to hear him initiate any kind of conversation, let alone one where he isn't making backhanded comments on how "approachable" your demos are.
"Someone's cheerful," you tease. "What, did new sexy elf skins drop on World of Warcraft?"
"I don't play World of Warcraft," Keys rebuttals weakly, clicking his Bluetooth mouse on and testing it with a few back and forth swipes across the table. You look over and cock an eyebrow.
"Anymore," he adds through his teeth.
"Thought so," you smirk.
He breathes hard through his nose before he speaks again.
"So, you got demo of the week last Friday," he says, attempting to seem casual. "How are things looking this week?"
Demo of the week—a sought after title given by Dr. Howell, faculty chair of the Game Design program and professor of many of its classes. Extremely tough, and very withholding of praise outside of his designations of demo of the week. You and Keys have been alternating the title on and off since August.
"I think it's as strong as last week's," you say, scanning through your files to load your entry for this Friday. "Why, you scared?"
"No," he says, far too quickly and with a defensive sharpness. "I'm just saying, enjoy your title while you still have it."
Demo showcase passes as it typically does—everyone watches each other's entries with laser focus, cringing internally at any aspects that feel unfinished, and mentally jotting down impressive tricks or assets for later. You and Keys both present, watching each other's work with scrunched brows and teeth digging into bottom lips, eager for any kind of slip-up. Yours goes well—no obvious bugs, punctuated with a nod from Dr. Howell. A nod is alright, but a smile is best, and usually indicates that you've been chosen. Today, his face is blank. Shit.
Keys follows right after you do, and infuriatingly, his work is incredible. He's obviously proud, speaking with a little more confidence than usual as he shows off that he's mastered a new movement mechanic he's been working on the past few weeks. All ten minutes of gameplay were clearly coded meticulously—polished textures, zero lag, balanced camera movement. As much as you hate to admit to yourself (and you would die before admitting this to him), it's better than yours. The room applauds politely once he finishes, and his eyes catch yours as he detaches his laptop from the cable, twinkling mischievously and squinted a little at the corners from the satisfied smirk that spreads across his face. Your head snaps nervously to Dr. Howell, who wears a similar expression, arms crossed as he stands from the empty seat at the back of the room and makes his way back to the front of the lecture hall.
"Most of you were middling," he says, finally facing the class. "A few of you were bad, I'm assuming you already know who you are." As if on cue, a sniffle from a few seats over briefly resounds through the room. He calls your name, a sharp wave of nerves crashing over you as your eyes widen.
"You were fine this week," he starts. "About as good as last week, but the purpose of this exercise is improvement. Your bar is high, I ask that you please meet it."
Your stomach churns harder as you nod, mustering a wobbly smile that you hope expresses that you're internalizing the criticism. You aren't sure what feeling turns in you faster—disappointment in yourself, or your anger towards Keys.
"Walter," Dr. Howell says, turning to face him fully. "This was strong work from you. Very dynamic, and that new trick of yours has come very far. Almost ready for a full length project. Congratulations."
Keys beams, shifting in his chair a little, as if unable to physically contain how pleased he is. His excitement would be endearing if he wasn't so fucking infuriating.
"Thanks so much, Dr. Howell," he says a little breathless, running his hand through his hair, which only causes it to flop more over his eyes and the frame of his glasses. Dr. Howell starts another round of applause, and you briefly slap your hands together lazily, biting the inside of your cheek. No matter how many times you lost your title to Keys, it stung. It felt like a step back from your mission to rise and topple the others, a concession to the staring and laughing and backhandedness. With a sigh, as the little clock in the upper corner of your screen finally ticks to 10:00 AM, you close the lid of your laptop and pack it into your backpack.
"Excuse me," Dr. Howell says in front of your table, Keys flanking his left side with his messenger bag slung onto one shoulder. "I've asked the two of you to stay because I have something of an…additional project for you both."
Your eyebrows furrow inward, gaze briefly flicking over to an equally confused Keys.
"Additional project?" You ask.
"Yes," Dr. Howell confirms, gesturing for Keys to take the empty seat next to you, and he sits rigidly, folding his hands on the table and subtly fidgeting with his thumbs.
"You two come to every class, you see these demos. I'm assuming it's no secret to you both that you're the most evolved students in my program," Dr. Howell continues, and you hear Keys's breath hitch as your heart quickens. Maybe this is working, you think. This is paying off.
"You're both seniors, and we're inching closer to the end of the semester. That means bigger and bigger projects," he says, crossing his arms again. "Instead of creating an hour long demo for the showcase in November independently, I want to see one collaborative three hour long playtest."
Fuck. Your brain fills instantly and rapidly with one, big internal monologue of fuck. You'd prefer being kicked out of the program. You'd prefer being publicly shamed for plagiarism. Honestly, you might take being burned at the stake over spending nearly every evening with Keys for the next month. Shit, finally finding a single plot concept to agree on is probably going to take up most of that time anyway.
"Dr. Howell, I really think we'd both prefer making something on our own," Keys says, his voice quick and jumpy. Finally, some common ground at least. "We're pretty different types of devs, I don't-"
"That's exactly why I want to see what you would create when working together," Dr. Howell insists, turning to you. "You're a story developer. Fleshed out characters, making connections, but your asset work isn't always the cleanest. Walter, you're a mathematician. Your code is neat as a pin, but I can tell that you're more concerned with having perfect work than engaging work. That's where you two meet. Pick up each other's slack."
"I was already kind of shaping some ideas on my own," you say, feeling your palms start to sweat a little.
"Then share them with him," Dr. Howell responds, shrugging a little as if entirely unaware of the issue. "I'm not doing this to punish either of you, in fact, I'm giving you both a look into what working on actual game looks like. 99% of things on market right now are made by teams ranging from duos like you two, up to offices of hundreds. You've done almost all of your course work on your own to this point, and I chose you two because you're my strongest designers. I suggest you both stop inventing excuses and start thinking up some actual ideas. I'm not asking."
Dr. Howell turns to pack his own computer into his briefcase, then walks with long steps up the aisle of the lecture hall. You and Keys remain frozen—a little out of shock, mostly out of dread, and both afraid to say the first word. Goddammit. Buck up, he's literally just a nerd. A nerd that just so happens to be really, really good at coding. A nerd with a stupid handsome face and stupid, sexy, big hands. A sigh in your right ear brings you back to the present.
"Are you free tonight?" Keys asks begrudgingly, still staring straight ahead at the front wall. "I don't even know why I'm asking, it's Friday. You probably have some rager to grace with your presence."
"Awe," you coo condescendingly, turning in your swiveling chair to face him. "You know, Keys, usually girls liked to be asked out with flowers, not brazen insults."
"I'm not asking you out," he scoffs, knee bumping into yours as he turns to face you. "I'd actually like to get this over with. If we marathon for the next two weeks, we can avoid any unnecessary time together until the showcase."
"That I can agree on," you huff, pulling out a pen and notebook, ripping out a piece of paper haphazardly. The jagged edges and uneven shape make Keys wince.
"Despite the popular assumption around here that I spend my weekends blacking out and fucking random Boston College guys," you say through your teeth, scribbling your phone number and address onto the paper. "I'm free through Sunday. I don't have a roommate, so we can get work done at my place without bugging anyone but each other. Come by at 8."
"Fine," he sighs, trying his best to fold the paper into a neat shape before tucking it into the front pocket of his messenger bag. This was going to be a very, very long two weeks.
"He's not ugly," Valerie says, picking up a fry from the plate you're sharing and dragging it through ketchup.
Valerie was your freshman year roommate—a funny, carefree architecture major, whose voice was sometimes your only point of reason after spending all day in your classes. Every Friday since September of your freshman year, you and Valerie met at a cafe just off campus at 6—ranting, bitching, laughing, anything either of you needed after the week.
"Ugly isn't my problem," you explain, chin in hand as you drink your iced tea, chewing on the straw a little once you're satisfied with the sip. "He's a pain in my ass, that's my problem."
"Why does he specifically piss you off, though?" She questions, leaning back a little in her chair. "Everyone in the program in a dipshit, what makes Keys so annoying?"
"Because I can ignore everyone else's weirdness," you say, taking a fry. "But his is different, I don't know."
"Is the weirdness his shiny hair and big brown eyes?" Valerie teases.
"Shut up," you say with a laugh, leaning your elbows onto the table.
"I'm just saying," she shrugs. "He's cute, not even CompSci nerd cute. Like, a normal, good-looking guy."
She's right, and you hate it. It would be easy to totally write Keys off if he was exactly like the other people in the program, but much to your chagrin, as it only made it harder to make any sense of how you felt about him, he wasn't. He was attractive, he took good care of himself (relatively, a bulk sized bottle of ibuprofen did tumble out of his messenger bag once), and he was an undeniably excellent programmer. Turning this over in your mind, you glance down at your phone, seeing it was approaching closer to 7.
"I need to get going," you lament, taking a last drink and scooting your chair away from the table. "He's coming over at 8, and I still need to shower."
"Ooo, wear something skimpy," Valerie giggles. "You can borrow one of my club dresses."
"To sit on my own couch and code?" You laugh.
"Just brainstorming."
Two sharp knocks sound on the front door of your apartment at 7:57, cutting through the soft music you had put on as you got yourself and your place ready for company, especially company as particular as Keys. You look over from the kitchen where you've been finishing clean putting dishes away (you figured tidying up would limit the amount of insult fodder available to him), and take a quick glance at yourself in the mirror. Despite Valerie's suggestion, you opted for a t-shirt, sweatpants, and fuzzy socks for tonight's session. You were in your own home after all, and Keys was decidedly not deserving of your usual routine before going out. Good enough for a little check in the mirror, though? Valerie's voice echoes in your head, so familiar to you that her commentary makes its way into your thoughts even when she isn't there. You physically shake your head, slightly damp hair whipping by your ears as you try your hardest to remove the thought from your conscience. Buck up. He's a programmer, for fuck's sake.
Keys has also dressed down for the occasion—he's traded his usual short sleeve button up for a worn, soft looking MIT sweatshirt and jeans. He steps inside and slips off his Vans before you can ask, revealing black socks covered in little stitched, colorful Tetris pieces.
"Nice of you to show," you say, locking the door behind him as he steps into your living room, taking in the atmosphere of your apartment, far cozier and more lived in than his. Furniture accumulated from years of risky Facebook Marketplace meetups and trips to thrift stores with Valerie, illuminated by string lights and a little sandalwood scented candle flickering weakly in the corner. Your music continues playing from the speaker on the coffee table.
"You know how to set the mood," Keys says, setting his messenger bag on the couch. "I'll give you that."
"Good to know it's cozier than your charging station," you tease. "Can I get you some water, or will that fry your circuit boards?"
"Let's just work, please," he sighs, pulling out his laptop. "You said you had some ideas?"
"Yeah, actually," you say, sitting on the opposite side of the couch. "I've never made a horror game before, so I was thinking of trying that out for my project back when it was still mine."
Keys rubs his eyes under the lenses of his glasses, then he takes them off, pulling up his sweatshirt a little to wipe them. The sliver of his stomach you can now see is lean and soft all at once, revealing a dark line of hair that travels from his waistband up towards his navel. Your instincts rapidly overtake your frustration with him—cheekbones stinging a little as your mouth waters, stomach starting to swirl with eagerness to see more. Keys lowers the grey fabric back over his abdomen and you snap back into focus, preferring a slow and painful death over the prospect of him catching you ogling like that.
"I actually haven't designed horror before either," he admits, his jaw tight like agreeing with you is physically painful. "It's big in the market right now, but we need an original idea."
Your tongue pokes inside your cheek, flip flopping between sharing the concepts you've been experimenting with over the last few weeks, and seeing if Keys has any competency outside of technically impressive code.
"You heard Dr. Howell, this is supposed to challenge your lack of storytelling skills," you taunt, reaching for your own laptop on the coffee table. Keys lets out a half hearted chuckle next to you, pushing up the sleeves of his sweatshirt.
"Oh, so we're actually sticking to this stupid challenge? Swapping roles and everything?" He retorts. "That's fine, I like cleaning up sloppy code anyway."
"Sloppy?" You challenge, sitting up a little straighter on the couch. "If I end up coding sloppy, it'll be because I'm working on some half-baked shooter with maybe two characters and no continuity! Plot courtesy of Walter 'Keys' McKey."
Keys's jaw clenches as he sets his laptop back on the coffee table.
"You know, on my way over here, I was actually looking forward to this a little," he says, voice gradually starting to raise, his hands starting to gesture sharply and without logic. "I thought 'her storytelling is actually decent, and maybe I have a few code tricks I can show her.' Now I see you have no interest in actually trying to grow as a developer, but I'm not too worried. I'm sure you'll make a great barista simulator someday!"
"What the fuck is your problem?" You lash out, standing abruptly to look down at him. The satisfaction of being able to do that doesn't last long, as Keys follows suit, standing face to face with hands stiffly balled at his sides.
"My problem is you," he spits. "For the most part, I really try my best to stay the fuck out of your way, which is seemingly impossible, considering you're my only actual competition! Seeing you, week after week, standing at the front of the class with that smile on your face, all of the attention on you, like you've already fucking won!"
"You're this mad because I actually like my own work sometimes?!" You shoot back, stepping closer to get in his face. "Maybe I should be just like you, Mr. Robot! I bet I could spit out perfect code too if I ran on batteries!"
"Yeah, I'm annoying about my code, but that doesn't give you the right to hate me!" Keys snaps, moving to close the distance even further, your chests nearly pressed together.
"What is it with you and the goddamn assumptions all the time, Keys?" You shout, feeling your heart thrum harder and harder against your ribs the closer you get, the more of his obnoxiously clean, stupidly charming scent filling your senses. "I don't hate you!"
"Then I would love an explanation of how you actually feel about me!"
Looking into those big brown eyes, wide and puppy-like behind his glasses, the growing flush in his cheeks, the way his chest heaves up and down, brushing against the front of your shirt as your sternum does the same, the swimming of hatred and frustration bundles and twists until it finally transforms into something else entirely—a spark. It would be easy to attribute the sudden and irrepressible urge to get into Walter McKey's pants to the fact that school had you wound tight as a vise, and you hadn't had a good hookup in over a year (let alone that the last one was bad, and seven months ago), but he's standing in front you—ridiculously cute, obviously worked up, and you want him. Before you can listen to your usually too loud voice of reason, your fingers are clenching the soft fabric of the front of his sweatshirt harshly, and your mouth is on his, eager and long overdue for a kiss.
Keys tenses for long moment before he gives into his own longing for your touch, buried and constrained beneath deadlines and code techniques—things that make sense to him. In the seconds that follow after you press your lips to his, Keys decides he's tired of making sense all the time. Soon, his lips are pliant and needy, messily reciprocating the kiss as his arms wind around your waist, closing any sliver of distance that remained between you two. He tastes clean and minty, probably now his natural state from the sheer number of Altoids he downs and sticks of gum he chews to help keep him focused. When you come up for air, both of you with warm cheeks and parted lips, Keys starts to smile, that same smirk from this morning, when he showed off his demo.
"So that's how you feel," he teases.
"You absolutely need to shut up or I change my mind," you warn, reaching down for his hand and pulling him down the hallway to your bedroom. Almost as soon as the door is open it's closed again, shutting under the pressure of your hands on Keys's chest until his back is flush to the wood.
"I have no idea why I'm doing this," you breathe before your lips are on his again, tongue swiping against the pretty dip of his Cupid's bow, the dip you now realize you've spent a good deal of time glancing at during lectures. Fuck, he's pretty.
"I knew my demo was good today," he says, words tumbling against your mouth. "I didn't know I was turning people on."
"Ugh, shut up," you huff, pulling Keys by the front of his sweatshirt over to your bed. He falls against it, bouncing a little as his back makes contact with your mattress. Your hips are on his, thighs falling to either side of his body before he can even align his head onto your pillows.
"You're so fucking annoying," you moan, as your clothed cunt makes contact with the annoyingly large bulge in his jeans, shuddering a little as his hands brace your hips.
"And yet you're here," he challenges, before pulling you down for another needy kiss. Your hips start to rock against him, the dull pressure of his body against yours only working you up more. "I should have known this would happen. I thought I saw you shifting in your seat during class. But hey, I'm flattered, really-"
Crack. The smack of your palm against his cheek echoes through your room, everything grinding to a stiff halt. In a panic, you tuck the hand that was just across his face against your chest, breathes growing shallow as you take in his bright red cheeks and his eyes, almost pitch black with pupils, big and round as planets, overwhelming the hazel.
"Fuck Keys, I'm sorry," you pant. "I don't know what I was thinking, I wasn't. Does it hurt?"
He sucks in a shaky breath through his open mouth.
"Do it again," he whimpers.
"I-what?"
"Hit me again," he pleads, fingers digging into the plush of your thighs. "Please, baby."
The same hand reaches forward, brushing over the little blotch that glows especially red against his already blushing cheeks before you draw your hand back, palm making contact again. Keys moans this time, pulling you down for another kiss when he recovers from the recoil.
"I think about you constantly," he confesses, reaching for the bottom of your shirt. Your arms lift upward on instinct, the soft skin of your torso dimpling slightly against the cool air. His hands reach up, cupping and feeling for your breasts through the cups of your bra. "You never smile in class, so I have to catch it across the library, when you're working with your friends. It's beautiful, and it drives me fucking crazy."
"So you're stalking me?" You tease, pulling his hands back to the hooks of your bra, which he manages smoother than you expected. His sweatshirt comes off soon after, finally revealing what had been cruelly teased on the couch—pretty constellations of freckles and moles all across his arms and shoulders and chest, thick hair that covers the broadest part of it, the full view of his tummy and happy trail.
"We go to the same school," he huffs, rolling his eyes. "What, you've never seen me outside of class?"
You had frequently, often enough that you picked up on the way his tongue would slightly prod the inside of his cheek when he was focused, the slight crinkle in his nose any time a bug would pop into his code lines, the constant hands in his stupid, perfect hair. But he wasn't winning this one.
"Some of us actually focus on out work and not trying to catch a girl smiling," you tease, dipping down to the long curve of his neck, kissing a trail down to his collarbone, where you gently nip and lick at the skin. Keys's back arches from his mattress slightly, little shockwaves of pleasure picking up speed in his veins.
"If I ever smiled in class, no one in class would take me seriously," you remind him, lips traveling across his collar.
"They're idiots," Keys sighs.
You lift your head from his chest, moving to be face to face again so you can quickly peck his lips. You smile sweetly as you pull away, lifting your hand to brush a stray hair from his forehead.
"So are you."
With your lips capturing his in another bruising kiss, Keys's hands grow bolder, traveling from the sides of your breasts down to the flimsy tie that holds your sweatpants around your hips, only needing a slight tug to unravel the knot.
"Can't wait to see what Pokemon you have on your underwear," you jab.
Keys lets out a huff before he pulls your chest flush to his, grunting next to your ear. In a heartbeat, he has you underneath him, glasses slipping down his nose and arms caging you in on either side of your head. Your heart beats harder than it has all night, eyes owlish and unblinking from the sheer shock of his strength, given the heaviest thing you've ever seen him carry is his ridiculous messenger bag.
"No comeback?" He taunts, tilting his head a little.
You manage to finally blink, attempting a scoff that comes out more like a measly clearing of your throat.
"You're exhausting," you say, with a little shake of your head for good measure.
"You're pretty."
The dreamy sigh that dares to escape from you is swallowed by another long kiss, Keys's hand wandering down your body from where it cupped your cheek to tug at the waistband of your sweats again, finally in the right position to tug them down. You're completely bare underneath him, thighs shifting together nervously as Keys sits back on his heels, eyes all moony again at the sight of you. He doesn't even look down at his jeans as he unbuttons them, clumsily pulling them down, leaving him in his boxer briefs. Much to your disappointment, they're just grey. You pull your lips into your mouth, biting back the giggle that threatens to escape at his lack of finesse, not that you anticipated much suaveness from him in the first place.
"You're," he breathes, kneeling between your thighs again. "I-I don't have anything stupid to say, you're so gorgeous."
"Really?" You muse, sitting up on your elbows. "I managed to silence Walter McKey. I'm taking that as a compliment of the highest caliber."
"But you are," he whines, settling on top of you again as he eagerly goes for a kiss, hand stroking tenderly at your side. You welcome his lips gladly, moaning as his tongue starts to slide against yours. Keys lowers his body further, nudging the tip of his nearly bare cock against your clit, puffy and aching for attention. His hips roll again, sending a deep and needed pulse of pleasure from your cunt to your belly, a little swell of warmth starting to build. You tap his chest a few times, needing to get out a breath, and a few (embarrassing) words. He pulls away, looking back at you eagerly.
"Despite what all of the losers in our courses like to say about me when they don't think I can hear, I haven't had sex in like, almost a year," you clarify, eyes trained on him to ensure he absorbs every word. "Disappointingly, I'm actually exactly like you guys, and I spend 99% of my Friday nights at my desk. I am under an insane amount of stress, and I feel insane for saying this to you, but I need to get fucked, Keys. At this point, you owe me that much."
He nods a little, all too eager and clearly from a place of understanding.
"It's been a while for me too," he agrees. "I'll try my best to last, really, I promise."
"You better."
The boxer briefs come off, and you no longer have the strength to pretend not to ogle. Keys is obnoxiously hung, veins prominent from the stiffness of his erection, pink tip curving upward towards his tummy, already glossy from drips of pre-cum. The hair that was teased by his happy trail is there, neatly trimmed for a guy in his demographic. You lick your lips. His cheeks go ruddy again as his weight settles on top of you again, hips slotted between your thighs, cock heavy on your lower stomach.
"See something you like?" He taunts.
"What did I say about shutting up?" Your arms wind around his shoulders, a hand traveling into the soft hair at the back of his head as you kiss him. Keys leans onto one elbow, his now free hand wrapping around the base of his cock, teasing up and down your cunt for a moment before he pushes in. The stretch is all pleasure, the curve of his cock fitting perfectly against the walls of your cunt, tip kissing just the right spot inside of you.
"Fuck," you moan, fingers digging into his shoulder as his hips grow closer to yours, cock filling you with unbelievable satisfaction. Keys lets out a precious whine as he bottoms out, head falling to your shoulder. The lenses of his glasses are cool against your skin, and probably smudging in a way that would send him spiraling under any other circumstances.
"You good?" You breathe, fingers giving his hair a gentle tug.
"Please be quiet, or I'll ruin this," he begs, voice muffled by your soft skin. "I-shit, I need a second. You feel so good."
The quip dies on your tongue as soon as it rises, and you opt instead to release the hold in your fingers, gently brushing through the strands as he adjusts. He needs this as bad as you do, after all. Keys's shoulders rise, the frame growing a little broader as he tries to calm himself down with a deep breath. He releases the air shakily against your neck, punctuating it with a kiss before his hips start rolling—slight, experimental movements to test how much he can handle.
Even with the tiniest of movements, the sheer size of him is enough to have you squirming beneath him, the warmth in your belly starting to pool even deeper, needing more motion, another kiss, something. His arms brace either side of your head, the veins in his forearms growing more prominent as he tries to keep his composure.
"I was promised a fucking," you remind him, pushing his slipping glasses up his nose with a single finger on the bridge, just as you had seen him do a thousand times.
"You can have it now or you can have it longer," Keys chides, giving another roll of his hips
"Come on, pretty boy," you taunt. "You've got good stamina for coding marathons, let's see if you succeed in other categories."
"I don't like losing," he says, finally pulling out a little more before he slides back in, a wet desperate sound from your cunt giving your true desperation away.
"Then pull it together."
Your hands fly up to his cheeks, pulling him down roughly for a kiss, disrupted by the sudden snap of his hips against yours, finally thrusting into you with his entire length.
"Shit-' you gasp,
"What, too much for you now?"
"I can't stand you," you say, voice shallow from the sudden fullness.
"Whatever you need to tell yourself," he grunts, leaning back with hands gripping onto the tops of your thighs hard, giving the right leverage for his cock to piston in and out of you at just the right rhythm.
Your orgasm starts to build embarrassingly fast, the months of last minute solo orgasms under your duvet right before you manage to sleep never quite scratching the itch that sits inside of you. The room suddenly fills with all manner of filthy sounds—the wetness of your cunt weeping at the pleasure, the slap of his hips meeting yours, desperate sounds tumbling from both of your mouths, chasing and rushing toward a once elusive satisfactory orgasm.
"Keys, baby, I'm-" you pant against his mouth, heels starting to dig against the mattress as the tightness in your belly becomes more and more taut, the once low heat now rushing hot throughout your whole body as your high comes closer and closer.
"Me too," Keys whines, the thrusts starting to stutter a little as his own orgasm creeps up on him. "Can I-fuck, um, inside?"
You nod frantically, thighs trembling as your walls start to pulse around his cock, tightness finally snapping and washing over you. Every nerve, synapse, and vein in your body filling with the pleasure you've been denied for too long. No thoughts about assets or source code rushing in you, no breaths stuttering from anxiety, just pure warmth that buzzes satisfyingly under your skin.
The high absorbs so much of your focus that you don't even notice Keys is flying on the same cloud, glasses finally dropping from his face and onto the mattress as his cock twitches against your spent walls, warmth pooling in you again from just how much cum he releases. Guess it really has been a while.
Keys's lips press to your shoulder before he lifts his head, thumb brushing at your cheekbone sweetly before he kisses your lips, a wordless thank you. He kisses again, easing the ache of him starting to pull out, releasing a little drop of your combined arousal.
"Do you have, like, tissues, or?" Keys asks, a hand fumbling next to the both of you for his glasses. You glance over and spot them, giving the lenses a wipe on the pillowcase before sliding them onto his face. He blinks a few times, smiling at the view of you beneath him, finally clear and in focus.
"Yeah," you let out, laughing softly. "In the middle drawer of the nightstand."
Keys stumbles onto his feet to pull on his underwear again, retrieving the little pack of on-the-go Kleenex before he sits on the side of the bed. He eases your thighs open sweetly, wiping the mess from your cunt as gently as he can, his other hand gently stroking your knee as you whine a little at the contact.
"I can get you clean clothes," he offers, wrapping the tissue in a clean one, then tossing it in the wastebasket next to your dresser. He points to the drawers. "Which one?"
"I'm good with just underwear," you say softly. "The top one on the left."
Keys pulls on the front, digging a little before he finds something that makes him chuckle—a pair of blue panties, covered in little red Autobot logo heads, TRANSFORMERS stitched obnoxiously loud all around the waistband.
"Those are a joke," you stutter out. "My friend Valerie, she gets me these joke gifts-"
"Is this why you haven't hooked up in so long?" Keys teases, sliding the panties up your legs as your face grows warm, arms crossing over your still bare chest. "You've been saving yourself for Optimus Prime?"
"No," you insist sharply. "I'm not a robot fucker, Keys. I have some pride."
"And yet here I am," he says, more endeared than smug as he slides into bed next to you, arms wrapping around you from behind, chest snug and comforting against your back. His lips press to the crown of your head before he tucks it under his chin.
Your eyes flutter shut with more ease than they have in months, sleep gently pulling you under as Keys never ceases the gentle stroke of his hand up and down your bicep, each brush helping to silence the usual nightly stew in the previous day's worries.
You sleep with more ease than you would ever expect with Keys's arms wrapped around you, his knees tucked too perfectly against the backs of yours until you start to stir around three a.m., turning over as your hand wanders lazily toward the side he was sleeping on. Except for you, the sheets are empty, and pool around your still naked hips as you sit up, wiping your eyes to get your bearings a little. He left, you realize as an unwelcome pang of disappointment fills your chest. He stuck around to hold you. Told you that you were beautiful. You thought about something other than programming for the first time in months because of him. And he left.
He didn't need to stay, you remind yourself, cringing at the coolness of the floor under your feet as you get out of bed. He didn't need to stay, over and over as you pull on sleep shorts and a sweatshirt. And it was true, what you and Keys had done was a mere exchange of services. A very passionate, satisfying exchange, but it didn't have to mean anything. It shouldn't. So what is the feeling swimming in your stomach right now? Not exactly regret, you did enjoy yourself, after all. Disappointment? A little closer, but not quite. Maybe a drink of water will help. Your mind is races against your heart so hard, so desperate for a single, logical answer that you don't even notice you've stepped over his jeans, still crumpled on your bedroom floor.
Keys has been sitting on the bench in front of your living room window for around an hour. He can't remember the last time he did something other than code or sleep for an hour straight, but right now, the hum of the night traffic and glow of the Boston skyline in the distance is more entertaining than any game he's played in months. Thankfully, he's the first thing you see when you step into the hallway, smiling softly with his head gently laid against the glass and one leg propped up, only in his boxers and those stupid, wonderful Tetris socks.
"You stayed," you say softly, more of a voiced thought than an attempt to start conversation.
Keys's face turns from the view out of the window to you, slight smile growing wider at the sight of you. He takes his glasses from the windowsill and puts them back on, gesturing with a relaxed hand for you to come closer.
"Did you think I was going to leave?" He asks, moving his legs from the bench to make room for you to sit, and you sink down across from him, knees tucked to your chest.
"You didn't have to stay," you shrug, picking at a loose thread on your sweatshirt cuff. "That was kind of…intense."
"It was," he agrees, his voice a little breathy with soft laughter. "I stuck around because I wanted to."
"I'm glad you did."
"Me too," Keys says, sitting up a little more. "I also realized that I'm long overdue to say something to you."
Your head tilts a little, eyebrows furrowing and signaling him to continue.
"I'm really sorry," he says sincerely. "I've been so wrapped up in trying to prove myself that I forgot you were just trying to do the same, and for you, it's a lot harder. You put up with so much shit from the guys in the program, and too much of it has been from me. And I didn't do it because you're the only girl there, I promise. It came from this awful, ugly jealousy because I didn't want to accept the truth."
A slow, grateful tear slips down your cheek as you look at him, all wide, earnest eyes and dimples impressed to his cheeks with the way he's frowning a little. You accepted a long time ago that you would never get an apology for the way you've been treated. Judgment and criticism is part of the career, Dr. Howell would say, as dismissive of your feelings as he was of the whining that came from your peers because ultimately, to him and to them, they were the same.
It's been such a long stretch of surviving—pretending you don't hear the whispering, trying to sift through whose opinions actually matter—you were starting to forget that it wasn't supposed to be like this at all. To finally hear someone say they're sorry for being apart of that pulls tears from you that you've neglected to shed for too long. You're glad they were still there, though. In your world of perfectly orchestrated numbers and impossible expectations, you were grateful for any reminder that you were still human.
"And what is the truth?" You ask, sniffling softly and wiping your cheeks with your sleeve.
Keys sighs.
"That you're better," he confesses, pushing his glasses up. "Better than all of us. And I think you always have been."
"You mean that?" You ask, voice wobbling.
"I do," Keys says, shifting a little closer to you. His hand reaches forward and softly clasps your ankle, thumb brushing from your ankle bone to your calf. "You know me, I don't say things just to say them. I'm envious of you."
"You should be," you say, letting out a watery laugh that sets Keys off too, his dimples reappearing as he chuckles with you. "Apparently I'm the best developer in my program."
"I mean it," he says, reaching to wipe the last of your tears with a brush of his knuckles. "You're good, but you're also, like, a real person. You go out, and you have so many friends. You're better than all of us without being a shut in."
"You don't have many friends?"
"Not good ones," Keys says, shrugging a little. "I don't like the guys in the program either, so I hang out with some other CompSci people, but they aren't great. They're…weirdly elitist about game design, like it's not serious work."
"That's tough," you console. "I'm lucky to have friends that pull me away from my computer."
"Maybe I'm lucky to have a friend like that now?" He asks, cheeks flushing a little.
A little giggle that you can't suppress escapes you, endeared and amused at his shyness—nervous at the thought of being friends despite the fact that you guys fucked mere hours ago, and that he was still in front of you in only his underwear.
"Yeah," you say softly. "That sounds good to me."
"I'm ready to have friends that are nice to me," Keys confesses, his own voice catching a little around the sadness in his throat.
"I'm sorry I smacked the shit out of you," you say, looking down at your lap bashfully. "That wasn't very nice."
"No, don't be," he insists, with a little dismissive wave of his hand. "I've had it coming to for a while. It was pretty hot, too."
You share another laugh with him, the shake of his freckled shoulders and wrinkle of his nose filling your chest with a long needed ease and warmth.
"The industry has been overrun by people like me for way too long," Keys muses, offering his hand with an upward palm to you, and you accept it gladly, melting at the way his thumb slides affectionately across your knuckles. "This world needs people like you, really. I can't wait to see what you make."
"You're not bad yourself, Mr. Robot," you say through a smile, gently squeezing his hand. "You made me this mad for a reason, you're good at what you do. I wouldn't mind having you look at my projects."
Keys laughs again, a little shy as his chin tips towards his chest for a moment.
"As long as I get a spot in the 'Special Thanks' once the credits roll."
His eyes meet yours again—warm, and soft, and eager for the chance at a place in your future. A future he's known would be bright as long as he's know you.
"Deal."
author's note: SMACK CAM!!! Thank you so so so much for reading :) I feel like I say this every time, but this may actually be my favorite fic I've written so far. Thank you Maya and Cat for sharing brain waves with me <3 as always, I would love to hear your thoughts! MWAH
summary: You hate Steve Harrington. Steve Harrington hates you. Unfortunately, that's only the beginning of your problems.
warnings: weed use and mentions of alcohol
words: 2.3k
author's note: what if i tell you that these chapters are just me building up to the smut scene that's been sitting in my docs since june? yupppp... i'm cooking
masterlist
divider
chapter 1
The day feels endless because of the warmth and deadlines piling up. You’re sitting outside in the grass, leaning against the brick wall, which is nice and cool against your back, though it barely helps you focus on the book in your lap. What you do notice is that you didn’t wait long enough after reapplying your sunscreen, and it stained the pages.
Your eyes wander, purely out of boredom and the sheer hope that you’d be struck with a new sense of determination to finish this chapter, but there’s only so much Jane Eyre your brain can take right now.
Eddie’s still in class, or at least, that’s what you hope. He has a tendency to green out —which is his special code word for getting high and watching a complete season of South Park in complete darkness most of the time— and forget all about Music Technology or Harmony.
You, on the other hand, have made it your sole purpose to attend as many classes as possible this year, especially after seeing where Eddie’s influence got you last semester when you nearly failed World Literature.
The thoughts pause in your head when your eyes fall on a familiar figure sitting across the courtyard, relaxed against the back of the bench, his arm draped over it nonchalantly. In his other hand, he’s holding a copy of Wuthering Heights that has seen better days.
He’s wearing a colorful crochet hat that’s sitting, rather than fitting, on his head despite the warmth. It makes some of his newly bleached locks stick to his forehead. His chest hair peeks from the top of his anthracite tank top, a necklace resting against his chest and catching the sunlight before disappearing beneath the fabric tucked into his tight denim.
The depths of his concentration are visible through his thick sunglasses, and you’re genuinely surprised by it. Usually, he’s just holding a book while talking up a girl, in a feeble attempt to get her in his bed.
By a sheer bout of misfortune, Steve Harrington passed all his classes and is now in his second year as well. You’d hoped that he would’ve been joined with the other group of literature students, but of course, he was in your class. Again.
Somewhere along the way, he’d decided that he wanted to be an English teacher, because he “wanted to challenge himself and actually quite liked it.” You could’ve sworn he did it to taunt you, but even you knew that was a little childish, so you kept it to yourself.
You watch him run his fingers over the stubble on his cheek, the sun reflecting on his already tan skin. He looks fuller than before, his biceps a little bigger, his chest a little more prominent and there is a general softness to him now that hadn’t been there last semester.
You only realize you’d been staring when he pushes down his sunglasses and looks back at you, the corners of his mouth quirking up.
You roll your eyes at him and turn away again, forcing yourself to look down at the book in your lap. Jane Eyre is so much more important than Steve Harrington.
Everything is, really.
“Munson is alive!” you gasp, covering your mouth with your hands.
You’ve been waiting outside his shared house, convinced he’s been there the whole afternoon, when suddenly you spot him crossing the street with his guitar over his shoulder.
Eddie throws his arms into the air, tilting his head towards the sky like he's just been resurrected before your very eyes. “Alive and kicking.”
He pulls you into a hug and presses a kiss to your crown. “And in desperate need of some relaxation. Spent the whole afternoon practicing with Joey and Leo. We’ve got a big test-thing coming up, and I can’t mess it up.”
“And here I thought you’d been getting high without me,” you say. “I was wondering why no one opened the door.”
Eddie gasps, moving his hand to his chest. “You think so little of me! No, they’re all going to the bar, so we have the house to ourselves.” His hand digs into his pocket, trying to pry the house key from it.
“Exactly what I needed,” you sigh, following him inside.
The smell of boy and cigarettes greets you the moment you step inside the shared house. Eddie gives you an apologetic look and carefully puts his guitar down.
“What happened to the don’t-smoke-inside rule?” You ask, pointing to the multiple ashtrays and old beer cans used for the same purpose.
He shrugs and looks around, feigning innocence. “I guess no one in this house ever listens to me!”
You roll your eyes at him as you move towards the windows and open them, allowing fresh air to breeze inside.
“Call of Duty and chill?” Eddie asks, pointing at the TV and controllers.
“I thought you’d never ask,” you reply with a smile.
The rest of the evening bleeds into familiarity. You roll a joint, Eddie grabs drinks and snacks from the fridge, you turn on the game and both of you are generously buzzed when the first Team Deathmatch starts.
“Good stuff,” you smile at him, feeling the muscles in your face and shoulders relax.
“I know, right?” Eddie grins widely, turning his attention back to the screen.
In these moments all of your frustrations and worries slowly evaporate into nothingness. There’s just the steady thumping of your heart, the fuzzy feeling in your head and the pleasant warmth buzzing right underneath your skin. You and Eddie have been doing this ever since you can remember, which always makes you feel safe. The weed is a nice bonus.
You sink a little deeper into the tattered leather couch as the hours pass, the heaviness in your body intensifying after another joint. Your hand is deep into a bag of crisps when you hear the door open and look over your shoulder to see his roommates —Joey and Leo— heading inside.
But they’re not alone.
Steve Harrington’s laugh reaches your ears before he even crosses the threshold, which not only alarms you, but also Eddie, though for entirely different reasons.
Eddie has no particular problem with Harrington, despite the hours you’ve spent trying to convince him otherwise. He sees him as a chill dude who has grown on him after Steve shared his booze and weed at a party last year.
Eddie also pinky promised that Steve had never said any word about you in his vicinity, and he would immediately tell you if he even tried.
“Why is he here?” you whisper at him, trying to be subtle. Obviously, being high gives no guarantee that it’s effective.
Eddie just shrugs and drapes his arm over the couch, turning towards them.
“Good evening, boys,” he says, offering them a wide smile.
You inhale sharply and follow his movements, noticing that they’ve obviously had a few drinks. Their posture is a little more relaxed than usual, and their eyes are glassy, even in the dim lighting.
Steve tugs a cigarette from the pack with his teeth before lighting it, the flame briefly illuminating his face. The urge to remind him of the no smoking rule is ready at the tip of your tongue, but you swallow it back down.
“Hello,” you say gently, resting your chin on the edge of the couch.
“You look absolutely adorable, like a high munchkin,” Joey coos, moving over to you as he ruffles your hair. When he sees the look on Eddie’s face, he does the same, even a little rougher. “You too, Munson.”
You giggle and smooth your hair down again, still smiling when you meet Steve’s gaze, even though it’s not meant for him.
He’s looking at you intently, as if he’s trying to figure something important out, but whatever thoughts are going through his head seem just a little too complicated for him to comprehend.
Yes, you can imagine that. It makes you chuckle.
“I’ve never seen you so happy before,” Steve says, exhaling the cigarette smoke. He’s still wearing the same outfit from earlier, only with a leather jacket you’ve seen on him before.
Glances are traded throughout the room. You see it in the way Eddie shifts in the couch, Leo takes a step forward and Joey’s shadow moves in the corner of your eye, but your eyes remain glued to Steve.
You want to say something witty, but then his scent distracts you—sweat, cigarettes, alcohol, summer. You didn’t realize your eyes had fluttered shut until you open them again to see he’s standing right in front of you, looking towards the screen.
“Call of Duty?” He asks, taking another drag from his cigarette. Steve’s not looking at you despite his closeness; he’s talking to Eddie as if you weren’t there.
You turn back towards the screen and grab the controller, wishing for him to leave. Eddie was your friend and you were here first after all. That must mean something, right?
“Yes, you want to play?” Eddie asks, actively avoiding your gaze. He hands over the controller to Steve and moves away from the couch, leaving you dumbstruck.
Your body freezes as the couch dips under his weight, tensing your muscles so you don’t fall into his orbit. Steve doesn’t seem to care. He butts out his cigarette and changes teams, so he’s fighting against you.
Of course.
The thing is—you don’t want to play with Harrington. Even if it sounds pathetic and childish, which it definitely is. But this is just another situation where the two of you will end up fighting, and everyone in this room knows this very well.
How is he able to invade every aspect of your life so freely?
“Can you start the game, munchkin?” Steve asks, looking over at you with a smug look on his face. He takes off his jacket as the loading screen starts, and there’s that fucking scent again, only stronger this time. It’s incredibly distracting.
The deeply relaxed state from earlier changes into something poisonous, tightening your muscles and jaw until they burn. You tug your legs closer to your body and pull your hoodie over them, as if it will protect you.
“Play nice,” Eddie says as he moves closer to you, squeezing your shoulders gently. You glare up at him and he just winks.
It does not take long for the tension to reach new heights. Even Joey and Leo have taken a seat on the floor to watch you play, because you and Steve are more focused on hunting each other than actively trying to win for the team.
You feel your heart beat heavily against your chest as you try your hardest to find him, but you can’t deny he’s rather good at it too. Every millisecond you’re distracted, he kills you with a single shot and Eddie’s grip on your shoulders tightens, as if he can physically feel the wire of tension charging inside of you.
And then the final countdown starts, and you’re running around a little more carelessly. Just two more kills and your team wins. But where the fuck is he?
You miss an easy kill because you’re too focused on Harrington’s whereabouts, and just as you peek at his screen, he knifes you from behind, and the game ends.
When you glare at him, you find he’s already staring at you with an infuriating grin.
“Good game,” he says, winking.
“You’re such an asshole,” you reply, freeing your legs from your hoodie as you toss the controller onto the couch. It bounces once, nearly toppling to the floor before Steve catches it.
“Sore loser?” Steve asks, leaning back against the couch. “I should have known, munchkin.”
Eddie watches the scene unfold and is about to say something when you raise your hand. “Don’t.”
You walk towards the kitchen without saying another word and hear the boys ease into conversation again, which is a good thing. You don’t want to be the person that disrupts their peace because of a petty feud, but Harrington makes it very difficult.
When you return to the living room with a glass of water, they’re pressed together on the couch while Eddie’s rolling another joint.
“Come here,” Joey calls for you softly, pulling you onto his lap. It isn’t odd for you to be close with these guys; after all, they’ve been friends with Eddie for over a year. You just feel very aware of every move you make because Harrington is still here, watching, apparently.
Joey's arms tighten around your waist and you sink deeper against his chest until he’s able to rest his chin on your shoulder.
“You okay?” he whispers in your ear, the scent of whiskey lingering on his breath.
“Yeah,” you nod, raising the glass of water to your lips.
Ever so often you could swear that Steve’s head turns your way from the other end of the couch, but you don’t bother watching. He’s probably checking if there’s still room for you to be riled up and you won’t give him that satisfaction.
The five of you share the last joint while watching some national geographic documentary on TV until you feel your eyes start to droop and know it’s time to leave.
“I’m going home,” you say, pushing yourself up from Joey’s lap.
You stretch your arms over your head with a soft moan, blinking a few times to adjust to your surroundings.
“Do you want me to drop you off?” Eddie asks with his eyes closed, arms crossed over his chest. It’s a funny sight to see all of them, still crammed together, slowly falling asleep.
“No, I can still bike there, it’s okay,” you reply, tugging your hood over your head and tying it securely so only your face sticks out. You say goodbye to your friends, but you doubt they’ll remember.
Steve is the only one who’s still awake, looking up at you. He looks like he’s waiting for you to say something to him, but you just stare back, not even offering him something as simple as a nod goodbye.
Something tugs at the back of your stomach and you avert your gaze.
You don’t question it on the way home. You don’t question it in your bed. You won’t question it ever again.
you go online and it’s everyone’s first day on earth and ur like fuck let me go touch grass and then you interact with the public and it’s everyone’s first day on earth
summary: You hate Steve Harrington. Steve Harrington hates you. Unfortunately, that's only the beginning of your problems.
warnings: none?
words: 1.9k
author's note: hi guys... i'm so excited to be writing again?? also feeling quite vulnerable lmao. english isn't my first language so let me know if there's any mistakes, and enjoy!!
masterlist
prologue
You’re well used to the concept of Steve Harrington.
It was around a year ago that you first met him in your third Introduction to Literature class, but you didn’t know it at the time.
The professor asked him what he thought about Sylvia Plath’s “Mirror,” and he replied, “I think she just thought about these things too much, you know?” in front of the whole class.
Some people snickered. You just glared at him, waiting, hoping, for him to elaborate. Maybe explain that he’d been joking, but nothing happened. He looked perfectly pleased with his own answer.
You decided then and there that he was an absolute idiot.
On top of that, he was friends with the girls in your student housing —Robin and Nancy, who apparently already knew each other— which made it more difficult for you to interact with them besides the polite “hello” and “bye” in the first weeks.
It wasn’t that they weren’t friendly; it was just the strange combination of your social awkwardness, their shared history and conflicting schedules that made it difficult to connect.
But after one particular night of sharing a few bottles of cheap wine and some takeaway, most of that awkwardness started to melt away.
You learned that they’d been friends since high school, that Robin studies psychology, has a girlfriend named Vicky who studies film abroad, and that Nancy had made the difficult decision to break up with her long-term boyfriend, Jonathan, and come here to study journalism.
Soon after that, they mentioned Steve for the first time, but there was no reason to link a guy with these promising qualities to the idiot in your class.
He was Nancy’s high school ex, known formerly as “The Hair” or “King Steve” back in Hawkins High. Popular kid turned nice guy, or at least, that’s what they said, and you believed them.
Robin became best friends with him when they worked together at Scoops Ahoy and when she came out to him, he was nothing short of supportive.
Steve was kind, caring, and a great friend. He wanted to become a high school teacher, despite his dad’s disapproval.
They talked about him like he was impossible not to love.
You’d come here with your friend Eddie, who you’d known since you were little. Eddie managed —after a lot of encouragement and help— to gain admission to study music and spent most of his time with his new friends, which was only normal since they had to practice so much.
You were happy to be away from your hometown and wanted to become a writer, though you hadn’t figured out what that meant yet.
“Don’t let Steve find out you’re good at writing,” Nancy had joked, shaking her head. “He’ll sell you a kidney to proofread his essays.”
You’d laughed because it was funny, and the idea of Steve was still something faint and exciting.
Unfortunately, that didn’t last long.
A few days later, you crossed paths with him in the hallway, leaning against the wall while a blonde girl looked up at him like he put the stars in the sky.
He looked perfectly comfortable there, basking in attention, having girls laugh at everything he said like it was a normal part of his everyday life.
“That’s such a coincidence—I love poetry too. Actually, I’m reading this book right now—” Your eyes moved towards the book in his hands while he spoke, “The Collected Poems by Sylvia Plath,” back to his.
He was looking at you too, and neither one of you broke eye contact until you’d fully passed them.
That same evening, someone knocked on the door of your student house. Since neither Robin nor Nancy were in, you decided to check who it was.
It was him. Wearing a backwards cap, a worn Hawkins High T-shirt —that he’d clearly outgrown— and red shorts.
He looked at you in surprise, as if he hadn’t expected you to open the door. His mouth opened to say something, but you beat him to it.
“Can I help you?” you asked, visibly irritated.
Steve’s eyes widened. “You’re their roommate? Whoa.”
You scoffed. “No, I’m their house cat.”
“Very funny. Where’s Robin?” he asked, trying to look behind you as if she would magically pop up.
“Obviously not here,” you said, holding the door firmly.
Steve noticed this and tilted his head. “Are you alright? I’m literally friends with her.”
“Anyone could say that,” you shrugged.
“I’m Steve, Steve Harrington? They never mentioned me?” He looked almost hurt.
Color drained from your face.
No.
Absolutely not.
This was their Steve? It couldn’t be. Their Steve had outgrown everything you’d seen of this one.The two versions refused to fit together in your head.
He said your name, which made you look up.
“They told me all about you. I didn’t know you were the girl in my class,” he said, obviously trying to make conversation. His eyes had a glint that you couldn’t decipher.
“Well, now you do,” you said sarcastically.
Steve had not been so visibly disliked since high school, which caught him off guard. His confidence didn’t disappear, but hesitated as if he was figuring out which version of himself to be to diffuse the situation.
“Steve, Robin is not here,” you said, trying to keep your cool.
It wasn’t clear what about him riled you up so badly, but it was uncomfortable and intense. You just wanted him to leave.
“Okay,” he lengthened the word, crossing his arms over his chest. “Then let me wait inside? We were supposed to go for a run together. She’s just late.”
You looked at him in disbelief because this guy could clearly not get the message that he was unwelcome. Still, you knew it would be utterly immature if you didn’t, and this was your roommates’ beloved friend.
Besides—you weren’t a monster.
Maybe you’d just seen him on bad days and he just needed some time to show his good side. Maybe even think a little more before speaking? You really wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.
For Robin and Nancy.
For the sake of peace in your student house.
For the world.
So, you stepped out of the way.
“Sure,” you said, closing the door behind him.
He obviously had been there before, because he walked straight to the small living room and sat down on the grass-green couch, where you had been sitting just minutes ago.
You inhaled sharply and grabbed the book you were reading from the coffee table, plopping into the beanbag facing the window.
His eyes were burning on you; you could feel it as if it were a physical caress.
You tried to ignore it. You really did. But every time you glanced up, his eyes were already there.
Steve started tapping his fingers against the armrest of the couch, then groaned while stretching his arms over his head, and finally broke the silence when you didn’t give him the attention he —apparently— so desperately wanted.
“What are you reading?” Steve asked. You could see he was craning his neck to try and read the cover.
“You should know what I’m reading,” you replied, closing the book by holding a finger in between the pages.
“How should I—huh,” the corner of his mouth tugged upward. He took off his cap and ruffled his hair, only to put it back on again. “It’s Frankenstein?”
“Well done, Harrington,” you said sarcastically.
“What’s with the attitude?” He sounded genuinely confused, which only irritated you more. Either he was even more oblivious than you’d anticipated, or he’d never considered the fact that he wasn’t as charming as he thought.
“I don’t know,” you answered, which was the truth. You rolled the question around in your mind for a few seconds before speaking again. “Just a gut feeling, I guess.”
Steve crossed his arms over his chest, causing the fabric of his T-shirt to tighten around his biceps. You noticed because it was obvious.
For a moment, he simply stared at you, as though no one had ever admitted to disliking him so casually. Then something shifted in his expression. The confusion remained, but amusement began to pull at the corner of his mouth.
“You don’t even know me. You’ve literally seen me a few times in class and earlier today.” He shook his head in disbelief. “That’s just weird.”
“Maybe I just didn’t like what I saw,” you removed your finger from in between the pages and stretched your legs, desperate to go to your room and remove yourself from this situation. “I mean, your reply to that professor? Completely diabolical, and then you use the same author to flirt with a clueless girl.”
Steve stared at you as if you’d just given him valuable information.
It irked you.
There was not a single reason for you to believe that “King Steve” had died, because he was sitting right here in front of you, smirking as if you had entertained rather than insulted him.
You hated these types of guys.
You’d dated them, you’d seen them break your friends’ hearts, and you’d spent plenty of drunken nights arguing with them at bars.
Eddie always said it would get you into trouble one day, but your response was easy; you had to do this in honor of womanhood.
And because you did really like to outwit men.
Before you could say anything else, the door swung open and Robin rushed inside, completely out of breath. She stopped right in front of the couch, her hands at her sides as she heaved for a few more seconds until she finally spoke.
“Sorry, he kept on ranting even though he was running overtime,” Robin said, throwing her bag off her shoulder. “Ironically, rushing here felt like I’ve worked out already. But hey—you’ve met!”
Robin smiled so brightly that you almost felt guilty for thinking ill of her friend, and that’s exactly where you decided you had to try and keep up appearances.
He shattered that idea within seconds.
Steve grinned now, pushing himself off of the couch. “A real pleasure to meet her. She’s the girl who’s been glaring at me.”
Robin looked between the both of you, thoughts flashing before her eyes until her hands settled at her sides with a sort of finality.
She said your name with a tone of surprise. “It’s you?”
This situation was so unexpected that you had no time to prepare for something clever to say. There was no room for giving an excuse or trying to defend yourself, and with every second that passed, the grin on his face deepened and the warmth crawling up your neck spread to your cheekbones into a maroon hue.
It was very obvious that Steve Harrington had no intention of making your interactions easier. No, something unspoken was hanging in the air between the two of you, promising this was only the beginning of a long and difficult road.
A battle of wills. Two medieval knights unsheathing their swords.
Or maybe just two stubborn idiots who met their match.
“I actually glare most of the time,” you said, standing too, pretending like the flush in your cheeks wasn’t there. “But one or two instances might have been personal.”
You walked past them towards your room, looking over your shoulder one last time. “Have fun on your run, guys.”
Steve was smiling when you closed the door.
It wouldn’t be the last time you wanted to wipe it off his face.
