[jeepers-creeperz]

🕸‧₊˚🕷‧₊˚ belle🕸26🕸 she/her 🕸18+ only‧₊˚🕷‧₊˚ 🕸

requests open

will write for:

steve harrington

eddie munson

george weasley

fred weasley

stranger things

🕸‧₊˚🕷‧₊˚.𖥔 ݁ ˖🦇 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⋆

harry potter

will not write non-con, alpha/beta

dividers made by saradika-graphics & strangergraphics

enjoy!

[harringtonsdiary]

steve harrington x reader fanfiction | fratboy!steve | platonic!stobin (i promise) | mentions of cheating (but it's not real cheating) | mean!steve, playboy!steve | sort of friends to enemies to fwb to lovers | slowish burn | angst | hurt ... eventual comfort

warnings: mentions of sex, fingering, heavy making out, underaged drinking, erectile dysfunction (not for hot shot tho AYEEEE 😼), angst, figuring out feelings!!, steve's pov, this is from chapter 12 so you might see similar actions :) words: 5.4k summary: When you find out your college roommate/friend robin buckley's boyfriend, steve harrington— who you thought beat all stereotypical frat boy odds— is cheating on her, you find it hard to understand why she still wants to be with him. But there is more than meets the eye. You aren't sure if you want to be roped into it. a/n: oh wow... hello friends... it's been awhile. this was meant to be a tiny little blurb about the first kiss between hot shot and steve, but then dkat steve was like, BLAIZE LET ME DEFEND MY CASE HERE!!!! so, low and behold the drabble turned into a small bonus chapter and it seems that's where the others are heading too. is anyone... complaining? also please be nice... i'm a little rusty with writing and writing for dkat. masterlist | Rules/Playlist

Broken.

That's all Steve can call himself the past few weeks. Hell… the past few months. Ever since Valentine’s Day, everything was different for him. He’s really tried hard not to think about it. To think about you. But to think about it was a whole new plethora of implications: his vulnerability laid bare, his feelings metastasizing into something he can no longer pretend are manageable.

He couldn’t talk to Eddie or Robin about it. He knew Eddie would clap Steve on the shoulder and tell him to “follow his heart.”  Eddie never hid the fact he was rooting for you and Steve— well he hid his comments from Robin that is. Robin, who now had Nancy. Who now had something real and fragile and worth protecting. Steve made promises to her. He might be a dick the majority of the time, but he's loyal. He has always been loyal. Who was he to make it harder for them?

He tried to distract himself. Amanda on Monday. Mary on Tuesday. Both futile. He felt disgusted with himself, guilty in a way that didn't make logical sense. You two weren't together, had never been together. But the guilt sat in his chest regardless, heavy and persistent and— fuck.

Another secret he's been carrying for two months: he's been faking it with everyone else.

He slips the condom off before they can notice, drops it at the bottom of the bathroom trash, and waits in there until he's sure they've left. He never finishes himself off afterward. He knows the only way he can is if he thinks about you, and that knowledge sits in him like something radioactive. It’s too dangerous to acknowledge directly and too present to ignore.

He can’t sleep. He tosses and turns, wondering what you’re doing, if you’re in your dorm with Robin or if that meathead is feeling you up— nope. He can’t be jealous. It’s not fair to you if he’s jealous of you messing around with other people too. Even if it’s a fucking Alpha Tau. 

He doesn’t know what is wrong with him. 

On Wednesday you were walking out of the library when he caught sight of you, and his entire body responded before his brain could intervene. You looked so pretty in the moonlight. He watched you laugh when you caught his eyes, your breath a small cloud in the cold air, warm and there and real. Your hand squeezed his arm when he held the door open, and then your mouth was on his neck and his hands were moving under your blouse— butter yellow, soft against his palms, genuinely so pretty on you. It drove him mad.

He always hated when the other girls left marks on him. But yours were different. Yours he'd flaunt, wearing shirts that wouldn't cover them, pretending in some parallel life that he was allowed to show off that he was yours. People assumed it was Robin. He let them assume.

Neither of you had the patience to undress properly. He'd hiked your skirt up, your legs hooking around his waist, pulling him deeper. His chain had swung against your collarbone with each thrust. His jeans bunched at his thighs. Both of you loud and breathless, the car rocking with the rhythm of it, your skin against his a sound he'd been replaying ever since.

He'd looked down at you— eyes clenched, fingers digging into his shoulders, neck arched— and dragged his tongue up the column of your throat. When he spat into your mouth and watched you swallow, the moan that tore out of him was completely beyond his control.

Sex had always come easily to him. But with you there's a challenge he keeps wanting to solve. He loves being the reason for your sounds, loves finding the specific combination of things that makes you cry out, loves the places in you that he finds and you didn't know existed. He loves how he fits inside you, the way you stretch and clench around him perfectly. He thinks about what it would feel like without a condom— like the first time. He thinks about it too often.

With you he doesn't hold back. He never has to muffle himself or perform. He just is. And that, more than anything else, is the thing that terrifies him.

He knows what anyone would tell him if he described this out loud. End it with the others. Or if he can't do that: think of you when he's with them. He's tried the second option. He's ashamed to admit it, more ashamed to admit what happens when he does.

He doesn't think of you in those moments. His mind doesn't go to anything compromising. It goes, instead, to conversations. The way you make him laugh. The particular sharpness of your wit, the patience you extend to Robin and— somehow, inexplicably— to him. More patience than he deserves and you both know it.

He thinks about how people are drawn to you and you have no idea. How they gravitate toward you at parties, on the sidewalk, in line at the library, and you move through it all like it's ordinary. He thinks about the line between your brows when you're irritable, and how badly he wants to press his thumb there and smooth it out. He thinks about how when you get mean, you're ferocious— certain and passionate and immovable— and how hours later you always go back and apologize to whoever it was. You always know what to say. He has never once known what to say.

Thursday, he tried to write off everything as stress and a bad week. This time of year is always hard for him. Nightmares. Headaches. The insomnia that arrives like a seasonal houseguest who doesn't know when to leave. He guesses he can add ejaculation issues to the list too.The anniversary of the accident, seeps in, coloring everything gray, his scars aching before his brain has caught up to what day it is.

He'd skipped his classes and gone out once for air. He told himself it was coincidental that he wandered toward the building where your class meets. That he hadn't, over the course of the past several weeks, memorized the rough shape of your schedule. That he didn't sometimes take routes that would put you at the edges of his vision, even from a distance.

Purely coincidental.

He wasn't even sure he'd say anything if he saw you. He could ask if you wanted to get lunch, take a walk— two friends, only two friends, who happened to be sleeping together. He ignored the small sharp pain in his chest at the phrasing.

When he rounded the corner and found you kissing Sammy, the guy's hands on you and yours on him, Steve stopped walking. He stood there for five full seconds. Then he turned around and went back to Pike.

He'd like to say he did the honorable thing after that. Moved on, let it go, focused on something else. He can't stop thinking about it. It's his own rule— the one he made, the one that's supposed to protect both of them— and it's eating him alive.

Which is why he snapped at Robin when she started in about Nancy. He knows it's different for them. He does. But a selfish, rotting part of him was jealous— not that he'd ever say so— jealous that at least she got to be with someone she loved without everything being underwater. He felt guilty about it almost immediately. It wasn't that he wasn't happy for them. He was. He is.

He's also drowning.

He didn't even register you asking to come in when you appeared in his doorway later. He was too busy being struck dumb by the sight of you— hair up, pink sweater he loves tucked into your light wash jeans, fresh manicure you'd probably done in your dorm with Robin. He watched you cross the room and felt his chest do that thing it does. Tighten first. Then soften, like something rigid giving way.

You touched his knee. You gave him the look that meant it was okay.

He felt safe. He always feels safe, and that is the most dangerous thing about you.

His rules dissolved and he put his head in your lap because it was the only context in which he was allowed to do that. He went limp and hoped you couldn't see his eyes going wet. He breathed you in— clean laundry, something faint and warm underneath, the specific scent he's started associating with a future he wants and can't have. He asked you to talk about your day because he could sit for hours inside the sound of your voice. You made the mundane parts of your life sound like somewhere he wanted to be.

Broken, he told you. He feels broken. He didn't tell you he wasn't sure how to fix it. Or that he suspected he knew exactly how, and was terrified of what it would cost.

After you left, the thought of you kissing Sammy returned and wouldn't stop. It moved through him in different frequencies. He wondered what your lips would feel like against his— not his neck, not the geography of his shoulders and chest, but his mouth. He wondered if the rhythm would be the same as everything else between you, that strange melodic fit, the way your bodies always seemed to find the same tempo without trying.

On the night of Mardi Tau, he'd told Robin three times he wasn't going. He couldn't. Couldn't watch you across a crowded room, couldn't watch you dance with Sammy, couldn't see your mouth on someone else's again and pretend the sight wasn't carving something out of him.

He watched from his window when your car pulled up and Eddie climbed in. It was dark outside andhe couldn't see you. His heart thumped anyway.

The car pulled away.

His heart sank.

It should be him.

.-.-.-.

Katrina was always a sweet girl. Her hair was a bit much sometimes— reminded him of when Tammy Thompson got her first perm and he couldn't see the board in Mrs. Click's class until he finally moved seats. 

But she didn't deserve tonight.

Everything was going well. He did everything he normally did, and by her sounds, Katrina was enjoying herself. All while his mind kept drifting to Sig Tau. To you. His heart racing because the rumors had been circulating through Greek life all week— that Sammy really likes you. 

It was all dirty touches and heat between them until he got Katrina over the edge.

But when it was his turn and she went to touch him— nothing.

He laughed it off awkwardly and told her to give him a second, spitting in his hand, trying to coax any reaction from his body. The redness crept up the back of his neck and deepened in his cheeks, not from the sex but from something worse. He kept trying. But even looking at Katrina sprawled naked on his bed, cheeks flushed, watching him with patient eyes, he still couldn't think properly.

He kept thinking about what an asshole he was. What an utter prick, to be here with a nice girl who deserved better than this. All because he couldn't fucking admit what he'd been running from all this time.

His shoulders drooped. He deflated.

"Oh my god," Katrina whispered.

Steve opened his mouth, a lump rising in his throat. "I—" Nothing came. No excuse worth saying out loud. "It's not you. I swear—"

"Oh my fucking god." She stood up from his bed. He could tell she wasn't happy by the way she moved— quick and stiff, snatching up her clothes. He saw the tears rolling down her face before she turned away.

"Katrina—"

"I am missing the biggest party of the year for this," she said, voice unraveling as she pulled her shirt over her head.

Steve stood there, still holding his limp dick, unsure whether he should wait until she left. He didn't know the proper etiquette for this situation. He'd never had anyone leave in the middle of a hookup before. Never because he couldn't get hard. He rubbed his face with one hand, trying to think.

"I'm sorry. I'm really stressed out—"

She turned around, lip quivering. "This," she hissed, motioning between them, "is what's supposed to relieve you of stress."

Steve picked up his boxers and slipped them on, feeling her watch him. Then his jeans. He looked at the floor, then up into her eyes, hoping and praying her memory of the last half hour might somehow evaporate.

It was in that humiliating moment he realized it wasn't only hating the fact you were with someone else tonight. He was too. Even though his hookups with other girls had become rare. Even with the lie he'd told you from the start— that he had a once-a-week rule— it still sent pain radiating through his chest, the particular kind that comes from knowing you're doing something wrong.

"I don't think we should keep seeing each other," he said, trailing off because he was a coward.

Katrina ticked her jaw. She sniffled once, sharply, through the hurt. He watched her shrink into herself, arms crossing over her chest, trying to make sense of something that didn't make any sense. She didn't have feelings for him— he knew that. But he could almost see the trust between them severing, clean and quiet as a cut. Without another word she picked up her handbag and walked out.

He wished he were man enough to sit with it or run after her to tell her… anything that would make her feel better. To feel the full weight of hurting someone he hadn't meant to hurt. To reckon with the ways his selfishness was splitting him apart from the inside.

Instead he got dressed quickly and put on his glasses. He needed to see you.

Not needed. Wanted. Both. He couldn't untangle them anymore.

His adrenaline was high and he ignored the beaming DON'T DO IT sign glowing right in front of him. Rules be damned. There were never really rules with you to begin with.

He smoked two cigarettes on the walk to Sig Tau without realizing it, and hadn't noticed he'd arrived until he was already pushing through the crowd outside and through the doors. He stood in the middle of the main gathering space, chest heaving, eyes scanning the room.

The scary thing was he always knew when you were there before he found you. Some magnetic pull in his chest that swung toward you like a compass finding north— maybe it was your perfume, the one you only wore when you went out. He found you before his brain caught up to the fact that he was looking.

You were alone. Relief moved through him so fast it embarrassed him.

Except you were scanning the room the same way he had been, searching for someone— Sammy, probably. Then you stopped. Hair framing your face, lip gloss catching the colored lights. He watched your expression shift. Watched your lips flicker upward. You looked exactly as relieved to see him as he felt seeing you.

He crossed the room toward you, taking you in the whole way. Gold crop top. Your purple skirt and white pumps. The line of your collarbone. But he kept returning to your eyes. He drowned in them every time and he did it willingly, like a man who had made peace with the water.

You were the most beautiful person he'd ever met. It drove him absolutely crazy.

He was so close but he needed more, and if there weren't people watching he'd have pulled you into him right there. Instead he motioned toward the bathroom tucked out of the way, the one nobody else seemed to know about.

He pulled you inside and crowded you against the counter.

"Touch me," he said. The words came out wrecked. A plea, not a request.

You started to say something and he shook his head. He said please. Said it again. Please.

And you did. You touched him exactly where he knew you'd touch him first, and he twitched and let out a breath that was equal parts relief and pleasure. His skin knew you. Reacted to you the way muscle reacts to memory— without instruction, without hesitation. He whimpered when your fingers traced along his scars and brushed through the trail of hair on his stomach.

He pressed his hips against you involuntarily. Already hard against your bare thigh.

Both of you were asking for more without saying it. You pulled his hand and pressed it against the damp cotton of your panties. His knees buckled, his weight nearly crushing you as he started working slow circles against your clit. His mouth found your cheek, breath short and ragged.

Then you were up on the counter and he was fucking you with his fingers, his cock aching against his zipper, completely engulfed in your wetness and the sounds falling from your mouth. You clutched at him. He still wasn't close enough. It wasn't enough anymore. It hadn't been enough for a long time.

He worked faster, stretching you with another finger, curling to find that spot that made your whole body shift. He could feel you shaking. He could hear the pitch of your whimpers climbing.

He rutted against your leg, moaning into your neck, until you made a sound he'd never heard from you before. He pulled back to look at you— half-lidded, mouth open— and his eyes dropped to your lips. Parted and pretty, lip gloss still sticky.

Before he could think longer he grabbed you by the head, fingers fisting your hair, and kissed you.

Then froze immediately.

"Fuck. I'm sorry. I'm sorry—"

You smirked at him. Hunger in your eyes. One finger hooked into his chain necklace, pulling him back.

Your lips crashed against his.

He grunted when you bucked your hips, grinding on his hand still inside you. The kiss was messy and filthy and open-mouthed and unforgiving, and it rearranged everything inside him. His skin felt like it was burning, the heat moving straight to his cock. But underneath all of it— underneath the want and the noise and the desperate friction— his heart was beating against his ribs in a rhythm he recognized from somewhere he'd been trying not to visit.

He couldn't ignore it this time. Didn't want to.

All he wanted to do was smile. Because he was kissing his girl. His Hot Shot. Finally.

He felt you getting close and threw himself into it— fingers moving faster, palm pressing harder. His tongue licked into your mouth because if this was the only time he got to do this, he refused to forget what you tasted like. Sweet and warm and everything kissing was supposed to feel like and never had before. Feeling you kiss him back with the same urgency, the same hunger, he whined against your lips.

You nipped his bottom lip between your teeth and let it go.

In the fraction of a second it took, he thought about your first time together. How he'd wanted to kiss you then. How he'd wanted to kiss you every single time since. He thought about how swollen your lips were now— wet from him, undone.

That was all it took. He came, pressing against your leg, letting you feel it. Letting you know it was all you.

But he doesn't stop kissing you.

Can't.

And the thing is— he knows, standing here with his hand leaving your thighs and both arms pulling you in instead— that this has nothing to do with sex anymore. It stopped being about sex somewhere between the first time your mouth found his and right now, in this dim bathroom at a party neither of you particularly wanted to attend. What he wants is not the thing bodies want. It's something older and quieter and much more frightening.

He wants to keep kissing you in the morning. He wants to know what you look like when you're half-asleep and grumpy. He wants to sit across a table from you and argue about something stupid and be wrong and have you tell him so. He doesn’t want to say goodnight, because then that means leaving. And he’s so tired of leaving.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling hard enough to sting, and the groan that comes out of him is helpless. It’s not because of the pain but because of the wanting underneath it, the sheer volume of it. He wraps both arms around you, one hand wide and flat across your lower back, the other cradling the back of your head, and he holds on.

You clutch at him with the same desperation and something in him cracks open. He moves his mouth to your jaw, your throat, pressing kisses into the warm skin there. He needs to touch every part of you he can reach, needs you to know he's here, he's here, he's been here this whole time.

His hands won't stop moving. One slides up your side, thumb grazing the underside of your tit through your top, and the other grips your hip hard enough to mark. He's not sorry. He wants to mark you. He wants there to be proof.

You pull his face back to yours and he comes back willingly and gratefully. If he's honest, every second his mouth isn't on yours feels like something wasted now. The kiss shifts, messier, all tongue and teeth and two people running out of ways to say something neither of them has said yet.

You slide your hands under his shirt, palms flat against his stomach, and every muscle in his body contracts under the touch. Your nails drag up his sides and across his ribs and he shudders. It’s not even from sensation but from the specific tenderness of being known. You know exactly where to touch him. You've always known.

He pulls you impossibly closer, hands roaming across your bare back, until there's no space left between you. Chest to chest. He can feel your heartbeat against his own and he doesn't know which is which. Doesn't care.

He kisses you slower this time. Still wanting, still urgent, but slower. His tongue slides against yours and he thinks: this is the problem. This has always been the problem. There is no casual version of this. There never was.

Your fingers find his belt loops and pull his hips flush against yours. He can feel the wet warmth in his jeans against your inner thigh. He makes a sound into your mouth. It’s broken and wanting and almost pained, like something has been held under pressure for a very long time and is only now, in increments, being allowed to surface.

He brings his hand up to cup your face. His thumb strokes your cheekbone with a tenderness he has no business feeling, and he knows it, and he does it anyway. You tilt your head and deepen the kiss and he thinks: I would do anything. I would blow up every rule I've ever made. I would stop being careful entirely.

The kisses slow. Gentle now. Each one landing separately, softly. Just lips resting against lips. Just breathing the same air. Just staying.

He draws your bottom lip carefully between his teeth one last time. His tongue soothing the place, and then he pulls back.

Steps away.

He looks at the floor. Then at you.

Something moves across his face that he can't stop in time. Something guilty and sad and full of all the things he hasn't said and should have, all the moments he's walked away from and chosen rules and Robin over this, over you.

He opens the bathroom door.

He leaves.

The click of the latch behind him sounds, in the silence that follows, like the loneliest thing he's ever heard.

.-.-.-.

Steve walked into the empty Pike house and the silence swallowed him whole.

His eyes were still blown wide, hair wrecked, clothes wrinkled and askew— every detail of him a confession he hadn't meant to make or even think. He trudged inside and let out a heavy breath, both hands dragging down his face like he could physically rearrange what had happened tonight into something he could live with.

He knew he'd fucked up. The only thing he could do to avoid thinking about it was sleep, which meant he was going to lie awake staring at the ceiling and think about nothing else.

He made it to his room and threw himself backward onto his bed, depleted and spent. His fingers drifted to his lips without him meaning for them to— still buzzing faintly, still warm from where your mouth had been.

A smile crept onto his face before he could stop it.

Then, as fast as it arrived… gone.

His phone rang.

He launched himself off the bed. He looked at his watch and wondered who the hell was calling at this hour. Eddie? Robin? His heart lurched sideways at the thought that it might be you. Could it be you calling to come over, to talk, to say something that would either fix everything or make it completely irreparable?

He picked up. "Hello?"

"Steveee," a voice slurred.

Steve pulled the receiver away from his ear, stared at it, put it back. "Uh..."

"Were you asleep?"

His eyes went wide. "Max? Why are you calling this late? Are you okay?"

"Stevee, I'm more than okaaay." She hiccupped.

"Are you drunk?" His voice came out protective before he could temper it. He knew he'd gotten into things he shouldn't have at her age, but he was an idiot. Max was not. He bit at the skin around his thumbnail. "Are you safe?"

"I'm at Wheeler's." The line crackled and her voice dropped to a hushed whisper. "We got into a bottle of Mrs. Wheeler's wine playing truth or dare."

Steve laughed, the coiled tension in his chest easing slightly. "Right, and are you doing a dare right now?"

"Yuuuup," Max sang.

"What is it? You supposed to prank call me or something?"

"Nope. Got dared to tell someone I love them. Dustin, the shithead he is, wanted me to probably say it to Lucas in front of everyone, because apparently I kind of suck at telling people that shit..."

Max's words drifted off.

Steve went completely still. He replayed the sentence. Made sure he'd heard it correctly. Because it was true—Max had never said that to him. Not once. Not directly. Not without enough sarcasm layered on top to make it deniable.

"Steveee, oh my god, did you die over there? Hellloooo?"

"Yeah." He swallowed hard. "I'm here. Sorry."

"Oh god, don't tell me it cut out and I have to say it again," she groaned.

He smiled at the ceiling, something loosening in his chest. "No. I heard you."

A beat of silence.

"I love you too, kid."

Max made an immediate and theatrical gagging noise. But he could still hear her smiling on the other end. "Gross, dude. You didn't have to say it back."

The quiet that followed wasn't really quiet at all. It was the specific kind of silence that exists between two people who both meant exactly what they said and know the other one did too.

"Now it's my turn to dare you to do it," Max giggled.

He rolled his eyes. "That's not how the game works and you know it."

"Maybeee. Or maybee you're scared."

"Max—"

"Steveeee," she mocked.

"I'm going to hang up now. Go be a pain to Wheeler or something." He shook his head when he heard her cackling.

She went quiet for a moment. Then: "You never called this week."

His throat went dry. He sighed, picking up the base of the phone and moving to sit at the edge of his bed. She couldn't see him, but he looked down anyway. "Yeah. I know. I got busy. I'm sorry."

Another wave of silence settled between them— the weighted kind, the kind that carries whole seasons inside it.

Steve raked his fingers through his hair.

"I don't miss him, y'know?" Max mumbled, her words soft and slurred but perfectly clear.

"Max—"

"And I know you still feel guilty, and we haven't really talked about it. But I needed you to know that."

She was right. They hadn't talked about the accident. That was probably mostly his fault—he never wanted to drag her back into bad water. He wasn't sure what to say.

"Drink water before bed. Okay?"

"Steve." His name was soft on the receiver, careful with him in a way she rarely was out loud.

"Yeah?"

"I dare you to tell me if you love her."

"Robin? Of course I love her, you know it's not like that thou—"

"No, not Robin." Max said your name.

It moved through the phone line and landed somewhere behind his sternum.

He froze. His face fell. Something cold and certain moved through his blood all at once. "Max, you know that's—I can't—why would you—she's a friend. A friend, okay?"

"Do you?" she asked again. Steady and almost sober-minded. Almost like she already knew the answer long before he ever did.

And Steve felt all the weeks of careful avoidance collapse at once.

He thought about you. He let himself, fully, for the first time in months— didn't redirect the thought, didn't shut the door on it before it could open. He let it open.

It wasn’t like a lightbulb, or a lightning bolt striking him. That was the thing about it that undid him. It didn't arrive the way he'd always assumed love would arrive. He had always imagine it to be loud and obvious and impossible to miss. It had crept in the way warmth does in a room you've been sitting in for a long time. Slow. Pervasive. Already everywhere before you think to notice.

The specific moment for him was all on Valentine’s when he saw you lying on his chest fast asleep. It overwhelmed him. It excited him. He knew it then, there was no one else. But he stayed in denial, tormented by thoughts of what it’d be like to go steady with you.

It felt like something that had always been true and was only now, under the specific pressure of Max saying your name through a crackling phone line at midnight, being acknowledged.

He carried it the way you carry an injury you've decided not to mention— working around it, adjusting your movement, telling yourself it wasn't that bad. But it had been pressing into him constantly. Heavy and specific and shaped like everything about you: the way you looked at him when he wasn't performing anything, the particular patience you extended to him that he hadn't earned, the sound of your laugh when something caught you off guard, the way the room organized itself differently when you were in it.

It felt like something that was equally killing him inside but also the thing that was keeping him alive. 

He wanted things he hadn't let himself want in years. Simple things. Quiet things. He wanted to call you for no reason. He wanted to make you breakfast. He wanted, god help him, to introduce you to people and have a word for what you were to him that was true.

Instead he had rules. He had arrangements. He had you hidden away in a bathroom, holding a kiss that rearranged everything and a door he'd closed behind him anyway.

The wanting sat inside him like a lit match in a closed room. It illuminated everything, consuming itself, running out of air.

"Yeah," he whispered. "I do."

The words landed in the quiet of his empty room and he didn't take them back.

When he finally got off the phone and lay down in the dark, Steve stared at the ceiling and wondered if this was what it was like in every version of things. Every alternate arrangement of choices and timing and circumstance– did they all wind up here? Something in him said yes. Something in him had been saying yes for a while now, quietly, in a register he'd been working very hard not to hear.

No matter what he built around it. No matter how many rules he made or broke or pretended still applied. No matter the timing, no matter the cost.

It was you.

It had probably always been you.

You were worth falling in love for.

Even if he couldn't have it in this lifetime.

[harringtonsdiary]

steve harrington x reader | angst | hopeful ending? | smut | fwb

warnings: CW: DRUG USE (coke) i already warned you, mention/description? of underaged sex, fwb, reader does it too, high sex, smut, porn with little to no plot, unprotected sex, drug mention A LOT, sad steve harrington, fingering, overstimulation, sort of body worship??internally??? idk it's in steve's pov and he really likes reader and her body... so boy, ROUGH SEX, steve has a hard time getting it up because u know... drugs, brief assplay.... (what have i become), biting, SPANKING, ambiguous ending. family video steve!!!! post s3-pre s4??? words: 8.3k summary: After the Russians and everything else the past couple of years, Steve finds himself needing an extra kick throughout his day. He's good at hiding it, until one night he calls you over for a hook-up. a/n:okay hello. this is purely because i read this fic about steve high on coke and i couldn't get it out of my head. this is me not condoning hardcore drugs but also sadly i wanted to write about steve having high sex 😧 please ignore this... just pure smut and filth... i cannot believe myself. also rip my search history for multiple things.

Steve Harrington doesn’t sleep anymore.

Not really. 

He closes his eyes sometimes, when the sun comes up and his body finally gives out, collapsing into something that resembles rest but feels more like drowning. He surfaces hours later. Three, maybe four if he’s lucky— with his heart already racing, shirt soaked through with sweat that smells wrong, chemical and sour.

The nightmares don’t stop when he wakes up. That’s the thing nobody tells you. They linger in the corners of his vision, in the fluorescent flicker of the Family Video lights, in the static hum of the television playing previews on loop.

He keeps moving. That helps. Movement means he’s not back there, not strapped to that chair with his face throbbing and blood in his mouth and Robin screaming his name through the drugged haze. Movement means he’s here, now, stocking shelves and rewinding tapes and pretending he’s a person who works a normal job in a normal town where normal things happen.

The coke helps too.

He’s not proud of it. That’s the thing— he knows what it is, knows what he’s doing, knows the way his hands shake when he’s been too many hours without a bump, knows the way his jaw clenches so tight his teeth ache. He knows his mom would die if she knew. His dad would probably laugh, then disinherit him properly this time instead of just threatening it.

He's done it once or twice in high school. Tommy H and Carol would bring it over— back when they were still speaking, back when Steve's house was the designated party spot because his parents were never home and nobody cared what happened to the furniture.

He remembers those nights in fragments. The way the high made everything sharper, brighter, faster. How his fingers would drum relentlessly on the armrest of his dad's leather recliner while some movie played that none of them were watching. Tommy and Carol would start making out on his parents' couch within twenty minutes, every time, like clockwork. Then they'd escalate— clothes coming off, Carol straddling Tommy's lap, the wet sounds of their kissing filling the room.

Steve would try to focus on the TV, but Tommy would catch his eye. Would grin at him, wolfish and mean, and force Carol to look over too. They'd give him a show— moaning louder, moving slower, making sure he saw everything.

And Steve would sit there, half-hard at best despite his sex drive being kicked into overdrive, palming himself through his jeans because that's all his body would cooperate with. The coke made him want it but wouldn't let him have it properly, and that made him feel even more pathetic, more lonely. So he'd sit there listening to Tommy and Carol fuck on his couch, high off coke, nursing whiskey stolen from his dad's cabinet, feeling like the loneliest person in the world.

But it keeps him awake. Keeps him sharp. Keeps the edges of everything bright and manageable instead of soft and suffocating.

He does a line before his shift. In his car, in the Family Video parking lot, because he’s run out of places where he feels safe enough to let his guard down for the thirty seconds it takes. His hands don’t shake when he does this part. Muscle memory, maybe. Or maybe this is the only thing he’s good at anymore— the efficient mechanical process of self-destruction.

The powder burns going up. Always does. He tips his head back, pinches his nose, blinks hard against the sting. Then comes the drip, bitter and medicinal down the back of his throat, and he swallows it down with the dregs of yesterday’s Dr. Pepper from the cupholder.

The world sharpens. Everything gets louder, brighter, faster. His heartbeat kicks up— too fast, probably dangerous, definitely not sustainable— but god, it feels better than the alternative. Better than the gray nothing that settles over him when he’s sober, the weight that makes it hard to breathe, hard to move, hard to care about anything beyond the fact that he’s still somehow alive when he probably shouldn’t be.

When he walks into Family Video, he’s smiling. It’s not real— hasn’t been real in months— but it’s there. Keith barely looks up from his magazine. Robin does, though. Robin always does.

She’s behind the counter, reorganizing the candy display with the kind of focused intensity that means she’s either avoiding her own thoughts or overthinking his. Probably both. She glances up when the door chimes, and her eyes do a quick assessment, that flash of concern she tries to hide but never quite manages.

“Hey,” she says, and it’s careful. Everything with Robin is careful now, like he’s made of glass, like one wrong word will shatter whatever’s holding him together.

Maybe she’s right.

“Hey,” he says back, and his voice comes out too bright, too fast, words tripping over themselves. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic was insane. Well, not insane, but you know, backed up near the… anyway, I’m here. I’m good. We good?”

Robin’s mouth does something complicated. Not quite a frown, not quite a smile. “Yeah. We’re good.”

She doesn’t believe him. He doesn’t believe him either.

But he moves, because that’s what he does now. Stocks the returns, alphabetizes the new releases, helps a middle-aged woman find something “fun and sexy” for her Pamper-Chef party. His hands move too fast, fumbling tapes, dropping things. His jaw works constantly, chewing nothing, grinding teeth, tongue pressing against the roof of his mouth.

He talks too much. Knows it, can’t stop it. Words pour out of him like water from a broken faucet. It’s jokes that don’t land, observations nobody asked for, rambling tangents that lose their point halfway through. Robin listens, responds when she can, but he sees the way she watches him. The way she’s always watching now.

“You okay?” she asks during their break, sitting on the curb behind the store, watching him smoke a cigarette he doesn’t actually want.

“Yeah,” he lies. “I’m good. Great, actually. Feeling really good today.”

“Steve.”

“I’m fine, Robin.”

“Steve.”

He takes a drag, hands trembling slightly, and doesn’t meet her eyes. The sun is too bright. Everything is too bright. His skin feels too tight, like it doesn’t fit right anymore, like he’s wearing someone else’s body and doing a shit job of pretending it’s his.

“I’m handling it,” he says finally.

“This isn’t handling it.” Her voice cracks slightly. Even though she probably has no clue what “this” entails, she knew it was something to worry about. She saw right through him now, even when they’ve only been friends for less than a year. 

He doesn’t answer. Can’t. Because she’s right, and he knows she’s right, and knowing doesn’t change anything. Knowing doesn’t make the nightmares stop. Doesn’t make the mall go away. Doesn’t bring back the version of himself who existed before that summer, before the Russians, before he learned exactly how much pain a human body can endure before it stops feeling like a body at all.

He finishes his shift. Smiles at customers. Makes change. Recommends movies he hasn’t seen and probably never will. When it’s over, when he’s back in his car in the empty parking lot, he does another line because the crash is coming and he can’t face it sober.

The high doesn’t feel as good the second time. Never does. But it keeps him moving, keeps him functional, keeps him from having to think about the fact that he’s nineteen years old and his life has already ended twice.

He drives home with the windows down, radio too loud, heart hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to escape. The Harrington house is dark when he pulls up. It’s always dark. His parents are in Indianapolis, or maybe Chicago, or maybe they’re dead and nobody bothered to tell him.

He doesn’t go inside.

Instead, he sits in his car, engine running, hands gripping the steering wheel, and tries to remember what it felt like to want something. Anything. A future, a purpose, a reason to keep doing this day after day after day.

Nothing comes.

So he turns the car back on and drives until the tank is almost empty, until the sun starts coming up, until the coke wears off enough that exhaustion finally drags him under.

And tomorrow he’ll do it again.

Because Steve Harrington doesn’t know how to do anything else anymore.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

.-.-.-.

Another thing Steve Harrington is strung out on is sex.

Steve Harrington has been fucking. A lot. It gives him almost the same rush as the coke does— that brief obliteration of self, that momentary escape from his own head.

Steve loves sex. Loves the heat of it, the mechanics, the way bodies fit together in configurations that make sense when nothing else does. He loves watching a girl take him, the way her face changes when he pushes inside, the small adjustments her body makes to accommodate him. He loves when they call out his name— proof that he exists, that he's real, that he's here. He loves the pretty sounds they make, the gasps and whimpers that mean he's doing something right. He loves when they tell him he's good at this, that he's making them feel good, because it's the only thing he's still good at anymore. He loves giving those praises right back, feeling them tighten around him when he calls them “pretty” or a “good girl.” He loves pleasing them, loves the focused simplicity of it—read the signs, adjust accordingly, make her come. He loves the rush, the high, the brief euphoria when he finishes, that thirty-second window where his brain goes mercifully quiet.

Then it's over and he's alone again and nothing's changed except now he's sticky and tired and the girl is getting dressed and he has to pretend he'll call.

Tonight when he gets off work, the loneliness hits him the moment he steps inside his empty house.

Robin didn't work today— had the day off, probably spending it with her mom or locked in her room listening to records. He'd been stuck with Keith for the entire shift, and Steve had tried his hardest to handle it. 

He can quit anytime he wants. That's what he tells himself. He knows how and when. So it's no big deal that he kept disappearing to the bathroom to get a bump, something he needed to survive eight hours of Keith's breathing and Keith's commentary and Keith's existence.

On his third trip, Keith had made some joke about him shitting his pants— loud enough that the pretty customer Steve had been on his way to help could definitely hear. The girl he'd been planning to flirt with, get her number, take her out, fuck her, forget her.

Now it's Friday night and Robin is busy. Dustin is busy with whatever nerdy shit he does nowadays. And Steve is bored and alone, still wearing his Family Video vest and polo and jeans, standing in his kitchen that echoes with emptiness.

He'd taken another hit twenty minutes ago and he's never felt more alive, more awake, more like his skin is electric. And unfortunately, with the wake comes that desire— low and insistent in the bottom of his belly, pooling heat that demands attention.

It's almost ridiculous that he doesn't question who to call.

It's not like you and him are anything. You're a good friend. Kind. Pretty in this understated way that sneaks up on him. And maybe if things were different, if he were different, if the world hadn't ended and restarted and ended again—

He doesn't let himself finish the thought.

He dials your number, the one he knows by heart now. 

"Hello?"

Soft. Slightly cautious because it's late.

His eyes are already dilated but he feels them expand wider when your voice comes over the line.

"Steve?" You sound surprised but not unhappy. He hasn’t even said anything to let you know who it was. He hates how his stomach flips at the thought that he’s the only one who calls at this hour. "It's almost midnight."

"I know, I know." He laughs, pacing across the kitchen, cordless phone pressed to his ear. "Are you busy?"

"I'm reading." There's a smile in your voice. "Why?"

"Come over."

A pause. "Now?"

"Yeah, now. I'm bored out of my mind and—" He stops, switches tactics, drops his voice lower. "Come on, honey. You wouldn't want me to drink alone, would you?"

It's code. You both know it's code. This isn't about drinking and it never has been.

You sigh, but it's fond. "You're ridiculous."

"Is that a yes?"

"Give me twenty minutes." You arrive in twenty-two, and he's still wearing his Family Video vest because somewhere between hanging up and you knocking on his door, he'd decided— high and wired and restless— that the kitchen needed to be deep cleaned.

Now.

At 11 PM on a Friday.

He's reorganizing the spice cabinet when you walk in, letting yourself in because he always left the door unlocked for you. He can hear you giggle when you find him in the kitchen. 

"Were you cleaning?"

"Maybe." He grins, abandoning the paprika to pull you into the living room. "Want a beer?"

"Sure."

Within thirty minutes you've killed three bottles between you and migrated to the couch, your legs tucked under you, his arm stretched along the back cushions. The conversation flows easy. It’s of work stories, Robin's latest drama with Keith, the new arrivals at Family Video, but there's an undercurrent humming beneath it all.

You lean in and kiss him.

It starts slow, exploratory, your hand coming up to cup his jaw. But it escalates fast. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer, and you shift to straddle his lap. Your fingers grip the green fabric of his Family Video vest, clutching it tight for leverage as you deepen the kiss.

Steve groans into your mouth, hips already rolling up against you. He can feel himself getting hard, finally, thankfully, and he grinds against your thigh desperately, seeking friction. The vest bunches under your grip, polyester crinkling, and his hands slide up your back under your shirt.

Your skin is so soft. The coke makes him hyperaware of every texture—the cotton of your shirt, the smoothness of your back, the slight roughness of the couch fabric under his knees. But mostly it's you. The heat of you. The way you feel pressed against him.

"Fuck," he breathes against your lips, humping your leg like a teenager, unable to stop himself. "You feel so good."

You make a small sound. It’s like a half-laugh and half-moan, and you grind down on him harder. 

In one swift move he lays you down. 

Now you're kissing him harder, your back against the cushions and him half on top of you. His hands are in your hair, on your waist, pushing up under your shirt to feel bare skin. Your mouth tastes like beer and something sweet— gum, maybe, or chapstick— and he chases the flavor of it with his tongue. 

He's hyperfocused on every detail. The way your lips are slightly swollen already from kissing. The way your chest rises and falls with your breathing, faster now. The little sounds you make when his tongue finds yours. You're so responsive, so fucking perfect under him, and the high he’s on makes him feel like he could do this for hours, could map every reaction, could learn exactly what makes you gasp and whimper and moan.

You're still holding tightly to the green vest, as he desperately humps your leg, his cock aching. He can feel the heat of you even through layers of clothing and it's driving him insane.

God, you're beautiful like this. Hair mussed, lips parted, eyes heavy-lidded. He wants to memorize this. Wants to burn this image into his brain so he can recall it later when he's alone and the house is too quiet and he needs something good to hold onto.

But he's jittery. Coming down from the last high, and his hands are shaking as he tries to unbutton your blouse. The buttons are small, slippery, and his fingers won't cooperate. He fumbles, curses under his breath, tries again.

"Fuck," he mutters, laughing awkwardly because he can feel you watching him struggle. "Sorry, I…long day. My hands are—"

He can't sit still. The exhaustion is creeping back in around the edges, that bone-deep tired that the coke usually keeps at bay. He's desperate for you, wants you. He wants to see more of you, touch more of you, taste more of you, but his body isn't responding the way it should and his brain won't slow down and he needs—

"I need—" he starts, then stops himself.

He stands up abruptly, crosses to where his jacket is draped over a nearby chair. His hands find the baggie in the inner pocket— muscle memory, autopilot— and he's back at the coffee table before he's fully processed what he's doing.

He pulls out his dad's credit card. The one they left behind with a note: For groceries and bills. Don't spend it on anything stupid.

He cuts sharp, clean lines on the glass surface with practiced efficiency. One swipe, two, three—the scraping sound of plastic on glass loud in the quiet room. He leans down. Inhales one line, quick and sharp, the burn immediate and familiar. His throat closes around the drip, bitter and chemical.

He notices the silence then. How quiet you've gotten.

He freezes, finger still pressed to his nose, and slowly looks over at you.

You're watching him. Not moving. Not speaking. Your eyes are wide, lips slightly parted. They’re still swollen from kissing him, and even now, even caught like this, he thinks about how good you look. Hair messed up from his hands, shirt rumpled, sitting there looking at him like... he can't read the expression on your face. Something between shock and concern and something else he doesn't want to name.

Steve sniffs hard, licking his lips where the drip is already coating them. "I'm sorry. I didn't—" He stops, swallows. "Fuck. I'm sorry."

You should leave. He knows you should leave. He's shown you the ugliest part of himself and now you're going to walk out and he'll deserve it and he'll be alone again and—

"Can I try?"

The words don't compute at first. He stares at you.

"What?"

"Can I try it?" you ask again, and your voice is steady, certain.

His eyes dance across your face, trying to see any inclination that you don't mean it. But all he sees is you. You’re pretty and patient and here and you’re looking at him like you actually want to understand this part of him too. The coke makes his heart race faster, makes the moment feel surreal and heightened, makes you look almost ethereal in the low lamplight.

His buzz has his mind like mush, thoughts moving too fast and too slow simultaneously. He should say no. Should tell you to go home, to forget what you saw, to stay away from him and his shit and everything he's become.

Instead he hears himself say, "Yeah. Come here."

You move from the couch to the floor, kneeling beside him at the coffee table. And god, the sight of you like that. On your knees next to him, looking at him with those wide eyes. It sends a bolt of heat straight through him that has nothing to do with the drugs and everything to do with how badly he wants you.

He cuts another line for you— smaller than his, because you've never done this before and he's not completely gone yet. The scraping sound seems louder now, more obscene. He watches you look at it, sees the slight tremor in your breathing. Even nervous, you're gorgeous. He wants to touch you, pull you into his lap, bury his face in your neck.

"Like this?" you ask, leaning forward slightly, and the movement makes your shirt gape at the neckline. He can see the curve of your breast, the shadow between them, and he has to force himself to focus.

"Wait." His hand comes up, gathering your hair back from your face. The strands are soft, slipping through his fingers, and when his knuckles brush the nape of your neck you shiver. He feels the goosebumps rise on your skin and it makes him want to put his mouth there, feel you shiver under his lips. "Yeah. Like that. Cover one nostril with your finger. Atta girl... now inhale through the other. Quick and sharp. Don't stop halfway or you'll waste it."

You hesitate for a second, and he can see the war happening behind your eyes. Then you lean down and do it.

The sound— the sharp inhale, the slight catch in your throat— makes his cock twitch. There's something so intimate about this, watching you do this, teaching you, sharing this fucked-up thing with you. He shouldn't find it hot. Knows he shouldn't. But the coke strips away his ability to lie to himself and the truth is he's never been more turned on in his life.

When you come back up, your face is already changing. Eyes watering immediately, nose scrunching, one hand flying up to cover your face. Even like this— eyes red, nose running— you're beautiful to him. Everything about you is beautiful to him right now, heightened and perfect and his.

"It burns," you say, voice strained and slightly nasal.

"Yeah. That's normal. It'll pass." He reaches out, thumb swiping at the residual powder dusting your nostril. Your skin is so soft under his touch. He wants to touch you everywhere. "Open your mouth."

You do, lips parting, and the sight of your mouth opening obediently for him sends heat pooling in his gut. He rubs the powder on your gums— slow circles with the pad of his thumb that make your eyes go darker, pupils starting to dilate. The bitter taste will hit your tongue, will numb your mouth slightly, and you'll chase that feeling for hours after.

He's watching your face so intently. The way your eyelashes flutter. The way your lips look wrapped around his thumb. The pink of your tongue visible behind your teeth. The coke makes him feel like he could stare at you forever and still find new details to fixate on.

As he starts to pull his thumb back, your lips close around it. Your tongue swirls, wet and warm, cheeks hollowing as you suck, and the sight of it punches the air from his lungs.

When his thumb comes out it's with a wet pop that goes straight to his cock.

"Christ," he breathes.

You're going to ruin him. He knows it with absolute certainty. This moment, this image of you on your knees with your pupils blown wide and your lips wet and swollen, is going to live in his head rent-free for the rest of his life.

Then you're on him, kissing him hard, and it's different now. Rougher. More desperate. You're both chasing something— the high, the heat, the obliteration of thought— and your mouths crash together with bruising force.

His tongue swipes into your mouth and yours meets it immediately, tasting him, and the kiss is wet and open and obscene. The sounds fill the room— gasping breaths, the slick slide of tongues, the wet smack of lips separating and meeting again, small desperate noises from both of you that might be pleasure or might be something else entirely.

Steve's hand finds your cunt through your jeans and even through the denim he can feel how wet you are, heat radiating through the fabric. "Fuck," he groans against your mouth, voice wrecked. "So wet already."

But the coke has him in its grip, and despite how badly he wants you, his cock is only half-interested. The blood hasn't rushed south yet, too busy keeping his heart racing at dangerous speeds and his brain firing in every direction.

You rock your hips against his hand, seeking friction, and he helps you. He guides you from the floor back onto the couch, positions himself under you, between your legs.

You grind against him, desperate and needy, your hips rolling in a rhythm that's almost violent. His fingers dig into your sides hard enough to bruise, gripping through your shirt, holding you steady as you drag your pussy against his growing bulge. The denim-on-denim friction is too much and not enough, the scrape of it audible in the quiet room. The fabric on fabric, your breathing getting harsher, small gasps punching out of you with each roll of your hips.

He's getting harder now, finally, blood responding to stimulus even if delayed. But you don't stop. You keep moving, keep grinding, and he keeps pulling you down harder, rougher, the sounds getting wetter somehow even through all the layers. Your arousal soaking through your jeans, his cock straining against his zipper.

His mouth finds yours again. It’s sloppy and open, tongues sliding together, panting into each other's mouths. He can taste the chemical bitterness on your tongue, mixing with beer and something that's uniquely you. He pulls back to kiss down your jaw, your neck, teeth scraping skin. You whimper and it’s high and needy. The sound makes him grind up into you harder.

He pulls your shirt aside roughly, mouth finding your collarbone, and sucks a mark there. Hard. Intentional. His teeth close on skin and you moan, back arching, pushing your breasts toward his face.

His lips find them through your bra, tongue circling your nipple through the thin fabric until it's wet and you're squirming. His eyes when he looks up at you are completely blown. His pupils are so wide the hazel is almost gone, swallowed by black, and when he sees your face he knows you look the same. Wrecked and wild and desperate.

"Need to touch you," he mumbles against your breast, words slurring slightly. "Need to feel you come."

His hand works between your bodies, fumbling with the button of your jeans. He finally gets it open. The pop loud in the room, zipper rasping down, and slides his hand inside your panties.

You're soaked. Swollen and hot and so wet his fingers slide through your folds with no resistance, the obscene slick sound of it making him groan. He finds your clit, circles it with firm pressure, and you cry out loudly.

"Steve!"

He fingers you fast and rough, two fingers pushing inside while his thumb works your clit, and it's frantic— the wet sounds of his fingers pumping in and out of you mixing with your gasps, the squelch of it indecent and perfect. He’s still kissing you open mouthed and sloppy. The pace of his fingers are too quick, the pressure too hard, but you're there, you're close, he can feel it in the way you're clenching around his fingers, can hear it in the pitch of your moans climbing higher.

"Come on," he urges, voice rough and desperate. "Let me feel it. Come for me. Come on my fingers."

You do, crying out his name. "Steve, Steve, Steve.” Your whole body goes rigid before the orgasm tears through you. Your cunt clamps down on his fingers in rhythmic pulses, so tight it almost hurts, and he works you through it, fingers gentling slightly, the wet sounds continuing as he draws it out.

When you finally go limp against him he pulls his hand away. His fingers are shining, coated in you, and without thinking he brings them to his mouth and sucks them clean. The taste of you— salt and musk and something sweet underneath— makes him groan.

You're both panting, sweating, hearts racing from the coke and the exertion and the need that still hasn't been fully satisfied.

He's still only half-hard, the coke keeping his body from catching up to his mind, and he needs more. Needs the friction, needs the build, needs something to chase.

"Keep going," he rasps, hands gripping your hips. "Don't stop."

This time when you grind down the angle is different. It’s harder, more focused. He can feel himself getting there, blood finally rushing where it needs to go, his cock filling out properly against the confines of his jeans.

The sounds are obscene. The fabric scraping, your breathing harsh and ragged, the small mewls punching out of you with each roll of your hips. He's gripping you so hard his knuckles go white, bruises blooming under his fingers, and you're chasing it too, chasing that edge you can't quite reach through the chemical haze.

"That's it," he groans. "Fuck, keep going. Almost there."

When he's finally fully hard, aching and straining against denim, he doesn't wait. Can't wait. He lays you down on the couch, your back hitting the cushions, and you're both fumbling with clothes. Buttons, zippers, fabric pulled and shoved and discarded until you're bare beneath him.

He can't even wait. Can't take the time to appreciate the sight of you spread out on his couch, can't slow down enough to make this good. He lines himself up and pushes inside in one thrust.

You cry out. It’s sharp and high, and he groans, the sensation muted but present. He can barely feel it, knows it's the same for you, but he can tell you're being stretched. Can see it in the way your mouth falls open, the way your hands scrabble for purchase on his shoulders.

One pump. Two. Then his pace is fast. His hips slapping against yours, the wet crack of skin on skin filling the room, rhythmic and filfthy and loud in the quiet house. He's gripping the back of the couch with one hand for leverage, knuckles white, the other splayed across your hip hard enough to bruise. One knee is up on the cushions, giving him the angle to really take you, to drive deep, and the couch creaks beneath the both of you with every thrust.

It's rough. Unrelenting. The coke has numbed you both out and he's chasing sensation through a fog, trying to feel anything beyond the muted pressure. So he goes harder, faster, like he can fuck his way through the chemical wall if he just doesn't stop.

The little punched-out ah, ah, ah sounds you make with each drive, involuntary and breathless, building on top of each other like a song he wants to memorize.

"Feels so good," you moan.

He changes angles, dropping his weight onto his forearm, bending over you to kiss you. Your tongues sliding together, wet and messy, his mouth swallowing the next gasp before it can escape. Then his mouth finds your neck, and he sucks hard. His teeth scraping skin until you twitch beneath him. Another hickey blooms under his mouth, darker than the first, and he drags his lips lower.

His mouth closes around your nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing the peak until you arch up into him with a sharp cry that echoes off the walls. He does the same to the other. It’s so wet a string of salvia between his lips and your tit, leaving matching marks. He then pulls back to watch.

Your breasts bounce with each thrust, the movement hypnotic, and he could watch it forever. Your mouth is forming shapes. Os and gasps and his name broken into syllables, “Ste—, Steve—, oh—” the sounds dissolving into each other. You look so sexy like this. Wrecked and flushed, sweat already clinging to your skin, hair fanned out across the cushions, whiny little gasps punching out of you with each drive of his hips like you can't help it, like he's making you make those sounds and you have no say in it.

You're trying to grab at him, trying to match his pace, nails raking down his back hard enough that he hisses through his teeth.

Then he stops.

The sudden absence of movement is almost violent. The room goes quiet. It’s only your ragged breathing and the creak of the couch settling. 

You're so oversensitive, so lost in it, that you don't notice at first. Your hips roll forward chasing friction that isn't there anymore. Then your eyes snap open. They are confused, glazed, pupils swallowed whole by black, and you're about to ask what, why, please— when he slips out of you and reaches for the baggie on the coffee table.

He's back in seconds.

He makes a line between your breasts— careful, practiced, the white powder stark and almost pretty against your damp skin. Then he leans down, nose pressing into the valley between them, one hand splayed flat against your sternum to hold you still. 

He inhales sharp. One smooth, practiced drag, the burn immediate, his exhale warm and humid against your chest. The excess dusts your skin in a fine scatter and he doesn't pull back. Just presses his nose into you, sniffing, breathing you in, his face buried between your breasts, moving it back and forth. His stubble dragging rough against your skin, and you laugh, startled, the sound bright and real and so you that something in his chest does a complicated thing he doesn't have words for.

Then his mouth finds your nipple again and the laugh cuts off into a moan.

He sucks hard, and you cry out, "Steve!" The sensation cutting through the numbness for one sharp moment.

You catch him off guard then, both palms flat against his chest, and push. He goes easily. He falls back against the couch with a breathless laugh, sprawling, looking up at you with blown pupils and that crooked grin that does something unfair to his face.

"Your turn," you say, voice sweet and breathless, and the combination of the two— the sweetness, the breathlessness— makes his stomach clench.

He's grinning as he reaches for the baggie. Makes a line at the curve of his stomach— right above where soft meets the trail of dark hair leading down, the skin there pale and vulnerable. His hand shakes slightly, the powder scattering more than he means it to, and he struggles to concentrate because he can already feel the ghost of your breath against his skin as you lean in. 

"Hold on," he mutters, more to himself than you.

You don't hold on.

Your tongue licks up his happy trail first, wet and warm, and he gasps. His abs contracting involuntarily, the baggie nearly slipping from his fingers.

"Christ—"

You smile against his skin. He can feel it.

You kiss the bottom of his belly— the soft part he's always been self-conscious about— and the second he finishes the line his hand is in your hair. Fisting the strands, gathering them back from your face, knuckles brushing your cheek. He can feel his own pulse in his palm where he grips you. 

You come up to his chest, kissing his pecs, your tongue circling his nipples, and god he wishes he could feel it properly but you look so fucking hot when you glance up at him. Eyes wide and innocent, pupils blown to black, lips parted and shining.

He hasn't told anyone. Wouldn't be doing this with anyone else. The thought hits him like a truck and he pulls you in for another kiss. It’s messy and wet and desperate. You bite his bottom lip hard enough that he should feel pain but the coke has stolen that too.

He gets you on all fours then, your knees dipping into the couch cushions as he kneels up behind you. He worships the curve of your spine with his hands, the nape of your neck with his mouth. The fat of your ass fills his palms and he grips it, spreads you open, then slips back inside.

And he's unrelenting again. Thrust after thrust, your body jolting forward with each one, gasps punching out of you in rhythm with his hips. He can feel you come again— the clench and flutter around his cock— as he circles your clit with determined fingers.

Your body shakes and he flushes his chest against your back, bicep coming around your throat in a loose headlock, his mouth finding your neck. The sounds are dirty— wet and slapping, skin on skin, your ass meeting his hips with each brutal thrust. He's being rough but it's controlled, purposeful, chasing something neither of you can quite reach.

"You feel so good for me," he whispers against your ear, breath hot and harsh.

You whimper.

"You're so fucking hot like this."

He knows his breath against your ear makes you feel something because you whisper, "Fuck, more Steve, please." the words broken and desperate.

He's gripping your ass now, guiding you to an even faster tempo, and he can feel the head of his cock brush against something deep inside you. His heavy cock twitches, finally getting close.

He lets out a curse when he feels your teeth sink into his bicep as you cry out. You give a loud moan muffled against his skin. The high makes him feel like he has to return it and his teeth find your shoulder, biting down hard.

He whimpers loudly back in your ear when he feels himself finally reaching the edge, that coiled tension in his gut starting to unravel.

Then his hand finds the middle of your back and presses. Flat and firm, pushing you down. Your hands clutch the armrest, knuckles going white, your forehead bowing down to meet it too as your back arches. The new angle wrings a sharp gasp out of you.

He pulls out.

The noise you make is immediate. High and bereft, hips rolling back on instinct, searching, finding nothing. Your ass lifts and wavers in the air and he watches it with dark blown eyes and says nothing for a moment.

"Stay still."

You don't.

You wiggle back toward him and it’s shameless and chasing. Steve’s palm cracks down.

"Harder," you gasp.

You wiggle again. Deliberately.

He spanks you harder, the sound sharp in the room.

"Steve." His name wrecked in your mouth. "Harder."

So he gives you harder. Everything he has behind it, palm connecting with a sound that's almost too loud, too much. The welt rises fast. The whole spread of his large hand mapped out on your skin in one angry blooming mark that he stares at for a beat too long. It feels like he has done another line right then and there of how euphoric he feels.

Then both hands grip you, nails biting in, spreading you open, and he drops his mouth to you.

His tongue finds your cunt first and he doesn't ease into it. The coke has him wired and single-minded, every nerve lit and humming, and it makes him relentless. His tongue works fast and hard, licking into you with a focused feverish energy that makes you cry out and scrabble uselessly at the armrest. He doesn't let your hips move. Holds you open with both hands and just goes, like he's trying to take you apart, like his brain has locked onto this and won't release until you're shaking.

Then he drags his tongue up to your rim and the sound you make is startled and high and desperate. He presses the tip there and works. It’s fast, hard circles that don't let up, his tongue pushing insistent and relentless, the coke driving him past any point of subtlety. A thumb keeping you open for him, as your other hand finds your cunt and rubs with the same frantic energy and you cry out something that might be his name or might be nothing at all. 

Your hand flies back, grasp his hair. Your grip is hard, fingers twisting into the roots and pulling, and the sharp tug sends a bolt straight down his spine. His breath stutters against you. Even through the coke the sensation cuts through, immediate and grounding, and something low in his chest clenches at the fact that you're holding on to him specifically. Not the couch, not the cushions. Him.

Then he guides you down. Fully flat, stomach to the cushions, your cheek pressed into the fabric. He lines himself up and drives into you in one stroke and the sound you make punches out against the fabric. It’s breathless and broken and loud.

He doesn't stop. Flesh against flesh, the wet slap of it filling the room, mixing with his grunts and the broken syllables he's making of your name, incoherent and desperate and not quite swearing but not quite words either.

Finally he can feel the numbed-out bubble popping in the pit of his stomach. He thinks he's coming. He can't quite tell through the haze, but he continues making faltered thrusts into you anyway, riding it out. 

He pants between your shoulder blades, forehead dropping there too, both of you completely still for a moment except for the heaving of your lungs. His hands are braced on either side of you, trembling slightly. Beneath him you're still clutching the cushions, knuckles slow to release, fingers uncurling one by one as the tension drains out of you. 

He thinks about the mess underneath you both. He's going to have to flip over the cushions later, hide the evidence.

He can feel the aftershocks moving through you. Little waves, involuntary, your body still working through it. You’re twitching and shivering under his weight, hips making these tiny helpless rolls that you probably aren't even aware of. Like your body hasn't gotten the message yet that it's over. Like it's still chasing something, still wringing the last of it out.

He watches it happen. Stays still and just lets you ride it out beneath him, his chest rising and falling against your back, his breath evening out slowly while yours does the opposite. Those soft broken sounds still escaping you, little exhales that aren't quite moans and aren't quite sighs.

Your whole body is flushed and damp, trembling in waves, and he can feel every shiver of it against his skin.

He presses his lips to your shoulder blade. Then between them. Quick and soft and almost reverent… almost. A string of kisses down your spine that don't match anything that came before them.

Eventually the trembling slows. Your breathing deepens. The grip on the cushion finally releases completely.

He eases back. Offers you his hand without thinking about it.

You both sit up slowly, carefully, like the room might tip if you move too fast.

He's still high but he looks at you with concern. "You okay, right?"

"Yeah." Breathless. Smiling. Your voice still hasn't fully come back.

He hates how good you look like this. Wrecked and soft, hair tangled, lips swollen, that particular fucked-out looseness in your expression that the high and the orgasm have conspired to put there. If he really tried— another bump, maybe two— you could probably go again. Go all night. His body is already filing the suggestion away somewhere dangerous.

But something in his chest twists at the sight of you.

The mascara smudged at the corners of your eyes. The marks blooming across your collarbones, your shoulders, your neck— purple and red and unmistakably his. Your hair messed beyond repair. All of it his doing, every bit of it, and the high isn't quite enough to make that feel uncomplicated.

"You sure you're okay?" He asks it before he can stop himself, and he hears it—hears the shift in his own voice, that particular register he falls into. Concerned. Careful. The boy who checks on people, who makes sure everyone got home safe, who asks twice because once never feels like enough.

There he goes again. Falling into it with someone he considers his friend. Someone he secretly, quietly, in the part of himself he doesn't examine too closely… wishes could be something more.

At first it's just the high and the afterglow doing the looking— soft eyes, dopamine-loose smile, drinking in the sight of him equally wrecked. You find the bite mark on his bicep, already darkening. The hickies scattered across his neck and chest that he didn't feel forming, that his body couldn't register through the chemical wall. You look at all of it with something warm and unhurried.

Then the warmth shifts.

It's subtle— only a flicker behind your eyes, there and gone— but he catches it. He's been watching your face all night. He knows its geography now.

Sadness. Worry. Something that looks uncomfortably close to longing.

He knows. Doesn't want to know, but knows anyway— the way you always know the things you're trying hardest not to. You're worried about him. Have been for a while, probably. Tonight wasn't just want, wasn't just the hour and the high and the phone call pulling you here. Some part of you came because you didn't want him to be alone with it.

And some part of him— the part he keeps quietest— knows you want more too. Has known for a while. Files it away in the same place as another bump and just one more night and all the other things he tells himself he'll deal with later.

"I am," you say.

But you aren't looking at him when you say it.

You end up going upstairs to his room anyway, leaving behind the mess. He turns off the lamp. The two of you navigate the dark staircase side by side without touching.

He wouldn't have asked you over if he didn't have the house to himself tomorrow. That's what he tells himself.

He'll probably stay awake anyway while you sleep.

Neither of you shower. His bed is unmade, same as always. You crawl in from opposite sides, the mattress dipping, and normally there'd be talking. There's usually talking. It’s the easy, rambling kind that fills the dark, nothing important, everything comfortable. But the crash is already pulling at him, heavier than usual, the coke's debt coming due all at once. His eyes go leaden. His thoughts slow and blur at the edges.

He thinks, distantly, that he should stay awake. Keep watch. Old habit.

He doesn't.

.-.-.-.

Sunlight hits him first.

White and merciless through the gap in the curtains, straight into his eyes, and he surfaces with a groan already forming in his chest. His head is a closed fist. 

Migraine.

It’s the specific kind that lives behind his left eye, the kind that's been his companion since that summer, another reason the sunglasses are never far, another thing he doesn't explain to people.

He turns over slowly.

Stops.

You're still asleep. Your face is toward him, lashes dark against your cheek, mascara tracked down in faint smudged lines you don't know are there yet. Your brow is slightly furrowed even now— not peaceful, not quite. Like sleep hasn't fully convinced you to let go of something.

That feeling in his chest does what it always does when he looks at you for too long. Pinches. Pulls. Fills up with something warm and complicated and shot through with shame— at the marks on your skin, at the smudged mascara, at the furrow in your sleeping brow that he put there. That he caused, one way or another. The mess downstairs. All of it.

He gets out of bed carefully. Doesn't let himself look at you again.

The living room is exactly what he left it. The coffee table. The scattered clothes. The cushions are slightly out of place.

His hands are shaking before he's fully reached the bottom of the stairs. That familiar morning tremor. He’s anxious before he's had time to think of something to be anxious about, dreading the day before it's started, bone-tired in a way sleep doesn't touch.

He crosses to the coffee table on autopilot. Sits on the ground, his back against the couch. He leans forward, elbows on his knees.

There’s still white lines on the surface of the coffee table, patiently waiting for him.

He stares at it for a long time.

He thinks about you upstairs, brow furrowed in sleep. He thinks about Robin behind the Family Video counter, watching him with that careful, knowing look she tries to hide. He thinks about Dustin calling him Steve the Babysitter like it's an insult that's actually the best thing anyone's ever said to him. He thinks about all the kids. Max and El, even sometimes Mike. All of them. They look at him like he’s someone to look up to. 

He thinks about the mall.

His eyes sting. He pinches at the corners hard, jaw working, forces it back down. He's not doing this. Not right now. Not here when it’s seven in the morning.

He swipes his hand across the table.

The powder catches the light as it goes. It’s white and fine, almost pretty, and scatters into the carpet like snow that's already melting.

He sits there for another moment.

Then he gets up. Finds the vacuum in the hall closet. Runs it methodically over the carpet until the floor is clean, until there's nothing left to see.

After, he goes to the kitchen and pulls out ingredients to make breakfast. 

Pancakes. He can do that.

He hears you pad softly into the kitchen, rubbing your eyes sleepily. You're wearing one of his shirts and it falls to mid-thigh on you.

"Good morning," you say groggily.

"Good morning," he answers back, voice rough from sleep and chemicals and whatever else.

You hop up on a bar stool, cheek in your hand, watching him. He asks, "How do you feel?"

You mumble, "I'm tired."

Steve smiles softly. Nods. "Yeah. Me too."

"Yeah," he says softly. "Me too."

He turns back to the stove. He watches the batter spread slow and pale in the pan.

And he lets himself have it. The tiredness, the quiet, the strange aching ordinariness of standing here while you sit there. He doesn't reach for anything. He doesn’t run. Doesn’t feel like he has to to get another bump to get through the morning. 

He stands in his own kitchen on a Saturday morning and lets it all be exactly as heavy as it is.

It's enough. Somehow, improbably, it's enough.

[harringtonsdiary]

you're invited to harringtonsdiary's sleepover

Hello :) after a few requests from y'all... I've decided to do a small celebration. sort of for hitting the 2k (now 3.5k????) milestone and because you all have been so kind to encourage and spend time reading my work. this is for you.

please join my sleepover!! please read the rules first !

⤷rules:

♡ only choose one from each option ♡ ⤷ (ex: steve, romance, painting nails, pretzels, wine, chardonnay) ♡ if you choose steve from lessons or dkat, please specify when you want the fic to take place (i.e. before or after they are together) also, you will skip picking an activity♡ ⤷ (ex: lessons! steve, romance, pretzels, wine, chardonnay - when they're married) ♡ you can choose to have smut- please only choose which wine if you actually want smut ♡ ♡ understand that i have the right not to do your request ♡ ♡ *honor code* please only send AT MOST TWO requests ♡ ♡ angst will always have a happy ending! ♡ ♡ will close requests april 20th ♡ ♡ will start posting orders beginning of may ♡

⤷ which boy are we calling?

♡ steve ♡ ♡ mean! steve ♡ ♡ family video! steve ♡ ♡ scoops ahoy! steve ♡ ♡ rockstar! steve♡ (not affiliated with future series) ♡ lessons! steve♡ lessons in chem steve (no longer available but will write drabbles) ♡ dkat! steve ♡ dont kiss and tell steve ♡ teacake♡

⤷ pick a movie:

♡ romance (fluff) ♡ ♡ drama (angst) ♡

⤷what activity?

♡ painting nails ♡ (friends-to-lovers) ♡ face masks ♡ (childhood friends-to-lovers) ♡ card game ♡ (established relationship) ♡ karaoke ♡ (second chance romance) ♡ truth or dare ♡ (enemies to lovers) ♡ quiz games♡ (fwb) ♡ dancing like we don't care ♡ (accidental marriage) ♡ would you rather ♡ (one-bed) ♡ gossip ♡ (fake dating)

⤷ snack? ♡ romance (fluff) ♡

♡ pretzels ♡ "you know me better than so many people." ♡ chips ♡ "stop smiling at me like that" ♡ popcorn ♡ "this kind of certainty comes but just once in a lifetime." ♡ candy ♡ "you’re so pretty. it’s actually unfair. i’m mad at you now." ♡ brownies ♡ “you can… hold me. if you want.” ♡ fruit ♡ "can you carry me?" ♡ cookies ♡ "i love you and i like you" ♡ donuts ♡ "can i tell you something i've never told anyone else?" ♡ cupcakes ♡ "what would you do if i kissed you?" ♡ ice cream ♡ your own idea!

⤷ snack? ♡ drama (angst) ♡

♡ pizza rolls ♡ “don’t tell me you’re okay, i could hear you crying through the wall. please, tell me what’s wrong.” ♡ s'mores ♡ "we can't keep doing this" ♡ chicken nuggets ♡ "you know what scares me most? that I'll wake up at forty and realize I wasted it all." ♡ boppers ♡ "i lied when i said i didn't care" ♡ chips and dip ♡ "i'll never be good enough" ♡ mozzarella sticks ♡ "don't be stupid" ♡ nachos ♡ "you're overreacting" ♡ cheese and crackers ♡ "i want to break-up" ♡ oreos ♡ "you can sleep on the floor" ♡ popsicles ♡ your own idea!

⤷ pick a drink:

♡ wine (smut) ♡♡ soda (implied smut) ♡♡ water (pure fluff please) ♡

⤷ if you're having wine:

♡ Chardonnay ♡ spit kink ♡ Sauvignon Blanc ♡ spanking ♡ Pinot Grigio ♡ exhibitionism ♡ Riesling ♡ riding a body part: thigh, stomach, arm, bicep you name it ♡ Cabernet Sauvignon ♡ choking ♡ Merlot ♡ biting ♡ Pinot Noir ♡ mutual masturbation ♡ Zinfandel ♡dryhumping ♡ Moscato ♡possesive sex ♡ Prosecco ♡ your choice (i have the right not to fullfil if i'm uncomfortable :) (can already tell you no anal)

[harringtonsdiary]

steve harrington x reader fanfiction | fratboy!steve | platonic!stobin (i promise) | mentions of cheating (but it's not real cheating) | mean!steve, playboy!steve | sort of friends to enemies to fwb to lovers | slowish burn | angst | hurt ... eventual comfort

warnings: pure purepurepurepurepureeeee flufffffffffff. suggestive stuff. kind of some exposition of where everyone is at. marriage. pregnancy... bittersweet. happy trail and armpit... totally serving myself sorry. words: 4.3k summary: Honeymoon. a/n: okay. wow. uh..... i know i was putting this off. dkat has meant so much to me and i just needed a bit to myself and really ponder where hot shot and steve would be. acknowledments: @thinkingth0ts for literally being the one to hear my random ideas in the middle of the night. @andvys oh my goddddddd. if it weren't for you... dkat would be bones. you gave me so much encouragement ily @mhoneyfieldz mary sweet mary... who might love hot shot and steve more than i do... i love you. there are so many more people i could acknowledge i love you all. dkat support gc <.3 ily masterlist | Rules/Playlist

epilogue epi luigi (not clickbait REAL I PROMISE)

The sand is warm beneath you, heated by the relentless Cabo sun that's been beating down since early morning. You're lying on a beach towel—oversized and striped in shades of blue and white, still smelling faintly of the detergent from the resort. 

Your bikini is simple. It’s black with high-waisted bottoms and a bandeau top that ties at the back. The fabric clings to your skin, slightly damp from your last dip in the ocean an hour ago, salt-crusted and smelling like sunscreen and sea water and your husband.

You lift your left hand to shield your eyes from the sun, and the movement makes your engagement ring catch the light. It glints brilliant and blinding— white gold with a small diamond that your husband saved for months to afford. The wedding band sits flush beneath it, simple and elegant, both of them slightly sandy from running your fingers through the beach.

You reach for the sunglasses your husband bought you right before the trip— designer Ray-Bans he insisted on getting despite the price, saying you deserved them— and slide them onto your face. You sigh at the immediate relief, at the feeling of the sun sinking into your skin without burning your retinas.

Then suddenly, a shadow drifts in front of the sun. It stays there, blocking the light, and you feel the temperature drop several degrees against your face.

"Is that spot taken?"

You open one eye, smirking when you see a figure standing over you, hands on hips, towering above where you're sprawled out. You prop yourself up on your elbows, tilting your head to get a better look.

The man is dripping wet, clearly just emerged from the ocean. His brown hair is soaked, curling at the temples and nape of his neck in that way that only happens when it's wet with salt water. He's wearing a gold chain that catches the light—thin and delicate against his tan skin. Black swim trunks sit low on his hips, and he's wearing sunglasses too, mirrored aviators that hide his eyes.

But you can see everything else. His love handles spilling over the waistband— just slightly, soft and perfect. His stomach hangs a little over the top of his trunks, a gentle curve that speaks of being well-fed and happy. His thighs are thick and hairy, muscular from the past year. His happy trail and chest hair cling to his skin from the water, dark and unruly and begging to be touched.

His skin is tan. It’s darker than it was a week ago when you arrived, golden from days spent in the sun.

You feel your core tighten at the sight of water dripping down his neck, between his pecs, down his navel, disappearing into the waistband of his trunks. Your mouth goes dry.

He's pointing to the empty spot next to you where another towel lays with only sandals, a backpack, and a canteen— all the things your husband insisted were necessary for a beach honeymoon despite your protests that you'd be fine with less.

"Why?" you ask, voice carefully neutral.

"Dunno." He shrugs, and the movement makes water droplets fly from his shoulders. "Just wondered why a pretty lady was over here all by herself. Wanted to see if she wanted some company."

You look up at him, holding up your left hand with your ring finger prominently displayed. You pretend to look away disinterested, but you're still watching him from the corner of your eye. "Sorry. I'm married."

He grins— all perfect white teeth that you know intimately, that you've felt against every inch of your skin. He dips his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose to get a better look at you, and even through your own shaded lenses you feel yourself swallow hard at the sight of his hazel eyes.

He lifts up his left hand, showing off his ring finger. His gold wedding band is shiny and glistening, wet from the ocean. He tilts his head, voice dropping lower. "Me too."

You bite your bottom lip, heat pooling low in your belly. "Then I guess it wouldn't hurt. Until my husband gets back."

"Oh yes, of course." He nods seriously, but there's mischief dancing in his eyes. "I'll need to go find my wife too, you know? Can't leave her waiting long."

"Right. Yes. Of course."

The man sits down next to you on the towel, close enough that you can smell him—sunscreen and ocean and that particular scent that is just like your husband’s, the one you'd recognize anywhere. 

You're immediately captured by the details of his face up close. The slope of his nose, the slight scruff on his jaw that he didn't shave this morning, the freckles scattered across his cheeks from sun exposure.

"I'm Steve," he says, holding out his hand formally like you're strangers.

You take it, feeling the familiar calluses on his palm, the way his fingers automatically intertwine with yours. "Nice to meet you, Steve."

"The pleasure's all mine." He brings your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles, and you have to suppress a shiver. "What's a beautiful woman like you doing in Cabo all alone?"

"I'm not alone," you remind him. "I have a husband, remember?"

"Right. The husband." Steve's thumb rubs circles on the back of your hand. "What's he like?"

"Oh, he's..." You pretend to think about it. "He's wonderful. Kind, funny. Terrible at playing pool but he tries anyway. Has this annoying habit of leaving his socks everywhere."

Steve laughs, the sound warm and genuine. "Sounds like a catch. How'd you meet him?"

"College." You smile at the memory. "He was dating my roommate."

Steve's eyebrows shoot up. "Scandalous."

"It was fake," you add quickly, then pause. "The relationship with my roommate, I mean. Long story."

"I've got time." Steve leans back on his elbows, and the position makes his stomach pudge out more. You want to run your hands over it, feel the soft warmth of him. "My wife won't be back for a while."

"What about her?" you ask, playing along. "Your wife. What's she like?"

Steve's expression goes soft, genuine affection breaking through the roleplay for a moment. "She's perfect. Smart, beautiful, funny as hell. Puts up with all my bullshit, which is a miracle." He reaches out and tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear. "Got this little tattoo on her hip that drives me crazy."

"Yeah?" You shift closer. "What does it say?"

"'Hot Shot.'" Steve's fingers trail down your side to where he knows the tattoo is, tracing the letters through your bikini bottom. "It's my nickname for her."

"That's sweet." You're close enough now that your lips are almost touching. "She sounds lucky."

"I'm the lucky one." Steve's hand slides up your back, fingers playing with the tie of your bikini top. "She married me even after I fucked everything up. Even after I hurt her. Even after—"

You cut him off with a kiss, unable to maintain the distance anymore. He responds immediately, his other hand coming up to cup your face, thumb stroking your cheek.

When you pull back, you're both breathing harder. "You know what would really be scandalous?" you murmur against his lips.

"What's that?"

"If you let me put sunscreen on you. Can't have you burning on your wife's watch."

Steve grins. "I don't know. That seems pretty inappropriate."

"Probably," you agree, already reaching for the sunscreen bottle. "Turn around."

He does, sitting up and presenting his back to you. You squeeze sunscreen into your palm and start working it into his shoulders, digging your thumbs into the muscles there. Steve groans, head dropping forward.

"Feel good?" you ask.

"So good. My wife does this for me sometimes. She's got magic hands."

"Does she now?" You work your way down his spine, spreading sunscreen across the broad expanse of his back. "What else does she do for you?"

Steve's laugh is low and dirty. "Wouldn't you like to know."

You lean forward and press a kiss to the nape of his neck, right where his hair curls. "Maybe I would."

"Okay, front," you announce, and Steve turns back around.

Before he can settle back against the towel, you swing your leg over to straddle him, settling yourself right over his happy trail. Steve's hands immediately come to your hips, gripping tight.

"This seems—" His breath catches as you start smoothing sunscreen over his chest. "This seems like it's crossing a line."

"Yeah," you agree, working more into his skin in slow circles. "Should I stop?"

"God, no."

You take off his sunglasses carefully, setting them aside so you can see his face properly. The sun illuminates all the details. His freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks, the small moles you've mapped with your lips a hundred times, the little sunburn forming on the bridge of his nose. You dab sunscreen there gently, your fingers brushing his cheeks with tender care.

As you work the sunscreen into his skin, you start to grind slowly against his happy trail, feeling the coarse hair through the thin fabric of your bikini bottoms. Steve's fingers dig deeper into your hips, his breath coming faster.

"I don't think this is a good idea," you murmur, even as you continue the slow roll of your hips.

"Terrible idea," Steve agrees, his hands now kneading the flesh of your hips and ass, massaging with clear intent. "Anyone could see us."

"Mmm." You run your hands up his chest, spreading sunscreen with deliberate slowness. "Don't want you to get too excited, Mr. Harrington. Out here on the beach where anyone could come by. Including your wife. What would she think?"

Steve's hips buck up slightly, and you feel him hardening beneath you. "I could ask the same about you. What would your husband think?"

You lean down, lips brushing his ear. "He's not here, is he?"

Steve groans, and you drag your center over his happy trail again, the friction delicious even through fabric. You force his arms up, spreading your hands from his wrists down his forearms to his biceps. Then you lean in and kiss his bicep, working your way down to his armpit.

He chuckles warmly, squirming beneath you. "My wife likes to kiss me there too."

"Mmm? Yeah?" You kiss the sensitive skin again, feeling him shiver. "She has good taste, Mr. Harrington. You know, I think I might be jealous."

Steve tilts his head, eyebrow quirking. "How come?"

"Because I think your wife is very lucky to be married to you."

Steve chuckles, reaching up to brush your hair behind your ear like he's getting a better look at you. His finger loops under the necklace you're wearing—the Pike letters he gave you years ago, the ones you've worn every day since. He smiles at the sight of it.

His fingers drag down your body, back to your hip where your tattoo still sits in black ink. And although you've gotten a little older since you first got it, and parts of your body have changed in subtle ways, he smirks to himself looking at it like it's the first time all over again.

"Well, I think you're wrong," he says finally.

"Is that so?"

"Mhm." His hands settle back on your hips. "I think your husband is the luckiest man alive to be married to you. He'd be a fool to leave you here sitting by yourself."

You grind down harder, feeling him fully hard now beneath you. "He's not so bad. He'll make up for it later." There's a devilish smirk on your face. "He's very good at that."

Steve breaks first, laughing, his hands falling to your thighs before one trails up to grab your left hand where it rests on his chest. He brings it to his mouth and kisses your palm, then the back of your hand, then your ring finger where your wedding band sits.

"I think your husband loves you a lot," he says softly, all pretense dropped.

"I think your wife loves you a lot too."

You break character completely, bending down to meet Steve who's already coming up to kiss you. 

His wife. 

You want to kiss your husband— Steve Harrington.

 Steve wants to kiss his wife— you.

The kiss is deep and slow and perfect, tasting like salt water and sunscreen and the rest of your lives.

No one was surprised when you decided to get married right after graduation.

Steve had spent his last semester of school student teaching back in Hawkins, living with his parents and commuting to the high school every day. He still worked weekends at Family Video to save money, picking up extra shifts whenever Keith would let him. You barely saw each other— maybe once every two weeks if you were lucky, if Steve could make the drive up or if you could get away for a weekend. 

He would call you and write to you, anything to keep reminding you how much he loves you. 

It wasn't until an argument over the phone— something so silly you can't even remember what started it now— that everything changed.

You were woken up in the middle of the night by knocking on the door of the house you were renting with Robin. When you opened it, Steve was standing there in sweatpants and a Hawkins High Athletics t-shirt, hair a mess like he'd driven straight through without stopping, eyes wild and desperate.

You knew the moment you looked in his eyes what he was there for.

And you knew your answer would always be yes.

He'd proposed right there on the porch, ring box in his trembling hands, words tumbling out about how he couldn't wait anymore, how he needed you to be his wife, how every day apart felt like torture.

You'd said yes before he even finished asking.

And no one was surprised when you agreed to move to Hawkins after Steve was offered a full-time position coaching baseball and teaching health— ironically, sex education to rooms full of hormonal high schoolers who definitely did not want to hear Coach Harrington talk about condoms.

Steve had assured you that you could find a job too, or wait, or do whatever you wanted. It didn't matter to him as long as you were together.

But it worked out because there was an assistant librarian opening at the middle school. And somehow, the idea of you working in the same school as him, of sneaking kisses in empty hallways and meeting for lunch in his classroom, turned Steve on more than he wanted to admit.

So that was that. Two weeks after graduation, you got married in a small ceremony with your closest friends and family. Then you moved into a starter home in Hawkins— a little two-bedroom ranch that needed work but had good bones and a backyard big enough for the kids you both wanted.

And now you're here, on your honeymoon in Cabo, with your husband's hands on your body and the rest of your lives stretching out before you like the ocean. It's endless and beautiful and full of possibility.

"And what does this one say about me?" Steve's hands slide to your stomach, palms warm and gentle against your skin.

Another thing no one was really surprised about.

It wasn't like it was a total accident, getting pregnant before graduating or marriage. Not that you told anyone besides Robin, Nancy, Eddie, Jonathan, Dustin, and Max— which meant everyone knew within a week because secrets don't exist in your friend group.

It wasn't like anything had failed. The pill worked when you remembered to take it.

But honestly, looking back, you can recall maybe forgetting once. Twice. A lot.

Not on purpose. It slipped your mind. You'd get distracted by Steve showing up at your door, or studying for finals, or wedding planning, and by the time you remembered it was already the next day and you'd think well, one missed pill probably won't matter.

Except it did matter.

This time when you thought you might be pregnant, it was less scary. Steve had come in for the weekend to work on wedding planning and you'd pulled him aside and asked if he could buy you a test.

It felt like déjà vu, sitting on the bathroom floor together, both of you staring at the test resting on the edge of the bathtub. You wondered if he was praying for the same thing you were. Hoping for the same outcome.

You didn't have to ask because he saw the positive result before you did, immediately pulling you into a kiss. He kissed your engagement ring, kissed your stomach through your shirt, held you so tight you could barely breathe.

"Does this ruin our plans?" you'd asked quietly, even though you knew the answer. Even though you both knew you didn't really have concrete plans beyond get married, be together, figure out the rest as we go.

To be fair, this was always the plan. Maybe not the exact timeline, but the general direction. This is what you both wanted.

Steve had smiled against your hair, pulling you into a hug. "Hot Shot, we're ahead of the game."

You're only a few weeks along now, barely showing. But Steve can't get enough of you. His hands are constantly on your stomach, talking to the baby even though it's barely the size of a grain of rice. Telling it stories, singing to it off-key, promising to teach it how to throw a curveball.

"I think he or she loves their daddy," you giggle as Steve flashes you a goofy smile, gently flipping you onto your back against the towel and blowing a raspberry on your stomach.

"I love you first," he whispers to your belly, pressing a tender kiss there.

Then he crawls up your body, towering over you— your husband, the father of your child, the boy who became a man who became yours. He peppers kisses all over your face. To your forehead, your nose, your cheeks, your jaw, your neck.

"And I love you," he whispers against your skin.

You raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to finish. Steve likes to argue about who fell in love first, who loves more, who's luckier. It's a game you play, one with no winner because you're both all in.

"...most," he decides on, grinning.

You giggle, trying to push him off. "Okay, Steve. Okay." You laugh as he runs a hand over your ribs, the sensation tickling you. "I love you too."

You finally manage to push him off and he lands on his back in the sand, laughing breathlessly up at the sky.

You start packing up your things, putting them in the large tote bag you brought. Sunscreen, the book you've been reading, Steve's wallet and keys, the various items he insisted on bringing.

"You leaving already?" Steve pouts, propping himself up on his elbows.

The boy could live in the sun. Could stay outside forever, golden and happy and free. But you know that if you leave to go back to the hotel, he'll be right behind you. He can't stand to be apart from you for long.

"I need to go write Robin and Nancy a postcard. Eddie too."

The moment Robin graduated, she moved to Boston to live with Nancy full-time. Nancy was working her way up as a professional journalist, and Robin decided to go to law school with a focus on social justice. She was also helping her father rebuild his political campaign, hosting fundraising events for AIDS research and LGBTQ+ rights.

Robin and Steve's relationship transformed over the last year and a half of school. What started as awkward fake exes evolved into something that looks a lot like siblings— making each other's lives miserable in the way that only people who deeply love each other can.

Eddie moved in with Robin and Nancy as a third roommate, still trying to make a name for Corroded Coffin. Playing dive bars and small venues, convinced that any day now they'd get their big break. Polly and him officially called it quits after she transferred to UCLA for a better pre-med track second semester of junior year.

But you once caught Eddie writing a letter to her, along with sheet music for a song titled "Pocket Full of Pollies."

He got over it pretty fast when you caught him sneaking out of Buck's room a few weeks later.

Steve rolls his eyes, scrunching up his face, making a bleh sound from the back of his throat. "Why do you need to send them postcards from our honeymoon? They already know what we're doing." He makes a knowing face at you, waggling his eyebrows.

"Oh, they're plenty aware," you agree, standing and brushing sand off your legs. "But I promised to send them something to let them know we're having a good time."

"Oh, I'm having a good time." Steve's eyes track your movement as you bend over to pick up your towel. "Great time, even."

You look over your shoulder and catch him unashamedly staring at your ass. You wiggle it on purpose, and Steve groans dramatically, flopping back like a starfish and covering his eyes.

"Honey, you have to stop looking like that or I'm going to die of heatstroke. I'll be the one sending the postcard posthumously. 'Dear friends and family, Hot Shot has killed me with her devastating beauty. Please send flowers.'"

"You're such a doofus, Steve." You turn back around, shaking your head fondly.

Steve sighs dreamily. "Can't a man love and adore his wife? Is that a crime? I'll have a warrant out for my arrest because I'm too in love."

You laugh and Steve does too, the sound mixing with the crash of waves and distant seagull calls.

Steve stands up, immediately reaching out for you and pulling you into a hug. His arms wrap around you completely, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other spread across your lower back. He's warm and solid and smells like home.

"Don't ever stop loving me, Hot Shot," he murmurs into your hair.

You smile against his chest, pressing a small bite there just because you can. You hug him tighter, feeling his heartbeat against your cheek, steady and strong and yours. "Don't ever stop loving me, Steve Harrington."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Steve pulls back just enough to tilt your chin up, and then he's kissing you deeply, thoroughly, like you have all the time in the world.

Which you do. You have the rest of your lives.

Even though things are different now— you won't wake up to Robin's snoring anymore, won't have late-night snack runs to the dining hall, won't get Eddie to help you prank Steve at the Pike house, won't have movie nights crammed onto a couch with pizza and cheap beer—the love hasn't changed.

You think about those days sometimes, the nostalgia sweet and bittersweet. The way you'd all pile into Eddie's van to drive to the dive spot, music blaring, everyone talking over each other. The way Robin would braid your hair while you studied, her fingers gentle and familiar. The way the Pike house always smelled like cologne and beer and belonging.

You don't know what will happen five years from now. If you'll still be in Hawkins or if Steve will get a coaching offer somewhere else. How many kids you'll have by then— one, two, three? If you'll still like being a librarian or if you'll go back to school for something else. If you'll make another close friend like Robin, someone who knows the ins and outs of your life, who's seen you at your worst and loved you anyway.

Part of you says no to that last one. You can have other friends, good friends, but Robin is singular. Once in a lifetime.

But you didn't only fall in love with Steve Harrington. You fell in love with the life he had too, with the friends by his side, with the found family you built together. 

And Steve— a part of his life always had an empty spot, waiting for you to fill it. He knows that now. Knew it probably before you did.

You giggle, squeezing Steve's ass with both hands. His fingers are already sliding under the strap of your bikini top, teasing.

"Thank god we found a secluded spot," you murmur against his lips.

"Mmm," Steve agrees, kissing down your neck. "Though I wouldn't mind getting fined for public indecency."

"You'd think it was funny," you accuse.

"I would," Steve admits shamelessly. "So would you."

He's right. You absolutely would.

"Last one to the room is a rotten egg and has to give head!" you proclaim suddenly, pulling away from him.

You don't give him time to process. You throw your belongings into his arms— the tote bag, your towel, his sunglasses— and take off running. Your flip-flops are in your hands, toes sinking into the warm sand as you sprint toward the resort up the hill.

You look back briefly and see Steve laughing, jogging behind you with all your things clutched against his chest. You know for a fact that even with your head start and him carrying everything, he could catch up easily. He's faster, stronger, in better shape.

But he doesn't.

He wants you to win.

He's always wanted you to win.

You reach your room breathless and triumphant, turning to watch Steve inside behind you, grinning like you've just accomplished something extraordinary.

"Looks like you lost, Mr. Harrington," you say, still catching your breath.

Steve drops everything on a nearby chair and pulls you against him, kissing you hard. "Worth it," he murmurs against your lips. "So worth it, Mrs. Harrington."

When he pulls back, you catch his hand and intertwine your fingers with his, both of your wedding rings clinking together. His thumb automatically finds the space where your ring sits and rubs gently, a habit he's had since the day you got married.

Finally became your forever.

And you wouldn't change a single thing.

[riddlersoupwrites]

Thank you for the tag @tellcherhesgone this was so fun!

Make yours here!

Tagging: @kissalready @oohgeminii @jeepers-creeperz @frankenkyle19 @keeryhours 😚😚

[jeepers-creeperz]

wait this is so cutie i’m obsessed 🤍 thank you for tagging @riddlersoupwrites 🤍

i’m tagging @ur-djoking and @harringtonsdiary (blaize it’s belle email me)

[kitty-grimes]

⋆˚꩜｡𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 10 people you'd like to get to know better

tagged by: @kyrasworldd & @rickgrimesismyboyfriend <33 love u guys :') u divas message me anytime

last song: dogs eyes by wye oak (i discovered this band from the twd season 2 soundtrack!)

favorite color: black + plum purple

currently watching: the walking dead (rewatching season 6), succession, and the new season of jujutsu kaisen :3

currently reading: mary shelley's frankenstein

current obsession: learning how to perfect my overnight/heatless curls routine (my hair is quite long and its really hard to get it all wrapped up comfortably enough to sleep lolol) ... and twd / rick grimes (duh)

last google search: "when does forbidden fruits movie come out" LOL (i can't wait to see it)

currently working on: a smutty part 2 to my one shot -> playing games

no pressure tags: @uglylittlelamb @death-in-a-tar0t-card @sweetlikenonsense @shtgshdrnit @pier-four @loveregan @amethystfawn @krill039 @cr3aturef3ar @angelsenttodestroy

[sweetlikenonsense]

tysm for the thinking of me 🫶🏼 @kitty-grimes & @rickgrimes-cupid

last song: enough for you by Olivia Rodrigo (obviously I was unknowingly in my feels)

favourite colour: baby pink and basically every shade of green

currently watching: just finished Secret Lives of Mormon Wives!! (all those girls need to get divorced and married to each other fr)

currently reading: I'm in such a reading rut its INSANE. Thinking of rereading some of my faves by Emily Henry to get back into it

current obsession: my dogs. always my dogs 🫶🏼 like yes I love The Walking Dead, Stranger Things etc … but nothing comes close. I could talk about them all day. (and I do.)

last google search: vinted aha. trying to find something to wear to a surprise cowboy/western-themed birthday party

currently working on: so. many. wips... for Rick Grimes and Steve Harrington 🙂‍↕️

no pressure tags (let me know if you don't want to be tagged in these 🫡): @maevebloom, @oohgeminii, @sorryharrington, @turtlle16, @sheisjoeschateau, @keer-y, @sunshine-daydreams0809, @babycowboy24, @snoopyharrington @unaballerinascalza and anyone who wants to (truly I'd have tagged so many more of you but y'know... social norms)

[snoopyharrington]

AH thank you!!! so sweet!!! <3

last song: dream girl in shibuya by hayley williams

favorite color: im an indecisive girl but any variations of dark green, light pink, and maroon/burgundy methinks

currently watching: unfortunately I don’t have any shows that im hardcore binging </3 the last one I tried watching was dexter but I couldn’t get into it!! new girl is my comfort show tho and ive watched it many times

currently reading: im also in a bit of a reading rut :( probably because ive been reading an insane amount of fic, oops! I started rereading on earth we’re briefly gorgeous by ocean vuong bc i loved it when I initially read it a few years ago but it’s so much sadder than i remember lol

current obsession: joe ofc, but also !! needlepoint, long morning walks with my dog, the doc marten mary janes I bought recently, my newish bangs, spring flowers popping up, taking my meds on time lol

last google search: “beyonce on phone gif” for a stupid post I made lmao

currently working on: steve x caretaker!reader and I’ve had an enemies to lovers steve x mayfield!reader one-shot in my drafts for months that I’d love to return to </3 also having thoughts about barista!teacake and coach steve x older sister to one of his little league players

no pressure tags: @riddlersoupwrites @tellcherhesgone @cha0ticstranger @kassy-djomunson @djocufics @thecreelhouse @moonstoneandmoonlight @honorschem @snoopyracing @tinfoileddd

[riddlersoupwrites]

Thank you for the tag! 💜

Last song: Lilies by Ethel Cain

Favourite colour: Dark purple or forest green

Currently reading: Phantasma by Kaylie Smith

Currently watching: I don't have a series I'm watching at the moment but I've been listening to a lot of HiImWonder videos on YouTube while painting my kitchen, or watching teletubbies with my daughter. My comfort show is Peep Show or Always Sunny In Philadelphia.

Current obsession: Joe and Sanrio.

Last Google search: "all my asks on Tumblr have disappeared" 🫩

Currently working on: Bakery orders! And also Go Go Juice, an ex boyfriend!Keys fic 💜

No pressure tags: @ilikeappleandbanana @jeepers-creeperz @kissalready @oohgeminii @frankenkyle19 💜

[jeepers-creeperz]

omg this is so fun 🤍

last song: caving in by post animal

favorite color: emerald green

currently reading: salems lot by stephen king

currently watching: wonder man (disney+) and the bear (hulu)

current obsession: djo + post animal

last google search: djo merch store lol

currently working on: couple minutes and court jester kurt 😁

Tags 🤍: @ur-djoking @harringtonsdiary @swirledyouintoallmypoems 🤍

[jeepers-creeperz]

I can not get court jester kurt kunkle out of my brain

[ur-djoking]

Til’ Death Do You Part

Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

Chapter 1

summary: you’re going about your life a year and a half after your brother, Will went missing. trying to pick up the pieces of what was left and sticking to the mundanity of everyday life. but when you crossed paths with Steve Harrington, everything changed.

warnings: feeling of being watched, nightmares, missing persons

word count: 3.9k

a/n: hi hello! hope you enjoy, you’re in for a wild ride. let me know if you’d like to be put on a tag list!

6:30AM

Your alarm blares, causing you to startle awake, like it always does. You immediately turn it off, just like you do every morning, laying there staring at the ceiling. You’ve had the same dream at least twice a week for the last five weeks. It’s the same dream every time – you’re laying in bed, watching yourself sleep from the corner of the room. Someone is hovering over you while you sleep but you aren’t sure who. The figure is looming over you, like a dark shadow. The sense of dread in the room is as thick as fog, making it harder and harder for you to breathe as you watch yourself sleep, the shadow hovering closer to you as time goes on. The figure's hands are hovering right over your throat but just as they’re about to latch on, you startle awake.

Every single time.

Snapping out of it, you decide now is as good of a time as ever to start getting ready. You push the covers off, and head toward your bathroom. Your 9-5 job pays the bills and gives you extra spending money. Which is pretty much all that matters to you. Most of that money is used to buy your favorite books or vinyls. Your life lines.

You go to the bathroom and brush your teeth, looking back at yourself in the mirror as you do so. The reflection staring back at you looks so lifeless. Dark circles under your eyes from the lack of sleep over the last month. The recurring dream you have has made it impossible to fall asleep at night. Each night you stare at the ceiling, constantly feeling the sense of impending doom.

You head to the kitchen, staring at the pot of coffee freshly brewed, ready and waiting for you. Pouring yourself a mug full, the only thing that gets you through the day at this point. You add two sugars and a splash of cream, just as you do every morning. Taking the first sip that makes you feel like maybe life is worth living. You linger in your kitchen for a little while, staring into your coffee.

You start to make your way around your apartment, finally starting to getting ready. Putting on your favorite blue crew neck and a fresh pair of jeans. Applying just enough makeup to cover the dark circles to make it look like you actually have gotten some sleep, a touch of lipstick, and a little mascara.

Slipping on your shoes before you leave and making sure your bag charm is attached to your bag, just like you do each morning before you leave. The only remaining piece of your brother that you have left.

8:00AM

Heading out of the front door of your apartment building, you start the small commute to work. Taking in the town of Hawkins, everything always looks the exact same. The only difference today is that the sun is shining for the first time in weeks. The feeling of warmth on your skin makes your commute a little easier than normal.

You make your way along the sidewalk, looking at the sun through the trees, taking in the town you’ve lived in for the last 19 years of your life. Nothing changing besides the loss of your brother, Will. You look back down at your bag charm, thinking of him. He made it for you just a few days before he disappeared. Not knowing it was one of the last conversations you’d ever have with him, you brushed him off and told him to leave it on your desk, you were busy.

You remember the day that Will went missing like it happened yesterday and not over a year and a half ago. The local police finally declared it a cold case, no longer helping like they said they would. Your Mom – Joyce, constantly harassing Hopper – the local police chief. There wasn’t a day that went by where she wasn’t calling the station at least once, seeing if they had found anything, if they had any updates for her. Even if it was considered a cold case. Over the last year and a half, you’ve watched her slowly wither away, slowly losing hope of ever bringing her son – your brother, back home.

Day after day for an entire year, you and your Mom would hand out missing flyers for Will, gathering groups to search for him, searching the woods yourself, trying to find anything that would lead you back to your brother. As time went on, people started to care less, and had begun to move on. The entire town had just moved on, no questions asked.

You moved out of the house after it was declared a cold case, being around her was just unbearable. The loss of your brother was too much but being around your Mom was even harder. She started talking to herself throughout the day, talking as if Will was there in your living room, like nothing had ever happened. On multiple occasions, you’d bring it up to her, try to be there for her, try to comfort her but she’d just look at you like you were crazy.

Before you realize, you’ve already reached The Squawk homebase. Sighing, you pull your keys out of your bag, putting the key into the lock. You unlock the door and walk into darkness, some light seeping through the blinds that help guide you through the building, even though you don’t need it. You have this building memorized like the back of your hand. You start with your daily routine of going through the building, turning on the lights, opening the blinds, making sure everything is set up before you go live on air.

As you’re the only one here today, like most days, you make yourself comfortable. Brewing yourself another pot of coffee to have throughout the day and locking the front door just to be safe. As you wait for the coffee to brew, you set up your work station.

Sitting down, you pull your notebook out and open it to the page you were working on late last night. The page is littered with random notes, things you want to say during today’s show, songs you’d like to play, jokes you have to tell. To anyone else, this would look like something in a different language, to you it makes all of the sense in the world. You head over to the coffee pot, making yourself your second cup of coffee and head back to your seat. Putting on your headphones and lining up the mic, just as you do every single day before turning on the “ON AIR” sign.

4:50PM:

The day goes by slowly but fast enough that you don’t realize it’s already almost 5PM. You begin packing your things, putting your notebook back into your bag, looking at the charm one more time. You put the mic stand back to its resting position, hang the headphones up where they normally go, make sure to empty the coffee pot of its remaining contents, which isn’t much as you’ve had about four cups of coffee today. Before closing the blinds, you take a moment to admire the sunset before you. The sky layered with different colors of deep pinks and purples reflecting back on your skin.

Looking over The Squawk one last time you leave, making sure everything is in its place before you come back tomorrow morning. Deciding that it's as good as it's going to get, you head out the front door, locking up behind you.

You make your way to your favorite place, the local library. If you aren’t at work, you are at the library. Ever since your brother went missing, this is where you spent most of your time. The only place where the quiet was bearable, the place where you could drown out your thoughts in a book. If you were always busy or always reading, you couldn’t think about the lingering thoughts that loomed inside of your head.

Deep down, you knew that Will was no longer alive. He was your brother, you could feel it. But saying it outloud? That was something you would never allow yourself to do.

You walk into the library, the familiar scent of books hitting your nose. A sense of calm washes over you for the first time all day. You head toward the back corner, heading for the spot that you’ve spent the last year and a half in. This part of the library is relatively secluded, good lighting, comfy chair, and you can look outside of the window onto the street.

Setting up your things, you get comfortable and open your book to the last page you left off at.

Your eyes begin following the strings of words across the page, quietly giggling at things in the story that are funny, furrowing your brow at things that are serious, losing yourself in the book, just like you always do.

As you finish a few chapters, you put your book down, raising your arms above your head to stretch as you’ve been sitting in the same position for who knows how long. As you’re stretching, you notice a man sitting at the other end of the library. He looks deep in thought, book in hand. He looks about your age, maybe a few years older, his head full of luscious brown hair. Something about him seems oddly familiar. You watch as his eyes float across the page of whatever book he’s reading. His arms flexing as he turns the page. This man is incredibly handsome. As you’re looking him over, he catches your eye. Immediately feeling a flush form over your cheeks, you look down quickly. Trying to make it seem like you weren’t just staring at him and actually reading your book.

You begin to skim through your book, not really paying any attention to what you’re reading, too lost in thought. You steal glances at the man across the library, watching as he shifts while reading. You watch as he pushes his glasses that seem to have fallen down his nose back up, you watch as he moves, crosses and uncrosses his legs, trying to find another comfortable position while he reads. Just as you’re about to look away, he catches your eyes again. Lifting one eyebrow up, giving you a small smirk from across the room. Your eyes flick back down to your book, raising it just high enough so that he can no longer see your face, embarrassed that you’ve been caught.

Before you can even move your book away from your face, someone clears their throat in front of you. You pull your book away and there he is. Standing right in front of you.

"Stephen King, huh?" he chuckles softly, giving you a small smirk before sitting down in one of the chairs next to you. His smile is contagious.

You put down your copy of Misery. Now that he's closer, you can see the stubble covering his face, the slight shadow of a mustache forming above his upper lip. The light reflecting off of his hazel eyes, burning holes into your skin. He’s handsome in a way that doesn’t feel overzealous, but almost comforting in a way that feels like coming home after a long day.

"Yeah. It’s his new novel. I mean, it doesn’t come close to The Shining, but it’ll do. " You shrugged back at him, trying to stop yourself from grinning back.

"What’s it about?" he leans in closer. Your breath subtly catches as you sit up straighter.

“It’s uh– It’s about this author who gets kidnapped and held captive by his number one fan. She was upset he killed off her favorite character so…violence ensued. Anyway, I haven’t really gotten too far into it, it’s kinda dragging.” His eyes never left yours while you gave the synopsis. Not even daring to stray away to blink.

"Hm.” He hummed dryly, nodding softly before grimacing. “Well, anyway. I'm Steve, Steve Harrington." he holds out his hand in front of you, waiting for you to shake his. His grip is firm, his hand engulfing yours. Warm and soft but calloused in a few spots.

“I know who you are, Steve. I used to be friends with Nancy Wheeler when you guys dated.” You breathed humorously but still offered him your name, excluding your last name from the claim.

His hand never let go of yours. the eye contact only growing more intense with each shake before he cleared his throat, letting out a small laugh before dropping your hand.

"I’m really sorry, but I gotta say– I don’t remember really hearing about you in school. I feel like I definitely would have remembered you." His eyes scanned your body briefly. You let out a small chuckle, trying to cover for yourself, while also trying to find something to do with your hands now that one of them isn't shaking his.

“Really? Felt like the talk of the town back then.”

"Hmm." he hums as if trying to recall a memory hidden deep within before continuing on, "Well, I don’t ever forget a face. And trust me when I say I remember all of them, especially pretty ones.” He smirked, something wicked flashing in his eyes. Maybe he was remembering all the girls he shared brief dalliances with, or so you hoped.

Breaking eye contact with Steve, you check the time and realize you’ve been here longer than you normally stay. You still haven’t even eaten dinner yet or gotten prepared for the show tomorrow.

You start to close up your book, putting your belongings back into your bag and start to stand up to put your coat on. “Hey, I’m really sorry but it’s getting pretty late and I have an early shift tomorrow. I should probably head out.” You say, suddenly a wave of tired hitting you for the first time today. Steve begins packing his things as well, standing up alongside you.

Making sure the bag charm that Will made for you is still there. As you’re double checking all of your belongings, Steve gets your attention again. “That’s pretty cool, where’d you get that?” pointing toward the charm, his face showing genuine curiosity.

“It’s from my brother…Will? This town is too small, I’m sure you remember. He made it for me a few days before he had—you know, uh, gone missing.” You sigh. “I’m sorry, sometimes it’s still hard to talk about.” You say, looking off into the distance, anywhere but him.

“Oh, uh, I’m sorry for bringing that up.” His hand rubbing the back of his neck. “If I had known, I definitely wouldn’t have said anything, just—just thought it looked pretty interesting. That’s nice that you have that from him. Now that you mention it, I do remember this. I’m so sorry.” His hand moves from the back of his neck, sliding it effortlessly into his back pocket.

You watch as his arms flex as he moves, shifting from side to side. He was good looking in high school, but not like this. He’s definitely put on more muscle and filled out a little more. You begin to wonder what he does for work as he’s gained so much muscle since the last time you had seen him. Instead of leaving like you should, you linger a little longer, just wanting to continue having more of a conversation with him. Ever since Will, you closed yourself off — never hanging out with friends, never wasting time on dating. The worry of getting close to someone and them going missing leaving a pit in your stomach.

“This is incredibly random but, uh, what do you do for work?” You ask, finally looking him in the eye. Waiting for his response, you begin to put your coat on but before you’re able to do it yourself, Steve takes the coat from you, holding it out, allowing you to slip your arms inside. A faint blush is painted over your cheeks as you bite back a grin.

You turn back around to face him right as he’s about to speak, “I work at Family Video down the street. With Robin Buckley, if you remember her from high school? It’s uh, something but you know, pays the bills?” He lets out a small chuckle just as you do.

“I do indeed know the feeling, I work at The Squawk by myself most days. Just the radio and me. That mic is probably my only friend most days.” You roll your eyes at yourself, thinking about how embarrassing that is and why you’re confessing all of this to him.

Steve looks back at you, his smile filling his entire face, dimples popping out at you, causing you to smile back at him.

“Well, you can add one more friend to that list, if uh, that’s okay with you?” He shrugs, his big hazel eyes looking down at you like a lost puppy, begging for a treat. You feel something you haven’t felt in a long time, deep in the pit of your stomach. Are those what butterflies feel like?

Pulling a pen out of your bag and tearing off a piece of paper from your notebook. You scribble your number across the page, adding your name just for good measure. Looking back up at Steve, you hand him the slip of paper and your fingers brush as he takes it from you. His fingers linger longer than they should, both of you looking at each other.

You finally break eye contact, “I guess we’ll have to see.” shrugging back at him. “Do with that what you will. Good night, Steve.” You head toward the exit but just before you leave the front doors, you turn your head back and find Steve staring right back at you, the goofiest grin on his face.

8:30PM

The cool night air hits your face as you start the walk back home, the breeze feeling good against your skin.

You start to think about Steve and what he was like in high school, he was most definitely one of the jocks, always with friends who made bad decisions. Thinking about it, you were pretty surprised to see him at the library, that’s the last place you’d expect him. Maybe graduating high school changed something in him, maybe he had grown up.

As you make your way back to your apartment in the calm of the blanket of nightfall, you hear rock skitter behind you and tumble past your feet. You halt in your tracks as your brows furrow and form a deep crease on your forehead.

You swallow thickly and turn around to find nothing. You drag your hands over your face, laughing at how ridiculous the games your tired mind was playing on you. You turn to continue your journey home.

Before you make it even 3 steps, you hear a whistle behind you. Too sing songy to be a mere coincidence of the wind picking up around you.

You stop again and quickly turn on your heel to look behind you again.

Nothing.

You huff sharply out of your nose, jaw clenching as goose bumps form up your spine and over the back of your neck. “Fuck this.” You mutter to yourself.

You turn once again, picking up your pace as thunder started to rumble above your head.

“Great.” You thought to yourself. The last thing you need is to be rained on top of feeling like the most insane woman in Hawkins.

8:45PM

You unlock the front door of your apartment, walking in and turning on the lights, everything how you had left it from this morning. Tossing your things down on the couch, you head toward the kitchen to warm up some frozen meal that you have lying in your fridge. Too tired for anything else.

You watch as the Stouffer’s mac and cheese rotates inside, slowly losing yourself in the dull hum of the microwave. As you’re waiting for the remaining seconds left, you come back to, realizing you never shut your blinds when you got home. Just as you’re turning around, you swear you see something out of the corner of your living room window. Your heart jolts, sweat immediately starting to form on your palms. Walking over to the windows, you realize it was just a shadow from the street light on the corner. At this point, the lack of sleep is really getting to you.

Sighing but also trying to catch your breath, you start closing the blinds in your living room, making your rounds just as the microwave makes it’s final ding. You head back over, pulling the tray from the microwave and placing it on your dining room table, grabbing a spoon along the way.

You eat in silence, just like you always do. Zoning out and not paying mind to anything. Sometimes you feel like your life is on autopilot and you’re not the captain. Every day is the same, nothing changing. Your spoon trailing up toward your lips, you go to take a bite, but it’s empty. Realizing you finished the tray of mac and cheese and that it’s probably time to go to bed, you gather the now empty tray and spoon and head toward the sink.

Your heart plummets into your stomach, immediately startled by a loud sound. The tray falling onto the ground along with the spoon. After a few seconds, you realize it’s the sound of your home phone ringing.

Your home phone hasn’t rang in weeks, confused by who would be calling you at this time. You leave the tray and spoon where they are and decide you’ll get it in a second. Heading toward the obnoxiously loud phone, you lift it up and press it to your ear, immediately twirling the cord around your finger, a nervous habit.

“H-hello?” you speak out.

“Uh, hi, it’s Steve. Steve Harrington? Listen, I-“

His voice washes over you with immediate familiarity and you feel yourself slowly start to calm down.

“I know it’s probably too soon to call as we talked like less than an hour ago but, I was wondering if you wanted to go on a date with me sometime? Maybe tomorrow? Say I pick you up around 7:30?” he pleads, you can hear the smile in his voice.

You sit there, contemplating. You didn’t expect him to call this soon, let alone at all really. He did come off as relatively nice at the library and he isn’t bad to look at. You start to zone out, deep in your thoughts.

“Hello? Are you still there?” Steve comes through on the other end.

“Oh, uh, yeah, sorry. I-I don’t think tomorrow will work for me, I have my shift tomorrow and just a bunch of stuff to catch up on after work. Maybe we can-“ you start to say as Steve’s voice comes through the line.

“Come on, I’ll make it worth your while. It’ll be good for you, ya know, to unwind after a long day all by yourself at that radio station. I’m sure it’ll be better than some TV dinner you’d go home to.”

You stood straighter, snapping your head to the blinds you just closed moments ago. “How did you–“

“Don’t overthink it. I’m not above begging, you know.” He interrupts.

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You better treat me to a real nice dinner, Harrington. I’m talking wine and dine.” You jest leaning a shoulder against the wall starting to ease back into the conversation.

“See you tomorrow at 7:30. I’ll pick you up from the library.” he chuckles back and then you hear the click before the line goes silent.

[riddlersoupwrites]

𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝙻𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝙲𝚊𝚕𝚕

Ghostface!Kurt Kunkle x Fem Reader.

cw- alcohol, murder, blood

wc- 2.3k

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Chapter 3.

Ava's house was already too busy by the time Kurt pulled the car up to the side of the road. You could hear the music from halfway down the street, and smell the cheap alcohol, and greasy pizza as you got out of the car.

Kurt sighed and got out of the car, pulling at the hem of his t-shirt as he fell into step beside you, his fingers finding yours and lacing through them, warm and too tight.

Inside, streamers hung from from the ceiling, red cups scattered across every surface, music vibrated through the walls, bodies cramped together in the entryway.

“You're here!” Ava shrieked as she ran towards you, barreling through everyone to throw her arms around you, already smelling like vodka and bad decisions. “You're late.” She said, her eyes narrowing as she pulled back to look at you.

“Fashionably.” You shrugged. Her eyes flicked briefly to Kurt standing awkwardly just behind you.

“Oh. Kurt's here.”

“Happy birthday.” He smiled despite the flat tone of her voice. As if he'd been practicing.

“Uh-huh.” She hummed, already distracted as she grabbed your wrist and pulled you towards the kitchen. “You need a drink.”

You shot Kurt a look over your shoulder as she dragged you.

He lifted his hand in a small gesture. I'll be fine. Before his hands slid into his pockets, his shoulders raised as he looked around the entryway, fixating on the chandelier.

The kitchen was worse. Everything was louder, and stickier. Spilled drinks littered the counter, and no one seemed particularly concerned about it. Ava shoved a drink in your hand, the smell hit your nose and made your eyes water. You were about to protest when you heard a familiar voice in your ear, too close. Always too close.

“Didn't think you'd actually show.” He said, attempting to rest a hand on your shoulder that you quickly slipped out of.

“You wanna back up a bit there Ethan?” You said, stepping away from him further as he leaned against the counter by you.

Ava was already in another conversation when you glanced at her.

“Sorry, you've just got that pull, y’know. And you smell nice.” He said, taking a sip of his drink and grimacing. “You look pretty, like what you've done with your hair.” He gestured to your head, you pulled back before he could touch it.

“...okay.” you said, avoiding his eyes and glancing around the room, swirling the liquid that smelled like paint stripper around the cup.

“You alo-”

“No.” You answered before he could finish. Ethan rolled his eyes and reached his hand towards your arm, which you pulled back from. “I have a boyfriend, Ethan.”

“Yeah I know.” He said, shrugging. “I've seen him.”

“Great.” You raised your eyebrows, and finally took a sip from the cup, immediately spitting it back out and setting the cup down.

“You can do better than him.” Ethan leaned closer to talk over the music. You glared at him, your arms folding tightly over your chest. “He's weird.”

“I like weird.” You said. Your gaze drifted, automatically scanning the room.

You spotted Kurt near the doorway, half in, half out of the kitchen. He wasn’t talking to anyone. Just standing there, phone in hand, thumb moving absently across the screen.

“Yeah, sure. But he's not good weird, he's weird weird.” Ethan continued, following your gaze to your boyfriend.

“Alright.” You sighed, bored of the conversation, pushing off the counter and walking away from Ethan towards Kurt, who put his phone away when he saw you approaching, his face lighting up as he put his arm around your shoulders and guided you to the living room.

Kurt was perched on the arm of the couch, his gaze fixed on the TV as you stood between his legs, talking to your friends, his hand loosely on your hip. You glanced at the TV, seeing the screen flicker with a masked figure chasing someone down a hallway.

“Classic mistake,” Kurt said, nodding toward the TV.

“What?”

“They always run upstairs.” He tilted his head, studying the scene. “You don’t run upstairs. You trap yourself.”

You slid your arm over his shoulders. “Okay, survival expert.”

He finally looked at you again, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “I’d keep you safe.”

The words landed softer than everything else around you.

“Yeah?” you said, quieter.

“Yeah.”

Laughter rippled outward from the group huddled by the TV, you glanced up from Kurt to find them all looking your way.

“-no I'm serious, ask her.” Ethan was saying, grinning at the group around him.

“Ask me what?” You said, raising your eyebrows expectantly, your fingers twisting softly in Kurt's shirt.

Ethan gestured his cup towards Kurt, “your boyfriend.”

“What about him?” You asked defensively, feeling Kurt's shoulders tense under your arm, his fingers curling around your hip tighter.

Ethan let out a short laugh, glancing at the others like he was about to deliver the punchline.

“I was just saying,” he started, “I don’t get it.”

“Get what?” you said, sharper now.

“This,” he said, gesturing between you and Kurt like you were two parts of different puzzles.

“You could have literally anyone here tonight, and you pick the guy who, what? Drives people around and talks to his phone?”

A couple of people laughed.

“That’s not-” you started.

Ethan cut you off, not even looking at you now, talking to the room instead. “Like, no offense,” he added, in a tone that made it clear there was plenty of offense, “but I’ve seen his stuff. It’s painful.”

More laughter.

“You know what his last video got?” Ethan went on, pulling his phone out like he’d been waiting for this. “Like, twelve views? And I’m pretty sure two of those were me.”

“Ethan stop.” You said. You went to stand up straighter but Kurt pulled on your hip to keep you against him.

“Okay, that’s enough,” you said, stepping forward, putting yourself between them without really thinking about it.

Ethan raised his hands slightly, amused. “Relax, I’m joking.”

“It’s not funny.”

“It is a little,” someone muttered from the side.

You ignored it, your focus locked on Ethan. “You don’t know him.”

“I know enough,” he said. “I know you could do better.”

The room went quieter. Kurt cleared his throat, but didn't speak, just shifted subtly on the couch.

“Can't even defend himself, gotta hide behind his girl.” Ethan gestured again.

Kurt stood, reaching for your hand and pulling you away, towards the door. “Have a good night, Ethan.” He said, steering you away before you could argue.

Outside, the air was cooler. It was quieter too, a few people lingered, smoking and talking quietly as Kurt guided you down the porch steps.

“He's such an asshole.” You snapped, running a frustrated hand through your hair.

“I know.” Kurt said evenly, his thumb massaging your shoulder gently.

“He ruins every party. I don't know why people keep inviting him.” you said, dropping your hand and letting out an irritated exhale.

Kurt let out a small breath, something almost like a laugh. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” you insisted as you turned to face him now you'd reached the end of the driveway.

There was something in his expression you couldn’t quite place. Something quieter than usual.

“He was flirting with you earlier,” he said. “I didn’t like it.”

You raised your eyebrows at his honesty, the sincere tone of his voice catching you off guard.

“Let's go home. I'm tired.” You said, lacing your fingers with his and stepping closer until your chest was pressed against him. He dropped his lips to the top of your head, pressing a kiss into your hair before stepping back. He smiled softly and nodded once before leading you to the car.

The drive back was quiet.

The world outside the car felt dimmer somehow, the streetlights stretching into long golden lines across the windshield. Your head rested against the seat, eyes half-lidded as you watched them pass.

Kurt drove like he always did. Careful. Controlled.

His fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel.

“You okay?” you asked, your voice soft.

“Yeah,” he said. “You?”

“Just tired.”

He glanced at you briefly. “You can sleep when we get back.”

You hummed in agreement, closing your eyes.

For a moment, you thought about Ethan. About the way Kurt had looked at him.

Then the thoughts slipped away, replaced by the gentle rhythm of the car, and the quiet hum of the engine.

By the time you got inside, you were barely awake. You kicked off your shoes somewhere near the door, laughing softly when one of them hit the wall a little too hard.

“Careful,” Kurt said, smiling gently.

“Shh,” you mumbled, already heading toward the bedroom.

You didn’t even bother changing properly. Just pulled off your top, crawled under the covers, and sank into the mattress with a relieved sigh.

The room was dark except for the faint glow of streetlight filtering through the curtains.

You heard Kurt moving around. A drawer opening and closing. The soft rustle of fabric.

You peeked at him through heavy lids. He was standing by the dresser, back to you, pulling on a different jacket.

“Hey,” you murmured. “What’re you doing?”

He paused. Just for a second. Then he turned, expression easy. “Forgot something in the car.”

“At-” you squinted at the clock. “It’s like, two.”

“I’ll be quick.”

You considered that for a moment. It didn’t feel strange. Not really. Kurt forgot things all the time.

“Okay,” you mumbled, already drifting again.

You heard the front door open.

Close.

And then you were asleep.

The street was empty when he reached the house.

He stood under the weak glow of a streetlamp, pulling the mask down over his face. The plastic settled into place, reshaping him instantly, stretching his reflection into something else entirely.

The knife in his hand. Then his phone. He opened the camera first this time.

The front-facing lens caught him, Ghostface staring back, warped slightly by the cheap resolution. He adjusted the angle, tilting his head, testing the framing.

Then he flipped it.

Rear camera now. The house filled the screen. Perfect.

His thumb hovered over the record button for a second.

Then-

Tap.

A small red dot blinked alive, and he stepped forward.

The knock was sharp against the door. Inside, the movement was slow. Footsteps, then a pause, then the handle turned and the door opened.

Ethan blinked at the sight of him, confusion immediate, unguarded.

“What the-” His eyes flicked to the phone, then back to the mask. “…Is this a joke?”

Kurt didn’t react. Didn’t speak. He stepped forward, pushing the door open wider, the camera dipping slightly with the movement before steadying again.

Ethan backed up automatically, more thrown off than afraid. “Hey-hold on,” he said, a half-laugh slipping out. “If this is for a video or something, you gotta-”

The door shut behind them. A quiet, final click. Kurt adjusted the phone in his hand, keeping Ethan in frame.

“Dude,” Ethan said, a little slower now. “Seriously, what are you doing?”

No answer. Kurt just watched him. Through the lens. Through the mask.

Ethan shifted, unease beginning to creep up his spine. “Okay… not funny.”

Kurt took a step closer. The camera followed smoothly. Ethan’s back hit the wall.

“Alright,” Ethan said, hands lifting slightly, trying to laugh it off again. “You made your point. You can take the mask off now.”

Kurt didn’t move.

The silence stretched, and thickened.

Ethan’s smile faltered. “…Hello?” he said.

Kurt stepped forward. Fast.

The camera jolted with the motion, catching a blur of the blade piercing through Ethan's stomach before snapping back into focus on his face as everything shifted at once.

A sharp, strangled sound tore out of him, confusion collapsing instantly into panic.

“What the fuck! What the fuck-” he gasped, hands flying to his side.

The frame steadied again. Kurt held it there. Close enough to see everything.

Ethan’s face. The shock. The blood spilling from underneath his hands, the dawning realization.

“Wait-wait-” he choked, stumbling sideways, hitting the wall harder this time. “Stop-stop!”

Kurt followed.

Ethan’s breathing turned ragged, uneven, his hands shaking as he tried to push himself away from the wall, from the figure in front of him, from the lens that refused to look away.

“No-no-please-” he managed, voice breaking. “I didn’t-”

Kurt moved again. The knife driving into Ethan's chest this time. Quicker. Cleaner. The knife made a sharp noise as he pulled it back out, and drove it into the side of Ethan's neck, blood spraying across the walls, the floor, the mask.

Ethan’s words cut off into something wet and fractured, his body folding and his hands sliding through the wet blood over his neck as he slid downward, leaving red streaks on the wall behind him.

The camera dipped, following down to keep him centered.

Kurt crouched slightly, angling the shot. Watching. Recording.

Ethan’s hands trembled, weak now, slipping, failing to find anything to hold onto. His gaze flickered up once, unfocused, searching the mask for answers.

Ethan’s movements slowed, his throat gurgled, his breathing stuttered.

Then stopped.

The room went still. Kurt didn’t move right away. He held the shot. Let it linger. Let the silence fill every corner of it.

Then, slowly, he stood.

The camera panned once across the room. The wall. The floor. The evidence of what had just happened.

His breathing was steady behind the mask. The red dot still blinking. Finally, his thumb moved and the recording ended.

The covers tangled around your legs, your hand reaching blindly across the mattress.

Empty.

You frowned faintly, still half-dreaming.

“Kurt?” you mumbled.

No answer. Outside, somewhere far off, a dog barked.

Then silence settled again, soft and heavy.

You turned onto your side, pulling the pillow closer.

And slept.

[harringtonsdiary]

steve harrington x reader fanfiction | fratboy!steve | platonic!stobin (i promise) | mentions of cheating (but it's not real cheating) | mean!steve, playboy!steve | sort of friends to enemies to fwb to lovers | slowish burn | angst | hurt ... eventual comfort

warnings: yearning steve harrington. steves pov. mostly done in the form of letters. will they wont they......... happy ending. (I CAVED. THEY BEGGED ME OKAY THEY WERE NOT GONNA DO IT BUT...) SMUT. NOTHING CRAZY soft sex. a little spit i couldn't help it. words: 12k summary: When you find out your college roommate/friend robin buckley's boyfriend, steve harrington— who you thought beat all stereotypical frat boy odds— is cheating on her, you find it hard to understand why she still wants to be with him. But there is more than meets the eye. You aren't sure if you want to be roped into it. a/n: oh.... so? this is the last chapter? this is the end of the arc besides the epi luigi.... hot shot and steve are...? wow. i have no words. this fic was probably the most taxing thing i've ever written. but so many of you guys encouraged me to keep going. it's you, the readers who kept me to continue even if you guys are insane. masterlist | Rules/Playlist

Chapter 18

3 June, 1988

Dear Hot Shot, 

I just got back from dropping off Robin at the bus station for Boston. You know I’m a tough guy. I can handle not being invited. Ha… 

I was thinking about the first time Robin introduced us. Spring of 87’. I wasn’t having a good night. But I remember her shouting, “She came?” Before I knew it you were in front of us and I could only stupidly think…Pretty.  

That night I was supposed to meet up with a girl, and I can’t even remember who.  All I remember is you.

You were dancing with Buck. You were both so drunk, stumbling into each other and laughing. But Buck must have been worse off because he threw up all over your shoes. I was only a pledge at the time, but I remember all the guys around me tensing up, getting ready for you to lay into him. Apparently this was a common thing with Buck—he'd get too drunk and puke on people, and they'd lose it on him.

So it was a surprise to all of us when you didn't even yell at him. You only took off your shoes and gave him some water. Told him to sit down and breathe. I got stuck cleaning up the mess because that's what pledges do, and I heard you jump up and pull Robin to the floor when "Hot Stuff" came on.

As you were dancing with Robin, both of you screaming the lyrics, I thought: who the hell is she rooming with? You were only wearing your socks and dancing, and now that I think about our conversation at the lake, you really don't know how to dance. You were all arms and no rhythm, and somehow that made it better.

So then I decided you were pretty and weird.

I like that you're weird, apparently, because I was pathetically asking Robin about you nonstop after that night. Where were you from? What were you studying? Did you have a boyfriend? (You didn't, thank god.) Were you always that nice to people who threw up on your shoes?

I like that you're kind too. And god, you're so selfless. I beat myself up every day about how I took advantage of that. How I let you think you weren't good enough when really I was the one who wasn't good enough for you.

If you haven't noticed by now... I miss you.

I’m going to try my hardest not to call and check in every hour this weekend. I hope you enjoy the cookies I sent with Robin. My mom made them. I helped, so they might be extra sweet. Max says I’m too corny… I guess maybe I’m the weird one. 

I told my mom about you, and she said, “The pretty one, right?” 

Maybe one day I can be lucky enough to be weird with you. Where we can badly dance in our socks together. 

Sincerely,

Your handsome weird friend 

.-.-.-.

6 June, 1988

Dear Hot Shot, 

I don’t have much to say. Again, not a whole lot going on besides Family Video. Today, however, I tried to teach Max how to drive. Maybe the next time I see you I can tell you how this punk once drove my car when she was thirteen. I should have known better. 

At least I survived. 

Mrs. Henderson’s petunias not so much. 

How was Boston? Robin won’t tell me a whole lot. I'm trying not to be jealous that you're hanging out with everyone except me, but I'm doing a terrible job of it.

Sincerely, 

Steve

P.S. Max found this mixtape I had made for you months ago, made fun of me, and then convinced me to send it to you or she would. Never thought I’d be blackmailed by a seventeen-year-old who doesn’t know how to drive. 

.-.-.-.

8 June, 1988

Dear Hot Shot, 

Robin told me you’ve been reading my letters. 

I feel... I don't know what to feel. A part of me wishes they got lost in the mail and you never saw them, that I could take back everything I've said because it's too much, too honest, too pathetic. Then there's the other part of me—the bigger part—imagining you reading them. I wonder if it's the same way you read your books.

I think it's cute how your eyes move across the pages when you're reading, completely engrossed in whatever story you're in. How your nose scrunches when you're focused on whatever's happening in the plot. Sometimes your lips move, reading whatever out loud to yourself without realizing you're doing it.

Not that I'm staring at your lips.

OK, I look at your lips an appropriate amount of time. Can you blame me? I mean, they killed me constantly. Every time you'd bite your bottom lip when you were thinking, or smile that smile that made your whole face light up, or—

Yeah, I'm not going to finish that thought.

I always had a hard time studying when I was around you and you were like that, lost in whatever you were reading. Because then I wanted to know what was going on in your book too, wanted to understand what had you so captivated. And because I wanted to kiss you. Still do, if I'm being honest. Which I guess I am, since that's kind of the whole point of these letters.

Sincerely, 

Steve

.-.-.-.

9 June, 1988

Dear Hot Shot, 

You know when things changed for me? The moment I knew I really didn’t want anyone else? 

Valentines Day. 

I couldn't stop thinking about you that day. From the moment I woke up to the moment I fell asleep and even after, in my dreams.

You were so sick, and I remember thinking... can she get any prettier? Which is insane because you had a runny nose and messy hair and you kept sniffling. But you were wrapped up in a blanket, curled against me on your bed, and I'd never seen anything more beautiful in my life.

I don't know what did it for me specifically. Your runny nose or your messy hair or the way you kept apologizing for being gross when you weren't gross at all. I do know that when you laid your head on my chest and fell asleep, I felt my stomach tie into knots. The good kind. The kind that made me think: oh no, this is it, I'm done for.

Nothing was the same for me after that moment. Every time I hooked up with someone after that, I felt guilty. Like I was cheating on you even though we weren't together. Like I was looking for you in other people and obviously never finding you because you're you and they weren't.

Maybe it had never been the same. Maybe from that first night when you danced in your socks, I was already gone. Maybe I was always meant to meet you.

God, I hope so.

Sincerely, 

Steve

.-.-.-.

12 June, 1988

Dear Hot Shot, 

Did Eddie tell you Polly dumped him? He's been OK, I think. Or he says he's OK, which probably means he's not OK but doesn't want to talk about it.

Last night we went to Hawkins' finest establishment—The Hideout. It's this dive bar that smells like stale beer and cigarettes, but Eddie and his band play there a lot. Except since his breakup, he's been kind of in a rut. He says he has "inspiration constipation." I call it sulking.

Then I thought… is this how Eddie and Jonathan thought about me all those months? When I was moping around about you? They both can smell my "bullshit" a mile away... ha. Guess I wasn't as subtle as I thought I was being.

Besides Eddie being a downer, I had a good night. It would have been better if you'd been there. Nancy came too, and even though her and Robin are still careful in public, I feel happy they can look at each other freely now. No more hiding. No more pretending.

The news of the "break-up" here in Hawkins was gossip for weeks. Apparently the whole town had an opinion about it. My mom's friends kept calling to check on me, asking if I was OK, if I needed anything. It's fizzled out by now, though. People found other things to talk about.

Kind of humiliating how much of a big deal we made it out to be. All that stress and lying, when we could have just been honest from the start. 

The Hideout has billiard tables. If you ever decide to grace us… me… with a visit to Hawkins, maybe I can take you to play. Can you hear the desperation in my handwriting? That I kind of really want to see you?

 I’m not sure how I can be more patient when the others… even Dustin? Have heard from you. 

But I’m trying. I really am. 

I guess I’m sulking too. 

Sincerely, 

A desperate man 

.-.-.-.

15 June, 1988

Dear Steve, 

Thank you for the letters. As for billiards. Do you remember what happened the last time we played? I don’t think you’re ready for round two. 

And thank you for the cookies. That was sweet of you and they were delicious. 

-Your friend

P.S. I am glad to hear about your glasses. 

.-.-.-.

20 June, 1988

Dear Hot Shot, 

Is it true you're coming to Hawkins for Independence Day? Robin mentioned it, but I wanted to make sure before I got my hopes up.

I can't deny that I cannot wait to see you, but I want to make sure you're OK with me being around. If you're not, I will literally chain myself to my bed until you leave town. Lock myself in my room. Avoid all public spaces. Whatever you need.

For my sake, not yours. I don't think I could handle seeing you and not being able to talk to you.

I'll be OK though. I promise.

I don’t really like fireworks, if I’m being honest. They’re too loud. When I was a kid I used to cry everytime they went off. Eventually my parents just started leaving me home with a babysitter on the Fourth of July so they didn't have to deal with it.

Remember that story Max told you about me accidentally popping a Hopper in the ass with a firework? It’s because I jumped at the noise. 

Anyway, I'm also trying to act cool about the fact that you wrote back and that I haven't totally read your letter over and over again... or memorized your handwriting... or folded it up and put it in my wallet so I can take it out whenever I'm missing you most.

To paint the picture… it's a lot. I take it out a lot.

Robin caught me reading it at work yesterday and made fun of me for another twenty minutes. I'm never going to hear the end of this.

Sincerely, 

Steve

.-.-.-.

24 June, 1988

Dear Steve, 

Yes, I'm coming to Hawkins for Independence Day. It didn't take much for Robin to convince me. She says there's a huge carnival with rides and games and apparently the best funnel cake in Indiana? It sounds like a lot of fun.

I’d hate for you to miss something fun. 

I can’t wait to properly catch up! 

-Your friend

.-.-.-.

Steve has never been this nervous since he kissed you in the tent back in March.

Back then, he kept thinking over and over about how long it had been since he had really kissed someone—not counting that makeout session at the Mardi Gras party, which barely counts anyway. Sure, he'd kissed you then, but after confessing he only wanted you, after everything that's happened since, it had felt like his first kiss all over again. Like he was thirteen and terrified and has no idea what he's doing.

Now, his stomach is tied in knots, twisting and clenching every time he so much as glances in your direction.

You're sitting across the pool at his parents' house, and he can't stop staring.

Everyone is here to swim—the kids are running around screaming, cannonballing into the deep end and playing chicken in the shallow end. Max and Lucas are floating on inner tubes, holding hands when they think no one's looking. Dustin keeps trying to dunk Mike, who's protesting loudly. Jane is sitting on the pool steps with Will, both of them talking quietly and watching the chaos. Jonathan and Nancy even came in for the weekend, lying on lounge chairs and looking more relaxed than Steve's seen them in months.

Everyone is here, but to Steve, he's forgotten they exist.

He feels like a schoolboy with a crush. Like Tommy H. in eighth grade when he got obsessed with Carol, following her around like a puppy and blushing every time she talked to him. Steve had made fun of him for it then. Karma's a bitch.

You're trying to be polite, making an effort to talk to him. But every time you do, he stumbles over his words like an idiot, then walks away to grab another beer from the cooler just to have an excuse to escape. He's on his third beer and it's only two in the afternoon.

It's the day before the Independence Day carnival, and all Steve can think about is how much he loves you.

He was terrified you'd come to Hawkins and tell him you'd gotten over it. That the distance helped you realize you don't actually want him, that you're better off without him, that being friends is all you can manage. But the moment you walked in the door with Robin yesterday—his heart already racing because Dustin had warned him over the walkie-talkie that you'd been spotted at Benny's Burgers with Robin and Nancy—he met your eyes, and he could see it.

The flash of softness. The way your lips upturned at the sight of him. The slight hitch in your breath that he caught even from across the room.

He felt himself blush, felt his hands start to sweat like he was back in high school asking someone to prom.

But then there was another flash—recollection, memory, pain. Letting him know there's still hurt there, still wounds that haven't fully healed.

You look like nothing but sunshine right now. Feet dangling in the pool, sitting next to Max on the pool deck, talking about something that keeps making both of you laugh. Steve can't help but look at the tattoo on your hip—"Hot Shot" in slightly crooked letters, visible when your swimsuit shifts. And god, why is it the sexiest thing in the world to know that his nickname is permanently marked on your skin? His girl. Even if you're not his girl yet. Even if you might never be his girl again.

He can't help but notice how your thighs press against the pool deck, how the flesh of your ass mushes slightly on the concrete, how your shoulders are changing color from the sun despite the sunscreen you applied. He hopes his sunglasses hide the way his eyes are glued to your every move, the way he's cataloging each smile and laugh and gesture like he's studying for a test.

He wants to make you laugh again, wants your hand to fall carelessly on his shoulder like it used to. Wants to see your eyes twinkle the way they do when you're really happy—like the stars themselves, bright enough that there's no need for the sun or moon or artificial light. Like you contain all the illumination the world needs right there in your irises.

He's been a little lonely since he came home for summer, if he's being honest with himself.

His dad has begrudgingly talked to him—short, clipped conversations about Steve's GPA and his major and whether teaching is "really what you want to do with your life, son." The disappointment hangs heavy in every word his father speaks, and Steve's stopped trying to defend his choices. There's no point. Not to mention the whole lying about his long-term relationship with Robin. 

He doesn't go over to Robin's house as often anymore. Her parents are accepting and understanding, they really are, they've been great about everything, but it's still a fresh wound for everyone. The revelation, the lies, the year-plus of deception. Robin doesn't come over to Steve's as often either, only showing up when everyone else is there too, when it's a group thing and not just the two of them.

It's weird. In a sense, it does feel like a real breakup. Without all the awkwardness and tension that comes with romantic breakups, but with the same sense of loss, of figuring out who they are beyond the roles they played. Trying to remember how to be just friends when they've been "dating" for so long.

It's been ages since Steve's been actually single. Technically single and not sleeping with anyone. He can admit there have been a few girls from high school who stuck around Hawkins—girls who come into Family Video and flirt with him, twirling their hair and asking for movie recommendations in voices that suggest they're not really interested in movies at all.

But he doesn't know how to reciprocate anymore. Doesn't know how to flirt back when he's not interested, doesn't know how to let them down easy without being an asshole about it.

Least to say, Keith says Steve's the worst at customer service now and makes Robin handle most of the customers. Which is probably fair.

Back at college, it was easy to fall into the confidence that comes with flirting fueled by lust. By knowing you're going to hook up with someone and that's all it is—bodies and pleasure and nothing deeper. But when he discovered the part of him that loves someone, really loves them, it rewired every bit of his brain. There's something more dangerous about approaching a girl—approaching you—with the heavy feeling of aching and longing to be something more. It rattles him, makes him nervous and awkward in ways he hasn't been since middle school.

Steve tries not to be jealous when Eddie pulls you into the pool, both of you splashing and laughing, Eddie picking you up and threatening to dunk you under. Steve knows Eddie wouldn't do anything— Eddie knows how Steve feels. Eddie's a good friend even when Steve hadn’t been for the past few years. 

But Steve can't help the tightness in his chest. The same tightness he felt when you kissed Eddie as a dare in the basement of the Pike house, even though he had no right to feel jealous then either. It was just another moment to catalog— Steve Harrington being a dingus and not seeing the truth of his feelings. 

Steve gets up from his pool chair, his thighs slick with sweat, the hair there clinging to his skin. He walks inside to cool down from the summer heat, lifting his sunglasses up to rest on top of his overgrown, messy hair that badly needs a cut.

He knows he's sulking. He knows it would be unfair to pout in front of you, to make you think he wants to rush you into forgiving him before you're ready. But he can't stop thinking that maybe there's hope. That maybe the way you looked at him yesterday when you first walked in means something.

He goes to his mom's tea room—a small sitting area off the kitchen with floral wallpaper and too many decorative plates—and sits on the piano bench, pulling the blind aside slightly to see the view of the backyard through the window.

He notices you're not out there anymore. And he's annoyed with himself that he's relieved to see Eddie is still in the pool, now terrorizing the kids by threatening to throw Dustin's hat into the deep end.

"Thought you told Nancy you were getting another drink?"

Your soft voice filters in from the doorway, and Steve's heart nearly stops.

He twists around awkwardly on the bench, already smiling before he can stop himself. He's not sure what to do with his hands—they move around uselessly before he finally settles them between his legs, gripping the edge of the bench, looking up at you.

You're wearing denim shorts now, cut-offs that are frayed at the hem, and an oversized t-shirt over your swimsuit. Your hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends from the pool water. He can smell the sun on your skin, that particular scent of sunblock mixed with chlorine and something underneath that's purely you. The smell gets stronger as you walk into the room, looking around at all the different collections his mom has accumulated—teacups on shelves, decorative plates on the walls, a shelf of crystal figurines that Steve's been terrified of breaking since childhood.

You smile at him again, and his stomach flips. You point at the spinet piano against the wall. "That's cool. Does your mom play?"

Steve looks over his shoulder at the ivory keys, yellowed slightly with age. He smirks, quirking an eyebrow. "Why do you assume my mom?"

You laugh—that beautiful laugh that makes his chest expand, that makes him feel like he could float right off this piano bench. You tilt your head, crossing your arms. "Your dad doesn't really strike me as someone who could tell what a musical note is if it hit him in the face." You pause, probably thinking about that disastrous dinner. "And I only met your mom once, but... I feel like even though she likes nice things, she wants to enjoy them. Not just own them."

Steve smiles, genuinely pleased that you saw that in his mom. "She used to play. Not much anymore. It's probably out of tune by now." He pauses, choosing his words more carefully. "Robin and her would do duets when we started..." He trails off. Being friends, he finally settles on. Not dating. Not in a relationship. Because it wasn't real, and he doesn't want to treat it as such now.

He thinks for a moment, then adds, "But I took lessons when I was seven. For about six months. Never practiced, though, so it was okay because then my dad said it was a useless talent for a boy to have anyway."

Your eyebrows furrow, and Steve wants nothing more than to reach out and smooth the crease with his thumb. He clasps his hands tighter between his legs to stop himself.

"Do you remember any songs?" you ask.

He cracks a smile, falling back into the safety of humor. "You kidding? In high school I'd bring chicks over and play them a few chords of 'Chopsticks' and they'd think I was Mozart."

You throw your head back laughing, corners of your eyes crinkling, and Steve thinks he's won at life just being able to hear it. Probably the prettiest sound in the world, better than any music the best piano player could make.

Then you say, walking closer, "Okay. Show me."

Steve's mouth falls open. He rubs the back of his neck, closing one eye nervously. "I was kidding. I don't actually remember anything."

You giggle, that softer laugh, more intimate, and walk over to the bench. He watches your eyes fall on his bare chest, then down to his stomach. The way he's sitting, the soft skin spills over the top of his swim trunks slightly, creating a small roll.

In most cases, he'd feel self-conscious. Most girls he's been with, he's always turned off the lights or kept his shirt on or made sure there was minimal interaction with his body. Billy used to call him soft, would poke at his stomach in the locker room, and even though Steve knows Billy was an asshole, the words stuck.

But with you, he wants to be seen. Wants you to look at all of him—the parts he's proud of and the parts he's not. He watches how your pupils dilate slightly, how your breathing changes when you look at how his stomach flexes as he adjusts his position. You notice. And he always wants you to notice him, wants your eyes on him like this.

You look shy now, a flush creeping up your neck as you walk to the other side of the bench and slide in, facing the piano. Steve follows suit quickly, turning to face the keys.

He's patient, or trying to be, but he still scoots a little closer, making his thigh touch yours. If you move away, he won't try again. Won't push.

He feels you tense for a moment, but you don't make an effort to move. That has to mean something, right?

"Okay," you say softly, and he can hear the slight tremor in your voice. "Put your two fingers here."

Steve looks at you instead of the piano, taking in the slope of your nose, the curve of your cheek, the way your eyelashes cast shadows. Then he does as you said, placing his pointer and middle finger on the keys you indicated.

He hears you take a deep breath in, and then you grab his wrist.

His brain stops working at the touch. It's been so long since your soft hands have met his skin—not since that night on the swings, and even then it was brief, careful. He remembers when you slapped his cheek in Miami, then a few weeks later put your hand on the same cheek in comfort at the bonfire, telling him you love him. It still burns, both memories. The sting and the tenderness.

You start pressing his fingers down on the keys, creating a simple melody he vaguely recognizes. Maybe "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" or something equally basic. But he starts laughing because he keeps slipping his fingers on purpose so the note comes out wrong, and you have to start over.

"Steve," you say, trying to sound annoyed, but you're laughing too. "You're doing that on purpose."

"Am not," he lies, grinning.

"Are too."

"Prove it."

You laugh again and grab his wrist tighter, repositioning his fingers with exaggerated care. He's finding every excuse to be held by you, to have your skin on his, even if it'll be gone in a moment. Even if this is all he gets.

He really is a dingus.

When the song is over—played correctly this time because you wouldn't let him sabotage it again—you let out a happy sigh. Slowly, carefully, you take your hands away from his wrist. You scoot over slightly, just an inch or two, so his bare thigh is no longer pressed against yours.

The loss of contact feels like a physical blow.

You're looking at the keys, not at him, and Steve makes no effort to hide that he's staring right at you. Drinking in your profile, memorizing the way the afternoon light comes through the window and illuminates your face.

He could do what he really wants to do. Could ask if you've forgiven him yet, if you're ready to give him another chance. Could reach out and tilt your chin up with his finger, lean in and kiss your lips the way he's been dreaming about for months. He’s trying not to be selfish. 

But instead, he forces himself to look straight ahead at the piano keys too. Swallows hard. "We should, uh... head back out, you know? Before they wonder where we went."

There's a flicker of disappointment in your eyes—he sees it, brief but real—but there's mutual agreement in the way you say, "Yeah. We should."

So you both stand up, and Steve steps to the side, offering an awkward half-hearted smile. He extends his arm in an exaggerated gentlemanly gesture, motioning for you to go through the door first.

As you walk past him, he gets a full breath of your shampoo—something floral and sweet—and the smell of chlorine and sunscreen that clings to your skin. His other hand hovers over your lower back, not quite touching but miming the gesture he wants to make, the way he used to when he wanted an excuse to touch you. But he can't. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

So he waits for you to walk completely out of the room, nearly back toward the sliding glass door that leads to the backyard, before he follows several feet behind.

Dingus, he thinks to himself, shaking his head.

Max looks up when you both emerge outside, her eyebrows raised knowingly. Eddie glances over from the pool, treading water, and gives Steve a look that clearly says smooth move, lover boy.

Steve ignores them both and goes back to his lounge chair, grabbing his fourth beer of the day, and trying very hard not to watch you sit back down next to Max.

He fails miserably.

.-.-.-.

6 July, 1988

Dear Hot Shot, 

You left today. I'm sorry I couldn't say goodbye to you properly.

Stupid Keith scheduled me for a double shift and wouldn't let me leave early even though I told him it was important. He said, and I quote, "Your personal life is not my problem, Harrington." So that was fun.

I hope you enjoyed your stay. It felt like it had gone by too fast. 

I know I didn't come hang out with everyone yesterday at the lake. I wanted to. I really did. But I guess I'm still figuring things out too. Figuring out how to be around you without wanting to pull you aside and kiss you senseless. Figuring out how to be patient when all I want is to be with you.

Can you blame me after the carnival? I mean, if you saw what I saw, you’d be in the same pathetic boat that I’m sailing right now. 

I’m sorry I got all grumpy towards the end of the night, but I didn’t have the guts to ask to ride at least one ride with you, and then the closer we got to the time for fireworks, I was feeling anxious. I was even about to leave but then I looked up at the Ferris Wheel, and saw your smile. 

I can always see your smile from a mile away, and it never fails to make my heart race and calm me down in equal measure. You looked like you were having so much fun up there with Max, both of you laughing, your hair whipping in the wind. Even though I wanted to be part of that fun, wanted to be the one sitting next to you in that cart, I felt my entire mood lift just watching you.

At that moment, my heart burst like the fireworks in the sky. 

Hot Shot, I just want you to be happy. Even if it isn't with me. Even if you decide us being friends is all we can be after everything, I'd be okay watching you rise above me, smiling like that. I'd be okay knowing I at least got to see it, got to know you, got to love you even if you don't love me back the same way anymore.

Seeing you laugh with Max… I wish I hadn’t been so nervous. I wish I had asked you to ride the Ferris Wheel with me. 

I hope next time I see you, I can see that smile again, up close, like it’s meant only for me. Your smile where it reaches all the way into your eyes and I don’t see the glimpse of how I’ve hurt you. 

Can summer go by any faster? 

Sincerely,

Steve

.-.-.-.

11 July, 1988

Dear Hot Shot,

I think my dad is really coming around about me being a teacher. He's still upset about the whole lying-to-him-for-two-years thing—brings it up at least once a week, usually over dinner when my mom tells him to drop it. But he's been asking more questions about what my new life timeline will look like. What schools I might want to teach at. What age group I'm thinking. 

He even helped me get some volunteer hours at the Boys and Girls Club for summer baseball. Which is huge for him. He’s actually making phone calls on my behalf instead of just criticizing my choices.

You'd get a kick out of these kids, Hot Shot. They're hilarious. They call me "Coach Steve," and they take it very seriously. One girl, Via, brought me a dandelion from the outfield yesterday and made me wear it tucked behind my ear for the rest of the game. All the other kids thought it was hilarious. I looked like an idiot, but it made her so happy I couldn't take it off. 

I can’t believe you were right that I’m good at this sort of thing. I’m glad you were right. 

It led me to think about what my mom said about girls. “Make sure you know if your girl likes flowers or chocolates. It makes a difference.” 

So, are you a flower or chocolate type of girl? 

I’d round up the moon for you, Hot Shot. 

Anything you want. I’ll give it to you. 

Sincerely, 

Steve

.-.-.-.

18 July, 1988

Dear Hot Shot, 

I received my class schedule for this upcoming semester today. Looks like I've got Intro to Kinesiology on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Educational Psychology on Mondays and Wednesdays, and some other classes I'm already dreading.

I know I haven't written in a week. I’m sorry about that. Work's been crazy and I've been helping my mom with some stuff around the house. But I wanted to remind you to buy your textbooks if you haven't already. 

Sincerely,

Steve

.-.-.-.

27 July, 1988

Dear Steve, 

I finally got around to reading your last few letters. I've been working a lot. Extra shifts to save up money for textbooks, which I have now ordered. Thank you for the reminder.

I have been thinking a lot since my visit to Hawkins. Mostly thinking about you. About us. 

I must admit something, the day I left Hawkins, I went to Family Video to come see you. I never liked goodbyes, but I really wanted to say bye to you. I never went inside, but like the weirdo I am, I sat in my car across the street and watched you through the window. You were helping some woman find a movie, and then you were at the counter ringing someone up, and then you were restocking shelves.

I thought you looked handsome in that green vest. 

I also thought how badly I wished you had asked me to go on the Ferris Wheel with you. I had asked Max instead because I knew you hated the fireworks and I didn’t want you to be miserable. 

When my mom saw me reading the letters, she asked what I was smiling so big about. She said she had never seen me like that before. So, I told her sort of the truth. 

I told her the boy I like has been writing to me all summer. I also told her you like me too.  

She got very excited and started asking a million questions. What's his name? What's he studying? When can she meet him? I answered what I could, and then she insisted on making you a care package.

So there might be no going back now, Steve. My mom knows about you. She's sent you Boppers and Sour Patch Kids and probably some other stuff I don't know about because she sealed the box before I could see everything.

-Yours truly

P.S. I listened to the mixtape, finally. Careless Whisper? Really, Steve? 

P.P.S. Chocolate. Definitely chocolate. 

.-.-.-.

31 July, 1988

Dear Hot Shot,

I first and foremost need to clarify something, sweetheart. I do not like you. 

I love you. 

Yes, there is a difference. So the moment you read this, you tell your mom I love you. Better yet, call me, and let me talk to her, and tell her that I love her daughter. I know you asked Robin for my phone number a few days ago. 

If you don't want me to call and talk to your mom, maybe I can drive to your house and stand outside your window and yell it loud enough for her to hear. Or for you to hear. Or for the whole neighborhood to hear. I don't care who knows anymore.

You invented love for me, Hot Shot. Before you, I thought I knew what it was. I thought I loved people. But it was nothing compared to this. If I could, I'd write this entire page with nothing but "I love you" over and over until the words lost meaning and then kept going until they gained new meaning.

Better yet….

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. 

I’ll learn it in all the languages of the world so you know I don’t get tired of saying it. 

Love,

Steve

.-.-.-.

It's the middle of a September evening, and campus is slowly buzzing back to life after summer break.

It's been two weeks since school started, but three weeks of Steve getting the Pike house back in order, organizing rush week, managing a new pack of pledges who don't know the difference between a keg and a trash can.

But finally, finally, the rest of his evening is free. And the moment he has the chance, he gets in his car and drives the short distance to Hall 11.

He slips through the open door, catching it just as some girls are leaving, laughing about something and not paying attention to him. Even though it's past curfew, past nine on a weeknight, technically against dorm rules, he sees Tessa at the RA desk.

During his fake relationship with Robin, Steve became acquainted with all the RAs. They all thought he was the perfect boyfriend, always bringing Robin food and flowers and showing up for study sessions. Tessa always looked the other way when he snuck in after hours, probably thinking it was romantic.

She waves at him now, phone pressed to her ear, mid-conversation with someone. She mouths go ahead and turns her attention back to her call.

Steve rushes up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and nearly skips down the hallway to the door he's been waiting to get to for what feels like forever. He's whistling, actually whistling like an idiot, because he's been waiting all day for this moment.

After his last letter, a few days later when he got home from work, his mom told him a girl had left a message for him. She'd had this knowing smile on her face, the one she gets when she thinks she's figured something out. "Sounds like the cookies worked," his mom had said, handing him a piece of paper with a phone number written in her neat handwriting.

Steve had rushed to his room, not even bothering to get out of his work clothes. He was still wearing the stupid green Family Video vest and his polo shirt and jeans that smelled like plastic and VHS tape dust. He picked up his phone with shaking hands and dialed the number.

When he heard your soft, familiar voice say "Hello?" his tongue went completely dry.

He panicked and hung up.

What the fuck was he going to say? He hadn't had a proper conversation with you in weeks beyond the letters. And the last thing you'd heard from him was his undying love written out thirty times on a piece of notebook paper. He'd exhaled heavily, stared at the phone like it had personally wronged him, then dialed again.

"Hello... again?" you'd said, and he could hear the smile in your voice, the amusement.

"H-hey." He'd cleared his throat, trying to sound normal and not like he'd just hung up on you like a creep. "Hey, Hot Shot."

And suddenly he'd heard your grin widen over the line, heard you adjusting, hopefully laying in bed, hopefully thinking about him the way he was thinking about you. "Are you home?" you'd asked. "I mean, wait... I guess you're home since you're calling me. I meant are you home from work?"

Steve had chuckled, looking down at his green vest, at the name tag pinned crooked to his chest. He'd kicked off his shoes somewhere in his room, not caring where they landed. He adjusted himself on his bed, sitting up against the headboard. "Yeah. What about you?"

"I worked earlier today." He could hear you wrapping the phone cord around your finger, that nervous habit you have. "Got off around three."

"Cool," Steve had said, then immediately cringed at himself. "Cool, yeah. Did you have a good day?"

He'd taken a deep breath, settling in, and said, "I want to hear all about it. Everything."

And you'd smiled—he could hear it in your voice when you said, "Everything?"

"Everything."

So you did. You told him about your shift at work, about a rude customer who yelled at you over nothing, about your coworker who covered for you when you took an extra-long lunch break. You told him about the book you were reading, about calling Max earlier that day, about how you'd burned dinner and had to eat cereal instead.

You talked for two hours about everything under the sun, and Steve listened to every word like you were reciting scripture.

He heard you yawn around midnight, heard the shift of your body against sheets. He could imagine you curling up with the phone still pressed to your ear, eyes fighting to stay open. "Are you sleepy?" Steve looked at his clock and winced. "Shit, it's almost midnight. Didn't you say you have to wake up early?"

You hummed sleepily. "Yeah. I should probably sleep."

"Yeah, okay." Steve bit his bottom lip, cringing at his awkwardness. This used to be so easy, talking to girls, flirting, knowing what to say. "So... goodnight. Yeah."

"Steve?" you'd mumbled, voice thick with exhaustion.

"Mhm?"

"Call me tomorrow?"

And he did. He called you every single day after that.

Some nights it would be the two of you talking about your days—the mundane details that somehow felt important when you were sharing them. Sometimes you'd tell each other stories from childhood, from high school, from the year you'd spent navigating this complicated thing between you. Some nights you'd both tune in to watch ALF at the same time, phones pressed to your ears, listening to each other laugh at whatever you found funny. Sometimes Steve would bite back his own laughter because he liked the sound of yours better.

Some nights Steve would keep you talking until you finally gave out, your words getting slower and slower until soft snores came through the line. He could never bring himself to hang up. He'd lay the phone down on his pillow and close his eyes and imagine you were lying next to him, breathing in sync, sharing the same space.

There was one night— a week before Steve would leave to go campus early for rush week— when you were both sleepy and Steve had been the one to say he needed to go to bed or Keith would kill him if he was late again. By kill, he meant make him do something humiliating like clean the staff bathroom floors with a toothbrush.

"Steve, wait," you'd said, and something in your voice made him pause.

"Mhm?"

He'd heard you laugh softly to yourself, a gentle exhale. And then you'd said, so gently it made his heart stop: "I love you, Steve."

And he knew then that you'd forgiven him. He knew then that you were his, and he'd always been yours, even when you weren't ready to admit it.

He'd smiled so wide his face hurt. "Hot Shot, I love you. Always." He'd grinned, gripping the phone tighter. "How about I come see you this weekend? Let me take you on a date. A real one."

"Okay," you'd said, and he could hear your smile matching his.

And now he stands outside your dorm, knocking on the oak door with barely contained excitement.

Robin opens it, toothbrush in her mouth, toothpaste foaming at the corner of her lips. "What?" she mumbles around the toothbrush, looking annoyed at the interruption.

Steve leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms so his henley rides up slightly, exposing a strip of stomach. He smirks. "I'm here to see my girlfriend."

Robin rolls her eyes so hard he's surprised they don't fall out of her head, but she kicks the door open wider to reveal the room.

You're on your bed with a book in your hand, and when you see Steve standing there, you smile. Wide and genuine and so beautiful it knocks the breath from his lungs. You're still in your regular clothes, jeans and a t-shirt, almost like you've been waiting for him.

He knows you've been waiting for him.

Your eyes land on his glasses immediately, then fall to his midriff, to the exposed skin where his shirt has ridden up, and Steve catches it. So he lifts his arm higher, resting it against the doorframe, giving you a better view. Let you look your fill.

You jump off the bed immediately, going to grab your shoes from under your desk. But Steve's inside the room before you can put them on, making you sit down in your desk chair. He kneels in front of you and slips them on your feet himself—first the left, then the right—tying the laces carefully with steady hands.

"You never did that for me," Robin says, but she's smiling as she climbs into her own bed.

Steve gives Robin a look of pure attitude, eyebrows raised. "Yeah, because you don't—" He looks up at you, his girlfriend, and god, he's never going to get tired of that word. Girlfriend. You're his girlfriend, and he's your boyfriend. Steve Harrington is an actual boyfriend in an actual relationship that's real. So real he has the hickey on his bicep from last night's makeout to prove it.

You're looking down at him with amusement, but your eyes are narrowed and one eyebrow is raised in warning. Steve has never been studious or all that smart, but he knows not to finish that sentence.

It doesn't matter anyway because Robin throws a pillow at him. "Will you take your girlfriend and leave already?" She's smiling, though, settling into her bed. "Some of us have eight a.m. classes tomorrow."

You have your fingers tangled in Steve's hair already, and his hands find your waist naturally, like they belong there. He's still kneeling in front of you, looking up like you're something sacred. "Don't worry, I'll bring her back at a reasonable hour."

"Mhm, like last night and the night before? Right." Robin pulls her blanket up, getting comfortable. "I'll believe it when I see it."

Steve chuckles, pressing his glasses up his nose, leans up and makes a soft peck against your lips. It’s brief, chaste, a promise of more later, before standing and walking over to Robin's bed.

Robin looks up at him, cautious, her expression turning warning. "Steve, don't you dare—"

He grins from ear to ear, then leans down and grabs her, planting a wet kiss on top of her short hair. "C'mon, Rob. You know I still love you."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, dingus." She waves him off, but her smile is fond, genuine. "Go be gross and in love somewhere that isn't my room."

Steve notices how the freckles on her face seem to glow, sun-kissed from summer. Her eyes are a little brighter blue lately, less weighed down. All things he knows because she's in love. And it's not with him.

At one point in his life, Steve thought Robin's love was enough. That he could handle being known only in a platonic sense, that it made no difference whether someone loved him romantically or as a friend. Robin could see him and know things about him, and he wouldn't be lonely. That was enough.

He never thought he'd be so happy to discover how wrong he was.

He feels your arm loop through his, casual and comfortable. You lean against him, your head falling naturally to rest on his shoulder. "Come on," you say, pulling at him gently. "Let's go."

"Night, Rob," Steve says.

As you pull him toward the door, he reaches over and flicks off the overhead light. The lamp on Robin's nightstand stays on. It’s the one he'd gifted her one Christmas, green-shaded and casting soft shadows against the wall. The girl who was there for him when his life literally burned to the ground. The one who carries a different piece of his heart, a piece that will always belong to her no matter what.

She smiles at him knowingly, and he understands. She loves him too. Even though things are different now, even though they're not pretending anymore, even though she has Nancy and he has you—she will always love him.

"Goodnight, dingus," she says softly.

You and Steve don't get in his car. There's no need for that anymore. No need to hide behind trees or meet in secret or make out in the backseat where no one can see. Not that you don't still do that sometimes, because you definitely do, but nights like tonight, Steve thinks, why waste a chance to show off his girl?

His girl.

Your arm drops slowly from around his, hand running down his forearm—soft touch, deliberate—until finally your fingers lace with his. Palm to palm, fingers intertwined, exactly where they belong.

And like every time you hold hands, you giggle. You look up at him, smiling that goddamn smile that makes his knees weak and his heart race and his entire world feel right. You don't say anything, but you don't need to. He knows what the smile means.

They continue walking in comfortable silence, passing other students on the sidewalk. Some wave at both of you—people from classes, from parties, from Pike events. A few girls from your classes call out "cute couple!" and you wave back, not embarrassed or shy about it.

It was hard not to announce you as his girlfriend the second he got back on campus. He'd wanted to shout it from the Pike house roof, wanted to tell every single person he passed. But he'd needed to make sure people understood the real story first— or a version of it—that he and Robin weren't happy together, that their families wanted the relationship more than they did, that sometimes people pretend because it's easier than being honest.

Most people shrugged and didn't care. Some were supportive, understanding. But sometimes you still get one or two judgmental looks, whispered comments about Steve moving on too fast or you being the reason for the breakup.

Steve tries not to let it bother him.

With his free hand, Steve runs his fingers through his hair and looks down at you. You're already looking up at him, and when your eyes meet, a grin breaks out across his face. He can't help it. He leans down and kisses your cheek, right there in the middle of the sidewalk with people around, then continues walking like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Because it is.

This is his life now. Holding your hand, kissing you whenever he wants, being allowed to love you out loud.

And he's never been happier.

There's no surprise that even though Steve's car is parked all the way back at your dorm, you've managed to walk to the Pike house instead.

Subconscious or not, neither of you made an effort to turn around and head back so he could get you to the dorm at a reasonable hour like he'd promised Robin. Your feet just carried you here, following the familiar path Steve's walked a thousand times, and he didn't stop you. Didn't suggest going somewhere else.

You've only been dating a little less than a month, but it feels longer. Maybe it's because you did everything backward—had sex before dating, said "I love you" before being together, knew each other's bodies before you really knew each other's hearts. He's not sure. But he's okay with not trying to figure it out, because all that matters is that when you walk into the Pike house now, you can walk hand in hand.

His brothers are scattered throughout the common room—some getting ready for bed in their pajama pants and t-shirts, some having late-night snacks like cereal eaten straight from the box, standing at the kitchen counter. They all wave when they see you both come in.

"Hey, Harrington!"

"What's up, man?"

"Hey, Hot Shot!"

Steve rubs his thumb across your knuckles, admiring the way you light up and ask his brothers about their day. Unlike Robin—who was always polite but never truly invested in Pike life—you genuinely want to know his brothers. You ask Buck about his Econ exam, congratulate AJ on making the intramural basketball team, laugh at George’s terrible joke about their philosophy professor.

You're still not afraid to make a face at Steve whenever they say or do something stupid. Once you whacked Buck upside the head for a sexist comment about a girl from Delta Zeta. But his brothers love you for it. They respect that you don't take their shit, that you can give it back as good as you get it.

Eddie is out with god knows who, but Steve's pretty sure it might be Polly again. They've been on-and-off since the breakup.

There's no stopping Steve from leading you upstairs, gently breaking you away from your conversation mid-sentence. "Sorry, guys, stealing her now," he says, pulling you toward the stairs.

That's one thing he's learned about you—you love to be chatty, even if it's about nothing important. You could talk for hours about the weather, about a weird dream you had, about the pattern on someone's shirt. He loves that about you.

You go inside his room and he closes the door behind you, the click of the lock loud in the quiet space.

Before you were together—back when this was still secret and forbidden and temporary—it was always rushed. Clothes removed frantically, lips on skin desperately, because it was meant to only last a few hours. To get Steve's fix and your fix and then part ways, pretending nothing happened.

But now he can't get enough of you. Wants to take his time, memorize every detail, make it last.

To be fair, the first time he slept with you he couldn't get enough either. He'd replayed that night over and over in his head for weeks—the sounds you made, the way you looked underneath him, the feeling of being inside you. In his dresser, tucked all the way behind his socks, he still has your panties from that first night. He's kept them like a talisman.

And he'd admittedly brought them out on occasion.

Like when he tried to sleep with Polly for the first time after you. He was lousy—barely present, only half harde, had to pretend he even finished. He'd faked enthusiasm while getting her off with his fingers, and afterward Polly had patted his head sympathetically and said, "Not everyone is perfect all the time, Steve. It's okay."

But his mind had immediately settled on you. The dip of your lower back, the swell of your ass and breasts, the curve of your hip. The way your plush lips say his name when he's inside you, the way your nails dig into his skin hard enough that he imagines part of his DNA living under your fingernails permanently.

When Polly left, he'd taken your panties out of their hiding place, holding them with one hand while pumping his cock with the other. So fast, eyes squeezed shut, imagining it was your soft hands instead of his own rough ones. He'd come so hard—thick white ropes shooting against his stomach, sticking to his happy trail—and he'd imagined you licking it off him, cleaning him up with your tongue.

He'd panted your name into the empty room, still gripping your panties.

Fuck, he'd really been such an idiot back then, huh?

Steve watches as you let go of his hand and immediately go to his record player. He'd finally gotten around to showing you his full collection last week, spreading albums across his floor and letting you flip through them all. Now you know exactly where everything is.

He takes off his shoes, neatly placing them by the door. Yours go right next to them. They’re side by side, like they belong there.

You're already putting a record on It’s his Queen "A Day at the Races" album. It's not even his favorite Queen album, but you love it. You always place the needle exactly where "Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy" starts, have the position memorized by now.

When he'd driven to see you for your first official date a few weeks ago, when he'd had to leave that night and drive back to Hawkins, you'd kissed him on the cheek and handed him a mixtape you'd made. "For the drive," you'd said shyly. This song was the first one on it. He'd listened to the entire tape three times on repeat during the drive home, grinning like an idiot the whole way.

You're humming along now, turning around to face him, but he's already close. His hands finding your hips like they're magnetized. "I have something for you."

Your eyes brighten immediately, and you reach up, adjusting his glasses that have slipped slightly down his nose. Your fingers are gentle, careful, and you smile at him before saying,"Oh yeah?"

He nods, melting when you run your fingers through his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp. He clears his throat, reaching behind you to grab something from his desk. He picks up a small black box. It’s nothing fancy, just a simple jewelry box he got from the store in town.

He knew if he'd wrapped it, he would've been bouncing on his feet watching you peel the paper off. He's already doing that now anyway, shifting his weight nervously as you carefully take the lid off.

Your eyes look at the contents, squinting slightly, then look up at him. He crosses his arms, thumb pressed against his bottom lip, downturned eyes staring at you hopefully.

Inside is a sterling silver chain with a charm. ΠΚΑ—Pike's Greek letters in delicate sterling silver, dainty and shimmering in the lamplight.

He clears his throat. "Yeah, so... it's kind of a thing. That a member's girlfriend wears the letters." The words tumble out faster. "It's like a whole tradition, and it means I'm serious about us. I guess it'd make you like an unofficial sweetheart even though you're not in a sorority, and you can totally not wear it if you don't want to, or—"

You giggle, smiling wide, reaching up to kiss him gently on the lips. "Steve. Shut up." You pull back just enough to look at him. "Will you put it on for me?"

Steve blushes, smiling dopily, nodding too enthusiastically. He takes the necklace out of the box with careful fingers, and you turn around, lifting your hair up and exposing the nape of your neck.

Steve's breath hitches at the sight—the delicate skin there, the small birthmark he's never noticed before, the soft baby hairs that curl slightly. He carefully drapes the chain around the front of your neck and clasps it at the back, his thumb brushing over the clasp to make sure it's secure. His fingers trail down—over your shoulder blades, down to you ribs, dangerous close to the sides of your breasts.

He steps closer, pressing his body against yours, and kisses the clasp. His lips find skin, warm and soft, and he can't stop himself from kissing lower.

You tilt your head to give him better access, and he takes over holding your hair to the side, kissing down your neck with increasing intent.

His breath catches when he sees your fingers come up to brush the letters resting against your collarbone. You're his. Really, truly his.

You've made out plenty since you've been back together. Done a lot of heavy petting, put your lips in all kinds of places, brought each other to the edge with hands and mouths. But Steve had suggested waiting to have sex again. He wanted to show you that this part meant something different to him now. Wanted to prove that it wasn't the sex that made him fall in love with you. It was simply you.

And he never thought you'd be struggling more than him with this agreement.

Like now when he feels you arch backward, pressing your ass against him deliberately, but then you quickly realize what that does to him and start to put distance between you again.

This time, Steve grabs your hips firmly, fingers digging into flesh, and pulls you back against him. He sighs at how you feel—perfect, right, his.

"Steve?" you whisper, voice breathy. "Are you sure?"

Steve hums against your neck, kissing the skin softly, reverently. "I love you," is all he says.

He can hear your smile. He can feel it in the way your body relaxes against him. It makes him smile too, teeth grazing your skin.

You turn to face him, fingers hooking into the waistband of his jeans, pulling him toward the bed. You're the one to kiss him this time, and he closes his eyes as your mouths slot together in a slow, agonizing kiss.

You always kiss pretty. Soft and thorough, like kissing him is something you want to savor.

And there you go again. Your hands immediately on his stomach under his henley, palms warm against his skin, wasting no time. You squeeze the plush skin, massaging, it sends chills up his spine and his blood moves southward.

He wastes no time either, slipping his own hand under your shirt, the other squeezing your ass, then trailing up your back to feel bare skin. Up to your breasts, squeezing and massaging through your bra. Down to your belly, caressing.

You walk him backward until his legs hit the edge of the bed, and he sits down heavily. You're standing between his spread legs, and you drop to your knees without hesitation.

"Hot Shot," he breathes, watching as you work open his belt, the clink of metal loud in the quiet room.

You unbutton his jeans, unzip them, and he lifts his hips so you can pull them down along with his boxers. His cock springs free, already hard, and you lean forward immediately.

But instead of taking him in your mouth, you press your face into the soft flesh of his lower stomach. You kiss his happy trail—that line of dark hair leading down from his navel—then lick it. Suck at it. Your tongue traces patterns against his skin, and Steve's head falls back, eyes closing.

"Fuck," he whispers.

You look up at him through your lashes, still pressing kisses to his stomach, and the sight nearly kills him. Your eyes are dark with want, lips wet and swollen, and you're worshipping the part of him he's always been most self-conscious about.

He leans down, kissing you. 

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs against your lips. "Every part of you."

You bat your eyes, “Show me?” 

When he calls you meek, he doesn’t mean for it to sound like you’re below him, or weak even. There’s just no other word to describe the gentleness of your voice, how shy you get. And your shyness only belongs to him. No one else sees you like this, but him. It nearly makes him come undone right there, thinking about it. 

Steve's heart clenches. He reaches down and cups your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. "Come here."

You stand, and he pulls you into another kiss, deeper this time, more urgent. His hands find the hem of your shirt and pull it over your head. Your bra follows. Then your jeans and underwear until you're standing naked in front of him.

He takes a moment to look at you. All of you. The curve of your hips, the softness of your thighs, your breasts, the tattoo on your hip that belongs to him, the necklace resting against your collarbone that marks you as his.

"Come here," he murmurs, pulling you closer until you're standing between his spread legs again.

His hands slide up your thighs, rough palms against soft skin, until his fingers reach your center. You're already wet—have been since he first touched you—and when his fingers brush against you, you gasp and grip his shoulders for balance.

"Steve," you breathe.

He circles your clit slowly, watching your face as pleasure flickers across your features. Then he slides one finger inside you, groaning at how warm and tight you are. "Christ, baby."

You whimper, hips rolling into his hand, seeking more. He adds a second finger, stretching you carefully, remembering how it's been months since you've done this. 

He crooks his fingers, finding that spot inside you that makes your knees buckle, and you cry out softly. Your hands tighten on his shoulders, nails digging in.

"God, you're so wet," he says, voice rough. He can feel you clenching around his fingers, can feel how ready you are for him. "So beautiful."

He pumps his fingers slowly, trying to be patient, trying to take his time preparing you properly. But it's been so long—too long—and the feel of you, the sounds you're making, the way you're looking at him with half-lidded eyes...

"I can't wait," Steve says suddenly, withdrawing his fingers. He looks up at you, desperate and needy. "I'm sorry, I know I should—but I can't. I need you now."

You nod immediately, breathlessly. "Yes. Please, Steve. I need you too."

Relief floods through him. "Yeah?"

"Yes," you say firmly, pushing him back on the bed. "Now."

And he's never loved you more than in this moment—understanding what he needs, wanting it as much as he does.

"Lie down," he says softly, his voice rough with want.

You do, crawling onto his bed and sprawling out underneath him, hair fanning across his pillow. Steve kicks off his jeans the rest of the way and pulls his henley over his head, then climbs over you. His glasses slip down his nose slightly, and you reach up with a smile, pushing them back into place with gentle fingers.

He kisses down your body—your neck, your collarbone where the necklace rests, between your breasts. When he gets to your stomach, he presses soft, quick kisses all over. Little pecks that make you giggle and squirm beneath him.

"Steve," you laugh, trying to push his head away. "That tickles."

"Good," he says, grinning against your skin. He kisses your hip bone, then lower, but you pull him back up to you.

"I need you," you whisper. "Now. Please."

Steve nods, sitting back on his heels between your spread legs. You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch him, and the sight of you like that—sprawled out on his bed, chest heaving, necklace glinting in the lamplight, eyes dark with want—makes his cock throb.

He wraps his hand around himself, pumping slowly, and your eyes track the movement. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, and he groans at the sight.

"You're so beautiful," you whisper, eyes still fixed on his hand moving over his length.

Steve throws his head back, eyes rolling behind his glasses, whimpering. He pumps himself a few more times, thumb swiping over the head where precum is already beading. Then he leans forward, positioning himself over you, he spreads your legs wider and spits directly onto your pussy, a string of saliva dripping wet from his tongue, glistening as it falls.

You gasp at the sensation. It’s warm and wet and filthy in the best way. He uses his fingers to spread it around, mixing with your own wetness, making sure you're slick and ready for him.

"Fuck. Baby," you breathe, head falling back.

He lines himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and pauses for just a moment. Your eyes meet his, and there's understanding there—this is different, more intimate, nothing between you.

"I love you," he says, looking into your eyes.

"I love you too," you breathe.

He pushes in slowly—so slowly, watching your face as he fills you inch by inch. Your mouth falls open, back arching slightly, neck elongating as your head presses back into the pillow. You let out a high-pitched moan that goes straight to his cock.

"God," Steve groans when he's fully seated inside you. He stays still for a moment, letting you adjust, savoring the feeling of being this close to you. "Baby you feel perfect."

He starts to move. It’s slow, deep rolls of his hips that make you gasp beneath him. This isn't fucking. This isn't even having sex, not really.

This is lovemaking, and he knows you or Robin would probably make fun of him for calling it that, for being so sappy and romantic. But that's what it is to him. He's not trying to get off or make himself feel good. He's worshipping you, showing you with his body what his words can't fully express.

He buries his face in your neck, pressing kisses there, breathing you in. "I love you," he whispers against your skin. "I love you so much."

"Steve," you moan, hands clutching at his back. "I love you."

He keeps whispering it. Over and over like a prayer, like if he says it enough times you'll feel exactly how much he means it. "I love you. I love you. I love you."

The room fills with sounds—skin against skin, the creak of his bed frame, your breathy moans, his low groans, the wet slide of him moving inside you. How his hips slap against your ass.The music still plays from his record player, Freddie Mercury's voice a soundtrack to this moment.

After a while, Steve sits up, pulling you with him. You end up in his lap, straddling him, and he guides you up and down on his cock with his hands on your hips. One hand braces on the bed next to him for leverage so he can thrust up into you, meeting your movements.

Your arms are around his neck, holding him close, and you're clutched together so tightly there's no space between your bodies. Sweat makes your skin stick together, and Steve can feel your heart beating against his chest—fast and hard, matching his own rhythm. Your pants and moans mixing together in harmony. 

You're looking at him, mouth parted, breathing heavily. Your hand comes up to cup his cheek, tender and gentle even as pleasure builds between you.

"I love you, Steve," you say clearly, deliberately, holding his gaze.

Steve falters, his rhythm stuttering.He kisses you fiercely, possessively, his glasses bumping against your face. He starts moving more intensely—faster, harder, deeper.

"Say it again," he demands against your lips.

"I love you," you gasp.

He uses his large hand to cup your chin, tilting your face so you have to look at him. You can see yourself reflected in his lenses. "I love you," he says back, and it comes out rough, wrecked. "I love you so fucking much."

The intensity makes you lean back slightly, back arching, and Steve groans at the sight. Your breasts bounce with each thrust, nipples hard and begging for his mouth. Your eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown wide, lips swollen from kissing. You look completely gone, lost in pleasure, and he knows he looks the same. It’s desperate and needy and so in love it hurts.

He leans forward and kisses the charm of your necklace where it rests against your skin, then your collarbone, sucking a mark there that will bloom purple by morning.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him close again, burying his face between your breasts. He can feel the way you pant and whine into his hair, can feel your body starting to tighten around him. He can hear himself whimpering your name against your sweaty skin. 

"Baby, I'm—I'm close," you gasp. 

"Me too, baby. Me too."

He reaches between you, fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles. That's all it takes—you cry out his name, clenching around him, and the feeling of you coming sends him over the edge too.

He comes with a groan muffled against your chest, hips stuttering as he empties himself inside you. You ride it out together, holding each other through the aftershocks, foreheads pressed together and noses nudging.

When you can both breathe again, you press soft pecks to his lips. Once, twice, three times. Sweet and unhurried.

Steve smiles, tucking your hair back behind your ear with gentle fingers. "I'm happy," he says genuinely, searching your face. "Are you happy, Hot Shot?"

"Yes, Steve. I'm more than happy."

And he believes you. He sees it in your eyes, in the way you're looking at him like he hung the moon and stars. He grabs your hand and places it over his heart, wanting you to feel what he’s thinking without saying it. 

He loves you. 

You kiss his lips again, soft and lingering. When you pull back, your irises are glimmering, searching into his own. He sees stars twinkling in them—actual constellations reflected in the depths of your eyes. He kisses your nose, then your forehead.

And like the sun itself rising, splitting across your face, you smile. Wide and genuine and so full of love it makes his chest ache.

It doesn't matter anymore how it all led up to here—all the lies and hurt and confusion and heartbreak. None of it matters because you're here now, in his arms, wearing his letters, saying you love him.

Finally.

Finally, Steve Harrington gets to keep something good.

Finally, he gets to keep you.

[jeepers-creeperz]

i’m seeing djo twice in 2 weeks who cheered

[riddlersoupwrites]

𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝙻𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝙲𝚊𝚕𝚕

Masterlist.

Warnings: description of murder, blood, explicit sexual content.

wc- 2k

Taglist: @lacywithdrawal @cozymoonlight18 @orangecheescakeleftover @aecd27 @kamisama1kiss @harringtondarling @wolfiee10 @scaramou @bellastone @itsdjoverr @britt-mf @sadieshortcake @louisbelongstome28 @deffnotvaal @jeepers-creeperz @bng-th-dldrmsss @hearts4steve @swirledyouintoallmypoems @evies4ngels @raccooncider @redvelvetcupcke1 @d3jecteddoll @chelliquinn @ilikeappleandbanana @catwmah

an: honestly I hate this I've had so many issues with my fucking google docs so just have this, the next one will be better

Chapter 2.

You woke to the sounds of screaming, blood curdling, piercing. You sat upright, Kurt was awake, his phone illuminated his face with the familiar blue light, flashes of light and dark as he watched his screen. You deducted that the noises were coming from his device and leaned in to see.

“Look at this.” He turned the phone to you, and you blinked in the light before your eyes adjusted. On the screen was Ghostface, from the scream movies, his knife driving into the chest of a gurgling victim repeatedly, blood splattering over the mask, seeping out from the body and soaking through the carpet underneath.

“Gross. The special effects are getting too good.” You muttered as you watched the clip, the soulless eyes of the mask staring back as one gloved hand came up to wipe the knife clean.

“No, that's real.” He said, turning the phone back towards himself, his eyes moving over the screen. “It's that murder from Oakridge. Killer filmed it and posted it online.” He said, glancing at you before his eyes moved back to his phone.

“Wh- are you serious?” You said, your eyes widened, your heart thumped so hard in your chest it almost hurt, your stomach turning. He just nodded, his eyes skimming over comments left underneath the video. “Why would you show me that? That's disgusting!” You said, staring at him in disbelief.

“What? It's gone viral, better I show it to you than you seeing it in the middle of all your cute animals posts.” He said, his head turned slightly towards you, but his eyes didn't follow, staying glued to the screen.

“I didn't want to see it at all.” You huffed, rolling away from him as you settled back against the pillow, wrapping your arms around your stomach trying to stop the churning, and the sickly feeling in your throat.

Kurt glanced at you as you rolled away, finally setting his phone back down. “Hey.. I'm sorry, I didn't know it'd freak you out.” He said, his hand sliding over your arm to loosely lace his fingers with yours, pressing himself up against you, pulling you back against his chest.

“You showed me a video of a real murder and didn't think it'd freak me out?” You snapped as he dropped his mouth to your shoulder.

“M’sorry. Forgot not everyone saw unhinged shit on the internet growing up.” He muttered against your skin before pressing a kiss into your shoulder. His thumb traced over the back of your hand as you rolled your head back to look at him.

“Sorry.” He whispered again as he locked his big, puppy eyes onto yours, resting his mouth back against your shoulder. You couldn't stay mad at him, not when he gave you that look, the one that lodged itself right between your ribs.

“S’okay. Just.. don't show me again.” You said, and he nodded as you rolled onto your back, leaving him half hovering over you, his fingers trailing over the soft skin of your waist underneath your tank. “And especially not when I've literally just woken up.”

He let out an amused exhale and nodded again. “I won't. Promise.” He said before leaning down to press his lips against yours. His bottom lip slid underneath yours as he kissed you, knocking your thighs apart so he could settle between them.

Your hands smoothed over his shoulders, up to the back of his neck, your fingers curling in the hair at the nape of his neck. He moaned softly as he deepened the kiss, his hand sliding down your waist to the outside of your thigh. His fingers trailed across your skin so softly it had you shivering underneath his touch, his tongue slid against yours.

His lips moved down your jaw, his breath hot against your neck as he pressed open kisses to your skin.

“Kurt-” you said softly as he pulled your leg up around his hip, gently pushing his hips forward so his cock pressed against you through both of your clothes.

“What?” He hummed against your collarbone, kissing softly before lifting his head to look at you. “You want me to stop?” He asked, his voice was raspy, but the look in his eyes told you the offer was genuine.

“No.” You decided, and he smiled before his hips rocked against you, a little more sure as he ducked his head back down to your neck. His hand moved around your thigh to press his fingers against the skin of your inner thigh, trailing softly upwards.

Your back arched as his fingers dipped underneath your pyjama shorts, his middle finger moving up through your folds to circle at your clit. Your fingers tightened in his hair as he brought his hand up to his mouth, sucking his fingers to wet them before moving back down, and pressing his middle finger inside you slowly. His eyes flicked back up to you as he watched your eyes close, and your eyebrows furrow in pleasure as he worked you with his finger, adding a second when you moaned softly.

He leaned down to kiss you again, swallowing your moans as his fingers curled upwards, moving faster to coax more noises from your lips. He whined against your mouth as he felt you clench around his fingers, the pad of his thumb pressing against your clit. Your hand moved from his neck, down towards his pyjama pants, sliding underneath the waistband to wrap your fingers around his cock. He whimpered at the contact, his forehead resting against yours as you moved your hand, stroking him slowly.

“Fuck-” he whimpered against your mouth, taking his fingers from you to pull off his pants, you let go to pull off your own shorts. He settled back between your thighs, guiding himself through your wet folds before pressing inside. His teeth grazed your shoulder as he slowly sank into you, whining as your nails pressed into his shoulders.

His movements were slow, and controlled as his mouth found yours, his tongue brushing against yours as he moaned. “Feel so good.” He gasped against your mouth, your legs hooking around his hips.

You moaned softly as your chest pressed against his, your nails dragging down his back as he moved his hips slowly. He whined against your mouth as he kissed you, his cock dragging slow and deep.

“I love you.” He whispered against your mouth, his nails digging into your thigh as he picked up his pace slightly. “I love you so much, more than anything.” He continued, burying his face into your neck. “Best thing that's ever happened to me, fuck, I love you.” He moaned, pulling your thigh up higher over his hip. “Don't fucking deserve you. Jesus Christ-”

You moaned louder as the tip of his cock dragged against that perfect spot inside as he thrust into you. “Fuck, Kurt-” you moaned as his lips pressed into your neck. Your stomach tightened as he kissed up your neck, his hand tightening on your thigh even more. His mouth found yours again as you came, squeezing around him until he whimpered loudly, spilling into you as he pushed his cock deep inside.

He didn't stop kissing you until your thigh relaxed from around his hip, and he pulled back to look at you. “So pretty.” He hummed, his fingers brushing a stray hair from your forehead. You smiled up at him, your fingers tracing the moles on his back.

“I gotta work today though.” He said, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek before gently pulling out of you and sitting back. His hands tracing up your legs and resting on your thighs. You saw the hesitation in his eyes as he glanced away, but it was gone when he looked back at you. “Gonna go shower.” He said, moving off the bed.

“Okay.” You said, sitting up against the pillows. You picked up your phone as you watched him go, opening up the news app as the bathroom door closed behind him. The article about the murder was the first thing that came up on the feed.

Police Investigate Oakridge Killing After Video of Attack Circulates Online

Police are investigating a homicide in the Oakridge neighborhood after a video believed to show the fatal attack was posted online late Friday night.

Officers responded to a 911 call shortly after 11:40 p.m. at a residence on Brookside Lane. When they arrived at the scene, they discovered the victim, identified as 22-year-old Daniel White, inside the home with multiple stab wounds. He was pronounced dead at the scene.

The video, which circulated on several social media platforms before being removed, reportedly shows an individual wearing a mask confronting White inside the home. The mask is described as resembling the Ghostface costume made famous by the Scream films. Police have not confirmed whether the mask was recovered.

Police are currently working to determine whether White knew the person responsible for the attack.

Investigators are asking anyone who may have seen suspicious activity in the Oakridge neighborhood between 10 p.m. and midnight to contact the Oakridge Police Department.

Officials are urging residents to remain cautious while the investigation continues.

No arrests have been made at this time.

Kurt came back from his shower with his towel around his shoulders, pulling open the drawers to find a t-shirt. “You want a ride to Ava's party later?” He asked, pulling out a black t-shirt.

“Are you not coming?” You asked, locking your phone and throwing it down onto the bed. Kurt glanced at you and scoffed as he towelled his hair before throwing it into the laundry basket.

“Come on Kurt, it's her birthday.” You said, crawling to the end of the bed and kneeling on the mattress in front of him as he pulled on his t-shirt.

“Your friends hate me.” He muttered, grabbing his deodorant and spraying under his arms.

“They don't hate you.” You said, watching him as he gave you a skeptical look. “They don't!” You insisted. It wasn't that your friends hated Kurt, they just found him… a lot. Which he could be, but he was also kind, sweet, and loving. But they didn't get to see that side of him. He saved that for you.

“Yeah. Right.” He scoffed, stuffing his wallet into his pocket and grabbing his phone. “I'll be back to give you a ride.” He said, leaning down to kiss you softly before leaving the room, opening the Spree app as he went.

“Yeah, love you too.” You called out as he disappeared around the corner, smiling as you heard his footsteps coming back towards the bedroom.

You giggled as he threw himself on top of you, pushing you back against the mattress as he pressed rapid kisses to your face and neck, until you were laughing so hard you were struggling to breathe. He smiled against your mouth as he kissed you.

“Love you.” He said, before pushing up, and leaving again, this time you let him go.

You were just out of the shower when your phone rang, your towel still wrapped around your chest as you looked at the screen. Unknown Caller. You furrowed your brows, but figured it was someone from work, even though you'd booked the night off they always ended up short staffed.

“Hello?” You said as you lifted the phone to your ear.

Silence filtered through on the other end. You paused from where you had been leaning to grab your hairbrush, and stood up straight.

“Hello?” You asked again. Still nothing.

You brought the phone down from your ear to look at the screen, thinking the call had disconnected, but it was still there. The seconds passed in silence.

You lifted the phone to your ear again, straining to listen as you heard a soft breath on the other end.

“Hello?” You tried again, and the phone cut off, the beeping that signalled the end of the call making you flinch as it broke the silence.

You stared at the screen for a few seconds before slowly lowering your phone to the desk, locking it as you glanced around the bedroom, as if that would give you any answers.

Must've been the wrong number.

[jeepers-creeperz]

man as if my kurt and ghostface obsessions couldn’t get any worse…absolutely so good

[jeepers-creeperz]

⋆˙⟡ jeepers creeperz harry potter masterlist⋆˙⟡

george weasley:

picture you (18+)

fred weasley:

friends who kiss (18+)

[jeepers-creeperz]

⋆˙⟡ jeepers creeperz stranger things masterlist⋆˙⟡

Steve Harrington:

couple minutes (ongoing series) 18+

[selenevesper]

hi! i know these past months have been a little hard for many of us in the fandom, and i just wanted to send some love and appreciation to the writers here after all of the things that are happening

sometimes it feels like people forget that writers aren’t machines that exist just to produce content. you’re real people who spend your time, creativity, and energy creating stories for us simply because you love it, and that’s something really special

so thank you. thank you for every fic, every idea, every late night spent writing, every update, every little piece of your imagination that you chose to share with us

your work is appreciated more than you probably realize, and there are so many readers who care about what you create. please remember that your writing matters and that you deserve kindness just as much as anyone else in this fandom

and for those of us reading: let’s keep supporting our writers!! reblog their work, share the love, and help create a safe and welcoming space for everyone in this fandom 🫶🏻🩷

reblog this post and tag as much people you can, let's spread some love!!!

@80sfilmclub @yeahiveheardofbears-fics @hellfirexhoe @itzakicka @shigarosie @enam3l @itlover8000 @glassbxttless @munsonify @bewilderedbunny @strangerstilinski @rosewaterandivy @wheels-of-despair @hellfirenacht @manicpixiedreamcurl @thornsnvultures @bangaveragewhitewine @the-unforgivenn @urhoneycombwitch @rebelfell @somnambulic-thing @jo-harrington @lucydixon @justmeinadaze @cherrychilli @keeryhours @hauntedfawnn @mystra-midnight @munsonstorm @cacoetheswriting @andvys @elegantpaperoperatormaker @g1rlw1th0n33ye3 @raccoonboywrites @punkrockmlchael @majestyeverlasting @frombeyondthegravez @pyronovas @undead-supernova @honey-flustered @eveatethefruit @lovebugism @munsonbee @madelynraemunson @gaybybirth @fairyysoup @eddiesghxst @thepastdied @alovesongtheywrote @hellfire--cult @ali-r3n @carolmunson @bettyfrommars

[80sfilmclub]

@kirkwhore @thecreelhouse @29bohemianmoons @vamptales !!!

[thecreelhouse]

@sheisjoeschateau @keer-y @writinginthetwilight @harringtonsdiary @sidereustales @stevesgother @stevenose @scooprtroopr @crappymixtape @mrprettywhenhecries @honorschem @snoopyharrington @sweetlikenonsense @levanswrites @loveshotzz @jamdoughnutmagician @trashmouth-richie @lesservillain @littlexdeaths

<3333

[keer-y]

@morninglesss @souperbloom @sunriseinhawkins @yeahiveheardofbears-fics @insomniacpen @tellcherhesgone @cha0ticstranger @snoopyharrington @djocufics @honorschem @snoopyharrington @sheisjoeschateau @harringtonsdiary @cpnsteverogers @configurre

[insomniacpen]

@oohooheeheehaaheeheeh @djosfool @idk-harrington @s111ut

as well as all the gorgeous writers tagged above. I know there’s sm I haven’t even found yet, and ones I need to add to this list but ur all so cool 🥹

[oohooheeheehaaheeheeh]

omg this is so beautiful I can't believe I was mentioned by my fav @insomniacpen 😭🤧🫶🏻

Some beautiful writers who inspire me so much, I'm so happy to be apart of this community 🩷🩷

@riddlersoupwrites @cha0ticstranger @tellcherhesgone @hrringtonlove @buckysgrace @wroteclassicaly @levanswrites

[riddlersoupwrites]

Thank you so much for the mention 🥹🥹🫶

My faves:

@jeepers-creeperz @oohgeminii @frankenkyle19 @swirledyouintoallmypoems @ponyosz @thoroughlymimi @gutsnhugs @sighmaii

[jeepers-creeperz]

I’m so in love w elle guys you have no idea 😭🤍

my favs are

obviously elle, @ur-djoking @levanswrites @thelostmagicians @aureateink @lacyrry @keer-y @andvys and also @swirledyouintoallmypoems 🤍

[ur-djoking]

R U Mine?

Steve Harrington x Fem! Reader

Chapter 1

warnings: 18+, MDNI, SMUT, no use of y/n, steve harrington x reader, friends to lovers, grinding, light choking, drugs + alcohol use, voyeurism, bathroom sex, f! receiving oral, unprotected p in v

wc: 5.7k

a/n: hi hello!!!! <3 hope you enjoy chapter 1, more to come!!! pls let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list! feel free to leave any and all requests!!! i’m actually proud of this one so plssss tell me what you think!!! xoxo

Music fills your ears, the base pulsing through your body as the lights cast shadows all over your face. Steve looks at you from across the crowded room, eyes glassy as he takes another long sip from his beer. The black dress shirt he’s wearing clings to him as the strobe lights cast shadows on the fabric. His eyes travel down you, studying you like he always does, looking at you like you’re the best piece of art in a museum.

You still remember the first time you laid eyes on each other. Hanging out with your large group of girlfriends at your local concert venue, finally getting to go to the Bruce Springsteen concert you had been waiting for. It seemed like you had been waiting years since you had first bought your ticket. Dancing your ass off as the beat of the music pulsed throughout your entire body, the place you feel the most content. As always, you pay no mind when you’re dancing, swaying and running your hands through your hair. One of your favorite songs had just come on, “Dancing In the Dark”.

Completely losing all sense of self, you tripped over something on the floor, causing yourself to lose your balance. As you’re falling and just about to hit the floor, you feel strong hands somehow wrap around your waist. The random stranger, pulling you up and bringing you back to safety. “Oh my god, thank you for that.” you huffed, trying to catch your breath. You finally make eye contact with this random man who saved you from a face full of cement. He was genuinely handsome – tanned skin, veins poking out throughout his toned arms, brunette hair an absolute mess but he somehow pulled it off. Backwards hat placed lazily at the top of his head, a shirt that looked just a little too small for him but wrapped perfectly around his arms and showed a sliver of skin just below the waistband of his pants.

He took his sunglasses off, revealing the prettiest hazel eyes you had ever seen. You introduced yourselves to one another, finding out his name was Steve. He was with a large group of friends, as were you. His group of friends mingled with yours as you two proceeded to dance and talk the entirety of the concert. You had a great time with this random man, as did your friends with his friends. You exchanged numbers before leaving and that was that.

After years of the timing never being right, both of you having partners or one of you having one while the other didn’t, the tension grew thick throughout the years. The way you would always look for each other in a crowded room, the accidental touches, the almost kisses, the late night chats on the phone. Talking about your favorite bands, music that moved your soul, dream artists that you’ve always wanted to see. Constantly checking in with each other. The meetings for lunch once a week just to update each other on life. Opening the front doors of restaurants for you, the car door, placing his hand on the small of your back just lightly enough to be respectful but always lingering a little bit too long. He was always lingering in the back of your mind.

Tonight for the first time in 4 years, you both are finally single. Both of you, desperate without saying anything to each other, just feeling the electricity finally catching up with you after all of these years.

You immediately notice as Steve starts to head toward you but as he’s walking, one of his friends pulls him to the side. “Bro, shotgun one with me? For old times?” he chuckles. “You know I could never say no to that.” Steve flicks his eyebrows up toward his friend. Looking back at you, he gives you a small wink before heading over to the bar, asking the bartender for two cold beers.

He hands one to his friend, you watch as the condensation drips down his tanned arms. “Hold on one sec dude, I don’t want to make a mess.” he chuckles at his friend as he puts the can on the counter and then starts rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt, exposing more of his skin. He takes his baseball cap, flips it around and places it back on his head, his brown locks peeking through at the ends. Picking the can back up, you watch as he pops a hole inside of the beer can, flipping the can back toward his lips as you hear the pop of the tab from the can, the muscles in his arm flexing. You watch the veins in his arms become more prominent as he grips the can harder. Sucking down the contents of the can. His adam’s apple bobs continuously as he chugs. You start to walk closer, enjoying the sight.

As you come up next to him, he finishes shotgunning the beer. Pulling the can away, beer drips down his face. You see droplets of the remaining beer scattered over the top of his mustache. Beer dripping down his bottom lip. The beer continues its path as it runs down his cheeks, tracing over the ever growing stubble on his face. He takes his hand and wipes away the remnants, veins in his arm coming to light as he drags his hand across his face.

Distracted by the sight in front of you, you finally meet his eyes that are already on yours, burning holes into your skin as his eyes roam. He puts the empty and crinkled can back on the bar and gets the bartenders attention once more. “Can we get around of tequila shots, please? Salt and limes on the side as well?” he says low.

Once the tray of shots is placed on the bar, he looks at you, raising his eyebrow up, asking without saying a word. You nod. “You sure about that, sunshine? You’ve never been one to hold your alcohol well, I would know. The amount of times I’ve had to nurse you back to health after your hangovers.” he scoffs, grin wide on his face.

“I’ll have you know that you’ve volunteered every single time to nurse me back to health, Steven. I would’ve been fine without you, thank you very much.” you huff back.

“Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.” he winks at you before going back to paying attention to the bartender.

Steve starts to set everything up on the bar, looking toward you. “Alright, bub, you’re up first. Come here.” he says, motioning you toward the tray of shots. You walk up closer, now facing him.

You watch as he licks the divot in between his thumb and pointer finger, sprinkling salt over where he licked, the salt sticking. Your finger tips brush as he hands you the shot, electricity pulsing through you, so thick that it feels like a fog. “You know the drill?” he looks at you, questioning. “Of course I do.” rolls off your tongue, thick with attitude.

Grabbing his hand, you place your tongue over the salt, your tongue lingering a little longer than it should. Tasting the flakes of salt but the saltiness of his sweat cutting through. You lift up the shot of tequila, throwing it back like you’ve done numerous times before. You watch as Steve takes one of the limes, squeezing the contents of it into his mouth before putting his thumb and pointer finger on your chin, signaling you to open your mouth. Heat rises through your core as you feel him tilt your head back. He places his other hand around your throat, his fingers wrapping around with just enough pressure, allowing him stability. Opening your mouth, you feel the lime juice trickle into your throat as it flows from his mouth to yours. Just before he takes his lips away, he takes your bottom lip in between your teeth, grazing it lightly.

His hand leaves your throat, letting the cool breeze back in, already missing the warmth of his hand around your throat. Tilting your head back, Steve’s eyes already on you, hints of admiration lingering in his gaze. He leans in toward you, hand lingering on your hip, giving it a tight squeeze. He begins tracing patterns on the sliver of skin leaking through. Lining his lips up with your ear, he whispers, “atta girl.” before you feel his teeth sink gently onto your ear lobe, nipping at it a few times, which sends shivers down your spine. Want coursing through veins like a disease. He backs away, overtaken with what he had just done. Blush creeping over his cheeks.

“Jesus Christ, will you two just get a fucking room already?” one of Steve’s friends blurts out. You feel heat pool in your cheeks, blush spreading like wildfire.

Heat continues to rise throughout your body, you pick up another one of the shots off of the tray, taking another one back, no games this time.

The alcohol already has begun working its way through your body, loosening you up, causing the sudden urgency to dance. The alcohol giving you courage, you say fuck it. You grab Steve’s hand, pulling him toward the dance floor. He follows closely behind you, one hand always at your hip, while the other is linked with yours.

As you reach the middle of the dance floor, you start to feel lighter, tipsy. The vibrations of the music, loud, you can feel it pulsing. The lights cast shadows over both of your faces. The song playing ends as “Dancing In the Dark” by Bruce Springsteen immediately begins. You turn your head to look at him, smirking and giddy, absolutely losing it. He’s looking back at you, already knowing what’s about to happen. Hearing this song brings you both back to that night, all of those years ago. Amplifying your feelings for each other even more.

Steve slips closer behind you as you slowly start to sway your hips to the beat of the song, the pads of his fingertips light as they travel down your arms. Goosebumps left in their wake. Beginning to lose yourself in the moment, you feel him press up tight against you, leaving no space between you. He places his hands on your hips, feeling the heat from the palms of his hands, directing your hips as you continue to dance along with the music, slowly grinding your hips against him. He tilts his head down just enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath in your ear. As the song continues, base flowing through your body, you grind harder against him. Reaching behind you, you place your hand on the back of his neck, slick with sweat. Running your fingers through his hair, pulling on tufts as you both sway. Threading and pulling. Your fingers slip through the gold chain around his neck, intertwining between them, feeling slightly cold though your fingers.

He spins you around before you can comprehend what’s happening. “Eyes on me,” he says as his hands slip around your waist, bringing you into him. His hands move up and down your body, matching the rhythm of the music. You wrap your hands around his neck, swaying your hips alongside the beat. Both of you look up, meeting each other's eyes. The tension feels thicker than it normally does in this moment, sizing each other up. Seeing who will make the first move.

As the music continues on, you catch yourself getting closer and closer to his face. Your lips centimeters apart. You can feel his breath on your face, still never breaking eye contact. One of his hands moves up your body, before meeting with your neck. He runs his palm over the side of your jaw before threading his fingers through your hair, grip tight. Steve is the first to break. He pulls your face somehow closer, his lips hovering over yours. You can just faintly feel them, warmth radiating from them. You both stand there for what feels like hours. His lips move just enough over your mouth, then both of you moving your lips, backing away a little, and then bringing them closer. Teasing. He lets out a low growl and his lips finally crash onto yours. His lips hitting yours like you two are the last remaining humans on the planet. His kiss is sloppy and rushed as you are both desperate for each other. His tongue fights for dominance with yours as you swirl around each other. He grips the side of your neck harder, trying to gain more access to you. You can hear the whimpers and moans of the pent up need escaping from the back of his throat. He pulls away quickly, turning you back around in front of him.

You try catching your breath as your heart races. You’re still so close to him that you can feel his heart beating a mile a minute behind you. He pulls you close again, grinding against you too. His lips are by your ear as he lets out a whimper so quiet, you almost don’t catch it. Right before the song ends, you grind your ass one last time against him, feeling the outline of his cock straining through his pants.

As the base fades out, neither of you move. His hands continue to roam your body, eyes following as he leaves trails of fire wherever his fingers move. “Babygirl, you’re going to fucking kill me.” he whispers to you before suddenly gripping your hips to turn you around. Facing him, the sweat beads trailing down his skin. His hair sticking to his face in clumps, standing up straight in the back from where you were grabbing and running your fingers through it moments ago.

You watch as he moves his hands down his dress shirt, unbuttoning all the way down, opening it to reveal a white undershirt. Untucking it from his pants, he lifts it up, wiping his face to get rid of the sweat remaining on his face. Pulling it up just enough for your eyes to glance down, catching sweat laced through his extremely dark happy trail. Connecting from the coarse hair on his chest, all the way down to where it peeks out from the waist band of his pants.

He drops his shirt, it falls back down and is left wrinkled on his skin. Bits and pieces of his chest hair exposed by the light, also consumed with sweat.

He takes your hand and leads you back to the booth you were occupying when you first arrived. You slide into the red leather booth, leaving just enough room for him to slide in next to you. He presses his thigh closer to yours, the heat radiating off of the both of you is insufferable. He places his hand on your upper thigh, warm as always, giving it a small squeeze just enough for butterflies to radiate through you.

“You want to go outside for a quick smoke with me?” he asks as he smiles wide, causing creases to form at the corners of his eyes.

“How could I ever say no to that?” you bite back.

He grabs his coat, pulling out a joint and a lighter, scooting out of the booth and holding out a hand to help you up. You place your hand in his as he pulls you up, hand immediately claiming your waist.

He leads you through the slightly less crowded area of the club, walking toward the front doors that lead outside. The sky is clear, stars twinkling as the night is cool on your skin, breeze blowing just enough to feel incredible and helps subside the sweat covering your body. He leads you toward the alleyway, the designated smoke section.

You lean back on the brick wall, watching him as he pulls the joint out of his pocket, placing it between his lips, covering it as you hear the lighter spark.

Steve takes a long drag, watching you as he does so. His eyes moving back and forth between yours. The tension between the two of you rises higher and higher as he passes you the joint. You take it from him, his fingers always lingering longer than they should. As you take your turn, he comes up beside you, leaning back on the brick wall, matching your stance. Tilting his head back to look at the sky, you’re paying to the constellations in front you. The side of his neck is littered in tiny moles, forming different shapes, almost like the stars but better. You take another drag, watching as his adam’s apple sways when he swallows. The vein in his neck coming to the surface from the strain of looking up.

You clear your throat, pulling him out of whatever trance he was just in. He turns his head toward you as you pass the joint to him. He lifts his eyebrows up in question as you place the joint between his lips. He pulls on the joint, the orange ember growing as he takes the drag. Blowing out the cloud of smoke, he looks over at you and gives you a cocky grin.

He steps in front of you, removing any space between the two of you and hovers. Angling his head down, he speaks low and demanding, “open.” You furrow your brow, confused but comply with the request as he pulls on the joint again. He leans closer to your lips, just hovering over them, almost touching but not quite. He blows the smoke into your mouth slowly as you inhale, placing his lips on yours to avoid the smoke leaking out.

He removes his lips, throwing the joint down and puts it out with his shoe. While you turn your head to blow the smoke away from his face, he steps closer to you. The space between you is now gone. Charged and electric. Heat pooling in your core as his face is inches from yours. You feel the heat from his body as he’s pressed up against you, he places his knee in between your legs, separating them. Steve places a hand directly on your hip, where it has been all night. He slides his hand upwards, just enough to slide it under your shirt.

As he traces patterns against your skin, the weed finally hits. The alleyway lights painting him in a golden glow. You can see the flecks of different colors littered throughout his hazel eyes, two moles dotting his cheek, the stubble growing infectious on the lower half of his face. The baseball cap that he’s wearing is still backwards on the top of his head, more of his hair peeking out than from before. It’s still wet, glistening in the alleyway light. You notice him looking your face over, studying you just like you’re studying him.

He places his hands on the sides of your head, resting them on the brick behind you, hovering over you, just lingering there. You can tell he’s thinking about something with the way his brow is furrowed, he’s deep in thought.

“Alright, what are you thinking about? I can see the gears turning, Steven.” you say to him, letting out the smallest giggle.

“What am I thinking about?” he says flat. “What–am–I–thinking–about?” he says again, slowly, but as he says each word, his hands begin to move, one hand sliding up the back of your shirt, the other sliding over your throat. Giving it a light squeeze, hitting your pulse point. You grin back at him, nothing but lust in your eyes.

Suddenly, before you can say anything, he moves closer, his heart shaped lips lining up with your ear. “You want to know what I’m thinking about?” he pauses, as you feel the warmth of his tongue on your ear lobe, his tongue making light circles. “I’m thinking about the way your cunt is going to taste tonight on my tongue.” He licks his lips, pulling you closer by the small of your back. “How you’re going to ride my face until you come.” he bites your ear lobe. “Matter of fact, I want a taste right now.” he huffs.

Before you can say anything, he drops to his knees in front of you. He spreads your legs apart by placing his hands in between your thighs, one hand trails down your leg as the other hand travels up. To his surprise, you have no underwear underneath this tiny skirt you’re wearing. His right hand travels up, right to your middle. Just as he places his fingers to your core, he hisses. “Sweet girl, you’re already dripping for me.” He places on each word. “And you’re already bare for me? Fuck.” He immediately wraps his left hand around the base of your ankle, pulling your ankle up and placing it on the top of his shoulder, opening you wide to give him better access.

His tongue comes crashing down on your pussy, the first lick is fast, which causes you to let out a small gasp. Taking a quick look around to make sure there isn’t anyone lingering, you bring your focus back to his tongue circling around your clit. He presses down with his tongue as he takes two fingers, lifting them up to your mouth. He pauses with his tongue before looking up at you. He looks especially handsome at this angle, his hair is a mess around him, still stuck to his forehead, on his knees in front of you. He briefly bites his lips, “suck for me”, he growls at you, eyes dark and full of need, ready to devour you. You listen to him, placing his fingers in your mouth, sucking on them, slow. Swirling your tongue around them in a rhythm as if it were his cock, which you can already see bulging through the tight fabric of his pants.

He removes his fingers from your mouth, “good girl” he growls out before shoving both fingers inside of you, curling right at the spot that causes you to moan out. Your entire body pulsing as he quickens the pace. His fingers pushing deeper, his tongue circling faster and harder. Everything turns blurry as you tilt your head back, grinding your hips against his tongue. Your hand pushes his hat off of his head, grabbing onto his brunette locks, gripping so hard that it has to hurt but it just causes him to moan out.

“Steve, fuck–I’m gonna come.” you manage to moan out as you start to feel your orgasm beckoning closer and closer. You feel his moans and whines vibrating over your cunt, amplifying the pleasure even more. This sends you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes over you as you continue to ride his tongue like your life depends on it, you feel his left hand grip your thigh, grounding you.

As the waves of pleasure wash over you, he continues until you’re so sensitive, you start hissing at him. He pulls away, pulling your skirt back down and fixing anything that seems out of place. As he comes back up, his face glistens with your orgasm. He licks his lips, tasting you one last time before wiping the rest away with the back of his hand. He leans in close again, voice low, “our secret.” he hums.

Smirking at you, he grabs your hand and leads you back into the club. Sudden urgency washing over him, he’s grabbing your hand and pulling you through the crowd, like he’s in a rush. He leads you down a hallway that connects to the bathrooms. He lightly raps three times on the door to one of the bathrooms, pauses, and then opens the door. He kicks the door shut with his foot, locking it behind him, his lips immediately crash on yours. His hands moving all over your body, trying to consume all of you at once. Something changes in him, he becomes ravenous, like the dam has finally broken. One hand wrapping around your throat while his lips and tongue search yours like he’s discovering them for the first time, the other hand palming your breast so hard that it causes you to stumble but the pleasure continues to build. You’re both letting out moans, hungry for each other.

His hand still steady on your throat while his other hand slips underneath your shirt, desperate to be closer to you, to touch you. You feel his fingers slip over your nipple, it immediately hardens under his touch. He pinches it between his fingers, pleasure pulsing through you. Tilting your head back, you let out a whine. Steve immediately looks up at you as his eyes turn dark. He pulls your face toward him with the hand that’s wrapped around your throat, looking into your eyes, “I want this entire fucking club to hear you, got it?” he says in a tone that you’ve never heard him speak in.

He slips both hands under your shirt, pulling it off and tossing it on the floor. Your chest is now completely exposed as Steve looks you over with awe written all over his face, his breath hitching. “You don’t understand how long I’ve waited for this, fuck. You’re absolutely breathtaking.” he says, sighing. His lips immediately wrap around one of your nipples while his hand palms and kneads the other one, trying to give as much attention to both as he can. His tongue swirls over and over, the pleasure building higher and higher. The noises coming from his mouth are sickening, only turning you on more. His teeth are biting down, just enough to send shock waves through your body.

You begin to run your fingers through his hair, he looks up at you, never breaking eye contact as you begin to whine and moan more erratically. You look down, seeing the outline of his ever growing cock straining against his pants, causing moans to seep out of his mouth, feeling the vibrations hitting your nipple.

He stands up quickly, picking you up by your thighs, while your arms wrap around his neck. He places you on top of the bathroom counter as his hands trail down to your sides, fingers tucking underneath the waist band of your skirt. You lift your hips as he pulls your skirt down, exposing you completely. The chill of the air conditioning in the bathroom causes goosebumps to emerge all over your skin.

He pushes your thighs open, exposing you more. He looks you up and down thoroughly, looking over all of your exposed skin, drinking in the view.

“Touch yourself for me. Keep your eyes on me, babygirl. You break eye contact and we start again.” he says, octaves lower than normal, his voice rumbling through you. Never seeing this side of him, it brings out something you’ve never felt before. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears.

Keeping your eyes on him, you slide your hand down yourself, trailing down all of the places that you want his hands to be. He watches your hand as it makes its path down your body, biting his bottom lip, holding himself back from devouring you himself, for the second time tonight.

Your hand reaches your clit, not daring to remove your eyes from his, as just the small touch sends a chill down your spine as he watches. You begin to touch yourself, building pressure on your clit, rubbing in circles, pushing down, in all the ways you wish he was. You start to let your moans seep through your lips as the pressure builds higher and higher. A whimper falls from your lips that absolutely devastates Steve, his eyes growing dark. He rakes a hand through his hair, before looking back at you, “yeah, fuck this” and his mouth is on you in seconds. Sloppily sucking on your clit, flicking his tongue on just the spot that makes you scream out. He slams two fingers inside you without any warning, causing your back to arch against the bathroom mirror. Your fingers latch onto his hair and your hips buckle under his tongue.

As you grind against his face, he switches his fingers for his tongue, slamming his tongue inside of you over and over again. Moans escape his lips like secrets, whimpers attached too. The vibrations hit you like a brick, the pad of his thumb circling your clit like nothing else matters. He pauses and pulls away, standing up at his full height.

You grab him by the belt loops, pulling him toward you as his lips smash into your again, tongues sloppy, he bites your bottom lip sending pulses through your core. You pull away, never breaking eye contact as you pull off his shirt, exposing his chest full of hair, taking it all in. Looking him up and down as you follow the hair from his chest, down his stomach, hundreds of small moles along the way. You get to his happy trail, following it before it disappears. You begin undoing his belt. Once it’s come undone, your lips smash into his neck. He tilts his head back, exposing his neck to you, your tongue beginning to trace circles on his throat, you feel his veins pulsing under your tongue. Sucking on his neck, placing kisses, repeating this over and over again as your fingers are fumbling with his pants. You start to palm his cock over his pants, feeling the hard length of him under your hand. This sends him into a wildfire. Letting out moans, your name on his lips.

“P-please, I need to fuck you. I-I can’t take it anymore, angel. I’m about to fucking explode.” he says, voice hazy.

“Begging for me, are you? Mmmm, I think you can do a little bit better than that.” you say, biting your bottom lip.

He begins to kiss your neck, so hard that you’ll definitely see the marks in the morning, the sensitive skin being sucked sending you into orbit. In between kisses, he’s still begging for you, moaning, whimpering. You unbutton and unzip his pants, letting his cock spring free. It shoots up and hits him in the stomach. You trace your finger tips from the top of his chest, grabbing ahold of his chest hair in spots, as you make your way down, pausing on the happy trail, feeling it between your finger tips. Your fingers graze the tip of his cock, a bead of precum already leaking out. Steve’s breathing hitches. Slipping your finger over the tip, spreading the precum that’s pooling. As you’re doing this, you’re absolutely throbbing, pulsing. Looking at him, you begin to drag your hand down the length of him, pumping him slow.

He tilts his head back, too gone to say anything besides the moans leaving his throat. You start to pick up the pace, he’s unbelievably hard and you can feel every vein in your palm.

“If you don’t let me fuck you right now, I’m going to come in your hand and I don’t think either of wants that.” he bites out.

“Fuck me.” you speak. Those two words sending him into action. He lines up his cock with your center, sliding it through your folds a few times, the wet sounds absolutely vile as they echo throughout the small bathroom. He slowly begins the process of sliding the tip in, both of you crying out at the feeling. “So fucking wet for me.” he says with his teeth clenched. He wraps his hand around your throat as his cock slides all the way in. His name falls off your lips at how full you feel. Sliding his cock almost all of the way out before he slams it back into you, slowly starting to create a rhythm. He begins pumping into you faster and faster, finally gaining momentum. Pleasure builds around the both of you as sweat trickles down his chest and onto yours. “That’s it, that’s my good girl–taking it so fucking good. That’s it.” he groans.

He pushes your legs further apart, giving him a new angle, allowing him to hit deeper. Your orgasm, almost at its peak. You clench around him, causing him to hiss. Both of you are almost at the brink, absolutely spent. His hand palms your breast, pinching your nipple in between his finger before trailing back down, placing his thumb on your clit. He begins circling with just the right amount of pleasure, “right fucking there, right there, that’s it”, you scream as your orgasm begins to crash over you. You whimper out his name, clenching around him as you ride wave after wave. This turns him feral, pumping into you over and over again until the dam breaks and his cock is pulsing inside of you, your name breaking from his lips.

You stay like this for who knows how long, both absolutely spent. Your foreheads lean together, your heaving breathing echoing all around you. Both of you finally look at each other, “holy fuck” coming from your mouths at the same time.

“Alright, my sweet girl. Let’s get you cleaned up, huh?” he smirks at you. He lifts you up and brings you down from the counter.

After he’s done cleaning you up and then himself, you help each other put your clothes back on. Both of you absolutely spent, talking in whispers. Once you’re both fully clothed, he unlocks the bathroom door before opening it for you, taking your hand and leading you through the mostly quiet club. Your coats are still where they left them, claiming your space that you never really used. He picks up your coat, opening it for you, helping you inside of it and then puts his own coat on. He’s already called for an Uber, waiting for you as you step outside. He opens the door like the gentleman that he is, helping you inside and he trails behind you. Resting your head on his shoulder, you fall asleep on the way back to his apartment.

As you come to, your eyes still closed, you realize you’re in his arms as he’s carrying you inside of his apartment. He places you in his bed, crawling in next to you. Both of you sleep peacefully, for the first time in four years.

[jeepers-creeperz]

So wonderfully freaky please everyone read immediately