lululand

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[moonchildpdf]

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୨୧ steve harrington

➺ series

⭑ love will tear us apart | damaged (but soft)!steve x college!reader

୨୧ sean lockwood

➺ multi-part

⭑ sean x actress!reader | part 1 | part 2

୨୧ travis teacake meacham

➺ one shot

⭑ travis teacake meacham x librarian!reader

⭑ AO3 ⭑

⭑ twitter ⭑

⭑ strawpage ⭑

⭑ dividers by saradika ⭑

[moonchildpdf]

sean lockwood x actress!reader

summary: after meeting at the party — and everything that happened afterward — you and sean unexpectedly cross paths again while working at cinecitta. a heated argument quickly spirals into something far more intense, proving that the tension and need between you is still there. c/w: tension. yearning. angst. some plot for more context. smut (18+). oral sex. p in v. no protection. orgasm. creampie. almost caught. words: 6.6k

⭑ part 1 ⭑

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ .

Cinecitta at this hour is a chaotic sea of people.

Everywhere you look, crew members are running in different directions, their faces flushed with sweat and anxiety. Grips carry heavy wooden set pieces, wardrobe assistants sprint down the narrow corridors with racks of clothes, and actors pace back and forth in the corners, frantically muttering their lines to themselves.

You stand right in the center of the set, your chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths. Your heart is still pounding against your ribs, a lingering reaction to the intense emotional scene you just finished shooting. The emotions you had to pull up from the deepest, most guarded corners of your soul are still swirling inside you, leaving you feeling raw and exposed.

"Cut! Can we get some absolute silence on the other side of the set? Literally, everyone can hear you!"

The director’s voice booms through the megaphone, his italian accent sharp and irritated. He rubs his temples aggressively, looking like he’s about to have a nervous breakdown right there in his folding chair. 

Instantly, a heavy hush falls over the area, though the distant, muffled hum of the studio lot never truly stops.

Almost immediately, the heavy tension breaks as a small army of crew members floods the set. Two production assistants and your lead makeup artist run toward you eager to fix any imperfection before the next take.

You force a small, polite smile, trying to ease their frantic energy as she steps close, her touch incredibly gentle as she taps a soft paper tissue against your cheek, carefully soaking up the wet trails of your tears without ruining the base foundation.

"That was absolutely incredible," your assistant whispers softly next to you. She hands you a small bottle of water with a straw, her eyes wide with genuine admiration. "No, seriously. I had goosebumps the entire time. No one could have done that scene the way you did. Everyone behind the cameras was holding their breath."

"Thank you," you say, your voice sounding a little scratchy and tired even to your own ears. You take a small sip of water.

"Take fifteen, everyone!" the director suddenly yells, throwing his hands in the air. He climbs down from his high chair and immediately starts walking toward the outdoor exit, heading in the direction of the private trailers.

"Thanks, guys, I’ll be right back," you tell the makeup team, gently stepping away from the touch of their brushes. "I’m going to go talk to him. There are a few things about the next scene that I want to clarify. The emotional transition feels a bit abrupt."

Your assistant nods understandingly, pulling your script from her bag. 

"Of course. Do you want me to come with you? Or should I bring your jacket?"

"No, I’m fine," you reply, already taking a step back, wrapping your silk robe tightly around your body. "It’ll be a second."

You walk quickly, pulling the fabric of your robe together and tying the belt in a tight knot.

As you step outside the set, the blinding Italian sun hits you instantly. You squint against the brightness after spending hours under the dim, artificial lights. You walk past old, dusty props stacked against the studio walls and stacks of wooden crates.

You turn the corner of the director’s large trailer, expecting to find him sitting alone on the steps, perhaps reviewing his notes. Instead, your feet freeze mid-step. Your breath hitches sharply in your throat.

Standing in the small patch of shade next to the trailer are the two people you wanted to see least in the entire world.

Josephine’s standing incredibly close to the director. She has her hand casually wrapped around his arm, leaning her head in as she listens. She laughs — that high, melodic, utterly fake laugh that you have grown to absolutely despise.

But she’s just a minor annoyance. Your eyes immediately slide to the person standing right next to her, and your heart stops.

Sean is holding a large umbrella to block the sun, his other hand casually tucked into the pocket of his dark trousers. He looks effortlessly elegant, possessing that natural grace that always seems to draw everyone’s attention the moment he enters a room. He’s wearing a simple white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing his tanned forearms. He looks relaxed, confident, and incredibly handsome.

But because you know him — because you have spent hours memorizing the subtle shifts in his expression and the way he carries himself — you can see right through the act. You can tell he’s trying very hard to project an image of perfect, untouchable composure.

He chuckles softly at something the director says. But then, as if sensing your presence, his eyes lift. They lock onto yours.

In an instant, the easy, polite smile completely vanishes from his face. His lips press into a thin, tight line, and his posture stiffens. 

For a fraction of a second, you see a flash of something raw and vulnerable in his dark eyes — guilt, surprise, maybe even a trace of regret. 

But just as quickly, his professional mask slips back into place, cold and unreadable.

You take a deep breath, clenching your jaw. 

You clear your throat loudly and step forward into the shade, intentionally interrupting their little circle.

"I wanted to see if we could talk about the next scene before we start shooting again," you say, keeping your voice steady, professional, and cool. You direct your words entirely to the director, completely ignoring the other two.

The director blinks, surprised by your sudden appearance, but his stressed expression quickly turns into a warm, enthusiastic smile. "Oh! It’s so good that you are here! We were literally just talking about you!"

The words make your stomach twist in an unpleasant, tight knot. The thought of them discussing you behind your back makes you feel incredibly exposed and defensive.

"Is that so?" you say, forcing a polite, cold smile. "Then I guess I arrived just in time."

You finally let your eyes shift to Josephine. Her expression is a perfect picture of sweet, sugary malice. She looks at you like a predator that has just spotted its prey, her eyes scanning your face.

"Yes, indeed. How perfect," Josephine says, her voice dripping with artificial warmth. She slowly slides her hand away from the director’s arm. But instead of letting it drop to her side, she reaches out and wraps her arm snugly around Sean’s, pulling herself closer to his side.

You watch the movement. Your heart does a painful, sharp squeeze, but you don’t let a single muscle in your face twitch. You keep your expression perfectly blank.

Sean doesn’t pull away from her, but you notice the sudden, slight tension in his shoulder. His hand inside his pocket tightens, pushing against the fabric of his trousers. He still won’t look you in the eyes. Instead, he stares intently at a spot on the gravel ground between your feet.

"Sean and I were just taking a little walk after finishing our scenes for the afternoon," Josephine continues, her smile widening as she leans slightly closer to him, her voice carrying a triumphant edge. "We wanted to come over and say hello to our incredibly talented colleagues as it’s our last day on set. We heard you were doing some... highly emotional work today. It must be so exhausting to have to cry on command like that. I honestly don’t know how you do it."

The underlying insult is incredibly clear. She is trying to paint you as fragile, dramatic, and perhaps a bit pathetic, while showcasing her own easy, stress-free presence next to Sean.

"How nice of you to drop by," you reply, your tone as cold as ice. You keep your eyes fixed on Sean, refusing to give Josephine the satisfaction of your full attention. "And yes, it can be exhausting. But some of us actually prefer to do the hard work on set rather than just standing around looking pretty."

The director, completely oblivious to the thick, suffocating tension in the air, laughs heartily.

"Ah, that’s what I love about you! Always dedicated to the craft! But really, you were fantastic in that last take. The grief looked so real. It was absolutely beautiful."

"Thank you," you say softly. Then, you look directly at Sean, your voice dropping a fraction of an octave, becoming quieter, heavier. "I guess it’s easy to look heartbroken when you know exactly what it feels like to be left in the dark."

The comment hits its mark perfectly. Sean’s jaw clenches so hard you can see the muscle tick. He finally raises his head, his dark eyes meeting yours with an intense, burning gaze.

The silence between the two of you is deafening, drowning out the distant noise of the crew. In his eyes, you see a storm of conflicting emotions — defensiveness, frustration, and a strange, quiet plea. He wants you to drop it. He wants you to pretend, just like he’s pretending, that nothing happened between you in that hotel room. He wants to keep the boundary intact.

But you aren’t going to make this easy for him.

"Well," Josephine says, her voice sharp as she senses the sudden shift in energy. She tightens her grip on Sean’s arm, pulling him slightly closer as if physically marking her territory. "Acting is all about imagination, isn’t it? Though, I suppose some people have to rely on their real-life dramas to get any real emotion out."

You take a slow step closer, your hands curling into tight fists inside the pockets of your robe. 

"At least my emotions are real, Josephine. Some people in this industry seem to have trouble finding anything genuine inside themselves."

The director looks between the two of you. He clears his throat nervously, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he looks down at his notes. 

"Uh, right. Well, about the next scene—"

"Actually," you interrupt him, smiling politely. “I’ll go and refresh myself. See you inside.” you assure him as the director nods at you 

“I’ll walk you,” before you can turn in your trailer’s direction, Sean speaks up for the first time, and suddenly the shadow of the umbrella covers you from the heat; although now it’s impossible to escape the warmth of his body besides you. “The sun is a killer at this hour.”

You bite your lip, unable to say anything. You look over your shoulder, Josephine’s expression is indescribable, but you don’t let yourself hesitate in front of her.

“Sure.” You speak up coldly, starting to walk, quickly feeling his steps right behind you.

As you reach the metal steps of your own trailer at the end of the perimeters, you pull your robe tighter around yourself, as if trying to block out his presence. You grab the handle of the door, ready to pull it open and shut it in his face. But before you can, Sean steps up onto the first metal stair behind you. 

His chest is almost pressing against your back. The heat radiating off him is overwhelming.

"Let me in," he whispers. "Just for a minute. Please."

You turn your head slightly, your breath hitching. His dark eyes are filled with a desperate, heavy hunger that makes your knees go weak. You hate yourself for how much you still want him, even after what he did.

Without a word, you pull the door open and step inside the cool space of your trailer. 

Sean follows you immediately, pulling the door shut behind him with a sharp, metallic click. He turns the lock, sealing the two of you inside.

The sudden silence of the trailer is deafening.

The fan is humming softly in the corner, blowing cold air that makes the fabric of your thin robe cling to your skin. The trailer is small, filled with the usual clutter of a working actor — scripts scattered around, half-empty bottles of water, a rack of wardrobe clothes, and a large makeup mirror surrounded by bright, round light bulbs.

You walk over to the table, putting some distance between yourself and him. You lean against the edge of it, crossing your arms over your chest. 

"You have two minutes, Sean. Say what you came to say."

Sean stands near the door. He has set the umbrella down against the wall, and he’s just looking at you. 

The professional, untouchable actor is gone. 

In his place is the man who looked at you in the dark, his hair slightly messy, his shirt open at the collar, showing the smooth skin of his collarbones and the hair on his chest.

"I watched you," he says softly. His voice is thick, carrying an emotion that makes your heart skip a beat. "I stood in the back of the set while you were doing that last take."

You look away, staring at the floor. 

"I don’t care."

"You do," he says, taking a slow step toward you. "I know you do. Your scene... it was beautiful. It was so raw. When you started crying, when you looked at the camera like your whole world had just ended... it almost made me cry. I had to look away because I..." he stops himself. He sighs, looking away, like trying to find the words. His fingers travel up to the bridge of his nose and he closes his eyes for a second. “I just know I’m never going to be half as talented as you are.”

You click your tongue, shaking your head. Something inside you doesn’t buy his "poor me" act for a second; yet at the same time, you know it’s true — that he really is that insecure about himself.

You look at him, tilting your head.

“So… is it really your last day around here?

Sean avoids your eyes for a moment, his fingers nervously adjusting the cuffs of his shirt.

“Yeah.”

“And you’re going back to the United States?” you press on, your voice cutting sharply through the quiet hum of the place.

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, looking completely exhausted. 

“I’m thinking about it. Josephine asked me to go back to Los Angeles with her. Her father is funding a big new project over there, and she wants me as the male lead. It’s a huge opportunity.”

You let out a short, sharp laugh, but there is no real humor in it. Only bitterness. 

“A huge opportunity. Right. So you’re just going to pack your bags and follow her across the ocean like a good little puppy.”

“Don’t do that,” he says, his voice dropping an octave, a warning clear in his tone. “This is my career we are talking about. I’ve worked for years to get to this point, to finally be a lead actor. I can’t just throw away a chance like this.”

“A chance like what? Being her puppet?” You step closer to him, the anger flaring up hot in your chest. “You look at me like I’m the one being unreasonable here, Sean. You are selling your soul to a girl who doesn’t even care about your talent, just to get a shortcut to Hollywood.”

“It’s not a shortcut, it’s survival!” Sean steps right into your personal space, his face flushed with frustration. “You don’t get it. You have the directors eating out of your hand. The studio already loves you. I don’t have that luxury. If I say no to her, her father drops my next movies. I disappear. Everything I’ve built goes away.”

“You’re already disappearing,” you whisper, your voice cracking with pure angst. You look at him, your eyes searching his face for any trace of the man from a few nights ago. “Every time you choose her over what’s real, there’s less of you left. You’re letting her buy you, and the worst part is you’re glad to let her do it.”

The silence stretches between you, heavy, painful, and suffocating. The anger in his dark eyes softens into something deeply miserable, but he stays frozen on his spot, too afraid to reach out, too afraid of what it would mean if he touched you again.

“Why did you leave?” you ask him suddenly. He looks at you as his jaw clenches. 

"I had to… it’s complicated."

"Complicated?" You let out a harsh mocking laugh. "It’s not complicated at all. You’re just a coward. You’re still her little lapdog, running around after her, holding her umbrella, letting her drag you around by a leash because you’re too afraid of trying to build something for yourself."

"That’s not true!" Sean snaps, his voice cracking with a sudden, rare display of anger. He steps right into your personal space, his eyes burning into yours. "Quit calling me that. You don’t know what you're talking about."

"I know exactly what I’m talking about!" you yell back, your chest heaving. "I see the way you look at her before making a move. I see the way you let her claim you like you’re some kind of prize. Just cause you think she’s the only one who can make you a star, you sell your soul to her and… what? You treat me like a secret shame, now?"

"She is my ticket to the top!" Sean shouts, his hands suddenly gripping your shoulders. His touch is firm, hot, and it sends a jolt of pure electricity straight down your spine. "If I offend her, if I leave her side, everything goes away. I can’t just throw it all away for... for..."

"For me?" you finish his sentence, your voice dropping to a painful, quiet whisper. "Say it, Sean. You can’t throw it away for me."

He stares at you, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. His hands are still on your shoulders, and you can feel them trembling. He looks at your lips, then back to your eyes, his expression a torture of desire and frustration.

"You think she’s the only one who can help you?" you ask, your voice turning low, dangerous, and confident. You slide your hands up his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath his shirt. You grip his collar, pulling him down slightly so he has to look at you. "You are so blind, Sean. Josephine’s a parasite. She doesn’t care about your talent. She just wants a handsome man on her arm to make her look good. You still can’t see she will use you up and throw you away the moment you aren’t useful to her anymore."

"And you?" he whispers, his eyes darkening. "What do you want?"

"I already told you that night, dummy…" you say, your voice dripping with conviction. You step even closer, your bodies pressing together from chest to thigh. "I can make you a king," you claim softly, your eyes looking at his lips for a second. "I don’t need a powerful family like her to make things happen. I have the talent, I have the industry’s respect, and the studio is already talking about my next contract. At my side, you wouldn’t have to beg for crumbs from Josephine’s table. We could have everything. We could conquer this entire industry together, on our own terms. You don’t need her, Sean… " your breaths mix together. "You need me."

He stares at you, completely speechless. 

The truth of your words hits him like a physical force. You can see the realization dawning in his eyes, the heavy weight of his ambition shifting, aligning perfectly with the burning desire he has been trying so hard to suppress. He finally understands that everything you said that night… every word is true.

Sean steps forward, closing the small distance in a single, aggressive stride. 

He grabs your face in his hands, his fingers digging deeply into your skin, his palms hot and slightly rough against your cheeks. There is no hesitation, he pulls you toward him with a desperate, terrifying hunger, his upper body looming over yours as he forces your head back. His mouth slams onto yours with a raw, bruising release of all the anger, frustration, and passion that has been building up inside him.

It’s not a gentle kiss. There’s no romance in it, only a desperate need to possess and be possessed. 

He presses his weight against you, driving you backward a step until your hips hit the edge of the heavy wooden makeup table.

You let out a soft, muffled groan into his mouth, the sound a mix of surprise and sheer relief. 

Your arms fly up, wrapping tightly around his neck, your hands sliding up to tangle in the soft, thick strands of his hair. 

You pull him down closer, matching his intensity, your lips parting as you demand more from him. He tastes like the bitter, rich smoke of the tobacco he had smuggled between takes and the sweet, sharp mint he used to cover it up — an intoxicating, addictive combination that makes your head spin and your knees go weak.

Sean groans deep in his throat, a low, animalistic sound that vibrates against your lips. His tongue slides into your mouth, deep and commanding, filling you completely. 

He claims your mouth in a way that leaves absolutely no room for doubt, his tongue sweeping over yours with a firm, heavy pressure. He tastes you hungrily, his hands shifting from your face to grip the back of your head, his fingers twisting into your hair to hold you still as he drinks you in.

"We don’t have time," you gasp against his lips, desperately trying to find a shred of sanity as he pulls back for a fraction of a second to catch his breath. Your chest is heaving, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. "They’ll be calling me back to set in ten minutes."

"I don’t care," Sean growls, his voice incredibly rough and desperate. His eyes are dark, the pupils completely dilated as he stares down at you, his breath hot against your face.

He doesn’t wait for you to argue. He slides his large, warm hands down your neck, his thumbs tracing the line of your jaw before trailing down the sides of your throat, leaving a path of burning heat on your skin. 

He grabs the loose edges of your silk robe and pulls them apart with a sudden, forceful jerk. The fabric parts easily, revealing the thin, white cotton summer dress your character was wearing for the scene you were supposed to be shooting. 

"I don’t care about any of them. I need you. Right now." He says, his voice dropping to a harsh, fierce whisper as his eyes sweep over your exposed body.

Before you can even process the words, he pushes you back further against the table. The hard, sharp wooden edge digs straight into your lower back, a sudden bolt of discomfort, but you barely even feel it. The adrenaline rushing through your veins numbs everything else. 

Sean is already moving, stepping directly between your thighs, his heavy thighs locking you into place against the furniture. 

His hands move fast, pushing the silk robe off your shoulders. He drags the sleeves down your arms, letting the fabric slide down to pool around your elbows. For a brief second, your arms are trapped by the bunched-up material, leaving you completely helpless beneath him, before he yanks it off entirely and tosses it carelessly onto the floor.

He steps back just an inch, his chest rising and falling violently as he looks down at your body. You are wearing nothing but a pair of tiny, matching white lace panties underneath the thin dress. The light fabric of the dress does nothing to hide the frantic pace of your breathing or the way your nipples are already pushing against the cloth, reacting to his closeness.

Sean’s eyes are wide, filled with a wild hunger that makes a shiver run down your spine. 

He reaches out, his thumb slowly tracing the elegant curve of your collarbone, his skin rough against yours. He lets his hand slide down, his palm spreading flat against your chest before moving lower to grip one of your breasts right through the thin material of the dress. He squeezes it firmly, his large hand completely covering it. He uses his palm to rub in a slow, circular motion against your nipple, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp as the sensitive peak hardens into a tight, aching knot beneath the fabric.

"You are so beautiful," he mutters, his voice thick and heavy with lust, his gaze fixed on his hand on your breast. "So fucking beautiful. It’s been driving me crazy. Since I saw on the set today in this dress, I just wanted to rip it off you and take you in front of everyone."

"Do it," you whisper, your voice completely breathless, broken by a desperate need that matches his own. You arch your chest into his hand, your fingers clawing at the smooth surface of the table behind you. "Take me, Sean."

Instead of answering you with words, Sean’s expression hardens with pure intent. He drops to his knees right there on the floor of the trailer, disappearing from your direct line of sight.

You let out a sharp, sudden gasp as his large hands grip your bare thighs. His fingers sink into your soft flesh, his grip firm as he spreads your legs wide, forcing your knees apart until you are completely open to him. The cool, oscillating air from the plastic fan on the counter hits your wet, aching center, making you shiver from the contrast. But a second later, that coolness is completely wiped out, replaced by the intense, suffocating heat of his face moving close.

He doesn’t hesitate for a single second. He hooks his thumbs into the delicate waistband of your white lace panties and drags them down your legs with a rough, impatient tug. He pulls them over your knees, past your calves, and yanks them off your feet, tossing them somewhere into the corner of the small room.

"Sean—" your voice catches in your throat, a breathless warning, but it’s already too late.

His mouth slams against your wet, swollen heat. His head disappears completely between your spread thighs as his large hands reach up, grabbing the hem of your summer dress and rolling it up, bunching the fabric around your hips to get it out of the way.

Your head flies back, your spine arching off the table as your eyes snap shut. A massive, overwhelming wave of pure, intense pleasure crashes over your entire body, making you tremble from head to toe. 

He doesn’t start gently. 

He doesn’t ease you into it. 

He uses his tongue in long, deep, heavy strokes, licking you with a fierce hunger from the very bottom of your opening all the way up to your highly sensitive clitoris.

His tongue swirls around your sweet spot with a firm, relentless pressure, his movements fast and heavy. The wet, rhythmic sounds of his mouth against your skin fill the quiet trailer, mixing with the low hum of the fan. Every time his tongue flickers over your clitoris, your hips twitch uncontrollably, lifting off the hard table as your body tries to sink deeper into the pleasure.

"Oh my God," you moan out loud. Your hands scramble behind you, your fingers finding the thick strands of his hair, gripping it tightly to hold him firmly against you. The smooth wood of the table is slick beneath your sweating palms, and your breath is coming in short, ragged, loud gasps. "Sean, please... fuck, Sean..."

He ignores your pleas, only digging his fingers deeper into the undersides of your thighs to hold you wide open for his mouth. 

He sucks on your clitoris, pulling it into his lips with a firm, rhythmic suction that makes a white-hot spark of electricity shoot straight down to your toes. 

You’re completely at his mercy, your legs trembling against his broad shoulders as he continues to eat you out with a filthy, frantic energy.

He pauses for a split second, lifting his head just enough to look up at you. His chin is wet, glistening with your own juices in the harsh light, his eyes dark, wild, and completely consumed by lust. 

He doesn’t say a word, but the look on his face is entirely primal. He slides two long fingers deep inside you, testing your wetness, burying them into your tight, hot pussy. Your body gives in to him instantly, stretching open to accommodate his fingers, pouring more moisture over his hand.

He starts to slide his fingers in and out of you in a rapid, pumping motion. His thrusts are fast and shallow, creating a wet sound that makes your face flush with heat. At the same time, he presses the heavy meat of his thumb hard against your clitoris, rubbing it back and forth in a brutal, perfect rhythm that mimics the frantic motion of his tongue.

The double stimulation is entirely too much to handle. You let out a loud moan. Your toes curl tightly as the first powerful waves of an intense orgasm begin to build deep in your belly, a tight, heavy coil of tension that begs to snap.

"Look at you," Sean whispers, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that goes straight to your core. 

He doesn’t stop moving his hand, his fingers pushing deeper inside you, feeling the way the tight, wet walls of your pussy are already starting to clench and pulse around them in anticipation of the climax. 

"You’re so tight for me. So fucking wet. You act all confident out there on set, walking around like you don’t care, but I know exactly what you need. Tell me you want me."

"I—," you cry out, your voice breaking as your hips roll helplessly against his hand, desperately seeking that final friction that will push you over the edge. The orgasm is right there, just out of reach, torturing you. "Sean. Please... I need... I want you. Please, Sean!"

Just as you are about to break, he quickly pulls his fingers completely out of you with a sharp, wet sound.

You let out a pathetic whine of protest, your hips arching up into the empty air, your entire body aching for the loss of the friction and the heat. 

But Sean is already standing up, his large frame towering over you once again. 

His face is heavily flushed, his chest heaving as he frantically works on the buttons of his trousers. His fingers are shaking with a desperation that matches yours, his composure completely gone. He unbuttons them with a rough yank and pushes the fabric down past his hips, releasing his thick, fully erect cock.

It springs free, massive and throbbing, the skin a dark, flushed red and glistening with a heavy coat of pre-cum at the tip. 

He doesn’t waste a single second. He grabs you by the hips, his large hands locking onto your bones, and lifts your upper body easily, sliding you higher up on the makeup table to get you into a better position. As he shoves you back, his movements knock a thick stack of printed script pages and a heavy ceramic coffee mug slide right off the edge, crashing loudly onto the floor, but neither of you pays any attention to the mess.

He spreads your legs as wide as they can possibly go, making you lean back onto your elbows, your chest arched upward, leaving you completely exposed and vulnerable beneath him.

"Look at me," he commands. His voice is rough, completely dominant, leaving no room for argument.

You force your heavy, hooded eyes open, your vision slightly blurry from the sheer amount of arousal flooding your system. You stare up into his dark, intense eyes as he steps closer, guiding the heavy, burning head of his cock against your wet, swollen entrance. He rubs the tip against your clitoris once, twice, coating himself in your wetness, making you gasp and twitch beneath him.

Then, he thrusts forward.

He slides into you in one long, smooth, brutal motion, burying his entire length inside you to the very base.

You let out a high-pitched, desperate scream, the sound echoing sharply inside the small, metallic space of the trailer. The feeling of him filling you so completely, so deeply, is almost too much to bear. Your internal muscles react instantly clamping down tightly on his thick shaft, squeezing him with an intense, desperate grip as if your body is trying to trap him inside forever.

"Fuck," Sean groans, his eyes snapping shut as he freezes completely. His entire body is trembling, his muscles locking up from the sheer tightness of your warmth surrounding him. He grips the edges of the table so hard his knuckles turn white, holding himself deep inside you as he waits for the overwhelming sensation to pass.

"Move," you beg, your voice a whimper, your hands reaching out to grip his hips. Your fingers dig into his skin, trying to pull him closer, trying to force him to start the rhythm. "Sean, please."

He lets out a low growl and starts to move. His thrusts are slow and deliberate at first, agonizingly deep. He pulls almost all the way out, leaving only the very tip inside you before slamming back in with a heavy, forceful lunge. His pelvis crashes against yours with a wet, heavy slap. The sound of your bodies hitting is loud, raw, and completely obscene in the quiet trailer, filling the small room with the primal noises of desire.

You wrap your legs tightly around his thick waist, locking your ankles behind his back to pull him even deeper inside you, demanding every single inch he has to give.

"Faster," you whisper against his neck, your teeth biting down lightly on his skin as the pleasure begins to spiral out of control again. "Sean, they’re going to come looking for me. Any second. Faster."

The reminder of the ticking clock only seems to fuel his desperation. His movements lose all semblance of control. Whatever restraint he had left completely snaps.

He grabs you by the waist, his large fingers digging deep into your skin, leaving dark red marks that will surely need a heavy layer of makeup from the wardrobe department later. He begins to pump into you with a wild, relentless need, his hips slamming against yours in a frantic rhythm. His breath comes in loud, his chest pressed flat against yours, crushing you into the table.

He’s hitting your cervix with every single deep, violent thrust, driving you to the absolute edge of madness. Your hands scramble blindly across the table behind you, knocking over a plastic bottle of water that spills across the remaining papers. Your fingers claw at the hard wood, your nails scratching the surface as you try to find some kind of anchor in the middle of this storm of pure pleasure.

"You’re mine," he gasps out, burying his face into the crook of your neck. His breath against your skin, his teeth biting down firmly on your collarbone as he continues to drive himself into you without mercy. "Tell me you’re mine. Tell me we’re going to take everything we want."

"We are," you cry out, your head shaking back and forth, your hair a wild mess across your face. The world is reduced to nothing but the heat of his body, the sound of your skin slapping together, and the deep, stretching fullness inside you. "We are... oh God, Sean, I’m— I'm close! Sean!"

The sudden, frantic clenching of your internal walls around his cock is the final trigger he can’t resist. Sean lets out a loud, animalistic roar against your skin as his own climax hits him like a train. He thrusts deep one last time, driving himself into you as far as physically possible, holding himself pinned tightly against your body as his entire frame shakes with powerful, violent spasms. He groans loudly, his head buried in your hair as he pumps his hot, thick semen deep inside you, filling you.

At that exact same microsecond, your own body collapses into a blinding orgasm. The pleasure is so intense, so violent, that your vision goes completely dark for a short second. Your internal muscles go wild, milking his throbbing cock in tight, rhythmic, uncontrollable waves that seem to go on forever, squeezing every last drop out of him as you scream his name into the empty room.

You cling to each other desperately on the messy table, both of your bodies covered in a fine layer of sweat, your chests heaving violently as you pant for air. The only sound for a long moment is the frantic, ragged noise of your breathing and the quiet hum of the fan.

The heavy, suffocating silence of the aftermath is broken almost immediately by a sharp, loud, aggressive knock on the metal trailer door.

"Five minutes to places! We need the lead actress on set immediately!" your assistant’s loud voice calls out from the other side of the thin door, her footsteps pausing right outside.

You freeze instantly, your heart stopping dead in your chest, a sudden jolt of pure panic replacing the residual pleasure. Sean’s eyes snap open, the heavy haze of lust instantly vanishing, replaced by a sharp flash of fear. He’s still buried deep inside you, his heavy cock slowly softening but still holding your bodies locked together on the table.

"I... I’ll be right out!" you call back toward the door, forcing your voice to stay steady, trying desperately to keep it from trembling or sounding as breathless as you actually are. You swallow hard, your hand gripping Sean’s shoulder for support. "Just fixing my hair and makeup!"

"Okay! Please hurry, the director is getting really impatient." Her footsteps finally turn and fade away down the gravel path outside.

Sean slowly, carefully pulls out of you with a soft, wet sound that seems incredibly loud in the quiet room. The sudden emptiness makes you shiver. 

A thick stream of mixed fluids immediately leaks out of your open center, running down the inside of your thigh. You quickly reach over to the table, grabbing a handful of tissues to clean yourself up before it can ruin the dress. Your legs are shaking so violently that you can barely stand as you slide off the edge of the table, your feet hitting the cold floorboards.

Sean stands up, his breathing still heavy as he quickly pulls his trousers up and fastens the buttons, his hands still a little unsteady. 

He steps toward you, his fingers reaching out to gently touch your chin, lifting your face so you have to look at him. The intense, possessive heat is still lingering in his eyes, hidden just beneath the surface of his panic.

"I have to go," he says softly, his voice still rough from the climax. He gently wipes some lipstick from your lower lip. "But this isn’t over. Not by a long shot."

"I know," you say, forcing a small, confident smile as you tie your robe back together and head to the mirror to fix your makeup. "Now get out. I have a movie to finish."

Sean bites his lips, hiding a smile. He grabs the umbrella, opening the door.

“Sean…” you call him, your eyes finding his through the mirror. “I don’t want to see you with her anymore.”

You can tell he freezes for a second. The look in his eyes tells you everything. 

He nods and closes the door behind him.

You look at yourself in the mirror again and sigh. 

You know he’s lying.

But in a place like this, everyone is far too good at pretending. 

Including yourself.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　

⭑ para val, te amo⭑

⋆⭒˚.⋆ likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated !! thank you for reading. ⋆⭒˚.⋆

⭑ masterlist ⭑

[moonchildpdf]

love will tear us apart

steve harrington x reader fanfiction | strangers to lovers | college! reader | damaged! (but soft) steve | 90s | upside down events didn’t happen | slow burn | angst | eventual smut | some fluff | secrets | emotional baggage | trauma | tension | mutual pining

c/w: more tension. angst. steve turns a little bit mean in this one. some fluff ?? not really though. talks about exes and past lovers. steve's dad mention (glup). mentions of violence. revealing some secrets. words: 13k summary: steve harrington arrives in the city carrying too many secrets for someone supposedly looking for a new beggining. between your friends' warnings, the pressure of your final semester and the ghosts you can barely outrun yourself, getting involved with him should be easy to avoid. turns out, it isn't. a/n: hihi how's everyone ?? new chapter this week !! sorry is taking me some time to update, it's coming slow but it's getting somewhere. just a warning... it'll build up faster from now on so be prepared... hope you guys enjoy this one !!

chapter nine: would i lie to you?

“And that, my dear friend, was without a doubt the best ice cream you will ever taste,” Robin announces. She throws her hands up in the air before slumping back against the booth’s red vinyl seat, stretching her legs out so far under the table that her sneakers bump against yours.

You laugh softly, shaking your head as you scrape the very last drop of melted vanilla from the edge of your small paper cup. 

“I think you might be just a little bit biased,” you reply, raising an eyebrow at her.

Robin gasps loudly, clutching her hands to her chest.

“Biased? Me? Oh, okay. Wow. So what you’re actually saying is that you didn’t like it. Fine. My heart is completely broken.”

You can’t help the grin spreading across your face. Grabbing a crumpled, slightly sticky napkin from the center of the table, you toss it straight across at her and she just catches it mid-air, grinning like a kid who had just won a prize at a carnival booth.

“She’s actually right, you know,” Nancy speaks from across the table, setting down her paper cup. She takes a slow sip of her water through a straw before looking up with a sly, knowing smile. “You’re only saying that because you spent an entire year stuck behind that counter wearing a ridiculous sailor costume. You still have that desperate salesperson instinct trapped deep inside your brain.”

Beside Nancy, Jonathan drags Nancy’s half-eaten chocolate sundae an inch closer to his side of the table, and steals a massive spoonful.

Nancy catches him mid-bite. She gives him a look that is supposed to be stern and annoying, but the slight curve of her lips completely ruins the effect. She doesn’t even try to pull the bowl back. She just lets him eat it.

Robin rolls her eyes so hard you think they might get stuck in the back of her head, but she can’t hide the fond, playful smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. 

“You guys have zero appreciation for true culinary art. I worked hard in those trenches. I survived the endless loop of pop music and sticky floors. I earned the right to praise the cream!”

Listening to them bicker, you lean back against the backrest and let your gaze wander across the bright, buzzing floor of the place.

The mall feels like a universe entirely separate from the rest of the world. It’s drown in bright fluorescent lights, glowing neon pink and blue signs, and the constant hum of human activity. The air smells intensely of buttered popcorn, sweet cinnamon rolls, bleach, and expensive perfume. Kids run around in groups, their laughter echoing off the polished tile floors while their parents drag shopping bags from store to store, enjoying a quiet evening out. It’s vibrant, loud, and full of an overwhelming sense of life.

It’s completely, starkly different from the town waiting just outside those heavy glass doors.

It isn’t that you disliked Hawkins. It’s just that there’s a feeling you can’t quite put your finger on. Hawkins has an aura that manages to be strange and deeply unsettling, yet somehow strange and nostalgic all at the exact same time. It’s as if the town is holding its breath, keeping a massive secret that no outsider was ever supposed to learn.

But, isn’t it like that with every town? Even your own feels like that.

The thing is that, right now, the center of the mystery feels like it’s standing only fifty feet away from you.

You turn your head slightly, letting your eyes drift toward the ice cream counter.

There he is.

Steve’s leaning lazily against the high counter of the shop. His posture is effortless, one elbow propping up his weight while his other hand is shoved deep into the pocket of his denim jacket. 

He’s bent forward, whispering something directly into the ear of the girls working the register. Whatever he says makes her burst into a fit of giggles, her cheeks turning bright red as she buries her face behind her hands to hide her smile.

A sudden, sharp knot tightens right in the center of your chest. The sweet taste of the ice cream in your mouth turns sour in an instant. Your stomach flips nervously, forcing you to tear your eyes away and stare back down at your empty cardboard cup. 

You and Steve haven’t really talked. 

Not properly. 

Not since that day at the lake.

Ever since then, he has been acting strange. 

Sure, he still shows up whenever the group organizes a hangout. He has been there when the crew decides to show you around town, driving his car while pointing out local landmarks with a casual flick of his wrist. 

He has been there when Jonathan dragged everyone deep into the woods to help carry his heavy photography equipment for his project, leaning against a pine tree and tossing smart remarks into the cool forest air.

On the surface, he seemed like the same Steve everyone knows — funny, slightly arrogant, quick with a joke. But to you, his presence feels entirely different.

His presence is around you like a ghost. And frankly, it’s driving you crazy.

It frustrates you to your very core, because you have genuinely believed that coming to Hawkins would change things between you two. 

Back in the big city, there are always distractions, crowds, and the constant noise of a fast-paced life that seems to keep him guarded. You have thought that once he was back in his hometown, surrounded by his closest friends and familiar surroundings, something inside him would finally unlock. 

You thought the walls he keeps around himself would crumble, allowing you to finally see who he truly is.

Instead, being here seems to have made everything worse.

He feels more distant now than he ever has in the city. He feels absent, even when he’s sitting in the very same room as you. He’s like a shadow slipping through your fingers every time you try to reach out and grab him.

And yet, despite the distance, despite the growing wall of silence between you, your body stubbornly refuses to forget him.

Every time you close your eyes, you can still feel the heat of his hands gently but firmly over your curves. You can still feel the weight of his body pressed against yours, the rhythm of his breathing, and the warmth of his lips moving against yours in the dark. 

The memory of his touch burns you, making your skin burn with a sudden, frustrating wave of heat.

“Ready to go?”

Robin’s voice takes you out of your thoughts. You blink rapidly, pulling yourself out of the memory, and look up from your ruined paper cup. She’s already standing up from the booth, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

You swallow hard, clearing the tightness from your throat, and give a quick, reassuring nod.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m ready.”

Before you can even fully pull yourself out of the booth, Robin turns toward the counter.

“Steve!” she shouts, her voice ringing out loud and clear.

Your heart instantly does a violent, terrifying flip in your chest. You grab your jacket off the back of the seat, slipping your arms through the sleeves and zipping it up to your chest as a desperate attempt to give your shaking hands something to do.

Steve turns his head toward the noise. Seeing Robin waving at him, he says a final word to the blushing girl at the counter, who gives him a small wave goodbye. He pushes himself off the counter and walks over to your table.

As he gets closer, you notice a red cherry lollipop tucked into the side of his mouth, the plastic stick poking out between his lips. He shifts it from one side of his mouth to the other with his tongue, his dark eyes scanning the group before finally landing on you for a brief, fraction of a second.

“Hey,” Steve says, his voice smooth but lacking any real warmth. “You guys go ahead without me. I think I’m gonna hang around here for a bit longer, alright?”

You can’t help yourself — you glance past his shoulder. The girl from the counter is still watching him, leaning over the register and twisting a long strand of hair around her index finger.

The implication hits you like a bucket of ice water. A bitter feeling washes over you. You bite the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to look anywhere else — at the floor, at the polished table, at the bright lights — anything to avoid looking him in the eye.

Robin, however, immediately crosses her arms and glares at him with complete disbelief.

“No, no, no,” Robin says, her tone leaving absolutely zero room for negotiation. “Absolutely not. Someone has to drive her home, Steve. I already told you, Nancy and Jonathan are dropping me off at Vickie’s place.” She pulls her denim jacket tighter around her shoulders, shaking her head firmly.

Steve stops sucking on his lollipop. His eyebrows pull together in a deep frown, and his tone instantly shifts, growing visibly annoyed. 

“Why can’t she just ride with you guys?”

“Because Vickie’s house is on the complete opposite side of town, Steve!” Robin shoots back, stepping closer to him and matching his frustrated energy.

“So what?” Steve argues, his voice rising as he tosses his head back in irritation. “It’s Hawkins, Robin! It’s not like it’s a three-hour cross-country road trip! It adds maybe ten minutes to their drive!”

“Steve! You literally promised me earlier today that you’d take care of it!”

“I didn’t promise anything!” Steve snaps back, taking the lollipop out of his mouth and pointing the plastic stick at her accusingly. “I said that if I was available, I would think about—!”

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” your soft, quiet voice suddenly cuts straight through their loud, back-and-forth bickering. “It’s really not a big deal,” you continue softly, trying your absolute best to sound completely unaffected by the whole scene. “I can just figure something out. You guys don’t need to argue about it.”

“NO!”

The word burst out of both Steve and Robin at the exact same time, whipping their heads around to face you directly.

Steve lets out a heavy, dramatic groan that sounds like it comes from the very bottom of his lungs. He runs a hand through his hair, completely messing it up before dragging his palm down over his face.

“Fine,” Steve mutters through his fingers, his voice muffled and deeply annoyed. He drops his hand, glaring at Robin with pure irritation. “Fine. But you owe me big time for this.”

Robin doesn’t hesitate for a single second. She swings her arm and slaps him hard on the shoulder with the back of her hand. 

“You’re the one who owes me his entire life, you miserable grump.”

“You’re unbelievably exhausting, you know that?” Steve grumbles, putting the lollipop back into his mouth.

“And you’re an absolute idiot,” Robin replies with a sweet, fake smile.

“Okay! Okay, that’s definitely enough out of both of you,” Nancy interrupts, stepping smoothly between the two of them before the argument can escalate any further. She grabs Robin firmly by the forearm, gently tugging her toward the main corridor of the mall. She turns to look at you, her eyes softening with a warm, supportive look. “We’re heading out. We’ll see you tomorrow, okay? Call me if you need anything.”

“Yeah, see you guys tomorrow,” Jonathan adds, giving you a small, kind nod of understanding as he picks up his camera bag and follows Nancy.

Robin gives you a quick, reassuring wave over her shoulder as Nancy pulls her along down the hallway. 

“Bye! Don’t let him do stupid shit!” she calls out, her voice echoing off the tall ceilings until the three of them finally disappear around the corner toward the main exit doors.

The sudden silence that settles between you is deafening.

The bright neon lights of the mall suddenly felt far too harsh, casting long, sharp shadows across the floor. The distant sounds of pop music and laughs feel miles away, leaving only the sound of your own quiet, steady breathing.

Steve stands a few feet away from you, his body turned slightly to the side. He shoves his hands back deep into his jacket pockets, his posture stiff and rigid. He stares off toward the center fountain for a long, agonizing moment, the jawline of his face tight as he sucks absently on his lollipop.

Finally, he lets out a long, heavy breath through his nose. He shifts his weight, his hands remaining in his pockets as he gestures vaguely toward the glass exit doors down the hall with a quick tilt of his chin.

“After you,” he says softly. His voice lacks the sharpness it held during his argument with Robin, but it’s cold, flat, and completely devoid of emotion.

You don’t say a word.

You simply wrap your jacket tighter around your chest to shield yourself from the chill in the air, and begin walking toward the exit. Steve falls into step beside you, keeping a careful, agonizing distance of three feet between your shoulders as you walk side-by-side through the empty corridors.

As you push through the heavy glass doors and step out into the cool night air, a heavy weight settles deep inside your chest and realization settles inside your heart.

No matter what happened between you in the dark, no matter how real his touch felt on your skin, the reality is staring you right in the face: Steve is actively pushing you away, hiding behind walls you have no idea how to break down… again.

—

If it weren’t for the music coming out of the car radio, the silence between the two of you would be completely unbearable.

The speakers buzz with the beat of Would I Lie to You? by Eurythmics. The baseline fills the dark interior of the car, and the lyrics float through the air, sounding almost sarcastic right now.

"Would I lie to you?

Would I lie to you, honey?

Now would I say something that wasn’t true?"

You let out a long sigh, turning your head away from the passenger window to look at him.

The lights of the quiet town reflect on his face. They trace the sharp line of his jaw and highlight his profile in a way that honestly takes your breath away, even when you’re this furious with him. 

"You really didn’t need to give me a ride," you say. Your voice cuts through the music, sharp and cold. "I could have managed on my own."

Steve doesn’t look at you. His eyes remain glued to the dark road ahead, but you see his jaw tighten. His fingers flex on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white from how hard he is gripping it.

"Yeah, right," he mutters, his voice low and raspy. "Sure you could. Who were you gonna ask? You don’t know a single soul here."

You shrug your shoulders, leaning back against the cold seat and crossing your arms over your chest.

"People seem nice enough around here," you reply, keeping your tone casual just to get under his skin. "I’m sure someone would have given me a lift."

Steve lets out a small, sarcastic laugh that holds zero humor.

"Sure," he says. "Great plan."

You stare at the side of his face, feeling the frustration bubble up in your chest. It has been building for days, sitting heavy like a stone in your stomach, and you can’t keep it inside anymore.

"I don’t get it," you say softly, turning your body slightly toward him. "I really don’t understand why you brought me along if my presence bothers you so much."

"I never said it bothered me," he snaps back instantly.

"Well, you’re certainly acting like it!"

"What is that supposed to mean?" Steve frowns, his forehead creasing as he glances at you for half a second before returning his focus to the road.

"I don’t know, Steve! You tell me!" You throw your hands up slightly. "You haven’t said more than five words to me in days. Feels like you literally walk out of the room every time I walk in. You’re completely avoiding me, so maybe it’s ringing a bell?"

He rolls his eyes and laughs again, that same dry, bitter sound.

"What? Are you keeping score now? Counting the exact number of times we talk?" 

"No," you say, your voice dipping lower, hurt creeping into the edges of your words despite your best efforts to sound angry. "No, I’m not counting. I just... I expected you not to pretend I don’t exist after everything that happened between us."

Steve rolls his eyes again, letting out a loud sigh of annoyance.

You let out a harsh, sarcastic laugh of your own. 

"Yeah, classic. Keep doing that. Keep pretending it’s nothing. You know what your problem is, Steve? You act like you’re so mature, like you’re completely over everything and nothing touches you. But the second things get even a little bit serious, you’re the absolute first one to run away."

Steve immediately raises one hand off the wheel, holding it up in defense.

"Who ran away?" he asks, his voice rising. "I’m right here! I’m literally driving you right now!"

You roll your eyes, shaking your head in total disbelief.

"Being here physically doesn’t mean you’re actually here, Steve. Damn it. I really thought... I really believed that coming here was going to change something between us."

A sudden, sharp silence falls over the car. The radio music seems to fade into the background as the weight of your words settles in the air.

Steve slows down the car slightly, his voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet tone. 

"Change what?"

You sigh, turning your face back toward the window, watching the town slide by in the dark.

"Nothing, Steve. Forget it."

"No," he says, his tone firm, unyielding. "Tell me. Change what?"

"I don’t know, Steve! This!" You point a finger back and forth between him and yourself. "Whatever the hell is happening right here! I thought coming to your hometown would let me see a side of you that I hadn’t seen before. That it wouldn't just be whatever polished version you want to show me — or even the stuff you try to hide that leaks out anyway!"

Steve bites the inside of his cheek, his gaze locked firmly on the dark road ahead.

"Well," he says, his voice flat and distant. "Those are just ideas you made up in your head."

You stare at him, a nervous, disbelieving laugh escaping your lips.

"Oh, right. So I’m the crazy one now? I just made up the idea that maybe — just maybe — something real was happening between us?" You shake your head, feeling a sting behind your eyes that you refuse to let turn into tears. "Damn it. Forgive me, then. My mistake. But I guess you’re used to this, aren’t you? Used to girls having all these huge feelings for you, believing in something that isn’t actually there—"

Before you can finish your sentence, Steve yanks the steering wheel hard to the right.

The tires screech against the asphalt as the car makes a sharp, sudden turn onto a narrow, dark road. You gasped loudly, your body swaying with the momentum as you frantically grab onto the door handle and the edge of your seat to balance yourself.

"Steve! What the hell—!"

You look out the windshield, your heart hammering against your ribs. There are no streetlights here. The headlights of the BMW slice through total darkness, illuminating tall pine trees lining both sides of a rough, dirt road. The car begins to climb, engine straining as it pushes up a steep hill.

If it were anyone else driving — if you were in a car with a stranger on an unmarked, pitch-black dirt trail in the middle of nowhere — you would be terrified. Your instinct would be to scream or fight to get out.

But it’s Steve.

Despite your anger, despite the hurt burning in your chest, there is something deeply rooted inside you that trusts him. Even when he’s infuriating, even when he shuts you out behind invisible walls, you trust him with your safety. You trust him with your life.

The car bumps over gravel and exposed tree roots, climbing higher and higher until the trees begin to thin out.

Finally, Steve brings the car to a stop right near the edge of a high cliff. The headlamps shut off, plunging the car into ambient moonlight.

He lets out a massive, heavy sigh, dropping his hands off the steering wheel. But he doesn’t turn to look at you. He just stares straight ahead at the vast space beyond the hood of the car.

"There," he says, his voice sharp and blunt.

You blink, shifting in your seat, your tone caught somewhere between irritation and genuine curiosity. 

"There... what?"

"You wanted to see something more than what I let you see," he says, resting his arms on the wheel again, his head bowed slightly. "Well. Here it is."

You turn your head to look out the window, completely confused at first.

Outside, high pine trees frame a wide open view. From this spot, at the highest point above the town, you can look down and see the distant, tiny lights of Hawkins spread out below like a handful of glowing dust. Above you, the sky is completely open, dark blue and clear, dusted with thousands of bright stars.

And then, like a physical touch, it hits you.

A memory washes over you, leaving a deep, sudden warmth in its wake that you can’t even describe.

You remember that time coming back from the store where he told you about that place he used to go when he was younger, biking up with his friends on summer nights. He told you how he would stand right at the edge, looking down at the small lights of the town, feeling like he was completely untouchable. Like he was at the top of the universe.

The King of the world.

 King Steve.

You look back at him now. The anger in your chest begins to dissolve, replaced by a strange, aching tenderness.

Steve’s jaw is still clamped tight. He’s looking out his side window, giving you a full view of his sharp profile against the moonlight.

He reaches into his jacket pocket, his movements quick and tense. He pulls out another small lollipop, tears off the crinkly plastic wrapping with his teeth, and pops it into his mouth. 

You notice the nervous habit now — something to keep his hands busy, something to keep him from smoking or saying things he regrets.

You squeeze your hands tightly into fists in your lap. You have to fight with every ounce of willpower you possess to hold back the sudden, overwhelming urge to reach across the console and pull him close to you.

Instead, you just force yourself to look straight ahead out the windshield, trying to steady your heavy breathing.

The quiet inside the car stretches out, long and delicate. The sound of the wind rustling the pine trees outside is the only thing filling the space.

Then, Steve’s voice breaks the quiet.

"I’m not avoiding you," he says.

The words are quiet, almost lost in the dark space between you. You look down at your hands, tracing the seams of your jeans.

"It really doesn’t feel that way, Steve..." you answer, keeping your voice soft, but direct.

"It’s not that I want to," he says.

Slowly, Steve turns his head to look at you.

It’s completely impossible not to look back. His eyes catch the pale moonlight streaming through the windows. The sharpness in his face is gone, replaced by a raw, open vulnerability that makes your heart ache. He looks at you with those deep, heavy eyes — eyes that look like a sad, beaten-up puppy.

"It’s just that..." He pauses, running a hand over his face with a long, exhausted sigh. He throws his head back against the headrest, staring up at the dark roof of the car. "Everything she said is true. She was right. I’m just a stupid idiot, and I can’t keep dragging you along with me, even when I—"

You tilt your head, your eyebrows drawing together as you try to piece together his scattered words.

"Robin?" you ask, trying to figure out who he’s talking about. "Did Robin say something to you?"

Steve shakes his head quickly, his eyes still fixed on the ceiling.

"Nancy," he whispers.

Your heart feels like it stops dead in your chest. A cold shiver runs down your spine.

Suddenly, you remember the exact look on Nancy’s face when she ran into you and Steve near the lake the other day. She had looked at the two of you, then at Robin, with a look that was far too sharp, far too knowing.

She knew. She definitely knew there was something going on between you two.

"What... what did she say to you?" you ask quietly.

Steve lowers his head, shaking it slowly.

"Don’t worry," he says, trying to reassure you. "Robin doesn’t know anything. Nancy swore on it."

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, your shoulders dropping slightly.

"But," Steve continues, his voice tight, "Nancy told me that if we keep doing this — if we keep running around like this — she was definitely going to tell Robin. And she told me that I’m being selfish. That I get people hurt. That I drag people into my mess without thinking about what happens to them."

You sigh, turning your eyes up toward the car ceiling for a second before turning back to face him fully.

"I really... I just don’t get it, Steve," you say, your voice desperate for answers. "I don’t understand why us being together has to be this massive, dramatic problem. Why is it such a big deal that we—"

"You don’t have to understand it!" Steve cuts you off sharply.

He sits up straight, his hands gripping the steering wheel again, though his voice lacks any real anger now. It just sounds tired. Worn out.

"You don’t have to understand it," he repeats softly, looking at you. "You just... you just have to accept it."

A bitter, disbelieving laugh escapes your chest.

"Accept it?" you say, your tone instantly hardening. "Right. Accept it. Just like I’m supposed to accept it when you show up at my door in the middle of the night bruised, beaten up, and bleeding?"

Steve flinches slightly, but stays silent.

"Or just like I’m supposed to accept watching you beat the absolute hell out of some guy in an alleyway?" Your voice rises, sharp and heavy with all the unsaid fear you’ve been carrying for weeks. "Is that what you mean? Just accept the crazy, dangerous secrets you’re keeping from me without asking a single question?"

Steve’s eyes soften for a fraction of a second, filled with a sudden flash of pain. But then, right before your eyes, the wall goes back up. His posture stiffens, his jaw sets into a firm, stubborn line, and he turns his face away to stare back out into the dark night. He bites down hard on his lower lip, refusing to say another word.

You wait. You sit there in the dim light, watching him, waiting for him to defend himself, to give you an explanation, to say anything.

But nothing comes.

It’s a response you have grown far too accustomed to over the past few weeks: total, impenetrable silence.

Not just from him. But from everyone else.

Realizing that you aren’t going to get an answer — that he’s hiding behind his walls once again — you pull your gaze away from him. You turn back to your own window, staring out at the distant, cold lights of the town down below, biting the inside of your cheek so hard it hurts, wrapped in a silence that feels heavier than ever before.

"Who’s Dylan?" 

The question breaks the silence.

Your heart squishes violently in your chest for a second. The sudden change of topic is so abrupt that it catches you completely off guard. It’s so painfully obvious that Steve wants to steer the conversation away from him. 

But it isn’t just his sharp deflection that makes your breathing falter — it’s the simple mention of that specific name.

You turn your head slowly, staring out the passenger window at the dark silhouette of the tall pine trees lining the cliff edge.

"Why do you want to know?" you ask, keeping your voice as flat and neutral as possible.

"Because I’m your friend, and I want to know," Steve says curtly.

His tone is sharp, almost defensive. Hearing the word friend come out of his mouth in that tone makes a bitter, ironic laugh burst from your chest. 

You shake your head, incredulous.

"He’s my ex-boyfriend," you say, leaving it at that. You don’t offer any details.

Steve stays silent for a few agonizing seconds.

"Is he the one who left?" Steve asks suddenly.

You turn back toward him, your eyebrows pulling together in a sharp frown. 

"If you already know who he is, then why are you even asking me?"

Steve rolls his eyes, adjusting his posture in the driver’s seat. 

"I don’t know who he is," he mutters, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel. "Robin just mentioned a few things to me. It’s not like I know his life story or anything."

You let out a heavy sigh, sinking lower into your seat. You wrap your arms tightly across your chest and turn your face back toward the dark window, watching the moonlight flicker across the glass. 

"Yeah," you say softly. "It’s him."

"And now he’s back."

"No," you correct him instantly, your tone rising in frustration. "He’s not back. He was just passing through town for a couple of days."

Steve clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, letting out a short, dry sound. 

"Right."

Your frown deepens. You turn around completely in your seat, fixing your eyes on his profile.

"What?"

"Nothing," he says quickly, staring straight ahead out the windshield.

"No, come on, Steve," you push, your voice challenging him. "You clearly want to say something. Just say it."

Steve shifts uncomfortably, resting his elbow on the car door and leaning his chin against his palm. 

"I’m just saying... he seemed pretty damn close to you at the party the other night."

You freeze for a fraction of a second as the realization hits you.

"Ah," you say, a cold smile touching your lips. "So you saw us."

"I just saw you talking to someone, alright?" Steve snaps back, his voice rising a fraction as he finally turns his head to glance at you. "I didn’t assume anything. It’s not like I was gonna sit there and get all worried about who you were talking to, or whether some guy was your ex or not."

"No, of course not," you reply, your tone dripping with sharp sarcasm as you turn your gaze back to the front windshield. "Because that night, you had far more important plans, didn’t you?"

The silence that follows your words is suffocating. It fills every corner of the car, heavy and thick with everything you aren’t saying out loud. You are explicitly hinting at what you saw later that very night.

Steve’s jaw flexes. He pulls the small lollipop out of his mouth, his face completely shadowed by the dim cabin light.

"Were you in love with him?" he asks.

His voice is lower now, raspy and rough around the edges, cutting straight through the heavy silence.

You stiffen. 

"Steve," you warn softly, looking at him.

"What?" he asks, his dark eyes meeting yours in the faint light. "Can’t I ask?"

You let out a heavy sigh, letting your head fall back against the leather headrest. You close your eyes for a brief moment, taking a deep, grounding breath, tryinh to settle the sudden storm inside your chest before opening your eyes again and looking out into the dark night.

The quiet inside the car stretches out for several long seconds. You trace the faint outline of your reflection in the glass, searching for the right words to describe a past that feels so distant now.

"I don’t know..." you finally answer, your voice barely above a whisper. "I think so... I don’t know."

Steve takes the lollipop out of his mouth completely, resting his wrist on the top of the steering wheel. 

"What do you mean, 'I don’t know'?"

"I don’t know, Steve! I really don’t know!" You throw your hands up in frustration, turning to face him. "I... I liked him. I was completely obsessed with him. I honestly believed he was the love of my life, that he was everything to me. Until I finally realized that the whole thing was just..."

"A lie," Steve finishes for you, his voice flat.

You sigh heavily, your shoulders slumping. 

"I don’t know if I’d call it a lie. It was all just my own illusions, okay? I made up a version of him in my head that didn’t exist."

"But he did lie to you," Steve insists, his brow furrowed as he stares at you.

You roll your eyes, tossing your head back. 

"If Robin already told you the entire story, why are we even having this conversation right now?"

"I told you," Steve says, his tone softening slightly. "Robin only told me the quick, surface-level version."

You bite the inside of your cheek, feeling a familiar sting of old humiliation. You look down at your lap, picking at a loose thread on your clothes.

"He cheated on me a couple of times," you admit quietly. "That’s all. But..." You raise a hand in a dismissive gesture. "It’s not like our relationship was even serious enough to truly call it cheating anyway. I don’t know."

Steve stays quiet, watching you carefully. The tension between you shifts, turning into something softer, heavier, and far more intimate.

"The other day..." Steve begins, his voice dropping an octave. You inevitably look up at him, caught by the tone of his voice. "When you jumped into Lover’s Lake," Steve continues, his eyes locking onto yours. "When you were talking about finding real love and all that stuff... were you thinking about him?"

Your brows pull together in genuine confusion. 

"What?"

"Were you thinking about him?" he repeats, searching your face for any sign of hesitation.

"No," you say firmly, shaking your head. "No, Steve. I wasn’t thinking about him. Honestly, I hadn’t thought about him in months until he randomly showed up in town. And these past few days, he hasn’t crossed my mind even once... until you just brought his name up."

Steve holds your gaze for a second longer before looking away, turning his head toward his side window. He pops the lollipop back into his mouth, shifts it to the other side, and then pulls it right back out, letting out a small, breathless sigh.

He turns back to you. 

"Robin is completely convinced that those hickeys on your neck came from him," he says casually. "She basically convinced the rest of the group, too."

You let out a groan of pure frustration, burying your face in your hands for a second. 

"Well, yeah! I had to tell her that!"

Your eyes shoot back up to meet Steve’s in the dim moonlight. The air in the car instantly freezes.

Slowly, without a word, Steve reaches his hand across the space between the seats. His warm fingers slide under the collar of your jacket, brushing gently against the sensitive skin of your neck. His thumb traces the faint, fading marks hidden beneath your clothes.

A sharp shiver runs down your spine at his touch. Your breath hitches in your throat, your skin burning everywhere his fingers make contact.

Steve holds his hand there for a fleeting second, his thumb caressing your skin with a devastating tenderness. Then, as if suddenly remembering himself, he pulls his hand back abruptly. He clears his throat, turning his face away to stare out his window again, his jaw working as he tries to regain control.

You sit there, your pulse racing against your ribs, the ghost of his touch still lingering on your skin like a physical burn. You pull your jacket collar up slightly, trying to steady your irregular breathing.

"What about you?" you ask softly, turning the question back on him. "Have you ever been in love?"

"What?" Steve asks, refusing to meet your eyes. He busies himself with adjusting the air vent on the dashboard.

You tilt your head, leaning slightly closer to catch his gaze. 

"Steve..."

Hearing the gentle, accusatory tone in your voice, a small, involuntary smile touches the corner of Steve’s lips. He lets out a quiet sigh, throwing his head back against the headrest.

"Once..." he murmurs to the ceiling of the car.

Your heart does a strange, violent flip in your chest. You didn’t expect the answer to sting quite like this. A sudden, uncomfortable pang of jealousy twists in your stomach at the thought of him hopelessly lost in someone else, giving another girl that intense, undivided attention that currently consumes you.

"Who?" you ask quietly.

"Nancy."

Hearing her name come off his lips makes a small, unexpected laugh bubble up in your chest. You know, of course, that they used to date back in high school. Everyone knows. But hearing it now feels so distant, so utterly bizarre and unreal, that you can barely process it. Your Steve and your Nancy feel like they belong to two completely different universes.

"Right," you say, shaking your head with a faint smile.

Steve turns his head, catching the smirk on your face. A genuine smile breaks across his face, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners.

"What?" he asks.

"Nothing."

"You’re laughing at me," Steve accuses softly. He takes the lollipop out of his mouth and brings it close to your lips, playfully poking your cheek with it just to annoy you.

You laugh, ducking your head and waving his hand away from your face. You rotate your entire body in the passenger seat, turning to face him fully. 

"I’m not laughing! It’s just..." You shrug your shoulders, searching for the right words. "I don’t know. It just sounds weird."

"Yeah, well," Steve says, his smile fading into a softer expression as he looks back up at the car ceiling. "It was real. Very real."

Your frown returns, a small shadow crossing your features. 

"Still...?"

"What? No!" Steve shoots up, turning to face you with wide eyes, denying it so fast and aggressively that it borders on ridiculous. "No, God, no!"

A loud, genuine laugh escapes your lips at his dramatic reaction. 

"I was just making sure."

Steve smiles again, his eyes softening as he watches you laugh.

"What about Gabriela?" The name slips out of your mouth before you can stop yourself.

Steve clicks his tongue, shaking his head immediately. 

"You already know I’m not..."

"I don’t know anything, Steve."

"Yes, you do..." Steve says, his voice dropping into a lower, darker register that sends a tremor straight down your spine.

You look down at your hands, your fingers nervously playing with the stitched seam of your denim jeans. 

"Well, sometimes it really doesn’t seem like you aren’t in love with her."

Steve looks at you for a long moment. Then, softly, almost under his breath, he asks:

"Would I lie to you?"

Your eyes snap up to meet his in the pale moonlight.

"Do you really want me to answer that question?" you ask, your tone a mix of vulnerability and deep suspicion.

Steve’s eyebrows pull together, a look of genuine hurt flashing across his features. 

"I never lied to you..."

"Steve..."

"I never lied to you," he repeats, his voice firm, shaking his head slowly. "Never."

"Right..." You let out a quiet, sarcastic laugh, shaking your head and turning your gaze back toward the side window.

Before you can look away completely, Steve moves.

He shifts his entire body toward you, leaning across the center console. His hand reaches out, his warm, strong fingers wrapping gently around your jawline, stopping you in your tracks. His touch is firm yet remarkably gentle, forcing you to turn back and look directly into his eyes.

"No, no," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "Look at me."

His arm slides behind your headrest, his body crowding yours in the tight space of the front seat. His thumb rests against your cheekbone, stroking the soft skin of your jaw with agonizing slowness.

"I never lied to you," he says again, his dark eyes dropping down to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back to meet your gaze.

You hold your breath, trapped by his proximity, by the warmth radiating from his body, by the raw intensity in his eyes.

"Okay," Steve continues, his voice barely louder than a whisper against your skin. "It’s true that I can’t tell you everything. It’s true that there are things happening... things where I haven’t been one hundred percent honest with you. But I have never lied to you. Never."

Your heart hammers frantically against your ribs. Your eyes lower to his lips, watching them move, watching the subtle rise and fall of his chest.

"And what if I ask you right now?" you whisper, your voice trembling slightly. "What if I ask you everything I want to ask?"

Steve leans in just a fraction closer, his face inches from yours.

"Try me," he whispers softly against your lips.

You swallow hard, gathering every ounce of courage left in your body. You look directly into his dark, beautiful eyes.

"Why did you show up beat up that night—?"

Before you can even finish the sentence, Steve leans forward and presses his lips against yours.

The kiss is soft, brief, and completely takes the air right out of your lungs.

When he pulls back just an inch, his breath warm against your mouth, you blink in confusion, your mind racing to catch up.

"Steve..." you whisper, your voice trembling.

"What?" he whispers back, his hand sliding slowly behind your neck, his fingers tangling into the hairs at the base of your head.

"That’s not fair," you mutter, trying to hold onto your anger, trying to maintain the wall you built between you.

Steve lets out a small, quiet breath that feels like a defeated laugh. 

"You’re right," he murmurs against your cheek. "I’m sorry." He clears his throat softly, pulling back just enough to look at you. "Go ahead. Continue."

You stare at him, your hands gripping the edges of your seat. 

"Why did you show up that night covered in—"

Steve cuts you off again.

This time, his mouth meets yours with an intensity that completely shatters your defenses. His hand pulls gently at your hair, tilting your head back at the perfect angle to deepen the kiss. His other hand comes up to rest against the side of your face, his thumb tracing your cheek as he pulls you closer against him, erasing every last bit of distance between the two of you.

And you give in.

Every rational thought in your brain tells you to push him away, to demand the answers you deserve, to demand the truth about the violence, the secrets, and the dangerous world he’s hiding from you. But your body completely betrays you.

You let yourself fall.

Your hands leave the seat and slide up his chest, wrapping around his neck, pulling him down into you. What you feel for him is so much stronger, so much more overwhelming than the anger burning in your chest. It’s stronger than the frustration of not being able to know him completely, stronger than the fear of not knowing which parts of him are real and which parts are built on secrets. Stronger than every warning signal there’s is around him.

You surrender completely to the feeling of his lips moving against yours, to the heat of his breath, to the familiar, comforting scent that completely surrounds him.

Because you know some truth. 

You know that moments like this are rare and fragile. You don’t know when you’ll ever get to be like this with him again. You don’t know when he’ll put his walls back up, or when the shadows of his life will pull him away from you once more.

So you let yourself get completely lost in his arms, forgetting the questions, forgetting the secrets, and letting the dark world outside the car disappear entirely.

But then he pulls back.

The loss of his warmth hits you instantly. The cold night air fills the small space between the two seats, snapping you back to reality. 

Steve slides back into the driver’s seat, resting his head back against his headrest. He stares up at the car ceiling for a moment, running both hands over his face to catch his breath.

When he looks over at you again, a soft, faint smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth — the familiar, charming look you know so well, though his eyes remain guarded.

"We should probably get going," Steve says softly, his voice still rough and raspy from the kiss. "Before Robin realizes you’re still not home yet."

Before you can answer, he gently presses the sweet candy against your lips.

You open your mouth slightly, taking the lollipop from him. The taste of sweet cherry settles on your tongue, completely replacing the lingering taste of his lips. Steve watches you for a second, his dark eyes lingering on your face with a tenderness he can no longer pretend isn’t there.

"Keep it," he whispers softly, a tiny, genuine smile touching his lips.

He pulls his hand back, gripping the key in the ignition. With a quick turn of his wrist, the car’s engine roars back to life, breaking the stillness of the mountain peak. The yellow headlights cut through the pitch-black night once more, illuminating the tall pine trees ahead.

Steve shifts the car out of park, turns the steering wheel sharply, and pulls the car away from the edge of the cliff.

As the car begins its slow descent down the rough dirt trail, back toward the sleeping, dark town of Hawkins, you lean your head back against the cold passenger window. You hold the stick of the lollipop tightly between your fingers, feeling the warmth of his kiss still humming across your skin.

—

Steve slows down near the edge of town, where the streetlights grow sparse again.

"You want anything?" Steve asks, breaking the silence. His voice is smooth, nothing like the sharp edge it held an hour ago.

You look out the window and notice the bright, flickering neon sign of the local gas station standing like an isolated island of light in the dark town.

"I need to make a quick stop before I drop you off at Robin’s." He adds, turning his head slightly toward you. "You sure you don’t want anything?"

You smile, shaking your head gently as you adjust the lollipop in your mouth. 

"No, I’m good."

Steve pulls the car into the empty concrete lot, stopping right under the harsh glare of the overhead lights. He shifts the car into park and gives you a small, genuine smile — a real one that reaches his eyes and makes your heart flutter.

"Be right back," he says softly.

You watch him get out of the car, stepping into the cool night air. He pulls his jacket tighter around his shoulders and walks through the double glass doors of the small convenience store, the little bell above the door ringing faintly across the quiet lot.

You let out a long, peaceful sigh, leaning your head back against the seat. You glance at your wrist, checking the faint glow of your watch. It’s almost midnight.

You feel a sudden wave of relief wash over you. Thank God Robin decided to stay over at Vickie’s house tonight, cause if she saw you pulling up at midnight in Steve’s car, it would be the last straw.

You laugh quietly to yourself at the thought, taking the lollipop out of your mouth for a second and looking at the glowing neon sign of the station. Everything feels quiet. Somehow, everything feels, for the first time in a very long time, completely okay.

But the peace doesn’t last. It never does.

A low, deep rumble cuts through the quiet of the night. It’s a heavy, powerful engine sound that doesn’t belong in a small, quiet town like Hawkins.

You turn your head toward the left side of the parking lot.

A dark, sleek luxury sedan pulls into the lot, gliding smoothly over the pavement like a ghost. It’s expensive, brand new, and polished so brightly that the flickering fluorescent lights of the gas station reflect off its dark paint like liquid metal. The windows are heavily tinted, completely hiding the interior from view.

It slowly comes to a stop right in the space directly next to Steve’s car.

An unexpected, sudden coldness creeps up your spine. You pull your jacket tighter around yourself, frowning as you stare at the dark vehicle. You can’t explain why, but every single instinct inside your body is screaming at you to look away, to hide, to get out of there.

Through the dark tint of the driver’s side window, you can barely make out the sharp silhouette of a man sitting behind the wheel. He doesn’t get out. He doesn’t turn off the engine. He just sits there in the car, motionless, staring straight ahead.

Your heart begins to beat a little faster against your ribs. You quickly turn your head back toward the glass front of the store, desperate for Steve to come back out.

Through the glass, you see him. Steve is standing at the checkout counter, holding a small brown paper bag. He pays the cashier, turns around, and pushes open the front door.

As he steps out onto the pavement, his posture is completely loose and relaxed. He looks up, his dark eyes instantly finding yours through the windshield, and that soft, affectionate smile returns to his face.

Then, his gaze shifts just a fraction to the left.

The second Steve’s eyes land on the dark luxury car parked next to his, his entire body freezes.

You watch the transformation happen in real time, and it terrifies you. 

The soft, gentle expression on his face vanishes instantly, erased as if it had never existed at all. His warm eyes harden into ice. His relaxed shoulders instantly square up, turning rigid and tense, and his jaw sets so tightly that you can see the muscle flexing from several feet away.

You frown, looking back and forth between the luxury car and Steve, your chest tightening with sudden confusion and dread.

Steve’s eyes snap back to yours for a split second through the glass windshield. The look in his eyes isn’t the soft, gentle gaze from the ridge, nor is it the playful smirk from a moment ago. It’s a look of absolute, icy distance. A warning.

He drops his chin, looking down at the ground, and changes his path. Instead of walking around to the driver’s side of his own car, he walks directly toward the dark sedan.

He stops right beside the driver’s window of the black car. Because of the angle and the dim light, you can no longer see Steve’s face clearly. 

You sit completely frozen in the passenger seat, your breath caught in your throat.

You can’t hear a single word being said. The heavy glass of the car and the hum of the engine drown out their voices entirely. But you don’t need to hear the words to understand what is happening. The body language speaks louder than any words ever could.

It’s a conversation wrapped in pure, suffocating tension. You see Steve’s head tilt slightly, his shoulders drawn up as if he’s bracing for a physical hit. The silhouette inside the black car doesn’t move much, but you can see the slight, sharp hand gestures of a man who is used to giving orders and expecting them to be followed without question.

Steve nods once, a stiff, forced movement of his head. He says something short, his jaw barely moving, before stepping back from the window.

The dark window of the luxury car rolls back up instantly, completely sealing the man inside.

Steve turns on his heel and marches back to his car.

His strides are long, hard, and furious. The gentle boy who had kissed you gently on the mountain top just minutes ago has completely vanished, replaced by a stranger radiating pure, dangerous anger.

He yanks the driver’s side door open and climbs inside. He slams the door shut behind him with such violent force that the entire car shakes, the heavy thud rattling the glass windows and making you jump in your seat.

Without saying a word, Steve blindly reaches back and tosses the paper bag from the gas station into the back seat, where it lands with a soft rustle against the leather upholstery.

"Steve...?" you ask softly, your voice trembling as you shrink back slightly against your door.

Steve doesn’t answer you. He doesn’t even look at you.

His hands grab the steering wheel with terrifying strength, his knuckles turning completely white. He forcefully slams the gear shift, stomps his foot down on the gas pedal, and turns the wheel sharply.

The tires screech violently against the smooth concrete of the gas station lot, leaving a sharp smell of burnt rubber hanging in the late-night air. The car shoots out onto the main road, accelerating much faster than necessary down the empty, dark streets of Hawkins.

You grab onto the door handle with one hand, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs. The dark luxury sedan remains parked under the gas station lights, shrinking away in the side mirror until it disappears into the night completely.

The silence inside the car is unbearable now, far worse than the silence at the beginning of the night. It feels heavy, cold, and suffocating, pressing down on your chest like a physical weight. Steve’s jaw is clenched so hard you worry his teeth might shatter, and his eyes are wide and fixed on the dark road ahead, completely unblinking. He bites his lower lip hard, his breath coming in short, harsh bursts through his nose.

You take a slow, careful breath, trying to steady your voice before you speak again. You keep your tone low, gentle, and cautious, as if you are trying not to startle a wounded, dangerous animal.

"Steve... who was that?"

Steve lets out a long, ragged exhale. He bites the inside of his lip again, a gesture of pure, overwhelming frustration. His grip on the leather wheel tightens even further until his hands are visibly shaking.

"My father," he says curtly.

The words drop like heavy stones into the quiet cabin.

You feel your heart sink straight into the pit of your stomach. A strange, sickening coldness spreads through your chest, and you suddenly lose the ability to speak.

You don’t need him to explain anything else. You know what those two words mean.

You turn your head to look at Steve’s profile, but his face is an unreadable mask of cold stone. 

The rest of the drive takes less than five minutes, but it feels like an eternity.

Steve drives too fast through the quiet residential neighborhoods, taking turns sharply, his entire body vibrating with a dark, furious energy. You don’t dare speak another word. You just sit there, clutching your seat, watching the dark houses blur past your window.

Finally, the car pulls up to the curb in front of Robin’s house.

The house is completely dark. The front porch light is turned off, and the windows on the second floor are pitch black. Robin’s parents are clearly fast asleep.

Steve stops but he leaves the engine running. The steady, low hum of the exhaust fills the dark street.

Neither of you moves. For a long, painful minute, absolute silence hangs between you.

Slowly, reluctantly, you turn your body in the seat to look at him.

The expression on Steve’s face is something you have truly never seen before. It’s darker and colder than his usual anger. The only time he has ever looked remotely like this was that night in the dark alleyway.

"Are you...?" you start to ask, your voice barely above a whisper, trying to reach out to him, trying to ask if he is okay.

"He invited you guys over for dinner tomorrow night," Steve interrupts sharply before you can even finish your sentence.

His voice is completely flat, devoid of any warmth or emotion. His eyes remain glued to the steering wheel in front of him, refusing to look at you.

You blink, stunned by the sudden statement. 

"Oh. Okay... Yeah..." you say, feeling completely dazed and overwhelmed by the rapid shifts in the night.

Steve finally turns his head to look at you. His eyes are cold, dark, and completely distant, looking right through you as if you were a stranger standing on a street corner.

"Pretend you’re sick," he says bluntly.

You frown, genuine confusion washing over you. 

"What?"

"You heard me," Steve says, his tone rising. "Just do it."

Before you can process what he’s saying, before you can ask why he wants you to lie, or why he’s suddenly pushing you away with such harsh aggression right after everything that happened between you, Steve reaches out to the dashboard.

With a swift, hard flick of his wrist, he cranks the volume knob on the radio all the way up.

The speakers instantly explode with loud, jarring music, filling the dark cabin with a wall of sound that completely drowns out any possibility of conversation. It’s a clear, brutal message. An absolute cue for you to get out of his car.

You sit there for a second, staring at him in complete disbelief. Your chest aches with a sharp, heavy pain, anger and hurt warring inside your mind.

You let out a long, bitter sigh. You don’t try to argue. You don’t try to fight through the loud music. You don’t even say goodbye.

You grab the door handle, push the door open, and step out into the freezing night air.

You shut the heavy car door behind you with a firm click. But Steve doesn’t even wait for you to reach the front porch. He doesn’t wait to make sure you get inside safely. He doesn’t wait to see you pull the key out from under the flowerpot.

The very second the car door closes, Steve slams his foot onto the gas pedal.

The BMW roars violently, its tires kicking up loose gravel from the side of the road as it speeds away down the dark, empty street. You turn around just in time to watch the red lights shrink into the distance, disappearing around the corner, leaving behind nothing but the cold wind and absolute silence.

You stand alone on the dark wooden porch, the spare key cold against the palm of your hand, staring at the empty street where his car had been just seconds ago. The cherry flavor of the lollipop suddenly tastes bitter on your tongue.

You squeeze your eyes shut, taking a shaky breath of the cold night air as a single question echoes through your mind:

What the hell just happened?

—

“Good morning! Did you sleep well?”

Robin’s mother turns around from the stove, a wooden spatula in one hand and a warm, bright smile on her face. 

You force your lips into a smile, nodding as naturally as you could. 

“Good morning. Yes, I slept great.”

It was a lie bigger than the house itself, but you deliver it smoothly.

“I’m so glad to hear that, sweetie,” she says softly, turning back to flip a slice of bread in the frying pan. “Robin called a little bit ago. She said she’d be back in about an hour. Do you two have any big plans for today?”

You pull out one of the wooden chairs at the table. The legs scraped softly against the floor as you sat down.

“Uhm, no, not really,” you say, resting your hands on the cool table surface. “I think we’re just going to stay here and rest for the afternoon.”

“That sounds wonderful. You kids have been running around nonstop since you got here.” She brought a heavy ceramic mug filled with steaming black coffee over to the table and set it down right in front of you, along with a small glass jar of milk. “Here you go. Get some coffee in you.”

“Thank you,” you say, taking the mug into your hands. The heat seeped into your cold fingers, bringing a bit of comfort.

It’s funny, really. You have been staying under this roof for less than a week, yet somehow, you already feel like a regular part of the family. The Buckleys have taken you in without hesitation, giving you a warm bed, a seat at their table, and endless kindness.

For the next ten minutes, breakfast moves along in a quiet, predictable rhythm. Mrs. Buckley asks you small, gentle questions while she finishes breakfast. She asks about your classes, your major, your goals for next year, your parents back home, and what it was like growing up in your hometown.

None of her questions are hard. Simple, polite conversations that you have answered a hundred times before. You answer her smoothly, keeping your tone light, giving her just enough detail to be polite without having to dig into anything too real or deep. 

But underneath your calm responses, your mind keeps drifting back to Steve.

The back screen door opens and closes with a dull thud, announcing the entrance of Robin’s father. He walks into the kitchen and gives you a quick, friendly nod before pulling out the chair across from yours.

He sits down, unfolds the local newspaper, and spreads it out on the table. A fresh mug of black coffee is set down next to his hand by his wife.

For a few moments, the only sound in the kitchen is the faint rustle of newsprint, the soft hum of the refrigerator, and the distant chirping of birds outside the window.

Then, Mr. Buckley makes a sharp noise in the back of his throat. He lets out a dark, frustrated sigh and tosses the paper down onto the wood, pointing a thick finger at an article on the front page.

“This son of a bitch is going to put the entire town in debt,” he mutters angrily, picking up his coffee mug and taking a sip.

Mrs. Buckley stops wiping down the counter, turning her head instantly to give him a stern look. 

“Honey... language, please. We have a guest at the table.”

Mr. Buckley shakes his head, not looking embarrassed at all. 

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just... it makes my blood boil. People keep going to him, asking for money for every little thing, and he just keeps taking advantage of them. We’re never going to get anywhere like this.”

You lower your coffee cup, feeling a sudden change in the air. You look up, confused by the sudden outburst.

Mrs. Buckley catches your expression and gives you a gentle, apologetic smile. 

“He’s talking about Steve’s father,” she explains softly, wanting to make sure you aren’t left out of the loop.

At the sound of that name, your stomach pulls itself into a tight knot.

Your mind instantly flashes back to your very first night in this house. You remember how Robin’s father casually brought up a new store opening downtown that Steve’s father helped fund. You remember how Steve stiffened up instantly, his shoulders going tense, his jaw clenching tightly while he quickly changed the subject. 

“Is his dad a loan shark?” you ask, keeping your voice low and casual as you take another slow sip of your coffee, trying to hide the slight tremor in your fingers.

Mr. Buckley lets out a short, bitter laugh.

“Yeah, that’s a real polite way of putting it,” he says, leaning back in his chair and resting his arms on the table. “Or better yet, he lends money to people who are desperate, and then he comes back and threatens them until he gets every single cent back... with ridiculous interest tacked on top.”

Mrs. Buckley places a basket of fresh toast on the table, shaking her head gently at her husband. 

“Honey, don’t say things like that. You know those are mostly just town rumors.” She pours a little more hot coffee into his mug.

“Town rumors my foot!” Mr. Buckley snaps back, though his voice stays relatively quiet. “It might have been just simple loans years ago. But now? No way.” He shakes his head slowly, his face full of cold disapproval. “There are enough folks around here who have gotten mixed up in his mess to prove that his business is as dark and shady as it gets.”

He takes another sip of his coffee, resting his hand back on the table. He looks right at you, his eyes serious.

“And Steve is right in the middle of it, I’m telling you.”

Mrs. Buckley frowns, her voice rising slightly. 

“Honey... stop it. He’s a friend of the girls.”

The kitchen seems to grow completely quiet around you. The sound of the morning wind, the ticking clock on the wall, the smell of burnt toast — everything fades into the background.

Piece by piece, like a messy puzzle finally coming together, your memories begin to click into place.

Flashes of the past few weeks rush through your head, sharp and terrifyingly clear.

You had forced yourself to look away all this time. You had convinced yourself that you were misinterpreting things, that he was too good of a person to ever do something cruel.

But sitting here now, in the Buckley kitchen, the cold truth hit you like a wave of freezing water.

No. Please, no.

You don’t want to believe it. You desperately want to defend him, to say something that would clear his name, but the words get stuck in your throat. Your heart starts beating furiously against your ribs, sending a panic through your chest. Your mouth goes dry as dust.

You squeeze your coffee mug tighter, forcing your voice to sound quiet, soft, and completely unbothered.

“Why do you say Steve is involved?” you ask.

Mr. Buckley gives another soft, sad shake of his head.

“Because he’s been working for his old man ever since he finished high school,” he says simply. “Everybody in town knows it. It’s the family business. And look, I get it, he’s a friend of yours, and deep down, he’s not a bad kid. He’s got a good heart somewhere in there. But you also have to accept facts. The way he left Hawkins... it wasn’t just a regular move. It was practically an escape. A getaway.” He pauses, taking a breath before adding: “Especially after everything that went down with Eddie.”

There it is again. That name.

Eddie.

You remember hearing it at that party, when your classmate asked Robin about him.

You remember how Robin’s face had completely changed in an instant. 

Now, hearing the name come out of Mr. Buckley’s mouth, the curiosity and dread inside you become unbearable.

You lean forward slightly, resting your elbows on the table. You look straight at Robin’s father, your voice barely louder than a whisper.

“Who is Eddie?” you ask, asking the question for the second time in less than a week.

Mr. Buckley shifts in his seat, opening his mouth to answer, when a voice interrupts him.

“Hey.” Robin’s sharp voice filled the entire house before you can even comprehend she’s there. You didn’t even listen to the front door, but the look on her face tells you everything you need to know: she heard, and clearly there’s something she doesn’t want you to know. “Let’s go rent some movies, shall we?”

—

The afternoon dragged on slower than ever. The hands on the wall clock seemed to move in slow motion, ticking with a dull, heavy sound that made your head ache.

In fact, you would have actually preferred going with Jonathan to help him with his photography project.

Robin threw a striped shirt onto the floor with an annoyed huff. She picked up a denim jacket, looked at it for two seconds, and tossed it onto the growing pile of clothes on her desk.

You sat with your knees pulled up toward your chest, watching her back. You took a slow breath, trying to steady your nervous stomach, and decided to try one more time to get out of this.

"Seriously, Robin... I think I have a fever," you said, putting a hand against your forehead to make it look convincing. "My head is pounding, and I feel really warm. Maybe it’s better if I just stay tonight."

Robin froze instantly. She didn’t turn around right away. Her hands stayed resting on a blue button-down shirt still hanging in the closet. The sudden silence in the room felt sharper than any noise she could have made.

When she finally turned around, her face was totally devoid of her usual easygoing, playful expression. Her jaw was set, her eyes narrow and cold.

"Enough..." Robin said your name in a sharp, cutting tone.

She had been like this all day, honestly. Short-tempered, restless, and completely unwilling to let you out of her sight.

"You’re coming," Robin added, pointing a finger directly at you. Her voice left zero room for argument. "End of discussion."

You didn’t fight back. You just let out a heavy, tired sigh, falling backward onto the mattress. You lay there flat on your back, staring up at the textured white ceiling, listening to the sound of Robin angrily folding a pair of jeans.

Steve’s words immediately rushed back into your head, loud and clear.

“Pretend you’re sick."

Why? Why didn’t Steve want you at his house?

It made no sense. He had mentioned the gathering to everyone else in the group without a second thought. He had no problem with any of them coming over to his place, walking through his front door, sitting in his living room. Why were you the only exception? Was he ashamed of you? Was he still trying to keep you away from some part of his life that he didn’t want you to see?

And then there was Robin.

Why was Robin insisting so much that you go tonight? Robin was usually your buffer. She was the one who knew every single detail about Steve’s complicated life, and she was always the very first person to hide things from you whenever it involved him. If Steve was being an idiot, Robin usually shielded you from it. If Steve was keeping secrets, Robin was a vault.

So why was she acting like this today? Why was she practically dragging you by the hand to the one place Steve explicitly asked you not to go? Did she know what Steve had said to you? Or was she trying to force something into the open?

That doubt became a tiny, sharp insect that spent the rest of the afternoon slowly eating away at your mind. It followed you while Robin finally picked out her outfit. It followed you as you walked out to the car in silence. 

And it stays right beside you now as Nancy drives through the quiet, tree-lined streets of Hawkins, heading toward the wealthier side of town.

Before you know it, the car pulls up to the curb and stops shaking you away from all your thoughts.

You look out the passenger window, your stomach dropping into a cold, heavy knot. You’re standing in front of the Harrington house.

The house is massive, tall, and pristine, sitting behind a wide, manicured green lawn. The evening light is starting to fade, casting long, dark shadows across the driveway. It looks grand, impressive, and completely empty all at once.

You don’t know if this is exactly what you expected. To be honest, you don’t know if you expected anything in particular. You heard so much about this house over the past year. You heard stories about the huge parties King Steve used to throw here when his parents were out of town. You heard anecdotes about high school nights, swimming pool clear-outs, and late-night talks on the patio.

But up until now, all of those were just stories. Words in the air. Memories that belonged to other people.

"Let’s go," Robin says quietly. She doesn’t look at you as she opens her door and steps out into the cool evening air.

You take a slow, deep breath, forcing your feet to move. You get out of the car and follow everyone up the wide brick path toward the front porch. Each step feels heavy, as if your shoes were made of lead.

As Robin steps onto the porch and reaches out her hand toward the doorbell, a wave of cold panic washes over you.

You find yourself wondering if it is too late to turn back. You can literally just turn around, run down the driveway, and start walking down the street.

Because at this point, it isn’t even about Steve anymore. It isn’t just about the fact that he indirectly told you he doesn’t want you here.

It’s about you. It’s about your own fear.

You are terrified of facing reality. You are terrified of taking the Steve that lives in your mind — the Steve built on quiet jokes, gentle glances, and shared looks when no one else is paying attention — and placing him inside this reality.

In your head, Steve is vulnerable. He’s someone who cares, someone who is trying to figure out who he is away from the high school crown he used to wear. But what if that’s all a lie you built for yourself? What if coming here proves that the real Steve is just the rich, popular guy who lives in this big, lonely house? What if seeing this side of him destroys the image you held onto for so long?

You are scared. You are so deeply scared that seeing this part of his life can make you realize that you don’t actually know him at all.

Your train of thought cuts off instantly when a loud, sharp chiming sound echoes through the porch.

Robin pressed the doorbell.

You freeze in place, your pulse racing in your ears.

Robin stands beside you, her shoulders tense, her eyes fixed firmly on the heavy wooden front door. She doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t even look at you to check if you are okay. The silence between the group is thick, charged with an unsaid argument that has been building up all day long.

Inside the house, you hear the faint sound of footsteps coming down the main hallway. Soft, rhythmic thuds against hard flooring.

You hold your breath, every muscle in your body locking up.

The brass door handle clicks and turns.

The front door slowly pulls open inward.

Steve is standing on the other side.

He’s wearing a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his hair carefully styled. He has one hand resting easily on the edge of the open door frame, leaning against it with a relaxed, casual air.

"Hey guys, thanks for coming," Steve says smoothly.

He has a soft, easy smile on his face, his voice carrying that familiar, warm tone he always uses when he’s too careful. He’s looking straight at Robin, his posture casual and completely unworried.

But then, as he steps back to open the door wider, his eyes drift past Robin’s shoulder.

And his gaze met yours.

The change in his face is instant, shocking, and completely indescribable.

The soft, welcoming smile dies on his lips in a fraction of a second. His jaw goes slightly slack, his mouth staying parted as if the breath has just been knocked entirely out of his chest. The easy, relaxed posture he maintained vanishes, his shoulders instantly tensing up.

His eyes widen, flashing with a sudden, overwhelming storm of emotions—shock, deep panic, sharp guilt, and a strange, raw vulnerability that he usually works so hard to hide from the world.

You stand there, unable to speak, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs. The distance between the porch and the hallway suddenly felt like a massive chasm, filled with every unspoken word, every hidden truth, and every single doubt that had brought you to his door.

Steve takes a small, shaky breath, his fingers tightening against the wood of the door frame until his knuckles turned white. And then he turns around, walking through the hallway back inside.

Seriously, if he had screamed in your face, it would have been less painful.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated !! thank you for reading. ⋆⭒˚.⋆

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[swirledyouintoallmypoems]

I don’t know if you still want any ideas or requests for the Steve Harrington Spider-Man series, but what if Steve goes out as Spider-Man and he gets hurt and he goes back to his apartment because the reader told him that she was going out with friends or something of the lake so instead of going to her apartment, he goes back to his and we could say maybe Dustin and Robin are there and they’re trying to help him but they don’t know how also maybe Robin is just terrified of blood. But the reader never actually goes out. Steve hears her because he’s got super hearing text her asking her to come up when Dustin or Robin opens the door. She just kind of barrels in and just charges straight at Steve to help heal him up and Dustin and Robin are just standing there with her mouth is open like “What is going on?!?” 

your super-hero neighbor needs your help spider-man!steve harrington x fem!reader au – w.c. 1k

a/n: im so sorry it’s been so long i’ve had literally 0 motivation and lowkey went through like 6 depressive episodes but i thought this was a cute prompt so i thought i’d give it a try

warnings: none really, just some mentions of blood, and a very brief sexual reference, just short and sweet ig. no use of y/n.

series masterlist !!

–

as steve swings back to his apartment building he has one hand pressed to his torso, blood leaking from a rip in his suit where scorpion’s tail had ripped through the fabric and into his skin, leaving a deep cut.

he hadn’t even been out on patrol that night, he was going to spend the night in with dustin and robin, but then the call came in and he had to go.

the issue was, however, that steve had a horribly deep cut on his tummy that had probably reopened at least one old scar, and you weren’t home to help him. you had told him the night before at his apartment that you were going out with some friends tonight, which means he’s on his own. kind of.

“hey, dustin?” steve asks through a groan, swinging between two skyscrapers with just one hand. “is robin still there?”

“uh, yeah, why, are you almost home?” dustin’s voice comes in crackles, like something inside of steve’s suit had been damaged. or maybe his ears are just ringing.

“uh, yeah. yeah, i am, but… i think one of you two is gonna have to give me stitches.” steve states casually as his apartment building comes into view, still a distance away.

“stitches!?” robin’s panicked voice comes through a moment later. “steve, i can’t do stitches, i have very shaky hands, you know this! i mean, last time you even had me look at one of your injuries i made it worse!”

“just be ready, please?” steve groans, and not even a full minute later he’s crashing into the fire escape beside his living room window and forcing the glass up.

robin is by his side the moment he gets one leg through the window, and she helps him inside the apartment while very clearly panicking.

steve feels woozy, still keeping one of his gloved hands pressed to the wound on his torso as robin helps him stumble to the couch.

dustin’s scrambling around and gathering steve’s medical supplies; a bowl of water and the first aid kit you had given him. robin’s talking his ear off in what steve thinks is an attempt to comfort or distract him, but it’s not exactly working.

“shit, dude, how do you usually do this on your own?” dustin asks, setting the supplies down on the coffee table before he and robin help steve out of his suit.

“i don’t,” steve groans, throwing his head back against the sofa with a groan before he pauses. then he hears it, a clatter of dishes, a mumbled curse, and the sound of footsteps all coming from the apartment beneath him.

robin and dustin are arguing now, voices overlapping as they debate which way to treat steve would be best, meanwhile steve is focused entirely on you. you’re at home.

with a groan, a large amount of blood flowing from his wound as he does so, steve sits up.

“woah, woah, steve!” dustin is immediately grabbing his shoulders and trying to lie him back down on the couch.

“i need my phone, henderson.” steve groans, but lets dustin push him back because he’s in pain.

“why?” dustin questions him as robin hands the device over, and steve pulls his now blood-soaked hand away from his wound to type. “dude! don’t do that, you’ll bleed out!”

robin is immediately pressing her hands down on steve’s wound while shooting him a terrified look. “seriously, harrington? this is disgusting! you know i don’t like blood, and you look like you’re dying!”

steve is too busy texting you to notice.

r u busy? need help am bleeding pls

then he drops his phone onto the couch and listens while dustin replaces robin’s hands with a tea towel to try and soak up some more of the blood.

there’s fast, almost panicked, knocking at his apartment door within a minute, and steve just smiles while dustin and robin’s heads swivel toward the door with wide eyes like they’ve been caught doing something wrong.

“steve, are you in there?” your voice comes through and then steve’s friends are looking at him instead.

“don’t just stare at me, let her in!” he gestures to the door and robin jumps to her feet with shaky, bloody hands.

you barrel inside, brushing past robin and letting your eyes lock onto steve’s immediately. at the sight of him conscious and grinning, you seem relieved, but you still roll your eyes at him.

“you scared me, idiot, i thought you were up here bleeding and alone.” you shake your head, immediately kneeling down beside dustin and reaching for the first aid kit like it’s second nature.

dustin steps back, his eyes flitting between you and steve as you begin cleaning his wound with ease, and steve keeps this lazy smirk on his face the entire time.

dustin recognizes you, you’re the neighbor who brought steve him cookies, but dustin had no idea that you’re basically spider-man’s nurse.

robin, on the other hand, has no idea who you are, or where you came from, and has been staring at you with her mouth gaping open for the last few minutes as she watches you stitch up the cut on steve’s skin.

then she and dustin share a look when steve reaches for your hand and you let him take it, intertwining your fingers and squeezing, while leaving your other hand free to clean him up.

once steve is all cleaned up, the bloody gauze in the trash while the tea towel and steve’s suit are in a pile in the corner of the room, and he’s changed back into some more comfortable clothes, dustin and robin practically corner you in the kitchen as you wash your hands.

“so are you and steve, like, together?” dustin asks, pushing his hands together and interlocking his fingers, and you pause.

“no, not really,” you reply, and then glance over at steve as he holds a hand to his head and winces. robin and dustin watch as you carry a glass of water and some painkillers over to their friend like it’s nothing.

“they’re definitely sleeping together, right?” dustin asks and robin chuckles.

“oh, most definitely.”

–

likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated <3

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[nowprettybbyimrunning]

a... braid?

travis “teacake” meacham x fem!reader

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summary: you meet teacake at a girls night out. after a one night stand you can’t help but give him a little something before going home to your boyfriend.

warnings: SMUT +18 MDNI, alcohol drinking (just a bit), cheating, kissing, oral (female and male receiving), fingering, p in v, protected sex, spanking, dirty talk, finger sucking, BAD aftercare (nonexistent) and it's not proofread.

w.c.: 4.6k

author's note: everything i write is for my juls even if its not keys cause she reads it all first than anyone else... i had this idea for a while after i saw a tiktok storytime of a guy with a similar situation, sooo credits to them i guess? a bit?

teacake was about to get up and leave the bar when he saw you cross the threshold. he immediately sat straight after an hour of hunching over the table he was sitting at. his eyes followed you around the room, watching carefully the way your legs moved with decision toward what he inferred was your group of friends, the biggest smile plastered on your face.

“hey guys!” teacake heard you say as you took off the red scarf around your neck and took a seat.

it’s not nice to overhear. his own voice echoed in his mind, but he couldn’t help it.

“sorry i’m late” you apologized and pouted, pulling a string at teacake’s stomach who was now able to see you better from his seat right across yours. 

“what happened?” one of your friends questioned with a look on her face that told him they already knew what had been going on.

“jack– we– can we actually not talk about it?” you pleaded.

“what exactly?” the other girl continued, “the fact that you should’ve dumped his ass months ago or-”

“i said, can we not talk about it? in general, not just what happened tonight just, jack altogether, please.”

boyfriend.

travis’s shoulders slumped without him meaning to. he shouldn’t care, he didn’t know you so he had no business caring.

Still, his gaze drifted back to your table without him meaning to every couple of minutes, hearing in on the conversation and laughter that poured from your table, catching bits like: he keeps saying he’ll change… and then he has already said that, multiple times…

And as you laughed along, teacake could tell that it wasn’t completely genuine, that it was hiding truths you didn’t want your friends to guess. he was pretty sure he knew exactly what that truth was: your boyfriend’s a dick.

the clock ticked and he started to feel sorry for himself, with one last sip of his glass he had enough, reaching into his jacket for his wallet, leaving a few bills on the table as he pushed the chair back with a scrape against the wooden floor that was barely audible over the chatter and music.

But then, he caught another sentence in the sound of your voice “i’ll be right back” you told your friends and excused yourself from your table, walking over to the bar, to him, well… next to him. he saw how you, out of the corner of his eye, sit down on the stool right next to his, laying your elbows against the wood and rubbing your temples.

travis held his breath, suddenly not so eager to go.

the bartender asked you what you wanted to drink and you smiled apologetically “anything you’d recommend to someone who had a really shitty day.”

the bartender chuckled and turned around to prepare your drink and teacake didn’t move. he stared ahead, looking at his empty glass. there wasn’t really something stopping him from leaving. just like there wasn’t really something stopping him from speaking, “that’s a dangerous request,” he said, shifting his body so he saw the side of your face, “it can either be the best drink you’ve ever had or taste like downright gasoline.”

you glanced sideways and for the first time that night he got to see you up close. “so, it’s like fifty fifty?”

“basically yeah”

you laughed quietly, “well they’re not bad odds”

“no, they’re terrible odds,” he argued.

“yeah but probably not worse than what i’ve already had today,” the bartender placed a tall glass in front of you. teacake saw you eyeing it suspiciously before you took a careful sip, your face scrunched up “holy fucking fuck.” you gagged and he bit the inside of his cheek, “well, yeah it tastes just like gasoline”

a laugh escaped travis, it wasn’t loud, but it did surprise him.

“don’t laugh” you pointed at him.

he held his hands up, “i did warn you…”

a beat of silence followed, one where you extended your hand toward him, he took it “travis,” you answered with your own name and he repeated it, like testing it, seeing how it sounded coming from him.

“are you waiting for someone?” you asked.

“not really, but maybe… you,” he cringed at his flirting attempt but you smiled and lifted your brows.

“is that so?”

“i mean, i kinda overhead your conversation over there… boyfriend problems?” travis saw you tense up at his words.

“hopefully not for too much longer,” you drank again from your cup and decided that it was awful, pushing it aside.

he didn’t push further, letting the conversation settle into an easy rhythm over trivial topics neither of you two cared too much about, needing little effort to keep up. you made simple questions that required only short answers and no explanations. about work, and friends, and family, but never about your boyfriend.

you friends approached only once to check on you, looking at teacake with curiosity but not questioning it. they said they were leaving and asked if you were leaving with them and you shook your head, “i’ll stay for a bit” and of course he didn’t complain.

neither of you said anything when you found yourselves walking through the night the few blocks it took to get to teacake’s apartment. the city was quiet and very few cars passed you in the ten minutes you were walking; not that you were paying attention to them. in that moment you felt as if nobody else existed, the only other person being the charming hair-dyed guy next to you that didn’t stop talking, not even for a second… you loved it.

you noticed his step slowing down until they came to a halt in front of a not so tall building. “okay… this is me,” travis announced, walking to the door, opening it and stepping aside to let you in.

you smiled at him, ignoring the small knot in your stomach you were feeling as a consequence of your actions. but it dissipated once you remembered why you were doing what you were about to do, and the idea of breaking up with your boyfriend the next day crossed your mind for a moment. later, i’ll think about it later, choosing to focus on the man whose steps you were following down the hall.

teacake unlocked his apartment door and let you in. it was simple and surprisingly tidy, at least for what you were able to see given that the only light on was a tiny limp in the corner of his living room.

he didn’t waste time, encaging you against the wall, forearms on each side of your head and your mouths were so close that you smelt the alcohol on his breath and you were sure he could smell the remains of the awful drink you’d had moments ago.

“y’know… it’s not too late to back down if you want to,” he looked at your lips and licked his own.

you shook your head and a minute went by where you didn’t move. “y’know…” you copied him, “we could already be in your bed if you just kissed me”

travis smirked and answered by lowering his hands to your hair, sneaking behind your neck and pulling you against him, crashing your lips in a hungry, needy kiss; showing you how much he was thinking about taking you to his bed as well.

you let your hand travel upwards to his jaw, your thumb brushing across the stubble there and deepening the kiss by tilting your head. his reaction was immediate in the form of his tongue pressing your upper lip, asking for an opening, which you gave and felt him lick inside your mouth.

without breaking the kiss, travis started to walk backwards, stopping after a few steps when you almost fell and tapping the back of your thighs, signaling to jump up. you did and locked your legs around him as his hands found your ass and squeezed hard, making you grind against him and getting a moan out of you that got lost in between his lips.

he moved both of you to his room and dropped you, but his hands never left your body, finding a new home on your hips, were he sank his fingers through the fabric of your pants under your coat. you shimmied it off of you and let it fall to the floor. in a second and with no hesitation he pulled your top off and threw it behind you, he bit his lip at seeing you bare chested in front of him, cupping your breasts “god- look at you”

you wanted to see him too, of course you did; so, you tug at the hem of his white shirt seeking approval. “take it off, sweetheart” teacake agreed. you slowly pulled it up unhurriedly, lingering your gaze on each spot of skin you were revealing, especially on the line of hair that disappeared under the waistband of his visible boxers, and the patch of hair on his chest, where you ran your fingers through once the piece of clothing was out of your way completely.

“you’re gonna let me suck you off” your fingers hooked on his belt loops and pulled him closer, the mix of different types of alcohol from your kisses still lingering in your mouth. he looked even better up close as his tousled hair fell right in front of his eyes and you could see his moles clearer, too many to count but too pretty not to notice.

“do you want to?” teacake grabbed your waist. the tip of his nose grazed yours from the closeness between your bodies and you took the chance to get your lips on his jaw, drawing a trail of small kisses along it before moving over to his neck.

you spoke to his hot skin “yes i want it so bad,” your left hand went from his belt loops to the front of his pants where you could feel him already hard for you against the rough fabric. “and i think you want it too” you pressed slightly, getting a low moan out of him that immediately made you want to hear more.

travis just nodded his head enthusiastically, his mind already travelling a thousand miles per second, too fast to say anything coherent.

you got into your knees and started to undo his pants, working agonizingly slow just to tease him. you pulled the old pair of jeans down his legs and found yourself looking at the shape of his hard dick under the black cotton of his boxer briefs. you looked up at him and kissed it over the fabric, leaving a damp spot close to the one his precum had already left, “holy shit-” he cursed at the sight, “holy shit you look so pretty like that”

teacake furrowed his brows when he saw you get up, running your hands over his thighs, and along his torso on the way up to push at his shoulders. “lay on the bed,” you ordered, already enclosing him.

he let himself fall on his own mattress, sitting upright by resting his hands on the edge of the bed as he watched you kneel down in front of him. you looked into his eyes and travis nodded, signaling you to keep going before saying, “want to see how that pretty mouth of yours looks around my dick”. you didn’t take his underwear completely off, just lowering it enough for his dick to pop free from its restraint. it hit his low stomach and wet the happy trail that lead to its base and which you hadn’t been able to take your eyes off of since the moment you let his shirt fall to the floor. and you couldn’t help it but licking the strip, getting it clean from his own juice and wet with your spit.

travis let out a groan when he felt the warmth of your tongue on his skin and you wrapped your fingers around him, your hand hot from having been tangled on his hair while you were making out.

the slow twist of your wrist as you jerked him off at a slow pace sent his head back in an attempt to not let his mouth run free, but you wanted to hear him, all the sounds he made on how his rambled sounded when it was caused by pleasure. “don’t hold back, i love to hear you” you pleaded, your gaze locked on his adam’s apple until he forced himself to look into your eyes.

you got his dick closer to your face without breaking eye contact, something that drove him insane by the way you felt him twitch in your hand. your tongue met his flesh first, swirling around his tip and gathering his precum that you spread all over his length with the help of your thumb.

in that moment teacake realized he was not going to last too long. “jesus christ” he moaned and gripped the sheets under him hard, knuckles turning white “give me more- i need more, be a good girl f’ me”

you decided not to tease him any longer and let your mouth envelop his dick. your focus was on getting as much of him inside as you could, he was big and it wasn’t easy, but the moment his tip grazed the back of your throat teacake whimpered, the sound made you sigh and the vibration got him closer to the edge.

you bobbed your head, increasing the pace with each slide of your tongue along his undervein, never letting his cock get fully out before taking him in again. “fuck- just like that, you gonna choke on my dick,” teacake’s words send a rush of heat right to your core and you could feel yourself getting wet just from them.

the sound of your own spit mixing with his precum and travis’s continuous moans were the only sounds in the room, silencing any reminder of your boyfriend that didn’t have space in your mind at that moment, making the man inside of your mouth come was the only thing you could think about.

“yeah, keep going like that, fuck!” he encouraged you and grabbed a fistful of your hair, guiding your head up and down his dick in such a speed that had you holding onto his thighs so you wouldn’t lose balance. “i’m gonna cum, you gonna let me cum in your pretty mouth?”

“mhm” you hummed, your jaw was starting to get tired and a tear rolled down your cheek at the pressure, but it was brushed away by his thumb.

“shit- i’m close- i’m cumming” teacake warned, but you didn’t pull away. instead you hollowed your cheeks and instantly felt his salty and warm cum fill your mouth as he came hard. you kept him inside, waiting for him to come down. his grip on your hair let up and you stopped your movements, swallowing as much of his release as you could while still having his dick resting on your tongue. “let me see, show me your tongue” your lips slid off of him with a pop sound and you complied with his request, showing him how much of him was still on you before pressing your lips together to give tiny pecks along his length, stopping at his tip while you watched him try to catch his breath as he came down from his high.

when you got up you saw teacake breathing fast and straddled his lap, your still clothed but damp core against his semi-hard dick. “that was- wow” his hands had left you and were covering his face, rubbing harshly in sync with shaky exhales. you pulled him towards you by the nape of his neck and smashed your lips against his, instantly getting your tongue inside his own mouth, making him taste himself. “i’m gonna get you ready f’ me,” you barely had any time to register his words before he sneaked an arm around your torso, your back hitting the mattress before being dragged by your legs to the center of the bed where he took off your pants and underwear in one swift motion before he laid down in between your legs.

travis pulled your thighs apart, lifting them up and resting them on his shoulders as he made space for his head. you watched him carefully make his way up the inside of your thighs in a mindblowing pattern; he bit down on your flesh to then trace the skin with his tongue and ended up kissing it to soothe it.

you didn’t hesitate and let your fingers tangle in his dyed hair, twisting the longer strands. he found your center and immediately separated your lips with two fingers to press his tongue against your pussy. teacake didn’t waste any time torturing you as he sucked on your clit with rhythmic urgency, “fuck, your tongue feels so good i’m not used to it”.

he looked up at you and saw you already looking at him, “your boyfriend doesn't eat you out?” teacake knew the answer would be a negative one by the way you rocked your hips against his face as your body reacted to the movements of his tongue and his breath on your most sensitive part, looking for friction that’d help you satisfy yourself.

“never,” you confessed, followed by letting the sweetest sounds escape your throat and meet travis’s ears.

“not anymore,” he didn’t tear his gaze from you, no matter how hard you were pulling at his hair, and no matter how much he wanted to close his eyes from the mere pleasure of knowing he was making you feel better than the man who slept next to you every night ever could, “fucking asshole,” he whispered, more to himself than you; not like you would have been able to hear him over the beating of your own heart echoing in your ears. teacake decided to finish you off with his fingers teasing your entrance with two digits, “god you should see how perfect you look right now, all for me… “

he started pumping his fingers in and out of you in a relentless pace, your back arched and the heels of your feet buried down on his shoulders as a series of gasps and moans broke out of you, “please don’t stop,” you begged. your body twitched when he slid his fingers out of you, “look at how you’re dripping off of my fingers, you like that?” you saw your arousal coating his digits like never before. travis tapped them against your bottom lip, “open… that’s it” you took them in and sucked him clean.

he went back to your pussy, “cum on my mouth,” teacake pressed the pad of his thumb on your clit and started teasing it with circular motions that had you seeing stars. the tension finally snapped when he swirled his tongue in between your folds, making you hit your high all at once. from his place in between your legs he watched the way your breath hitched and your eyes rolled back, already getting hard again from the sight.

he worked you through your climax and drank you up completely as you came down, your body limp as it sunk down on the mattress. travis moved his mouth away from your cunt, and if you had been able to open your eyes for a second you’d seen the way he was tasting you. “such a pretty pussy,” he praised you “can’t wait to get my dick in it and see if you can take it”. he moved upward, sliding his naked body over yours slowly, taking you in as much as he could in the dark room.

when you finally came to your senses, you opened your eyes and saw him leaning on his side, propped up on his elbow, his face close to yours while he stared down and smirked at your disheveled state. “think you got one more in you f’ me?”

you didn’t answer, instead you reached up and pull him down, cupping his jaw to meet his lips in another desperate and even more needy kiss that tasted like both of you. it was all tongue and teeth, feeling him whimper into you when you bit his bottom lip and licked the spot after. teacake let his hands roam all over your body, trying to paint a picture on his mind of every curve of you to save it for later, when he knew he’d be alone and the only thing he’ll be able to think about will be this; you under him still wet from his mouth.

his dick was hard against your low stomach, and the sensation made you want him inside you, “fuck me.”

with a fast movement travis stopped kissing you and turned you around, your back on full display for him as he reached over to his nightstand and opened the drawer, pulling out a condom. he teared the wrapper with his teeth and instantly rolled the rubber down on his length.

over your shoulders you saw him positioning himself over you; his right hand around the base of his cock to press into your hole without pushing yet, your eyes caught his left hand right before it slammed on your ass, “shit!” you cursed at the heat it left on your skin.

“you’re still so wet,” teacake noticed by the way your own juice was already drowning him just from sliding against your core, without being inside you. he bit his lip at the sight; but that wasn’t enough to hide the moan that escaped it.

in one snap of his hips he buried himself to the hilt, “oh my god,” you cried out, feeling him everywhere. he waited a few seconds to start moving so you got used to his size and the pain from the stretch turned to pleasure, until you lifted your ass and pressed it against him, asking for more, “keep going”

he pulled out leaving only his tip in and started thrusting into you over and over again, “been thinking about fucking you since i saw you” travis told you, “you’re taking me so so well, fuck- so tight, bet he doesn’t even dick you down good enough huh?”

“no” you said breathlessly, unable to utter more words.

“i can feel you squeezing me,” he grabbed your ass to direct your own movements and make you meet him halfway, watching the spot where your bodies met, “tell me how’s it feel, tell me i’m better than him”

your vision got blurry and it took you a few tries in between moans to get any words out, “so- yes, right there-” you screamed when he hit your sweet spot.

teacake spanked you before getting his arms around your chest to squish your boobs, lifting you up and pulling you flush against him, the change in position had him reaching deep, “speak, is this how you like it?” he asked while slamming into your pussy.

“it feels so good- you feel so good, you’re better than him”

“you gonna cum f’ me again,” it wasn’t a question. one of his hands left your chest and made its way up to your neck, engulfing it but not choking. without thinking about it your fingers went to your cunt, feeling how swollen you were, although it did not stop you from rubbing them against your clit, “oh fuck- yeah, touch yourself” his movements were getting sloppy as seeing you play with your pussy while it clenched around him drove him close to his release. “you remember my name?”

you nodded.

“i want you to say it when you cum, loud” he bit down on your shoulder, kissing it after.

“i’m close, keep going,” teacake bucked once, twice before he heard you moan his name, “travis”

“i know baby, i know- just like that” the squeeze of your walls around him broke him as he thrusted into you one last time, he groaned right into your ear as he spilled inside the condom, “fuck-” he stilled, holding onto your shaking body for a moment.

he pushed himself off of you, flopping down beside you.

you looked down at him, his chest glistened with sweat and his hair was a mess, even more than before your fingers got lost in it. “‘m gonna go to the bathroom,” you announced and he just gave you a thumbs up.

—

you looked at yourself in the mirror, at the smudged mascara and messy, tangled hair and smiled, refraining from laughing at the situation you found yourself in. there was only silence inside and outside the tiny room, broken only by the sound of water falling from the tap as you gathered it in your hands and washed your face, trying to freshen up before coming back to bed.

you stopped in your tracks when you saw travis sprawled across the mattress, one arm over his stomach. what should you do? you weren’t staying over, not if he had fallen asleep. you would’ve considered it if he had asked you to, but he hadn’t.

so, you got into your clothes while you watched him. a strand of hair had fallen across his forehead and it gave you an idea, a childish one, but fun.

you searched the pockets of your coat and found the two things you were looking for, your lipstick that you sat on the nightstand and a hair tie that you slipped around your wrist. without putting too much weight close to him, as gently as you could so as not to wake him up, you gathered the loose section of his hair.

teacake sighed and you froze, waiting for him to settle again before you continued.

carefully, you divided the strand into smaller ones and weaved them together, one over the other with practised ease, making a tiny braid and securing it with the elastic.

you reached for the lipstick and went back to the bathroom, turning on the light so you could see what you were doing. you uncapped it and started to write in the mirror, your reflection looking back at you with a mischievous smile on your face.

you snore a bit, and under it, your number.

for a long moment you were just admiring your work. that was until your phone started vibrating in your pocket, pulling you out of your trance and making you hurry to the door, unable to catch another glimpse of travis sleeping.

—

the next morning teacake woke up in a confused daze, barely remembering where he was before he realized he was naked. the image of his bare body reminding him of what had happened the night before, of you.

“jesus…” he said to no one.

looking around he noticed how quiet his apartment was, the lack of clothes that weren’t his on the floor and thus, the fact that you had left at some point of the night.

he stood and stretched his back, stretching it while his feet took him to the bathroom. once he turned on the light he was hit with your little antic, “what the-” he leaned closer and reached for his forehead, his fingers catching the braid you’d so carefully done and he started laughing, not a small chuckle, but a laugh that his upstairs neighbor was probably hearing through the walls.

travis looked up, and read ‘you snore’, “liar, i do not” he defended himself from nobody. and right under it your number.

[swtnerry]

travis 'teacake' meacham x reader

summary: a joke question during a rainy night shift turns real when travis says yes and fucks you against a metal door

warnings: explicit sexual content, p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering, praise kink, dirty talk, workplace sex, storm setting, recent breakup mention

the rain hammered against the metal roof of the storage facility like it was trying to cave the whole place in. it was one of those downpours that turned the parking lot into a shallow lake and made the idea of walking to your car feel like a punishment.

inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, while the endless rows of corrugated metal doors stretched into the dim distance.

shift work here was mind-numbing at the best of times. tonight, with the storm raging outside and only the two of you on duty, it felt like the world had narrowed down to this one quiet corner of the office.

you leaned against the counter, orange t-shirt sticking slightly to your skin from the humidity. travis was a few feet away, fiddling with a clipboard even though nothing needed checking. his grey t-shirt stretched across his shoulders, the sleeves rode up every time he moved, revealing the edges of tattoos that snaked down his forearms.

you’d been here a couple of weeks, long enough to get used to him. at first, he came off a little awkward, but you got used to the constant yapping, and, if you were being honest, you found it kind of cute. he always had some dumb story ready whenever things got quiet, and somehow they never stopped making you laugh.

unfortunately, you’d spent more time than you’d like to admit ranting about your ex. travis would just sit there, listen, then hit you with, “dude sounds like a walking red flag,” like it explained everything. he never understood why you stayed with him when every story you told ended with your boyfriend doing something that annoyed you.

after sitting with it for a couple of days, you finally decided to end the relationship.

“i finally did it,” you said suddenly, voice cutting through the rain. “broke up with him a couple days ago.”

travis’s head snapped up so fast the clipboard nearly slipped from his hands. his eyes widened, that soft hazel color catching the light. “wait—seriously? like, done done?” he set the clipboard down, then immediately picked it back up, nerves making him fidget.

“i mean, that’s… shit, that’s good. not good like ‘haha your relationship exploded,’ but from what you told me-yeah, he was kind of an asshole. not that breakups aren’t rough. if you’re sad or whatever, i get it. i’ve been there. well, not exactly there, but close enough. you okay? you don’t look okay. or you look okay, but like, quiet -okay? fuck, i’m talking too much.”

you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. “i’m not sad. i’m just… kinda numb, i don’t know. it feels like it should hurt more, but it doesn’t.”

he nodded a little too quickly, his hair falling into his face again. “numb makes sense. totally valid.”

you almost laughed. travis was always a little awkward, but you’d noticed how flustered he got whenever you stood too close or paid him a compliment. it wasn’t exactly hard to figure out he had a thing for you. and, if you were being honest, he was really attractive. maybe it was the conversation, or maybe it was just the way he was looking at you, but that night, something between you felt… different.

travis gave you a sideways look. “so… was there anything about him that was actually worth sticking around for?”

you opened your mouth to answer, but nothing came out. you thought about it for a second, then huffed a laugh.

“honestly?”

he raised an eyebrow.

then, almost without meaning to, you found yourself saying it.

“he wasn’t even good in bed. that was probably one of the biggest reasons. always felt like i was just… there.”

travis froze mid-reach for his water bottle. his ears went pink. he opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. “damn. that’s— i mean, yeah, no wonder you were annoyed by him. you deserve way better than that. i mean you’re too—” he cut himself off, rubbing the back of his neck, tattoos flexing with the movement. “you’re too fucking sexy to be dealing with half-assed shit like that. someone should be making you feel it, you know?”

the words hung in the air, heavier than either of you expected. your pulse kicked up, heat rushed to your cheeks before you could stop it.

you met his eyes, a playful challenge slipping into your voice even as heat pooled low in your stomach. “you wanna fuck me, travis?”

you asked it teasingly, more as a joke than anything else. even as the words left your mouth, you couldn’t believe you’d been bold enough to say them.

he didn’t laugh. didn’t deflect with another nervous ramble. his gaze darkened, dropping to your mouth for a beat before coming back up.

“yea” he said, voice low and steady. the silence that followed crackled. you could hear your own heartbeat over the rain.

“i’m gonna go check the alarms downstairs,” he muttered after a moment, clearing his throat. it sounded more like an excuse than anything else, a way to escape the confession before he had to hear your answer. but he didn’t move right away, like he was giving you an out. or an invitation.

before you even realized it, you were following him.

the stairwell was colder, the metal steps echoing under your shoes. the lower level was all shadows and rows of locked units, the big roll-up doors gleaming dully under emergency lights.

travis stopped in front of one, pretending to check the panel, big hands hovering uselessly. you stepped close, close enough to smell the faint scent of his soap and the fabric of his green shirt.

he turned. you didn’t give either of you time to overthink it. you kissed him first, rising up on your toes and pressing your mouth to his. he made a surprised sound that melted into a low groan, and then his hands were on you, those big, warm palms sliding around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

the metal door was cool at your back as he walked you into it, the contrast making you shiver. his long hair brushed your cheek when he tilted his head, deepening the kiss, tongue teasing yours with a confidence that made your knees feel unsteady.

“fuck,” he breathed against your lips, voice rougher now. “you have no idea how long i’ve wanted this.”

his hands moved down, gripping your hips, then sliding under the hem of your t-shirt. his warm fingertips traced your skin like he was memorizing it.

you tugged at his shirt in return, feeling the hard lines of muscle. he was still talking, breathless compliments between kisses along your jaw and down your neck. “you’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, with his lips brushing your ear.

you arched into him as his hand slipped beneath your leggings, fingers finding you already wet. he groaned at the discovery, pressing two thick fingers inside with a slow, deliberate curl that made your breath hitch.

the metal door rattled faintly behind you with every shift of your bodies. rain pounded overhead like white noise, drowning out everything except the sounds you were making for each other.

travis dropped to his knees just long enough to yank your leggings and underwear down your thighs, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh before standing again. he freed himself from his orange work pants, hard and heavy in his hand, and lifted one of your legs around his hip.

the first push inside stretched you perfectly. slow enough to feel every inch, deep enough to make your head fall back against the cold metal with a quiet thud.

“shit—travis…” your fingers tangled in his blonde hair, gripping tight.

he rocked into you with steady, deep thrusts, one hand braced on the door beside your head, the other holding your thigh higher. his shirt was rucked up, skin hot and slightly damp against yours. every time he bottomed out, a low and satisfied sound escaped him.

“you feel so good,” he rasped, with his forehead pressed to yours. “so damn perfect. look at you—taking me like this. fucking gorgeous.”

the angle hit just right with every thrust, building that sharp, coiling pleasure fast. his free hand slipped between you, thumb circling your clit with surprising precision. the contrast was dizzying, this sweet, silly guy who rambled about everything suddenly fucking you like he’d been thinking about it for weeks, whispering filthy, sweet praise against your mouth.

when you came, it hit hard, legs shaking, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt, a broken moan swallowed by another deep kiss.

he followed right after, burying himself deep and groaning your name like it was the only word he remembered, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you.

for a long moment, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the relentless rain.

travis pressed a softer kiss to your temple, still inside you. his arms wrapped around your waist like he didn’t want to let you go yet. “you okay?” he asked quietly, that familiar nervous edge creeping back into his voice.

you smiled against his neck,“yeah. im ok.”

he tilted his head, listening for a moment. “it stopped raining.”

you let out a quiet hum, your fingers absentmindedly tracing his arm. “i don’t wanna leave now.”

he smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

[swtnerry]

ICE CREAM INCIDENT

pairing: steve harrington x bff reader

summary: a melting hawkins afternoon, one dripping ice cream cone, and steve’s eyes that can’t look away.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

warnings: 18+, smut, mdni, dry humping, heavy sexual tension, best friends to lovers, public risk (car), swearing. not proofread.

the summers in hawkins were unbearable. the pavement burned through the thin soles of your shoes, and the sun pressed down so heavy it felt like it was melting everything it touched. your light tank top and shorts clung to your skin, offering no relief. you hated summer. in winter you could bundle up and escape the cold. here, even breathing felt like swallowing fire.

“i can’t believe i followed your stupid idea of getting in the car,” you muttered, wiping sweat from your forehead. “it’s literally hotter here than inside the mall.”

“it wasn’t an idea,” steve shot back, wiping his own sweaty palms on his jeans. “it was a suggestion.” his blue t-shirt was turning darker in patches, sticking to his chest. “and i said: maybe the car is colder because we parked it under a tree.”

“do you know what maybe means?” he added.

“yeah genius, but didn’t you think about something called sun that moves?” you replied.

“okay okay, eat your ice cream. i don’t want this baby getting sticky and covered with vanilla.” he gave up, knowing he’d never win an argument with you.

“it’s hot and we’re eating ice cream, steve. i can’t promise anything,” you shrugged.

his eyebrows stayed furrowed, eyes locked on every little movement you made. he thought you didn’t notice, but he was already clutching a wad of napkins, ready to wipe away any drip before it could touch the leather.

you loved pissing him off. two years of friendship and you still never got tired of it. he was funnier when he got grumpy, and he was used to it. he’d act annoyed for a minute, then be laughing at your dumb jokes three minutes later.

this summer you’d both decided to find jobs. you and robin teased him endlessly about not needing the money, but he insisted. he wanted to prove he could do it without leaning on his parents. robin had already landed something at the supermarket but steve hated the uniform and the pay, so the two of you kept applying to new places every monday like clockwork.

somehow you’d ended up at the ice cream shop, and now you had to deal with steve’s neat-freak ass and his obsession with keeping his car extremely clean.

“relax your annoying ass. it’s not my fault your big mouth devoured your cone a second after we got out of the mall.”

“i’m not gonna say anything else, but i swear if you mess it up, you’re cleaning it,” he said, running a hand through his damp hair. wet brown strands clung to his forehead.

“i’m not cleaning anything. especially not so you can keep showing off to your failed dates. it gives me secondhand embarrassment,” you laughed.

“one: those are not failed dates. and two, you only say that because you’re clearly jealous.”

“oh my god, you definitely have heatstroke. you’re literally talking nonsense now,” you said, bursting into laughter.

“i’m not making anything up. you only say that when you don’t have an argument against me and i’m just noticing a pattern.”

your smile faded a little. he had never gone there before, even when you teased him constantly. the words made your stomach flip with a nervousness you didn’t want to name.

of course he was your friend. that was the title you gave everyone else. but you spent every day together, crashed at each other’s houses, shared everything. nothing suspicious.

still, when he said it, your brain short-circuited. the silence that followed stretched on for a bit too long.

you cleared your throat and changed the subject, desperate to save your own sanity. you didn’t notice the way he was staring at you the whole time, waiting for a real answer.

“stop talking and listen,” you said after an awkward pause. “we have to check this new shop near the park. molly just told me they’re hiring. i don’t know what for but—” you kept talking, dragging the little plastic spoon through the softening ice cream and licking it slowly.

steve wasn’t listening anymore.

his mouth was still slightly open, shiny and pink from the flavor he’d finished earlier. you felt a cool shiver run down your spine despite the suffocating heat. you cleared your throat, forcing yourself to look away before your thoughts wandered somewhere they shouldn’t. he was staring straight at your lips.

you kept avoiding his eyes, trying to focus on talking, until the melted cream started running down your arm. “oh fuck,” drops of vanilla slid onto your thighs. you reacted fast, licking every streak from your skin, then opening your mouth to catch the falling scoop.

your tongue passed over your sticky fingers, cleaning them, before finally circling your cold, sweet lips.

when you glanced up, steve wasn’t complaining about the mess. his eyes were fixed on you.

he turned his head sharply, tapping the steering wheel, then shifted awkwardly and looked out the window.

the silence stretched too long, again.

“what are you getting weird for?” you asked, finishing the last bite of the cone.

“i don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, staring straight ahead.

“you know what i mean. why are you suddenly quiet and not yelling at me for almost ruining your car?”

“it doesn’t matter. can we go?” he reached for the keys, but you stopped him. your hand, still a little sticky, wrapped softly around his wrist. “why won’t you even look at me idiot? i’m serious.”

he wiped his hands, and your eyes followed unconsciously.

that’s when you saw it.

the obvious bulge straining against his jeans. heat flooded your cheeks, hotter than the sun outside. sweat slid down between your breasts, but this time it had nothing to do with the weather.

you gulped and looked at him. his t-shirt clung to every line of his chest like a second skin. the few inches between you suddenly felt impossibly small.

when he finally met your eyes, his pupils were blown wide.

people would call you a liar if you said you’d never noticed how attractive steve was. how broad his back looked when he stretched, how his biceps strained against those tight shirts. knowing you’d caused this reaction in him made your head spin.

“steve…” you breathed. you quickly glanced outside. the street was empty; it was the worst hour of a summer afternoon. no one was stupid enough to be out.

“fuck, i’m sorry, i don’t know why—” he started, hands moving nervously, but you weren’t listening anymore.

you bit your lip, then moved without thinking. you straddled him, settling on his lap. the sound that left steve’s mouth sent shivers through you. his body burned under yours, skin slick with sweat.

you slid your hands down his damp chest. he tensed, hips lifting instinctively to meet you.

“shit,” he moaned softly. his hands settled firm and sure on your lower back, holding you close like he’d been waiting years for permission.

“what are we doing?” he asked, eyes dropping to your lips before finding yours again. “i don’t know—” you struggled, because he kept moving, pressing his hard cock right against your core. “you’re the one who had a little problem down there,” you teased breathlessly. he smirked, and you laughed, the sound shaky with want. “says the one on top of me right now.” his hands slid down to grip your ass, pulling you tighter.

you couldn’t wait any longer, so you kissed him, one hand cupping the back of his neck while the other slipped into his hair. when he pulled back for air, looking around nervously, you rolled your hips slow and deliberate. “someone could walk by and se—fuck.”

“we’re the only idiots trying to get heatstroke in the middle of the street, steve.” you kissed him again, deeper. that was all it took. he opened his mouth, tongue sliding against yours, turning the kiss messy and desperate. the salt on his lips mixed with the lingering sweetness of ice cream. your hips ground together, pulling soft, needy sounds from both of you.

“god, you feel so fucking good.” he murmured against your mouth. one hand stayed on your hip guiding you, while the other cupped the back of your neck, pressing your foreheads together.

his other hand tugged at your soaked tank top; you helped him pull it off and did the same with his shirt. your palms slid over his bare biceps, squeezing the firm muscles as you moved faster.

your lips brushed with every shared breath, every gasp. you clenched around the hard press of him, desperate for more. he thrust up harder, chasing friction. the heat started pooling low in your belly, almost burning.

steve set a rhythm, steady and deep, like he never wanted it to end.

“i’m close,” he whispered into your mouth.

“me too,” you breathed, blood buzzing under your skin.

he gripped your ass again, helping you move exactly how you both needed. “just like that… oh god.” his head fell back against the seat, neck exposed and shining with sweat. you kissed along his throat until the pleasure crashed over you. “fuck,” you moaned, hips stuttering as waves rolled through you. steve kept going, chasing his own release until his body tensed and trembled beneath you, a soft whine pressed into your ear.

you stayed like that, foreheads together, breathing each other in while the car windows fogged from the heat of your bodies. the tension melted away, and suddenly you both burst into laughter, giddy and a little dazed.

you left a small, sweet peck on his lips.

he kissed you again, slower this time, cupping your jaw gently while his other hand rubbed soothing circles on your sticky back.

outside, the sun kept beating down, but for once the heat felt perfect.

——————————————————————————

divider by chateaubarnes

[moonstoneandmoonlight]

HARD NOT TO FALL | steve harrington

Steve Harrington can't be casual with you anymore.

pairing: steve harrington x reader words: 1.6k contains: (18+ smut!! minors dni) mention of p in v, fingering, oral (female and male receiving), frenemies with benefits to lovers, jealous!steve, steve harrington yearning, fluff, female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader.

author's note: request by @scoopstroops0704 | this fic is more of a fluff with smut elements to it, it was also meant to be a blurb but went just over 1.5k words. shock! horror! please enjoy 🧡

18+ taglist | masterlist | 3k special masterlist | requests page

Steve Harrington had a problem. A pretty fucking big problem.

The problem being was that he was ninety five per cent sure that he was in love with you.

The other five per cent was convinced that he just really loved fucking you. That he really loved the way he knew your body like the back of his hand—knew that you loved it when he made out with your pussy like it was the best damn thing he had ever tasted (it was), knew you liked it when he lifted your thighs to rest of his shoulders while he fucked you stupid, knew you loved it when he called you pretty girl while two of his thick fingers were buried deep in your cunt, curling once, twice, just so he could listen to your needy whines. Even the thought of those noises were enough to make his cock thicken beneath his jeans.

So, of course Steve loved fucking you. In fact, he loved it so much that he wasn’t fucking anyone else but you.

He told himself that it was because he didn’t have time for anyone else. He told himself that your lips around his cock just felt right, that you just gave him the best head because you knew he liked it when you got messy with him, coating his dick in your saliva and looking up at him with those fucking bedroom eyes of yours.

But none of that explained why his heart beat a little faster when you were near, why he felt so desperately sad when you didn’t stay the night or why when he saw you talking to Ryan Williams at a party he wanted nothing more than to punch the nearest wall (or Ryan, whichever was more satisfying).

He was being stupid—he knew he was. You were technically not even friends. In fact, when you weren’t fucking each—you two were arguing. Not only that but you and Steve were not together and you were able to talk to any guy you wanted.

But it didn’t mean it didn’t kill him a little inside when you laugh at something Ryan had said while Steve watches from across the room.

Fucking Ryan.

Steve was deep in some sort of twisted daydream of socking Ryan in the face when someone taps his shoulder.

He turned around and was met with a pretty brunette who looked vaguely familiar. Amy something, or maybe it was Amanda, some girl who he had gone to high school with. Some girl who was fluttering her lashes at him and giving him every opportunity to be his distraction for the evening. He briefly considered it, knowing it would have certainly made him feel a little better about you and Ryan.

But he didn’t give in. Because despite the fact you annoyed the fuck out of him, he loved you. He knew it now he had seen you with someone else. He really fucking loved you. And he knew fucking someone else wasn’t going to stop that.

And so, instead of going upstairs with Amy or Amanda or whatever her name was, Steve went home. Trying not to think about you going home with Ryan, trying not to think about Ryan kissing you or fucking you or—

The sound of his phone ringing as he grabs a drink of water pulls him out of his thoughts. He didn’t know how but he knew almost instantly that it was you calling. And so, Steve answers. Because of course he does.

“Hi,” was the first thing he says when he answers the phone, trying to keep his voice casual, normal, like his heart wasn't beating out of his chest already. 

“Where—wherey’d you g-go?”

From the sound of your voice, Steve could instantly tell that you had been crying.

He felt his stomach drop instantly,

“Home,” he says, sitting upright instantly and straining to listen to the sounds of the party around you. But there was none. No music, no drunken yelling, no Ryan—

“Baby, where are you?”

The petname slips out before he could stop it. He only ever used it when he was feeling particularly needy—when you were on top of him, tits bouncing in his face and fucking yourself on his cock. When you would slowly roll your hips just as he was about to cum, making him lose his damn mind. That was the only time he called you baby.

Until now, that was.

“I-I left,” you tell him in a small voice. “I sa-saw you g-go and I—”

“Where?” Steve interjects, already standing up and grabbing his car keys that lay nearby. “Where are you? I’ll come and get you and I—”

“—I th-think I love y-you, Stevie.”

Everything stills. Time itself seems to slow down. Steve feels as though he has forgotten how to breathe. Because you felt the same, you felt the same.

But he couldn’t focus on that right now. Not when you were god knows where, sad and probably alone.

“I—I’m sorry I just—I saw you and Amanda and I—I—it felt like my whole world ended and then you were gone and I thought—”

“Tell me where you are,” Steve demands of you somewhat gently, jaw clenched as the words you had just uttered make him feel things he had been trying to ignore for months. “C’mon baby, I—I just need to see you so tell me where you are and I’ll come and get you.”

You’re quiet for a moment before you tell him you were at some payphone right outside of Melvald's and Steve tells you not to move, tells you to stay exactly where you were.

Steve drives to Melvald's, breaks a few traffic laws on the way that he wasn’t proud of but he makes it to the parking lot outside the store in less than five minutes. 

He spots you almost instantly, sitting on the edge of the sidewalk with your arms wrapped tightly around your legs as if it could protect you from the cold.

Steve practically stumbles out of his car in his haste to get to you.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, taking off his jacket without even a second thought and dropping it over your shoulders. “What were you thinking? Walking home alone like this, why didn’t you—”

“—be-because I thought you l-left,” you say quietly, your eyes shining as you look back up at him. “A-and I th-thought you left wi-with Amanda and—”

“—no,” Steve says with a shake of his head, dropping down onto the sidewalk beside you so he could cup your face with one hand to wipe away a stray tear that had fallen. “No, I didn’t go home with her. I-I wouldn’t do that.”

You breath hitches, you try not to think too much about the implication of those words but it was impossible not to do that when he was so close to you.

“Why?” You ask him quietly, barely daring to look away from him for even a second. “Why wouldn’t you—”

“—because I—because I love you too.”

Your eyes widen, lips part and Steve looks momentarily terrified that he’s said something insanely stupid, that perhaps maybe he had misheard you over the phone when you had told him you loved him.

But then you’re leaning in, closing the gap between you and pressing your lips firmly against his.

The kiss was anything but romantic—it was desperate, your fingers running through his hair as his hands roam over your body, grabbing at your thighs, your ass, anywhere he could touch, as though he was trying to map it out. It was the sort of kiss that left your core aching, made you want to pull him into his beamer and let him fuck you until sunrise. 

You weren’t sure how long you made out with Steve Harrington on the sidewalk but you knew it was Steve who was the first to pull away. You let out a noise of protest, something between a whine and a whimper as your eyes flicker down to his lips that were swollen from your kiss and covered in a mix of your spit. 

“Why did you—”

Steve presses his finger against your lips, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Because my girl deserves the best,” he tells you simply, the words making something in your gut squirm, the look in his eyes making your cunt clench around nothing.

You feel one of his hands brush along the bare skin of your leg. The subtle touch starts a fire in your gut, your eyelids flutter as he slowly drags his fingers up to your thigh in a tantalising dance that makes your blood hum with need.

“So let me take you home and then—”, he murmurs, fingers disappearing beneath your skirt and pressing his fingertips firmly against the damp patch that had formed in your panties. The moan that leaves your lips as a result should be embarrassing but you found that you didn’t care all that much when Steve’s fingers were circling your clothed clit, when you could see the thick outline of his cock through his jeans, “—then I’ll take care of you. Give my girl what she needs, yeah?”

You couldn’t do anything but nod your head frantically. Because he had called you his girl, his girl, his girl.

Steve wastes no time before he leans to kiss you again—this kiss much softer, gentler, everything you and Steve had never got the chance to be. He can’t help but smile into the kiss because when it came to you? It was hard not to fall but you had been right there to catch him.

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[rubyscrux]

memories

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader summary: you found out a little box with some polaroids of you and your now husband, steve warnings: fluff, domestic, moving out together, literally nothings just cuteness and thats it :( author's note: soooo happy (late) 10th aniversary of stranger things i guess :3

moving day was exhausting.

boxes covered almost every inch of the living room, furniture sat in places it definitely wasn’t going to stay, and neither of you had any idea where half of your belongings had ended up.

the kitchen somehow had books.

the bedroom had a lamp that belonged in the hallway.

and for reasons neither of you could explain, one lonely shoe had been sitting on the stairs for almost three hours.

“i’m telling you,” steve called from somewhere behind the couch, “this bookshelf is trying to kill me.”

you laughed without looking up from the box in front of you.

“i’m pretty sure it’s just a bookshelf.”

“easy for you to say.”

a loud thud echoed through the house.

“…you okay?”

“yeah.”

a pause.

“don’t ask the bookshelf.”

you couldn’t help smiling.

some things really never changed.

even after years together.

even after getting married.

even after deciding that hawkins had somehow become home again.

steve harrington was still incapable of putting together furniture without acting like he was fighting for his life.

you shook your head fondly before pulling another stack of bubble wrap from the box in front of you.

most of it was just random things.

old notebooks.

a candle you were convinced had melted years ago.

a chipped mug robin had painted for your first christmas together.

you smiled as you carefully placed it on the counter.

another box emptied.

another memory unpacked.

it was strange.

moving into a new house felt less like starting over and more like carrying every version of yourselves into somewhere new.

your gaze drifted toward steve.

he was kneeling on the floor with a screwdriver in his hand, completely focused on the bookshelf in front of him.

his hair was messier than usual.

his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows.

there was a tiny smudge of dust across his cheek that he clearly hadn’t noticed.

you smiled to yourself.

he looked exactly like home.

you reached for another box.

this one was much smaller than the others.

there wasn’t even a label on it.

“that’s weird.”

you carefully lifted the lid.

inside, sitting beneath a layer of tissue paper, was a small stack of polaroids tied together with faded blue ribbon.

your heart immediately softened.

“steve?”

“yeah?”

“come here for a second.”

“if this bookshelf collapses while i’m gone, i’m blaming you.”

“steve.”

“coming.”

a moment later, he walked over, wiping his hands on his jeans.

“what’d you find?”

instead of answering, you simply held up the stack.

his eyebrows lifted.

“…no way.”

you untied the ribbon carefully before handing him the first picture.

it was robin and steve.

both of them wearing those ridiculous scoops ahoy uniforms.

robin had ice cream smeared across her cheek.

steve looked like he’d just realized someone had taken the picture.

“oh my god.”

he laughed immediately.

“look at my hair.”

“look at robin.”

“she did that on purpose.”

“i know.”

another photo.

nancy.

jonathan.

arguing over something behind the camera while everyone else laughed.

then max pulling a face.

lucas trying to photobomb.

dustin standing proudly between everyone like he’d somehow organized the entire group himself.

eddie pretending to bite steve’s shoulder while robin looked completely done with both of them.

you couldn’t stop smiling.

“i forgot we even had these.”

“i didn’t.”

steve’s voice was quieter now.

“i just forgot where i put them.”

you continued flipping through them.

every picture felt like opening another chapter of your lives.

tiny frozen moments you’d almost forgotten.

there was one of you and nancy sitting on the hood of her car.

another where robin had somehow convinced everyone to wear matching sunglasses.

one of steve asleep during movie night with dustin drawing something on his face.

you laughed so hard tears filled your eyes.

“he never noticed.”

“he found out three days later.”

“you’re kidding.”

“i wish.”

another picture slipped into your hands.

this one made you stop.

steve.

barely nineteen.

standing outside family video with the biggest smile you’d ever seen on him.

his hair was longer.

his jacket looked far too big.

there was something softer about him.

something younger.

less guarded.

you looked between the picture and the man standing beside you.

“you were so little.”

steve looked offended immediately.

“little?”

“look at your face.”

“what’s wrong with my face?”

“nothing.”

you smiled.

“you just look…”

you searched for the right word.

“…hopeful.”

he looked down at the photograph.

for a long moment, neither of you spoke.

“i think i was.”

your hand found his without thinking.

his fingers intertwined with yours automatically.

like they’d done a thousand times before.

“you know what’s funny?”

he glanced at you.

“what?”

“i had the biggest crush on you when this picture was taken.”

you laughed.

“steve.”

“i’m serious.”

“you barely talked to me.”

“because i had a crush on you.”

“that’s your excuse?”

“absolutely.”

you nudged his shoulder.

“i thought you didn’t even like me.”

he looked horrified.

“what?”

“you always seemed so… cool.”

he burst into laughter.

“me?”

“yes.”

“baby, i spent six months rehearsing conversations before talking to you.”

your eyes widened.

“you’re lying.”

“i wish i was.”

he rubbed the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly.

“robin used to make fun of me because i’d ask her what i should say every time i knew you were coming into family video.”

you stared at him.

then back at the photograph.

then at him again.

“that’s actually adorable.”

“don’t tell anyone.”

“oh, i’m definitely telling robin.”

he groaned dramatically.

“traitor.”

you laughed before reaching for the last picture at the bottom of the stack.

your breath caught.

it was the two of you.

taken sometime during your first summer together.

you were both looking at each other instead of the camera.

laughing about something neither of you could remember anymore.

the edges of the photo had faded slightly.

but the happiness hadn’t.

steve looked over your shoulder.

his smile became impossibly soft.

“that’s my favorite.”

“really?”

“always has been.”

“why?”

he looked at the photograph for a second.

then at you.

“because that’s the first picture where i remember thinking…”

he paused.

“…i’m going to marry her.”

your heart melted.

“steve…”

he reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“turns out i was right.”

you smiled so hard your cheeks hurt.

“you know…”

you whispered.

“i think this house is already starting to feel like home.”

steve leaned his forehead against yours.

his smile was warm.

content.

the same smile you’d fallen in love with all those years ago.

“that’s because wherever you are,” he murmured, “is home to me.”

and surrounded by half-unpacked boxes, old memories scattered across the floor, and a future waiting in every empty room, you realized that no matter how many houses the two of you would live in…

the best part had never been the place.

it had always been finding each other there.

[moonchildpdf]

travis teacake meacham x librarian!reader

summary: you meet travis while working at your local library, and what begins with book recommendations soon turns into a friendship filled with endless debates and lingering glances. neither of you expects things to go any further — until one quiet afternoon between the shelves changes everything. c/w: strangers to friends to... something else. some plot for more context. smut (+18). semi-public sex. risk of getting caught. oral sex (m receiving. deepthroating. light gagging). dirty talk. vulgar language. p in v. unprotected sex. orgasm. creampie. words: 6k

That afternoon was dragging on slowly, the kind of quiet day where the only sounds in the library were the low hum of the street outside and the occasional crisp turn of a page. 

You were standing behind the wooden counter, lazily organizing a stack of new books, when the bell above the door chimed. You looked up automatically, adjusting to the sudden shift in the room’s energy.

To be completely honest, your first thought wasn’t exactly welcoming. 

You didn’t want to lie to yourself — the moment he stepped inside, you genuinely thought he was going to rob the place. He wore an oversized uniform that looked a bit worn around the edges, his hands were shoved deep into his pockets, and he was casting a frantic, darting gaze around the room. 

It was the kind of nervous look that usually screamed trouble. He certainly didn’t look like the usual crowd of quiet college students or elderly neighbors who came in to look around the poetry section. 

You instinctively straightened your posture, keeping your eyes glued to his movements as he took a few hesitant, shaky steps further into the shop.

But then, he caught you looking; and instead of turning away or darting down an aisle to hide, he walked straight toward the desk. 

When he finally spoke, all your defenses immediately crumbled. His voice was soft, carrying a tone so genuinely polite and deeply nervous that a little part of your heart instantly softened.

"Um, excuse me," he said, clearing his throat and looking down at his shoes before meeting your eyes. "I was wondering... could you maybe help me find a good book? A recommendation, I mean. I’m a bit lost."

You blinked, caught entirely off guard by the sharp contrast between his intimidating, defensive posture and his gentle voice.

"Sure, I can absolutely help you with that," you said, offering a small, reassuring smile to ease the obvious tension in his shoulders. "What kind of genre do you usually like to read?"

He blinked back at you, his eyes widening slightly as if you had just asked him to solve a complex mathematical equation.

"G-genre?" he stammered, shifting his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. "Oh. Wow. Okay. To be honest, I’ve never really thought about it like that before. I mean, I know there are a lot of different genres out there, obviously. There’s romance, history, mystery, biography... but I’ve just never stopped to ask myself, ‘Hey, what genre do you actually like?’ You know? It’s kind of a big question when you think about it. I like a lot of random things, I guess. But then again, maybe there’s something I absolutely hate? Probably—"

He was talking faster and faster, his words tripping over one another as his hands came out of his pockets to gesture wildly in the air. You couldn’t help but realize right then and there that he was one of those people. The kind of person who gets so incredibly nervous or excited that they just keep talking and talking, and you have to physically step in to stop them before they go on for hours. 

It was almost endearing.

"How about horror?" you asked, gently cutting him off with a soft, amused laugh.

He stopped mid-sentence, his mouth staying slightly open for a second before his brain fully processed your words. He tilted his head, genuinely thinking it over.

"Horror?" he repeated, the tension leaving his face. "Yeah. Yeah, actually, I like horror. That sounds pretty good."

You smiled and walked out from behind the safety of the counter, stepping into the narrow aisles of the library. The space between the tall, wooden bookshelves was tight, making every movement feel just a bit more intimate. 

You turned your head back over your shoulder, gesturing for him to follow you. He nodded quickly and, with a slightly clumsy scramble, stepped right into place behind you.

You could feel his physical presence just a step away. He was tall, and his frame made the narrow aisle feel even smaller than it usually did. The air between you felt a bit charged, a strange but not unpleasant tension growing as you guided him deeper into the shadows of the fiction section.

"Let’s see what we have here..." you murmured, running your fingertips lightly along the dusty spines of the books.

The familiar texture of paper and leather usually calmed you down, but right now, you were acutely aware of him watching your every move. You could hear his quiet breathing right behind you.

Suddenly, a loud, heavy sound broke the silence of the place.

You jumped slightly and spun around. 

A thick book was lying flat on the floorboards between the two of you. He was already frantically bending down, his face flushing a soft crimson that reached all the way to his ears.

He picked up the book with trembling hands and shoved it back onto the shelf. He didn’t even check if it was the right spot before burying his hands deep into his uniform pockets again, looking exactly like a kid who had just been caught breaking a valuable vase. 

"I’m sorry."

You had to bite the inside of your cheek to contain a genuine smile. 

His sudden embarrassment was incredibly sweet, completely shattering any lingering awkwardness or suspicion you had left. 

You reached past him, your shoulder brushing lightly against his, and pulled a specific book from the top shelf. You turned and extended it toward him.

"Try this one," you said softly. "It has horror, suspense, a bit of science fiction... a little bit of everything, really."

He cautiously took his hands out of his pockets and accepted the book from you. As his fingers brushed against yours, a small, sudden jolt of awareness ran through your veins. 

He held the book up to his face, scanning the cover and frowning slightly as he took in his first impression.

"The Body Snatcher," he read the title out loud. His voice trailed off, a highly skeptical look appearing on his face. He looked up at you. "A bit creepy, don’t you think?"

You shrugged your shoulders playfully, leaning back against the sturdy bookshelf and crossing your arms.

"Well, if it’s a bit too much for you, I can always take you over to the children’s section," you teased, dropping your voice to a whisper. "They have some really great picture books over there. Very safe."

He looked up from the cover, and a wide, genuine smile broke across his face. You couldn’t deny it — from the very first moment he smiled, it had a strange, indescribable effect on you. Your stomach did a sudden little flip, and the small aisle suddenly felt much warmer than it had a few minutes ago.

"No, no," he laughed softly, holding the book a bit tighter against his chest. "I’ll take this one. If it’s okay with you, I mean."

"Perfect," you replied, leading the way back to the front of the library and stepping behind the desk. "I hope you enjoy it, uhm..." You paused intentionally waiting for him to fill in the blank.

"Travis," he said quickly, reaching across the counter and extending his right hand toward you.

"Travis," you repeated. The name fitted him perfectly. You smiled, telling him your own name as you reached out to take his hand.

His grip was warm and firm, but instead of a quick, polite business shake, your hands stayed joined a second longer than necessary. Neither of you seemed to want to break the contact first. Travis’s smile widened, a soft, knowing look appearing in his eyes that made your heart beat just a bit faster.

"I’ll see you in a month, then," you said, finally letting go of his hand, though you already felt the sudden absence of his warmth. "That’s usually how long it takes people to finish that one."

"I’ll probably be back around here way before that," Travis replied smoothly, his eyes locked onto yours with a newfound confidence.

You nodded, a sudden wave of happy anticipation washing over you. 

"Deal."

"Deal," he repeated with a final nod. With a lingering wave, he turned around and walked toward the exit.

Your eyes followed him every single step of the way. You watched him push open the door, the bell chiming once more as he stepped out onto the busy sidewalk. The very moment the door clicked shut behind him, you let out a long, heavy sigh, only just realizing that you had been holding your breath the entire time.

—

These days, the book discussions between the two of you have become a regular habit.

"I just don’t know if I really get the motive, you know?" Travis has been talking for twenty minutes straight about Frankenstein, the book you recommended to him just last week.

You hold out your hand, and he smoothly passes you a heavy hardcover volume, his large, calloused fingers securing the base of the wooden rolling ladder while you climb up a few steps to slide it back into its proper place on the high shelf. 

This has become your routine. Every single Friday, right before he starts his night shift at the local storage facility, he walks through the front doors of the library to pick up a new recommendation.

He took his sweet time reading the first books.

But lately? He devours them faster and faster, his reading speed accelerating until it becomes completely impossible not to see him crossing that threshold at 5:00 PM sharp, eyes scanning the room until they land on you, eagerly waiting for his next acquisition.

"What exactly is it that you don’t understand?" you ask him, looking down from the ladder and extending your hand again to silently ask for another book from the pile.

Travis shrugs his broad shoulders, turning around slightly to grab the next book and handing it up to you. As the physical exchange happens, your fingers brush against his. The contact lasts for only a second, but a sudden spark of heat shoots straight up your arm.

"I don’t know. The why of it all," he mutters, crossing his thick arms over his chest and leaning his weight back against the side of the ladder. 

The way the material of his uniform stretches tightly across his broad chest and biceps whenever he moves is the kind of sight that, if you stare or think about it for too long, makes a deep blush creep up your neck. 

"Why create the monster in the first place? Why go through all that trouble just to abandon it?"

You smile, shaking your head gently as you slide the book into its perfect, tight slot on the shelf. 

"You lack ambition, Travis."

He frowns, his dark eyes intently tracking the subtle movements of your body as you begin your descent down the wooden steps of the ladder. 

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

When your feet finally touch the solid linoleum floor, your body is positioned directly in front of him. The space between you is incredibly small, close enough that you can smell his scent. 

You shrug your shoulders playfully.

"It’s about power. It’s about feeling like God, even," you murmur. You reach out and grab a fresh stack of heavy books from a nearby cart, your knuckles intentionally grazing against the side of his stomach. "Haven’t you ever wanted to have total, absolute power over something?" you ask him, your voice dropping into a teasing, playful whisper close to his face.

You turn on your heels, your hips swaying just a fraction more than usual as you walk away toward the classic romance section.

Travis stands frozen for a few seconds, his gaze completely locked onto your hips as you walk away from him. He pulls himself away from the ladder, his heavy work boots thudding softly against the floor as he follows you down the narrow, dimly lit aisle of the library stacks.

"I mean... yeah... I guess so," he says, his voice sounding a bit thick, a trace of confusion and growing arousal coloring his tone.

"What do you mean, 'I guess so'?" you ask, turning back to face him and gesturing with your chin for him to pick up another stack of returned books from the bottom shelf to bring along.

He groans softly but complies, bending down. As he does, the hem of his dark work jacket pulls up a few inches, exposing a strip of skin and the dark elastic band of his boxers. He lifts the heavy stack with an effortless grunt, straightening up and following you deeper into the maze of bookshelves.

"I don’t know," Travis mutters, looking down at the books in his arms. "I guess when I was in prison, that was when I felt that need the most. To have control over something. Anything. Over my own life. And I just couldn’t have it."

You let out a soft, sympathetic sound, reaching out to take one of the books from his arms to slide it into a shelf. Travis drops the rest of the stack onto the floor beside his boots. 

For a guy who can talk your ear off about anything, he rarely ever mentions his time behind bars. You never want to pry or push him too hard, but you genuinely appreciate the tiny, rare pieces of information he occasionally lets slip.

"Still, sometimes the desperate need for power can lead straight to your downfall," you remark, carefully aligning the spines of the books on the shelf.

Travis lets out a low, appreciative whistle, leaning his back against the opposite bookshelf, his entire body turned toward you, watching your hands work. 

"Damn. That’s deep."

You smile, casting a quick glance over your shoulder at him before shrugging. 

"But it’s the truth."

He bites his lower lip, trying and failing to hide the broad smile pulling at his mouth, and nodding in agreement.

A comfortable, heavy silence settles between the two of you for a few minutes. The small local library is practically dead, just minutes away from closing up for the night. At this hour, the place is completely deserted. There aren’t even any late-night students lingering around to look for last-minute research books. 

Travis shifts his weight, glancing down at his phone. He’s supposed to leave for his shift in about half an hour.

"So..." Travis starts, his voice dropping an octave. He steps closer, his large hand reaching out as his fingers gently tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. He tilts his head down, trying to catch your gaze while you desperately try to focus on organizing the books. "About our date tomorrow..."

You smile, raising your eyebrows as you finally turn your head to look at him.

"You’re calling that a date?"

His brow furrows, though his expression remains thoroughly playful. 

"It isn’t?"

You let out a soft laugh. "Travis, you invite me to go to a crowded bar with your friends. That is definitely not a date.

Travis rolls his eyes, a dramatic sigh escaping his lips. 

“Oh, come on, you’ve gotta be a little more flexible than that. Things nowadays don’t work like they do in those old books you love so much. What’s it called? Order and Prejudice?”

"Pride and Prejudice," you correct him immediately, reaching out to give his broad shoulder a firm, playful shove.

He laughs, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrates right in his chest. 

"Whatever. Same difference."

You roll your eyes, turning away to walk toward the next section of shelves.

But his large, warm hands reach out, wrapping firmly around your waist from behind. With a gentle tug, he turns your body completely around to face him. 

Startled, you place your palms flat against his chest, feeling the steady thumping of his heart beneath the thick fabric of his uniform.

"Let’s have a date right now, then," he murmurs, his eyes locking onto yours.

You laugh, completely astonished by his sudden boldness. 

"What?"

"Yeah. Seriously. Come on," Travis urges, his hands sliding slightly up and down the sides of your waist, over your shirt, swaying you gently from side to side in a tiny, slow-motion dance. "If you don’t think going out with my buddies counts as a real date, then let’s just have our own date. Right here. Right now." His eyes go down to your mouth before snapping back up. "We can order some greasy food, sit on the floor, and just talk..."

You bite your inner cheek to fight back a growing smile, tilting your head to the side. 

"Travis, you literally have to go to work."

He clicks his tongue against his teeth, waving his hand in the air as if the job meant absolutely nothing to him. 

"I can show up late. Nobody cares over there. That storage is a ghost town and boring as hell. It can survive without its night watchman for a couple of hours."

You place your hands against his chest again, giving him a gentle, firm push to create some distance. 

"I already have plans tonight, Travis. I’m sorry." 

You turn back around, picking up the final stack of books from the cart and walking toward the isolated, shadowy section at the very back of the library where the last few shelves need to be filled.

Travis lets out a heavy, frustrated sigh. 

He rubs his large hands aggressively over his face, his boots scraping against the floor as he storms after you.

"You know, if this is all just because I’m completely not your type, you can just be straight with me and tell me once and for all," he snaps, his voice suddenly losing all its playful warmth, replaced by a raw, biting edge.

You freeze instantly in your tracks. 

The book you were about to slide into the shelf remains gripped tightly in your hand, suspended mid-air. You slowly turn around to look at him, your heart hammering against your ribs. 

"What?"

Travis lets out a sharp, sarcastic laugh, crossing his arms tightly over his chest as he glares at you. 

"It’s fine. Really. I get it. I’m not like those super smart, intellectual college guys who walk through that front door every day. The ones you probably have incredibly deep, fascinating conversations with. I’m not some rich kid with a bright future, either. Hell, I barely managed to get my life back on track after getting out of prison."

He takes a large, aggressive step forward, closing the distance between you in an instant. Your back hits the hard wooden edge of the bookshelf behind you. You are completely cornered, trapped entirely between the solid wall of shelves and the massive, imposing heat of his body.

"But you can’t keep doing this to me," Travis whispers, his voice trembling with a dangerous mix of anger and desperate desire. He leans down, his face inches from yours. "You can’t keep playing this game where you pull me in, get me all twisted up, and then push me away the second I try to get close. It’s driving me completely insane."

You frown, your breath catching in your throat as you stare into his dark, intense eyes. 

"I don’t do that..."

A bitter, humorless smile touches his lips. He shakes his head slowly, his warm breath fanning across your cheeks. 

When he speaks again, his voice is nothing more than a rough, gravelly whisper right against your skin.

"You know what bothers me the most about that creature in the book?" His eyes drop down to your lips, tracking the way they part slightly. "How fucking pathetic he looks, just begging and searching for a little bit of love."

The air between you feels thick. Your breathing is completely erratic, matching the heavy rise and fall of his chest. 

For a long, agonizing second, neither of you say a word. The tension is a living thing, stretching tight enough to snap.

"Whatever," Travis mutters roughly, his eyes darkening with a flash of defeat.

But before he can even begin to pull his body away from yours, your hand shoots out, your fingers wrapping tightly around the collar of his work jacket. With a sudden burst of desperation, you yank him down and slam your lips hard against his.

Travis lets out a low, guttural growl deep in his throat, the sound vibrating directly into your mouth as he reacts instantly. Any trace of hesitation vanished. His large hands fly to your face, his long fingers tangling into your hair as he tilts your head back and kisses you with a raw, bruising hunger. 

It isn’t a gentle kiss; it’s a desperate, starved collision of teeth and tongues. 

He presses his massive body heavily against yours, pinning you flat against the bookshelf. The wood groans under the shifting weight, and a couple of books rattled on the upper shelves, but neither of you care.

You whimper into his mouth, your hands moving from his collar to grip his broad shoulders, pulling him even closer, if that’s even possible. 

His tongue slides deeply into your mouth, claiming you with an aggressive, possessive rhythm that makes your knees completely weak. 

He moves one of his legs in between yours, making you ride the hard, thick muscle of his leg as he rocks his hips forward. The unmistakable, rock-hard length of his growing erection presses firmly against your aching center, even through the layers of your clothes.

"Fuck," Travis growls, tearing his mouth away from yours for a fraction of a second to breathe. 

His breath is hot and heavy against your wet lips. He drags his mouth down your jawline, his teeth nipping sharply at the sensitive skin of your neck, making you arch your back and gasp loudly into the empty, quiet library. 

"You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this. How fucking long I’ve dreamed about tearing your clothes off in this place."

"Travis," you gasp out, your fingers digging into the thick muscles of his back. "The doors... someone might..."

He doesn’t even answer, still pressing his lips against your skin, his hands moving down to grip your waist with a bruising pressure, lifting you slightly so he can grind his crotch harder against yours.

He slides his hands underneath your shirt, his rough, calloused palms scraping against your bare skin, sending a violent shiver straight down your spine. 

He moves up to cup your breasts through your bra, squeezing the soft flesh roughly, his thumbs flicking hard over your sensitive nipples until you are whining, your head dropping back against the shelf.

The sheer thrill of being caught, combined with the raw, unfiltered dominance Travis is radiating, completely pushes you over the edge. You want him. You need him right now.

Your hands push at his chest, guiding him backwards. His back hits the bookshelves on the other side, and he grips the edge of it to stabilize himself

"So…" you whisper on his lips. His dark eyes flash with an intense, predatory heat. He understands instantly. His gaze locks onto yours as you reach for the waistband of his work trousers. "Is that all the book analysis you have for me today?"

With a swift, heavy tug, you unbuttoned his pants and shoved them and his dark boxers down past his hips. His cock bounces free, completely thick and fully hard now, pulsing with a heavy vein running down the length of it. 

It’s massive, glistening with a bead of pre-cum at the thick, red head.

Travis lets out a rough, gravelly groan the second he feels your hand wrap around his cock. 

The veins in his neck pop as you slide a little lower, gripping his length tightly from the base. Travis tangles his thick fingers into your hair to anchor himself as he launches into his rant.

"It’s just... seriously, I can’t get over how fucking stupid the guy is," he rasps, his voice dropping an octave and cracking as you kneel down and slowly leave wet kisses on his v-line down his pelvis above the thick pubis hair. "The piece of shit Victor spends months locked up in a lab, playing God, completely obsessed with the idea of creating life... and then when the creature finally opens its eyes... Ah, fuck, right there.. right there, baby!"

You start to suck him with a steady, punishing rhythm from the head of his cock. Travis throws his head back for a second, cutting off his own speech with a dirty groan as your spit completely lubricates his thickness. 

He forces his gaze back down at you, his eyes dark with pure lust, completely turned on by the sight of you on your knees, swallowing him whole on the library floor.

"And then..." he continues, his breathing incredibly ragged as your lips slide up and down his length. "The guy sees that the creature is terriying and just runs away like a fucking coward. If you have the balls to create something, you take responsibility for it. You don’t just abandon it just because it doesn't look or acts as you— ohhh, fuck, shit, baby, mmm, fuck, you take me so fucking well."

Your mouth swirls tighter around him, making his entire body shudder. 

Travis gently tugs your hair back, forcing you to release his cock by just an inch — just enough so he can catch his breath and keep cursing the damn scientists.

"The creature wasn’t born evil, you know? They made him evil by constantly rejecting him. The guy just wanted a shot, someone who wasn’t terrified of him, f—" 

His voice completely breaks as you shove him deeper into your mouth again, swirling your tongue aggressively around his sensitive skin. 

"Holy shit"

Travis can’t hold onto the thread of his analysis anymore. The blinding heat of your mouth is driving him insane, erasing any trace of logic as his hips begin to unconsciously thrust against your lips, completely surrendering to the pleasure.

His fingers tangle in your hair, holding you in place.

"Fucking look at you." Travis moans out, "Do it. Take it."

You don’t hesitate. 

You lean forward, opening your mouth wider, trying to take him completely. Travis lets out a loud, ungodly groan, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. His thighs tremble as you wrap your lips around the head of his cock and suck him down into your throat as deeply as you could manage again.

"Oh, fuck, yes," he gasps, his knuckles turning white as he grips your hair, guiding the rhythm of your head, throwin his own head back. "Suck it, baby. Eat my cock."

The language is dirty, completely stripping away the polite, quiet atmosphere of the library; and it turns you on completely. 

You swallow him deeper, your nose burying into his pubic hair, the heat of his skin enveloping your face. 

You let your teeth graze slightly against him, and Travis lets out a sharp, ragged curse, his hips thrusting heavily against your mouth, forcing himself deep into your throat until you gagged softly.

"Fuck, sorry, sorry," he pants, though his grip on your hair doesn’t slacken. He looks down at your face, your eyes watering slightly from the depth of his cock in your throat, your lips glistening with his spit. 

The sight completely breaks his remaining restraint.

He pulls away from your mouth with a wet, sticky pop. 

Before you can even stand up, Travis grabs you under your armpits, moving your body off the floor with effortless, terrifying strength. He spins you around, slamming your front flat against the bookshelf.

"Lean down." he orders roughly, his voice trembling with an overwhelming urge to possess you.

You place your hands flat against the wooden shelves, knocking a small stack of paperbacks to the floor as you bent over, pushing your hips back towards him. You feel his large, rough hands grab the hem of your jeans and underwear, sliding them down past your thighs in one violent, impatient motion. The cool air of the library hits your bare ass, but a second later, the intense, radiating heat of Travis’s body presses flat against your back.

He reaches down between your legs, his thick fingers finding your dripping, soaked folds. He spreads your own slick juices all over your clit and down across his aching, throbbing cock. 

You whimper loudly, your fingers digging into the wood of the shelf until your nails click against the varnish.

"You’re so fucking wet for me," Travis whispers in your ear, his teeth sinking into the sensitive meat of your neck, biting down hard enough to leave a mark. "Tell me what you want."

"Please, fuck me. Put it in." you cry out, your voice echoing softly in the dark, empty aisles. 

"I’m going to ruin you right here," he growls.

He guides the thick, pulsing head of his cock against your soaking wet entrance and with one brutal, heavy thrust of his hips, he buries himself completely inside you.

The size of him stretches you wide, filling you so well that a loud, high-pitched scream left your throat. Travis immediately slams his large hand over your mouth, muffling the sound as he pins your upper body down against the shelf.

"Shh... quiet, baby. Remember where we are," he whispers, a wicked smirk in his voice, even as his breath hitches from the tight, crushing warmth of your pussy gripping his lenght. "God, you’re so tight."

He begins to move, pulling nearly all the way out until only the tip remains, before slamming back into you with a heavy, wet thud.

The raw, explicit sound of his thighs hitting against your bare ass cheeks echoes loudly through the classic novels section. He doesn’t pace himself. He fucks you with a feral, frantic speed, his heavy body battering against yours over and over again.

Every single thrust pushes you forward against the shelf, the books shifting and scraping against the wood. You bite down hard on his palm to keep from screaming out as his cock hits your cervix repeatedly, sending waves of intense, hot pleasure straight to your core. 

The friction is incredible, the heat building between your legs until it feels like you are going to combust.

"Look at how you’re taking it," Travis pants, removing his hand from your mouth to grip your waist, his thumbs digging into your hips to hold you steady while he absolutely hammers himself into you from behind. "Look at what a good little slut you are for the ex-con. You love this dirty shit, don’t you?"

"Oh God, Travis." you sob out, no longer caring if anyone hears you. Your head rolls on your shoulders, your vision blurring with tears of pure pleasure. You arch your back, tilting your pelvis up to give him deeper access, your wet walls clamping down around his thick dick with every single stroke.

"Fuck, you’re squeezing me so hard," Travis groans, his pace becoming completely erratic, harder and faster, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps. 

He grabs your hips, turning you around easily. You quickly wrap one leg around his hips, and your arms around his neck, not wanting to be apart from him a second longer.

He grabs under your leg, keeping you in place as he slides inside you again.

Your moans and uneven breaths mix together as your faces get closer. He kisses you messily while his hips trust against you in an uncoordinated rhythm now.

 "I’m so close. I’m gonna come inside you. I’m gonna fill you up right in the middle of this fucking library."

The announcement, delivered in his rough, vulgar tone, triggers something deep inside you. Your internal muscles contract violently as a massive, shattering orgasm rips through your body. You shake all over, your hands losing their grip on his neck as your head falls back, your throat letting out a strangled, breathless cry of release. He wraps his arm around to help you to keep your balance.

Feeling your pussy pulsing violently around his cock, Travis lets out a loud, feral roar. 

He delivers three more brutal, bottoming-out thrusts, burying himself as deeply as physically possible inside you, and freezes. His entire body locks up, his muscles turning rock-hard against you as he shoots his thick, heavy torrent of hot semen deep into your womb. He holds himself deep inside you, his hips twitching as he pumps load after load into your pulsing body, groaning loudly against the back of your neck.

For several long seconds, the only sound in the library is the ragged, heavy breathing of the two of you.

Slowly, Travis pulls his cock out of you with a soft, wet sound. A mixture of his cream and your own juices immediately begin to drip down the inside of your thigh. Your legs are shaking so badly you can barely stand, but Travis’s strong arms are right there, catching you and pulling you flush against his chest.

He looks at you, and his fingers brush your hair behind your ear.

You both chuckle nervously and you bite your lower lip.

 He opens his mouth to say something, when the front door bell chimes.

“Hello?” the voice of a young guy sounds through the walls of the library. 

Panic hits both of you at the exact same time. In a single second, you go from pure ecstasy to a desperate race against the clock. 

Between muffled whispers and hushed curses, you both start dressing at lightning speed behind the very last bookshelf. Travis yanks up his boxers and the heavy trousers of his uniform in one violent tug, while you frantically adjust and smooth out your own clothes, praying to God that you don’t look completely wrecked. 

You quickly wipe your mouth with the back of your hand to clear away any trace and take a deep, shaky breath, desperately trying to piece back your professional composure.

"Yes, I’m coming!" you call out, your voice a little higher than usual, as you step out of the dark aisle and into the bright light of the main counter.

Waiting there is a young college student with a heavy backpack slung over his shoulder and a face that looks like he hasn’t slept in three days. He’s holding a crumpled piece of paper with the name of an economics manual. 

With your hands still trembling slightly from the adrenaline, you smile at him as if absolutely nothing happened, look up the book in the system, and guide him to the correct section.

As you are handing the book to the student and checking it out, heavy, familiar footsteps announce Travis walking out from the back of the library. He already has his jacket zipped up and his hair lazily thrown into place with his fingers, but the expression on his face is one of pure satisfaction.

He walks slowly toward the exit, passing right by the front desk. He stops for a brief second, leaning his broad frame against the wooden counter, and locks his dark, deeply amused eyes onto yours. The college student doesn’t notice a thing, far too focused on shoving the heavy textbook into his backpack.

Travis leans in just a fraction closer, winking at you with a broad, lazy grin, and whispers in a tone meant only for you:

"Thanks for the date. See you tomorrow at the non-date."

You roll your eyes dramatically, pretending to be thoroughly annoyed while your cheeks burn a bright, furious crimson. 

But as you watch him push open the heavy glass door and disappear into the cool night air, you can’t stop a smile from breaking across your lips.

⭑ para juani juanita juana⭑

⋆⭒˚.⋆ likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated !! thank you for reading. ⋆⭒˚.⋆

⭑ masterlist ⭑

[moonchildpdf]

love will tear us apart

steve harrington x reader fanfiction | strangers to lovers | college! reader | damaged! (but soft) steve | 90s | upside down events didn’t happen | slow burn | angst | eventual smut | some fluff | secrets | emotional baggage | trauma | tension | mutual pining

c/w: new character introductions. tension. some fluff ?? steve's such a tease. wounds/scars mention. smut (+18). public sex ?? kinda. oral (f receiving). fingering. p in v. no protection. orgasm. creampie. a little bit of dirty talk. confusion/trying to understand feelings. words: 12.8k summary: steve harrington arrives in the city carrying too many secrets for someone supposedly looking for a new beggining. between your friends' warnings, the pressure of your final semester and the ghosts you can barely outrun yourself, getting involved with him should be easy to avoid. turns out, it isn't. a/n: hihihi how's everyone doing ?? new chapter yayy !! finally. steve kind of annoys me in this one but in a good way idk i can't really explain it. thank u all so much for your support. someone wrote me worried about me not finishing this fic haha and i know i'm not updating as often as i'd like but i swear i love this series and i'm absolutely determinated to do so, so don't worry. anyways, enjoy this one, see u guys soon !!

chapter eight: little lies

The sharp sound of Nancy’s car horn echoes through the quiet suburban street. Inside the house, the sudden noise triggers a flurry of movement.

"They’re here! We gotta go!" Robin calls out, her voice bouncing off the walls of the hallway as she scrambles to gather her belongings.

There’s a frantic, joyful energy in the air as you both hurriedly shout your goodbyes to Robin’s parents, who are waving warmly from the kitchen doorway. Laughing at your own clumsiness, you both grab your overstuffed bags and burst through the front door into the bright morning light.

"You know, I was starting to think you guys grew roots in there!" Jonathan calls out, leaning his head completely out of the passenger side window. A teasing smirk plays on his lips. "We’ve been sitting here for ten minutes!"

"Oh, shut up, Jonathan!" Robin shoots back instantly. Without missing a beat, she swings her heavy beach bag backward, pretending to throw it right at his face.

Jonathan coordinates a perfectly timed retreat, quickly pulling his head back inside the safety of the car just as the bag sails past the frame. The bag lands with a soft thud against the side of the door, causing Vickie, who is sitting in the backseat, to let out a loud laugh.

"We were ready ages ago, for your information," Robin complains playfully sliding into the backseat. The moment she settles in, her defensive posture melts away. She turns toward Vickie, her eyes softening completely, and greets her with a short, sweet kiss on the cheek.

"Are we all set back there?" Nancy asks, her eyes finding yours in the rearview mirror. She gives you a knowing, comforting smile, adjusting her grip on the steering wheel.

You nod quickly, offering a reassuring smile. 

"All good, Nance. Drive before Robin throws something else."

Nancy laughs, shifting the car into drive. The tires crunch softly against the loose gravel at the edge of the asphalt as she pulls away from the curb and heads toward the main road.

The trip to Lover’s Lake isn’t actually that long, but keeping your eyes on the road proves to be an absolute challenge with Robin in the vehicle. Every two seconds, a new landmark appears, and Robin loses her mind.

"Blindfold mode! Now! Close your eyes!" Robin yells, her voice piercing through the ambient noise of the car.

"Robin, I am trying to look around!" you protest, laughing as you dodge her flying hands.

"No! You can’t look at this specific intersection yet! I have a whole architectural tour planned for you next Tuesday, and if you see the old pharmacy now, it completely ruins the narrative arc of the neighborhood!" Before you can even formulate a logical argument, Robin’s warm, frantic palms slap directly over your eyes, plunging you into total darkness.

You let out a heavy, dramatic sigh, letting your head fall back against the headrest. You cross your arms tightly over your chest, giving up entirely.

"You know what? Fine. I’m just going to keep them closed for the rest of the entire ride," you said, your voice dripping with exaggerated exhaustion. "Don’t worry about me. I’ll just experience the lake through my sense of smell."

A collective burst of laughter erupts from everyone in the car. Jonathan is chuckling quietly into his hand, while Vickie is practically breathless, leaning against Robin’s shoulder. Even Nancy is giggling, her shoulders shaking as she navigates a smooth turn.

As the laughter dies down into a comfortable silence, Robin leans forward, resting her chin on the back of the front seat. She lets out a massive yawn, stretching her arms wide.

"Hey, did Steve ever say if he was coming?" Robin asks casually, her voice dropping into a sleepy tone. "I thought he was supposed to be the designated driver today."

At the mention of his name, your heart gives a violent leap inside your chest. It feels like a sudden drop on a roller coaster, a sharp pang of adrenaline that you definitely weren’t prepared for. Your stomach tightens instantly. 

To hide the sudden rush of emotion, you press your lips together into a firm, tight line, looking straight ahead and forcing yourself to focus entirely on the music drifting out of the dashboard speakers.

“If I could turn the page

In time then I’d rearrange

Just a day or two

(Close my, close my, close my eyes)”

The hauntingly beautiful harmonies of Fleetwood Mac fills the cabin of the car, the lyrics swirling around your head like a cruel coincidence.

"I don’t really know," Nancy answers, her tone shifting slightly as she glances at you out of the corner of her eye. "He just called me early this morning and asked if I could pick you guys up instead. He said he had some stuff to take care of and wouldn’t be able to make it out here early in the morning."

You swallowed hard.

Your mind immediately begins to spin out of control, constructing scenarios. 

“He’s probably with some girl from highschool” you think bitterly, a cold knot forming in your gut.

You hate how much it bothers you. It shouldn’t. You have no right to feel this weird, possessive ache in your chest. You are just friends. Or whatever version of friends you are trying to pretend to be.

But then, the bitter jealousy is instantly replaced by something much worse. Flashback. A sudden, vivid image of Steve standing in a dark alleyway popped into your mind.

You lean your head against the cool glass of the window, letting out another long sigh as you stare at the passing green landscape. 

You honestly don’t know which thought makes you feel worse: the idea of him being wrapped up with some random girl, or the terrifying possibility that he’ss getting himself into dangerous trouble all over again.

“Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies

Tell me lies (tell me, tell me lies)

Oh, no, no, you can’t disguise

You can’t disguise (no, you can’t disguise)

Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies

(Tell me)”

You close your eyes briefly, wishing you can shut off your brain as easily as turning a dial on the radio.

It isn’t difficult to realize that you are finally getting close to the destination. The smooth asphalt of the main highway gives way to a bumpy, uneven dirt road.

The scenery changes drastically. The open sky is slowly swallowed up by a dense, beautiful canopy of ancient trees. The sunlight filters through the leaves in scattered, golden patches, dancing across the dashboard. 

Even the air inside the car changes; as you roll your window down a few more inches, a breeze rushes in. It feels cooler, crisper, completely untouched by the city’s humidity. It smells like pine needles and damp earth.

"Look, down there!" Vickie points excitedly toward a clearing in the distance.

Through the thick treeline, the sparkling blue surface of Lover’s Lake begins to peak through. And right there, standing near the edge of the water, a group of figures is jumping up and down frantically. They’re waving their arms wildly in the air, performing ridiculous, exaggerated dance moves just to get attention.

You can’t help but smile. You are absolutely sure you have arrived. Those are definitely “the kids”, as your friends always call them.

"God, why are they always so incredibly embarrassing?" Nancy groans, though there’s a clear affection in her voice. She leans over the steering wheel, rolling her window all the way down, and sticking her head out. "Move out of the way, Mike! Don’t make me run you over and have to tell mom that you drowned in the lake!"

The tall boy, who’s currently doing a terrible robot dance, freezes mid-motion. Mike rolls his eyes dramatically, stepping off the dirt path to let the car pass.

Standing right next to him is a girl with short hair. She waves at you with an incredibly sweet, genuine smile, her dark eyes bright with happiness. You instantly recognize her from the endless stories you’ve been told; giving her warm expression, that has to be Jane.

Nancy parks the car parallel to a rugged-looking vehicle that is already sitting in the shade. The moment the engine cuts out, the doors fly open. Nearby, two guys are already in the process of unloading a massive pile of gear from their trunk.

"You guys were supposed to be here an hour ago!" the one with the curly hair barks loudly, dropping a heavy cooler onto the grass with a dramatic thud. He wipes his brow with the back of his hand, glaring at the car with disappointment . "An hour! We’ve been fighting off giant mosquitoes out here!"

"Oh, save the attitude, Henderson," Robin says, hopping out of the back seat and instantly stretching her legs. She walks around to the trunk to help Vickie pull out their blankets. "Go complain to your favorite chauffeur. He’s the one who abandoned us at the absolute last minute."

"That son of a—" Dustin starts, his face turning a bright shade of annoyed red. But as his eyes drift past Robin’s shoulder, he catches sight of you stepping out of the car. He cut himself off instantly, his aggressive posture vanishing into thin air. "Oh. Uh, hey there."

He clears his throat, adjusting the brim of his baseball cap, and extends a hand toward you with a sudden, surprisingly polite flourish.

"I’ve heard so much about you," Dustin says, flashing a wide, toothy grin. "I’m Dustin."

You chuckle at his immediate shift in attitude, stepping forward to take his hand. His grip is firm and enthusiastic. 

"Nice to meet you, Dustin. I hope the things you heard were mostly good."

"Oh, they’re excellent things. Trust me, if Steve is completely obsessed with someone, he doesn’t shut up about— ouch!”

Dustin suddenly jumps in place, grabbing his arm with a look of pure betrayal. Standing right behind him is a fierce-looking redhead holding a folded lawn chair. She lowers her fist, glaring at Dustin with an expression that can genuinely kill a man.

"Shut your mouth, Henderson," she mutters through gritted teeth, her voice sharp. She gives him one last warning look before turning her attention to you. Her features soften, though she still carries that trademark, guarded cool girl energy. She offers a slightly forced, but entirely polite smile. "Hey. I'm Max. Ignore him, he lacks a functioning filter."

You let out a soft laugh, completely charmed by the immediate chaos. 

"It’s great to meet you, Max."

You look past her shoulder, noticing a boy standing a few feet away, leaning against the hood of the car with his arms crossed. He has an amused smirk on his face, clearly enjoying Dustin’s pain. You blink, connecting the dots from the descriptions you’d been given. 

"And you must be Lucas, right?"

The boy lifts a hand in a casual, cool gesture of greeting. 

"The one and only. Welcome to the circus."

"And this right here," Dustin adds, turning his body to show the boy standing right behind him, "is Will."

Will steps forward, holding a worn-out book tightly against his chest. He offers a small, incredibly shy smile, his cheeks tinting a faint shade of pink. The resemblance to Jonathan is striking — the same kind, observant eyes, the same quiet, gentle presence. It’s so endearing it makes your heart warm up instantly.

"Hey, Will," you say softly, making sure your tone is as welcoming as possible. "It’s so incredibly good to finally meet you. Jonathan talks about you all the time."

Will’s smile grows a little wider, his shoulders dropping in relief. "Nice to meet you too. I’m glad you could make it."

With everyone finally assembled, the organized chaos of setting up a massive picnic begins. Within twenty minutes, the grassy clearing overlooking Lover’s Lake looks like a small campsite. Large, colorful plaid blankets are spread across the ground, a massive assortment of sandwiches and snacks is laid out, and music is playing quietly from a portable cassette player.

Once the initial rush of organizing settles, the group naturally fractures into smaller pairs, each drifting toward their own preferred activities.

Out of the corner of your eye, you watch Robin and Vickie slip away. They’re walking side-by-side toward a shaded trail that disappears into the thick forest, their hands occasionally brushing against each other as they laugh at some private joke.

Down by the rocky edge of the water, a fierce competition has broken out. Nancy and Jonathan are facing off against Mike and Jane in a stone-skipping battle.

"It’s all about the wrist angle, Mike! You’re throwing it like a baseball!" Nancy yells, demonstrating a perfect, fluid throw. The flat stone skips across the glassy surface of the lake four, five, six times before sinking.

Mike groans loudly, while Jane watches her with wide, fascinated eyes, immediately trying to copy the motion with an intense look of concentration.

Further down the shore, sitting on the edge of an old dock are Lucas and Max. Their legs are dangling over the water, splashing the surface occasionally. You can’t hear what they’re saying, but you can see the animated gestures. 

Max is waving her hands around, clearly defending some ridiculous point, while Lucas is shaking his head with a massive smile, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. It’s obvious they’re having one of those silly, meaningless arguments that only couples who know each other inside out can enjoy.

On the second blanket, a few meters away from the noise, Will’s lying flat on his back. He has a pair of dark sunglasses on, holding his book up to block the bright spring sun, completely lost in his own world.

"And that’s basically the entire framework of what we’re analyzing in the lab right now," Dustin’s voice snaps you back to your immediate surroundings.

He’s sitting cross-legged right next to you on the main blanket, mindlessly tossing small pebbles into the grass. True to his reputation, Dustin has spent the last thirty consecutive minutes giving you an incredibly dense, highly detailed breakdown of his first year at Stanford. He talks about his professors, his roommates, his complex theories on engineering, and the sheer volume of coffee he’s consuming.

You stare at him, your jaw slightly slack, completely overwhelmed but genuinely fascinated by his brilliant mind. You nod slowly, trying to process the sheer amount of data he just dumped on you.

"Wow, Dustin... that sounds incredibly..."

"Boring?" Dustin smiles.

"I was going to say interestingly difficult," you correct with a laugh, causing him to grin proudly. "But seriously, it sounds amazing. When Steve used to tell me how smart you were, I honestly didn’t realize he meant this smart. I thought he was just being a proud older brother."

The moment the words leave your mouth, you wish you could suck them back in. There it’s again. Steve. You keep bringing him up without even meaning to.

Dustin’s eyes light up at the mention of Steve’s praise, but he quickly shrugs his shoulders, trying to play it cool as he brushes some loose grass off his jeans. 

"Well, Steve occasionally possesses a moment of clarity. And yeah, I guess we’re all pretty good at our specific things."

He stands up, stretching his legs and looking toward the dense treeline. 

"I’m gonna go take a walk down the western trail. You wanna come?"

You shake your head, offering an apologetic smile as you lean back onto your elbows. 

"I think I’m just gonna sit here and soak up some of this sun for a bit. My brain needs a second to recover from all that Stanford physics."

"Fair enough," Dustin chuckles. He turns around, his eyes locking onto the neighboring blanket. "Will! Hey, Byers! Get up, we’re going on a scouting mission."

Will lets out a long, theatrical sigh, slowly lowering his book. He looks at Dustin with pure exhaustion. "Dustin, I’m literally in the middle of a chapter."

"Move it!"

Will groans, but he doesn’t actually fight it. He places his book face down on the blanket, pushes himself up, and begins to jog slightly to catch up with Dustin’s fast pace.

"You know, I’m not legally forcing you to come," Dustin shouts as they walk away.

"It’s the specific, bossy tone you use," Will’s quiet voice drifts back. "It leaves no room for democratic choice."

You watch them disappear into the trees, a warm smile lingering on your lips. The banter is so natural, so filled with history. It’s beautiful to witness.

As the sound of their bickering fades, you turn your eyes back toward the wide expanse of the lake. The water looks beautiful, reflecting the deep blue of the afternoon sky.

With a deep breath, you let your body drop all the way down onto the soft fabric of the blanket. You raise your right arm, resting your forearm across your eyes to shield yourself from the intense glare of the sun.

Left alone with your own thoughts, your mind immediately begins to drift. It jumps from one anxiety to another. You think about your own college courses, the wonder of how exams went for you, the looming pressure of your final project. 

You think about your parents, realizing with a sudden pang of guilt how much you actually miss them, wishing you have time to go visit them soon.

And then, inevitably, your thoughts circle right back to him.

You force your breathing to slow down, focusing intensely on the ambient sounds around you. The gentle chirping of birds in the branches above. The soft, rhythmic sound of the lake water lapping against the wooden pillars of the dock. You try everything to calm the sudden, erratic fluttering of your heart.

But it’s impossible. 

The moment your eyes are closed, your brain fills in the gaps. 

You can almost smell that distinct, comforting scent of his cologne. You can remember the exact feeling of his calloused hand briefly brushing against your skin. You can hear the low, gravelly pitch of his voice.

It makes you genuinely angry. You hate the fact that he can completely hijack your brain without even trying. You hate that he holds this ridiculous, invisible power over your emotions, leaving you a flustered mess while he probably goes about his day without a single care in the world.

"Hey. You want my sunglasses? You look like you’re actively frying out here."

The sudden, deep voice right next to you causes you to jump violently. Your heart practically leaps into your throat, and your arm flights off your face as you scramble to sit up.

But the physical shock of being startled is nothing compared to the emotional whiplash of realizing exactly who is standing there.

You drop your weight onto your forearms, leaning back slightly as you stare up at the figure towering over the edge of the blanket.

Steve is standing there with his hands on his hips, a casual, effortless smirk plastered across his face. 

He’s dressed in a way you had never seen before, and it’s doing dangerous things to your ability to breathe. He’s wearing casual swim shorts and a dark, sleeveless tank top that does absolutely nothing to hide his broad shoulders and toned arms. A vintage baseball cap is turned backward on his head, his messy brown hair poking out from underneath, and a pair of dark sunglasses hide his eyes.

It’s a devastatingly attractive look, and you can feel an immediate, fierce heat rushing up your neck into your cheeks. You mentally curse your own biology, desperately hoping you can blame the deep blush on the fact that you’d been lying under the hot spring sun for the last hour.

"Oh," you say, your voice coming out a little sharper, a little colder than you intended. You sat all the way up, crossing your legs. "So you actually decided to grace us with your presence. How incredibly generous of you."

Steve’s smirk widens into a genuine, amused smile. He looks out over the sparkling lake for a brief second before turning his gaze back down to you.

"Wow. Hello to you too," he says smoothly. "And who exactly said I wasn’t coming?"

Without waiting for an invitation, he loosens his grip on a heavy bag, letting it drop to the grass with a loud thud. A second later, he lets his entire body collapse onto the blanket right next to you, letting out a low, dramatic grunt as his weight shifts the fabric.

He props  himself up on his elbows, positioning his body just inches away from yours. With those dark sunglasses covering his eyes, it’s impossible to tell exactly where he’s looking. But you aren’t dumb. You can tell by the slight tilt of his head that his gaze has just taken a slow, entirely reckless trip down your exposed legs, up your torso — which is currently covered in a small, tight knit crop top — before finally settling on your face.

"Hey..." he murmurs, his voice dropping into a softer, lower register that sends a literal shiver down your spine.

You roll your eyes with as much dramatic force as you can muster, deliberately turning your face away. You let your body drop back down onto the blanket, throwing your arm right back over your eyes to block him out.

"Go away, Harrington," you mutter.

You can’t see him, but you can practically feel the smug, confident smile radiating off him. The space between you feels incredibly small, the heat radiating off his skin completely eclipsing the warmth of the sun.

"Nice top," he says casually, his voice laced with a teasing undertone. "It looks good on you."

"Thank you," you respond, making your tone as icy and dismissive as humanly possible. "Now leave me alone."

A second of silence passes. Then, without a single word of warning, Steve reaches out and extends his index finger, quickly poking you right in the soft flesh of your side.

You gasps loudly, your entire body jerking away from the sudden sensation. You are incredibly ticklish there, and he knows it. You take your arm off your face, glaring down at him with genuine fury.

"Steve! Stop it! I am seriously going to punch you!"

"Why are you acting like this today?" he asks, his tone shifting from teasing to genuinely curious.

When you look at him this time, you realize he has slid his sunglasses down to the bridge of his nose. His amber-brown eyes are staring directly into yours. In this bright light, they look beautiful — more honey-colored and warm than you have ever seen them.

You freeze, completely caught off guard by the intense clarity of his gaze. Your brain stalls out completely. 

You stare into his eyes, your mouth opening slightly as you desperately try to formulate a coherent sentence that can explain exactly why you want him a million miles away from you.

"Finally! God, I thought I was gonna have to wait until Christmas to see your stupid face!"

The sharp, sarcastic shout breaks the heavy spell instantly. You blink, pulling your gaze away from Steve as you turn your head toward the source of the noise.

Max is walking up the grassy incline with Lucas right behind her. She has her hands shoved deep into her pockets, her face pulls into a classic, annoyed scowl, but her eyes are bright with relief.

You immediately push yourself up into a sitting position, pretending to be incredibly busy searching for something deep inside the pockets of your bag. Your heart is pounding against your ribs like a trap bird.

Steve’s eyes linger on your face for a few more seconds, observing your sudden retreat with a quiet, unreadable expression. He lets out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh before pushing himself up to his feet. He turns around, opening his arms wide as Max approaches.

"Hey! I didn’t realize you missed me so much, kiddo," Steve calls out, his signature, easygoing charm sliding right back into place.

"Yeah, yeah. Keep dreaming, Harrington. Don’t make it weird," Max shoots back. Despite the tough words and the frown on her face, she doesn’t hesitate for a single second. She steps right into his space, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist in a warm, genuine hug.

The sight completely melts the cold knot in your stomach, whether you want it to or not.

A split second later, the peace is entirely shattered.

"Steve!" Dustin’s voice appears from the treeline.

Down by the water, Mike and Jane drop their stones, their faces lighting up instantly. 

"Yo! Steve’s here!"

Within seconds, a literal stampede of teenagers rush across the grass. They converge on the blanket like a pack of eager puppies, completely engulfing Steve in a massive, chaotic group hug. Dustin is yelling something about the cooler, Mike is shoving Lucas, and Will is smiling widely, arms wrapped around the perimeter of the group. Even Jane has walked over, hugging Steve’s arm with a bright, happy smile.

Steve’s laughing loudly, his deep chest-rattling chuckle echoing across the clearing as he pats them all on their backs, struggling to stay upright under the collective weight.

"Alright, alright! Get off me, you absolute savages!" Steve jokes, though he’s gripping Dustin’s shoulder affectionately. He steps back, looking them all up and down with an amazed expression. "Jesus, when did you guys get so incredibly tall? Seriously, what are they putting in the food out in California? It’s getting ridiculous."

"Man, California is absolutely amazing," Lucas says, his chest puffing out proudly. "The weather, the beach, the basketball courts... it’s unmatched. You seriously need to come out and visit us this summer, Steve. We have a whole extra bed in the dorm."

Max nods in agreement, leaning against Lucas’s side. 

"Yeah. Even you couldn’t ruin the vibe out there, Harrington."

"Hey, don’t listen to them," Mike interrupts loudly, stepping forward to grab Steve’s attention. "Boston is ten times better. The history, the campus, the music scene... it’s actual culture. Promise me you’ll come to Boston first."

Steve lets out another bright laugh. He reaches out, his large hand landing on top of Mike’s head, deliberately messing up his hair.

"I’ll come visit every single one of you, I promise," Steve says, his voice filled with a quiet, genuine warmth.

He stands there, surrounded by the loud, chaotic family he has spent years protecting, his face glowing with happiness. But then, as the kids continue to argue loudly about the merits of their respective college towns, Steve’s gaze slowly drifts away from them.

His eyes travel across the grass, navigating through the noise, until they find yours.

You freeze, caught in the direct line of his sight. You quickly look away, dropping your eyes to your lap and biting down hard on your lower lip to stop yourself from smiling. 

But even with your eyes fixated on the fabric of the blanket, you can still feel the intense, unwavering weight of his gaze burning against your skin. You know he’s still looking at you, and you know, without a shadow of a doubt, that it’s going to be hard to keep him away from you during the rest of the day.

Or even worse — to keep yourself away from him.

—

“Is this really necessary?”

Your voice comes out small, full of complaints. You know exactly how you sound — like a little kid throwing a temper tantrum because they don’t want to eat their vegetables. 

You cross your arms tightly over your chest, shifting your weight from one foot to the other on the warm, rough wood of the dock.

Robin, who is standing right next to you, rolls her eyes so hard you think they might get stuck. She lets out a loud, dramatic sigh and throws her hands up in the air.

“If you don’t get in, I swear I will push you into the water myself,” Robin says, her voice sharp but full of that familiar, sisterly annoyance.

Vickie immediately gives Robin a gentle but firm look, nudging her arm.

Robin quickly makes a quick, apologetic face, holding her hands up in surrender to Vickie.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m just saying! The sun is melting my brain, and we’ve been arguing about this for ten whole minutes.”

“The water is beautiful! Get in!” Dustin’s loud voice echoes across the lake.

You look out into the deeper part of the lake. Dustin is floating on his back, his wet curls flat against his forehead, looking completely at peace. But before he can finish his sentence, Lucas sneaks up behind him and shoves Dustin’s head right under the surface.

Dustin comes back up, coughing and splashing wildly. 

“Hey! You jerk! I swallowed a gallon of lake water!” Lucas just laughs, swimming backward out of Dustin’s reach.

You let out a long, heavy sigh. 

You tilt your head back, looking up at the bright blue sky. There isn’t a single cloud in sight. Mentally, you beg whatever god is out there to give you the strength to survive this. You are absolutely sure that the second your skin touches that water, your heart will stop from the freezing cold.

“Dramatic,” Robin whispers right next to you, her voice full of mischief.

You snap your head toward her, glaring. You bent down quickly, your fingers brushing against a loose piece of gravel. 

“Say it again and see what happens,” you threaten her, faking a throw. Robin laughs and jumps back, hiding behind Vickie, who is now giggling at the two of you.

Needing a distraction, you turn around to look at the rest of the group. A few meters back, on the grassy bank near the cars, Jonathan and Nancy are busy. They have their big backpacks open, sorting through snacks, extra towels, and soda cans.

“And why aren’t you guys getting in?!” you call out to them, trying to shift the pressure away from yourself. “Why am I the only one getting tortured here?”

Jonathan stops what he was doing. He looks up, a small, tired smile on his face, and lifts his heavy camera up by the strap. 

“My project, sorry. I need to get the lighting right while the sun is high.”

Nancy nods in agreement, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“And somebody has to make sure the food doesn’t get covered in ants. Go on! It’s not that cold!”

You groan loudly, turning back toward the water. Everyone is against you. You feel completely trapped.

But then, a soft, low laugh cuts through the noise of Dustin and Lucas fighting in the background. It’s a sound you know by heart. A sound that, no matter how hard you try to ignore it, always makes the tiny hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

Steve has been sitting on the rocky edge of the shore, quietly watching the whole scene. He stands up now, brushing the dry dirt off his legs.

He reaches down, grabbing the bottom edge of his tank top.

“Come on, I’ll get in with you,” he says.

Before your brain can even process his words, Steve pulls the shirt over his head in one smooth motion. As he does, his baseball cap falls off his head, landing softly in the grass.

Without the hat, his thick, brown hair falls into a messy, wild pile over his forehead.

Your heart gives a violent, sudden thud against your ribs.

The afternoon sunlight hits his skin perfectly. You stand there, frozen, just looking at him.

You notice the hair on his chest and the dark trail of hair leading down to the waistband of his swim shorts. 

But more than anything, your eyes go straight to his skin.

In this bright light, you can see his scars. They are now pale, jagged lines across his torso and sides.

But as you look closer, a small wave of relief washes over you. There are no new ones. The old ones are fading, turning into silver memories instead of fresh wounds.

You take a quick look at the rest of the group. 

Dustin and Lucas don’t even blink. Nancy and Jonathan don’t look up. By their total lack of a reaction, you realize something that makes your chest feel a little tight: this isn’t the first time they see his body like this. They’re used to it.

Suddenly, you remember the conversation you shared with Robin just the night before. And you remember the look on her face when she admitted to having cleaned his wounds many times before.

Thinking about that now makes your throat feel dry. 

You look back at Steve, who’s now walking toward the dock, completely unaware of the heavy thoughts running through your mind.

Before you can say anything, Robin and Vickie run past you. Their bare feet make a loud sound against the wood. They don’t hesitate for a single second. With loud shouts and bright laughs, they throw themselves off the edge, flying through the air before hitting the water with a massive splash.

The water erupts, spraying droplets all the way up to where you are standing. You wipe a stray drop of water from your cheek, letting out another sigh. You are totally defeated. There’s no escaping it now.

Slowly, your hands reach down to the edge of your top. You pull it over your head, letting the warm air hit your skin, and then slide your shorts down your legs, leaving them in a neat pile next to your shoes.

When you straight up, your eyes immediately find Steve’s.

He’s standing just a few feet away at the start of the wooden dock. For a split second, he freezes. 

His eyes lock onto yours, moving down for a fraction of a moment before he quickly licks his lips. He looks away fast, turning his head toward the trees as if he has suddenly found a very interesting leaf. He clears his throat, a light pink color spreading across his cheeks.

You clear your throat, trying to break the heavy silence that has suddenly formed between the two of you. You take a few steps forward, your bare feet clicking against the warm wood. You stop right at the very edge of the dock, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him, looking down into the clear water.

“Does it count if I only put my feet in?” you ask, turning your head to give him a playful, teasing smile.

But you don’t even get the chance to finish your thought. Before you can react, you feel the solid, warm pressure of his hand against the small of your back. It isn’t a hard shove, just a gentle, sudden push.

“Steve—!”

Your scream is cut short as your feet lose their grip on the wood. You fall forward, tipping over the edge.

The water is cold. It’s freezing, actually. For a second, the shock of the temperature takes all the air out of your lungs. 

But within three seconds, your body begins to adjust. The initial panic fades, replaced by the cool, refreshing feeling of the lake.

You kick your legs, pushing yourself upward until your head breaks through the surface. You gasp, shaking your head like a dog to get the water out of your hair.

“Steve!” you yell, looking up at the dock with fake anger.

But before you can even finish shouting his name, a second, much larger splash happens right next to you. Steve has jumped in right after you. He sinks beneath the surface, and a moment later, his head pops up just two feet away from yours. His hair is completely soaked now, flat against his face, and he’s laughing so hard he can barely breathe.

“Sorry! I’m sorry!” Steve laughs, wiping water from his eyes. “But if I didn’t do it, you were never going to jump. You would’ve stood up there until the sun went down.”

You glare at him, but you can’t help the small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. 

To punish him, you intentionally sink a little bit, letting your mouth go under, and end up swallowing a small gulp of the lake water. You come back up, coughing and sputtering.

“Is this a bad time to admit that I don’t know how to swim that well?” you say, your voice a little raspy as you rub your eyes, trying to clear your blurry vision.

You’re mostly joking, but Steve doesn’t hesitate. Before you can even realize what’s happening, you feel a strong, warm arm slide through the water and wrap firmly around your waist. He pulls you against him, lifting you up slightly so you can float easier.

The contrast is intense. The water around you is freezing, but Steve’s skin is incredibly hot. Your chest bumps against his, and you can feel the steady, rapid beat of his heart.

“Steve…” you warn him in a low whisper.

Your hands automatically go up, resting against his wet shoulders for balance. You quickly look around, your eyes darting over to Dustin and Lucas, who are now trying to see who can hold their breath the longest, and then over to Robin and Vickie, who are splashing each other near the shore.

Steve just lets out a soft, deep laugh. The sound vibrates right through your own chest. He doesn’t loosen his grip on your waist at all.

“Would you rather drown?” he asks, his voice dropping into a softer, playful tone. His eyes dance with mischief.

“Well…” you say, pretending to think about it deeply.

Steve smiles, but then, just to tease you, his arm relaxes. He lets go of your waist completely, moving back a few inches in the water.

With his support suddenly gone, your body starts to sink again. A gasp of genuine surprise escapes your lips. Without thinking, you reach out and grab his shoulders again, pulling yourself tightly against him so you won’t go under.

Steve burst out laughing, his hands coming back up to rest gently on your hips to keep you steady. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he whispers.

The laughter dies down quickly, leaving a heavy, thick silence between the two of you. 

The noise of the kids shouting and the water splashing seems to fade into the background.

Steve’s eyes drop down, locking onto your lips for a long, quiet moment. He swallows hard, his throat moving, before his gaze travels back up to meet your eyes.

The playful look is entirely gone from his face. Now, his eyes are dark, full of an intense, quiet emotion that makes your stomach do a flip.

“Are you cold?” he asks softly.

You nod your head slightly. You’re shivering, but you honestly don’t know if it is because of the chilly lake water or because of how close his body is to yours. 

Every place where his skin touches yours feels like it’s on fire.

“A little, yeah,” you breathe out.

Steve’s eyes move away from yours for a second. He looks around the quarry, checking the distance between the two of you and the rest of the group. 

Dustin and Lucas are completely distracted, arguing about the rules of their breath-holding game. Nancy and Jonathan are gone now. The rest of the kids are very focused on playing a card game. Everyone is busy.

Steve looks back at you, his thumb gently pressing into the skin of your hip underwater.

“About the other night…” he starts, his voice so quiet it’s almost swallowed by the sound of the wind through the trees.

Your heart skipped a beat. 

“Which part of it?” you ask, your voice just as quiet.

He shakes his head, looking up at the sky for a brief second as if he’s trying to find the right words. When he looks back down at you, his expression is soft, almost vulnerable.

“Everything,” Steve says, his voice thick with emotion. “Everything that happened. I just… I don’t want you to think that I—”

Suddenly, a massive wave of water hits both of you right in the face. The water forces your eyes shut, and the impact almost pushes the two of you under.

You come up coughing, wiping the water from your face. Just a few feet away, Robin and Vickie are swimming together, laughing hysterically. They have been cupping their hands together, throwing huge sheets of water right at your heads.

“Alright! Alright! That’s enough!” Steve yells, though he’s laughing too.

He doesn’t let go of you, keeping one arm wrapped securely around your waist to keep you safe from the waves, while he uses his free hand to splash a huge wave of water back at them.

In the confusion of the sudden water fight, you have automatically hidden your face in the crook of Steve’s neck. Your forehead is pressed against his warm skin, protecting yourself from the spray. You can smell the lake water and the faint, familiar scent of his cologne on his skin.

When the splashing finally stops, and you can hear Robin and Vickie giggling as they swim away, you slowly pull back. 

“Congratulations, dingus,” Robin calls out, her voice loud and clear over the water. “You’re officially baptized as a citizen of Hawkins. You have survived the sacred waters.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but he can’t hide the smile on his face. 

“Now you are blessed to find true love! Keep your eyes open, or you might just miss it!” Robin gives Vickie a playful shove, and the two of them laugh.

Once again, the space around you becomes quiet. 

Your eyes find Steve’s again. 

Up close like this, you can see every little detail of his face. You look at the small, dark moles on his cheek, the tiny freckles on his nose, and the smooth skin of his neck. 

You watch as he licks his lips again, his eyes dark and focused entirely on you.

A nervous, quiet laugh escapes both of your mouths at the same time. The tension between you is so thick you can practically feel it in the air.

“Do you want to get out?” Steve asks.

His voice is incredibly low. He has leaned in just a little bit closer, his warm breath fanning across your wet face. He’s so close that if you just move your head an inch forward, your lips would touch his.

You look past his shoulder for a second. Out in the deep water, Dustin and Lucas are still playing, completely oblivious to the world. Near the shore, Robin and Vickie have already climbed out. They’re standing on the grass, wrapping big towels around their shoulders and talking happily.

Inside your chest, a sudden, powerful heat blossoms. It’s a strong, deep need to just forget about the rest of the world, to forget about everyone, to forget about the rules, and just lean into him. 

You look down at his lips one more time, and then back up into his soft brown eyes.

Every single part of you wants to stay right there in his arms.

But the fear is louder… and wins over your heart. 

With a small, quiet sigh, you simply nod your head.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Let’s go.”

Slowly, reluctantly, you let your arms slide down from his shoulders. You swim backwards, letting the cold water fill the space between your bodies. Steve’s hands linger on your hips for one last, gentle second before he lets go, his arms dropping to his sides.

“Lead the way,” he says softly, giving you a small, encouraging smile.

You turn around and begin to swim toward the shore, the cool water rushing past you. But even as you move away, you can still feel the warmth of his touch on your skin, a burning reminder of the secret shared between you in the middle of the crowded lake.

The walk out of the water feels entirely different than the walk in. Your feet sink into the soft, squishy mud near the shore before you finally step onto the hard, dry grass. The transition from the cool water back into warm spring heat makes your skin tingle.

Robin immediately tosses a large towel your way. You catch it with a laugh, wrapping it tightly around your shoulders and shivering as a light breeze hits your wet skin.

“See? Wasn’t so bad, was it?” Robin asks, leaning against a large cooler with a smug look on her face.

“It was freezing, and you know it,” you reply, rubbing the towel vigorously over your hair to dry the dripping strands.

Steve walks up right behind you, water dripping from his shorts onto the grass. He didn’t bother with a towel right away. He just shakes his head like a wet dog, sending a spray of water droplets in Robin’s direction.

“Hey! Watch it, Harrington!” Robin yells, jumping back and using Vickie as a human shield.

“Oops, sorry.” Steve says, not sounding sorry at all. He wipes  his face with his hands and grabs his own towel from his bag, throwing it over his shoulders.

As the rest of the group starts gathering around the blankets to grab sandwiches and sodas, you find yourself standing a little bit apart from the noise. You look out over the quiet water of the quarry, the surface completely still, reflecting the bright blue of the sky.

A shadow falls over you as Steve steps up to stand by your side. He has put his baseball cap back on, his messy hair tucked away, making him look like the regular, confident Steve again.

But as he reaches down into the cooler to grab two sodas, his fingers brushed against yours, a quick, hidden touch that nobody else noticed.

He hands you a cold can of soda, his eyes locking onto yours with a quiet, secret intensity.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

“Anytime,” he replies, his voice soft. 

He takes a sip of his drink, his eyes scanning the horizon before settling back on you. 

The tension from the water hasn’t disappeared; it has just settled under the surface, waiting for the sun to go down and for the rest of the world to leave you two alone again.

—

"No peeking, guys!" Dustin’s voice echoes through the trees, fading rapidly as he sinks deeper into the heavy, gathering darkness of the forest.

The sun has already dipped completely behind the thick line of trees. In just a few minutes, the entire lakeside will be pitched into total blackness. 

You have suggested earlier that playing hide-and-seek — or rather, sardines — at this hour was a terrible idea. The woods are unpredictable, the terrain is uneven, and it’s getting freezing cold. 

But everyone else has immediately shut down your logic. They justified it by saying it’s a tradition, something they do every single time they come to the lake. 

It’s a rule, they claimed, so you have no choice but to sigh, shrug your shoulders, and accept it.

Now, the entire group stands in a loose circle near the shore, facing the calm, dark water of the lake with their backs to the woods, waiting for Dustin to find a spot. 

The rules of sardines are simple: one person hides, and everyone else looks for them individually. When you find the hider, you have to quietly squeeze into the hiding spot with them. The last person left wandering around the dark woods alone will be the ultimate loser, stuck with whatever embarrassing penalty Dustin thinks up later.

"Ninety-nine… one hundred! You better have found a good spot, Henderson, because we’re coming for you!" Robin yells at the top of her lungs. Without a second thought, she takes off running into the tree line, her sneakers crunching loudly against the dry earth.

"We said no running, bird-brain!" Max shouts, immediately sprinting right after her.

Nancy lets out a long, heavy sigh, rolling her eyes toward the sky. She shakes her head, knowing damn well that absolutely none of her advice or rules will ever be followed by this chaotic group. 

Within seconds, the circle dissolves. The group scatters in every direction, each person setting off on their own path to hunt down Dustin.

You breathe a small sigh gripping the cool plastic handle of your flashlight. As you take your first tentative steps into the thick brush, leaving the open safety of the lakeside behind, the woods seem to close in around you. Everything grows darker, colder, and distinctly more ominous with every meter you travel. 

You quickly realize that going off by yourself in this specific direction might have been a massive mistake.

You decide the smartest move is to simply walk along the edge of the woods, keeping the pale reflection of the lake in your peripheral vision. It’s the safest way to ensure you won’t get completely turned around and lost in the Indiana wilderness. 

But keeping your bearings doesn’t mean your mind is at peace. Far from it.

Every tiny noise — the snap of a small twig, the rustle of leaves in the wind, the distant hoot of an owl — makes your heart leap into your throat. Your chest feels tight, your breathing shallow. 

Honestly, your competitiveness is completely gone, utterly crushed by a growing wave of anxiety. You’re genuinely considering turning around, walking back to the safety of Nancy’s car, locking the doors, and staying there until the game is over. Winning a silly tradition isn’t worth a panic attack.

Suddenly, a distinct, heavy rustling sound right in the bushes next to you makes you freeze completely in your tracks. Your breath hitches. You snap your flashlight around, your trembling hand casting a shaky beam of white light directly at the dark leaves.

"Dustin?" you ask, your voice barely above a terrified whisper.

No response. 

The silence that follows is heavy and suffocating. 

You let out a shaky breath, closing your eyes for a brief second to pray to whatever higher power is listening. You pray it’s a stray raccoon, a rabbit — anything except something that can actually kill you. 

“Are there bears in Indiana?” you think to yourself, your mind racing into overdrive. “God, what a stupid question... but what if there are? What if this is the very first bear anyone has seen around here in decades, and my body is about to be found completely torn to pieces, and—”

Another loud, deliberate snap of a branch right behind you makes you gasp. You nearly drop the flashlight right out of your hand.

"Nope. No, thank you. I’m out," you whisper frantically to yourself.

You spin around on your heels, completely done with the game, the woods, and everyone else. 

You’re entirely convinced that the safety of the cars is the only place you belong. 

But before you can even take a single full step backward, a large, warm figure appears out of the darkness behind you. A strong, calloused hand clamps firmly over your mouth, cutting off your impending scream, while a heavy arm wraps securely around your waist, pulling you back against a broad chest.

Your heart violently hammers against your ribs. Panic flares hot in your veins. You’re just about to start thrashing, kicking your legs, and biting down on the hand covering your face when a deep, familiar voice whispers directly against your ear, his warm breath sending a wild shiver straight down your spine.

"Shh, shh, it’s me. Hey, it’s me. Stop fighting."

The instantly recognizable tone of Steve’s voice washes over you, melting the terror away into a sudden surge of pure adrenaline and irritation. 

The moment his grip relaxes and his hand slides away from your mouth, you whip around to face him. You bring your fist down, smacking him hard right in the center of his chest.

"Are you insane?!" you hiss, keeping your voice low but packing it with all the anger you could muster. "You almost gave me a literal heart attack, Steve! My God, you are such a—"

Steve just laughs, a low, rich sound that vibrated in the quiet night. He rolls his eyes, completely unbothered by your punch. Before you can step away, his large hands slide right back onto your waist, his fingers digging in gently as he pulls your hips flush against his.

"You’re such a drama queen," he teases, a smug, handsome smirk spreading across his face in the dim glow of your dropped flashlight, which is now resting on the forest floor, casting long shadows up his sharp jawline.

You glare at him, placing your hands against his shoulders and pushing him away with just enough force to make a point, though you don’t actually fight to break his grip completely.

"Idiot."

"Dummy," he retorts instantly, his brown eyes dancing with amusement.

His childish insult makes you roll your eyes, annoyance bubbling up inside you. You know you aren’t actually mad at him — the relief of it being Steve instead of a bear or God-knows-what is overwhelming — but you aren’t about to let him win that easily.

"Goodbye," you say flatly, turning your back to him and taking a purposeful step away, pretending you are actually walking out on him.

Steve chuckles, his hand instantly shooting out to catch your wrist. With one smooth, effortless tug, he reels you right back into his space. Your front bumps against his chest again, the heat radiating from his body a stark contrast to the chilly night air.

"Don’t leave me out here all by myself," he murmurs, his tone shifting from playful to something much softer, his eyes dropping to your lips for a split second.

"In case you forgot, Harrington, we’re currently in the middle of a game," you point out, your voice trembling slightly now, though not from fear anymore. "I’m supposed to be looking for Dustin, and I would really like to win this, and—"

You are cut off as Steve’s hands slid down from your waist, his palms tracing the curve of your hips before settling firmly on your ass. He gave the soft flesh a firm, teasing squeeze.

"Steve!" you gasp, your cheeks instantly burning hot. You throw a frantic glance over your shoulder, terrified that the bright beams of someone else’s flashlights cut through the trees at any second.

He just smiles, that devastating, confident smile that always makes your knees weak. He leans down, his face burying into the crook of your neck. 

"What? I'm listening..."

His lips find the soft skin right at the edge of your jawline, pressing a warm, lingering kiss there. 

A quiet gasp escapes your throat. You do everything in your power to stand firm, to hold onto your resolve and remind him of boundaries, but the moment his tongue flicks against your pulse point, your knees go entirely weak. 

You have to grab onto the fabric of his hoodie just to stay upright.

"Steve, seriously," you breathe, your hands gripping his hoodie tightly as he continues to trail hot, biting kisses down the sensitive length of your neck. "The others... they’re going to find us. If Robin sees us like this, I’ll literally never hear the end of it for the rest of my life."

"They won’t find us," Steve murmurs against your skin, his voice deep and raspy, full of a quiet certainty that sends a thrill straight through your core. 

He guides you backward, his sneakers shuffling through the leaves, until your back meets the rough, solid bark of a massive tree, which hides you perfectly from the main path and the open lakeside. 

"You’re trouble," you whisper, but your actions completely contradict your words. Your fingers slide up his neck, tangling into the thick, soft strands of his hair, pulling him closer.

"Am I now…," he whispers back.

Then, he stops talking. Steve tilts your chin up with his thumb, his eyes dark with a sudden, intense hunger that makes your breath catch. 

His lips meet yours in a deep, possessive, and demanding way. His tongue slides into your mouth, tasting you fully, claiming you in the quiet darkness of the woods. You let out a soft whine, completely surrendering to the heat of his mouth, your body melting against his heavy frame.

The danger of it all — the fact that the others are wandering just a few hundred meters away, calling out Dustin’s name — only makes the blood rush faster through your veins. 

Every touch feels heightened, every sound amplified.

Steve groans into the kiss, his hands moving possessively over your body. He slides them up under the hem of your hoodie, his warm, rough palms making direct contact with the bare skin of your waist. 

You shiver at the contrast of his hot hands against your cool skin. 

His thumbs caress your ribs, moving higher until they brush the undersides of your breasts, making you arch into his touch with an eager sigh.

Steve pants, breaking the kiss for a fraction of a second to press his forehead against yours. His breathing is loud and ragged in the quiet space between you. 

"God, I really needed that."

"Yeah?" you whisper, a breathless smile tugging at your lips.

Steve lets out a breathless laugh, kissing you again, hard and quick. 

"Did you think you could just appear around here looking like this?” he kisses you again, biting down on your lip, “and that I was not going to do something about it?” 

His thigh brushes between your legs, and you tug from his hair to convince yourself you still have some type of control over all of this

“I was losing my mind." He whispers against your cheek.

He drops to his knees in front of you, the sudden movement making you gasp. The forest floor is damp and dirty, but Steve doesn’t care at all. His hands slide up your naked thighs, finding your shorts.

"Steve, wait, what are you doing?" you whisper frantically, looking around the dark shadows of the trees.

"Making sure you forget all about that stupid game," he mutters, his hands working efficiently to unbutton and unzip your shorts. He tugs the denim down over your hips, along with your underwear, pushing them down to your knees.

The cool night air hits your bare skin, making you goosebump all over, but the cold is instantly banished when Steve’s warm hands gripped your thighs, spreading them wide against the rough bark of the tree. 

You hold onto the tree trunk behind you for balance, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your chest.

"Steve..." your voice is a whimpering plea as he leans forward, his warm breath fanning across the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.

"Shut up," he commands softly, his voice full of a gentle authority that you couldn’t resist. "Stop thinking.”

He presses his face closer, his lips brushing against the sensitive center of your core. When his tongue makes its first, slow stroke upwards, a loud gasp broke from your lips. You quickly clamp your hand over your own mouth, terrified of how loud the sound was in the quiet forest.

Steve chuckles against your skin, the vibration sending a wicked jolt of pleasure straight to your hips. He begins to lick you in long, deep, deliberate strokes, his tongue finding your sweet spot and working it with an agonizingly perfect rhythm. 

His hands grip your hips tightly, anchoring you to him, preventing you from squirming away as the pleasure begins to build like a storm.

You close your eyes, your head falling back against the tree bark. The sensation is overwhelming. Every flick of his tongue, every deep suckle of his lips is driving you closer and closer to the edge. 

You can hear the distant, faint sound of Robin’s laughter somewhere far off to the left, a stark reminder of where you are, but right now, Steve is your entire world.

Slowly and without a warning he slides two fingers inside you, his knuckles brushing against your sensitive outer skin while his tongue continues to torture your clit. 

You let out a choked moan against your palm, your hips rolling helplessly against his hand, begging for more, begging for him to go faster.

"You’re so wet for me," Steve whispers, pulling his fingers out for a brief second to watch the strings of your arousal glisten in the dim light before taking them to his mouth, licking them.

He plunges them back inside you, deeper this time. He increases the speed of his tongue, his rhythm becoming frantic, desperate to give you what you want.

The tension in your lower stomach becomes tighter and tighter.

Your fingers tug from his hair almost painfully but he moans from pleasure against your core making you understand that he loves it.

Without much warning it finally snaps. A sudden, intense wave of climax washes over you, making your entire body shudder. Your hips tremble violently as the waves of pleasure crash through you and you have to bite down on your own hand to hide your moans.

Steve doesn’t stop; he keeps his tongue pressed firmly against you, drinking in your sweetness, riding out the aftershocks of your orgasm until you are completely breathless and limp against the tree.

He stands up, his breathing just as heavy and wrecked as yours. His eyes are dark, full of a desire that makes your stomach flip in the best way possible. 

He doesn’t waste a single second. 

Quickly, he works on his own shorts, sliding them down with a frantic energy that shows just how close he is to his own limit. His hard, thick length frees into the cool night air. 

He reaches down, hooking his hands under your thighs and lifting you up effortlessly.

"Wrap your legs around my waist," he groans, his muscles straining as he lifts your weight.

You comply instantly, hooking your legs tightly around his lower back, your arms wrapping around his neck to secure yourself. Your bare heat rubs directly against the hard length of his shaft, making both of you let out a simultaneous, ragged breath. 

He positions his hips, the tip of his cock nudging against your soaking wet entrance.

"Steve, please," you whimper into his ear, your fingers digging into his back.

"Hold on to me," he whispers.

With one smooth, powerful thrust, Steve buries himself deep inside you.

A loud moan escapes your throat, buried directly into the column of his neck. The feeling of him completely filling you up, hot and solid, is almost too much to bear. 

Steve let out a low, guttural growl, his eyes closing as he stands perfectly still for a moment, letting both of your bodies adjust to the sudden, overwhelming fullness.

"God, you’re so tight," he chokes out, his grip on your thighs tightening until it almost hurts, but it’s a good kind of pain. "You’re perfect."

He begins to move, pulling back slowly before plunging deep inside you again. 

The rhythm is primal, urgent. 

Because he’s holding your entire weight, every single thrust is deep, bottoming out against your cervix and sending sparks of electricity straight to your brain. 

You rock your hips against his, meeting his thrusts with an equal amount of desperation.

The sounds of your bodies colliding — the wet, slapping friction of skin against skin — sounds incredibly loud to your worried ears. Every time Steve thrusts into you, a soft, breathless gasp escapes your lips.

"Steve... we’re being... too loud," you pant, your vision blurring with pleasure as he continues to hammer into you ruthlessly.

"Keep quiet then," he groans, his lips finding yours again to shut your words. He kisses you with a feral intensity, his tongue mirroring the frantic movement of his hips.

He shifts his grip slightly, pressing you harder against the trunk of the tree. The rough bark scraps against the fabric of your hoodie, but you can’t care less about the discomfort. All you can focus on is the heat radiating from where your bodies are joined. 

Steve is relentless. He finds an angle that hits your sweet spot with every single push, and your mind completely empties of any thoughts of Dustin, the game, or the others.

"Fuck, oh my god, Steve," you cry out softly, your head resting back against the tree. 

The pleasure is building again, faster and harder than the first time, a tidal wave that you have no hope of stopping.

"Come for me," Steve commands, his voice a low, gravelly whisper against your ear. His chest is heaving, his heart hammering wildly against yours. "Let me feel it. Come on, baby."

His sweet words push you completely over the edge. Your internal muscles clamp down tightly around his length as another shattering orgasm rips through you. 

You cry out, your body shaking violently in his arms.

Hearing your cries and feeling the tight, pulsing contractions of your release is the final straw for him. He lets out a loud, deep groan, burying his face in your neck as he delivers three more deep, frantic thrusts. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna—” he slides his hand in between your bodies trying to reach for his cock and pull it out, but you grab his jaw, making him look at you. 

“Come inside,” you whisper on his lips

His puppy eyes focus on your face with surprise.

“Wh-what?”  

“Fuck, just do it, Steve, please.”

With a final, powerful push, he locks his hips against yours and comes, pouring his thick hot seed deep inside you. He groans, burning his head on your neck and closing his eyes.

He holds you tightly against him, his fingers sinking on your skin, his entire body trembling as he rides out his release, filling you completely.

For a long, quiet minute, neither of you move. The only sound in the small clearing is the ragged, synchronized sound of your breathing. 

Steve keeps his forehead resting against your neck, his chest rising and falling heavily against yours. 

Slowly, the adrenaline begins to fade, and the cool night air washes over your sweaty skin once more.

Steve slowly slides out of you with a soft, wet sound that makes you blush in the dark. He gently lowers your feet back to the ground, though he keeps his hands securely on your waist until he is sure your shaky legs can support your weight.

"You okay?" he asks softly, his eyes full of a gentle concern as he looks down at you. He reaches up, gently brushing a stray strand of hair away from your face.

"Yeah," you breathe, a tired, happy smile spreading across your face. "Yeah, I’m more than okay. But we really need to go back, I think."

"Right, right," Steve mutters, suddenly remembering where you both are.

He quickly pulls up his shorts. You do the same, pulling your underwear and shorts back up, buttoning them with slightly trembling fingers. 

You smooth down your hoodie, trying your best to look like you hadn’t just been thoroughly rearranged against a tree.

Just as you finish adjusting your clothes, the distant sound of voices breaks through the quiet of the woods, much closer this time.

"I’m telling you, Nancy, I heard something this way!" Robin’s voice echoes through the trees.

"It’s probably just a raccoon, Robin. Or Dustin trying to throw us off," Nancy’s voice replies, sounding exhausted and exasperated.

Your eyes widen in sudden panic. You look at Steve, who just grins, a mischievous glint in his eye. He bends down, picks up your discarded flashlight from the ground, and clicks it back on, aiming the beam at the floor so it won’t blind anyone.

But Robin’s flashlight blinds you before you can look away… or escape.

“Dingus! Fuck, you scared me!” she rests her hand on her chest, and suddenly moves the flashlight over your shoulder “Steve?” She frowns.

“We ran into each other a second ago,” you quickly talk, before he can say anything, “but we were about to go in different directions now.” You look back over you shoulder, looking directly at him.

He nods, understanding.

“Right. I’m looking over there.” He clears his throat, and smiling at Nancy and Robin disappears through the trees.

You turn to the girls, breathing in relief, but the look on Robin’s face makes you tense all over again.

“So, you got to visit the Lover’s Tree.” She says, you can swear she raises her eyebrows for a second.

You blink.

“The… what?” you ask, genuinely confused now.

Robin points at the tree, where your back had been against just minutes ago.

“The Lover’s Tree. Stupid name, I know. But that’s what people started to call it after everyone came here to… do stuff, you know.” She looks at you, she bites the inside of her cheek for a second, like measuring her words. “At least that’s what Steve made it popular for, anyways.”

You feel the heat building from your neck to your cheeks and you thank the Lord is almost completely dark now.

“Oh… so he…” 

Robin shrugs her shoulders, like shoving away its importance.

“Yeah, at least it was his favourite place back in highschool.” She smiles, pushing your shoulder. “Come on, let’s go back before he appears with some chick to fuck around.” 

She starts to walk back to the main path, and before you follow her, you lock eyes with Nancy. She gives you a knowing look, which you dismiss by looking away, clearing your throat and walking next pass her.

But the look in her eyes follows you for the rest of the night. 

And it’ll be hard to erase.

—

The drive to Robin’s house is loud, which is a blessing.

You sit in the back seat, staring out the window at the dark Indiana roads rolling past. You nod and give short, polite answers at the conversation around you, but your mind is miles away. 

Actually, your mind is still back in those woods.

Every time the car hits a bump in the road, you feel the faint, dull ache between your thighs. It isn’t a bad feeling at all; it’s a deeply satisfying, heavy warmth that keeps pulling your thoughts back to the image of Steve. 

You can still smell him on your skin. You find yourself subconsciously rubbing your own wrist, right where his fingers gripped you so tightly when he pulled you into the shadows.

When you finally arrive at Robin’s house, the environment changes. The house is quiet, her parents already asleep upstairs, so the two of you creep up the stairs, trying to be as quiet as possible, your footsteps creaking softly against the old wood.

As you stand in the small, cluttered bathroom brushing your teeth, you look at yourself in the mirror. Your lips are a little swollen, flushed a deep pink from how hard and long Steve kissed you. There’s a new, faint, light red mark right on the side of your neck, hidden just beneath the collar of the shirt. You quickly pull the fabric up to cover it and the others from a few nights before, a sudden wave of guilt and anxiety washing over you.

When you walk into the guest room, Robin is sitting on the bed, playing with a hairband on her wrist. The room is cozy, lit only by a small, dim desk lamp that casts long, soft shadows across the walls. You move to her side, sliding beneath the heavy blankets.

Robin looks at you, her expression turning unusually quiet. The frantic, energetic energy she carried all night seemed to fade away, replaced by something much more grounded.

"Hey," Robin says softly, her voice cutting through the quiet room. "You were really quiet on the drive back. Are you okay? Steve didn’t do anything to annoy you at the lake, did he?"

Your heart skips a beat. 

You force yourself to keep your expression completely neutral, swallowing hard. 

"No. No, he was fine. Just being his usual self, you know? I think the woods just freaked me out a little bit. It was really dark."

You can tell she bites her lips to hold herself to say something, but she just nods and stands up.

"Okay," she says, offering a small, weak smile. She walks to the door, turning around to see you. “Tomorrow town tour, yeah?”

You smile back and nod.

“Yeah.”

"Goodnight, dingus."

"Goodnight," you whisper back, before she closes the door.

But sleep doesn’t come.

Hours pass, and the house becomes completely silent, save for the steady, rhythmic ticking of a clock down the hallway.

You lay flat on your back, staring wide awake at the dark ceiling. The moonlight filters through the cracks in the window blinds, painting long, pale lines of silver across the white plaster above you.

No matter how hard you try to close your eyes, your brain refuses to shut off. Your thoughts are a chaotic, swirling mess, and every single one of them revolves around him.

Your body feels hyper-aware of itself. 

As you lay there beneath the blankets, your skin still feels like it’s on fire. 

If you close your eyes, you can vividly recreate the feeling of his hands. You can feel the ghost of his large, warm palms sliding up underneath your clothes, the rough texture of his calloused fingers dragging slowly against your waist. 

It feels so intense, so real, that you almost expect to open your eyes and see his hands still there, anchoring you to him.

You remember the way he looked at you right before he pushed you against that tree. 

There was no hesitation in him, no doubt. He looked at you like you were the only thing in the entire world that mattered to him, like he was completely starving for you. 

And the way he held you — lifting your entire weight effortlessly, his strong arms wrapping around your thighs, keeping you safe and secure even while he was completely losing control inside you — it makes your chest tighten with a strange, heavy emotion.

It’s an addictive feeling. You have never felt so completely consumed by someone before. 

You roll over onto your side, pulling the blanket up tighter around your chin, letting out a soft, shaky sigh into the quiet room. 

You want him. 

Even now, after what you have just done hours ago, a part of you wants nothing more than to slip out of Robin’s house, walk down the streets to his empty house, and crawl into his bed just to feel his chest rising and falling against your back.

But then, the warmth in your stomach begins to cool, replaced by a sharp, familiar knot of anxiety.

You shift uncomfortably, staring at the dark shadows across the room.

There’s a terrifying truth in this all. 

As much as you feel a deep, undeniable connection to Steve when you are wrapped in his arms, the moment you step back into the real world, you realize how little you actually know about his life.

Lying there in the dark bedroom, the memory of that alleyway makes your heart beat a little faster, a cold contrast to the physical warmth he has given you earlier.

"God, I’m so stupid," you whisper to yourself, turning over again to bury your face in the pillow.

The confusion is tearing you apart. You don’t know how you feel about him, or rather, you don’t know what you should feel. 

A sensible, logical person would listen to Robin’s warnings. A smart person would look at the secrets and the mysterious behavior, and run in the opposite direction before getting dragged into whatever dangerous mess Steve is hiding.

But as you close your eyes, the memory of his voice whispers in your ear again. 

You remember the absolute safety you felt the moment you realized it was him holding you in the woods. You remember the desperate, breathless way he groaned your name against your skin as he came inside you, like you were his only anchor to reality.

You don’t know if what you feel for him was… interest; or if it was just a dangerous, overwhelming infatuation. You don’t know if he’s going to break your heart, or if he’s going to drag you into a world you aren’t prepared for. 

But as you finally feel the heavy pull of sleep beginning to take over your exhausted mind, you realize one thing with terrifying clarity.

It doesn’t matter what his secrets are. It doesn’t matter what he’s hiding in the dark. 

You’re already too deep. 

With every touch, every kiss, and every secret glance, you’re getting more and more lost in him — and you have absolutely no desire to be found.

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love will tear us apart

steve harrington x reader fanfiction | strangers to lovers | college! reader | damaged! (but soft) steve | 90s | upside down events didn’t happen | slow burn | angst | eventual smut | some fluff | secrets | emotional baggage | trauma | tension | mutual pining

c/w: not much. some nausea mention. a little bit of angst. tension. words: 12.7k summary: steve harrington arrives in the city carrying too many secrets for someone supposedly looking for a new beggining. between your friends' warnings, the pressure of your final semester and the ghosts you can barely outrun yourself, getting involved with him should be easy to avoid. turns out, it isn't. a/n: hi everyone !! im back with a new chapter. this one doesn't reveal a ton of new information, but it will probably leave your head spinning just as much as the others. these two never give us a break. consider this chapter the calm before the storm. thank u all so much for the lovely messages and support. hope you enjoy it !!

chapter seven: wicked game

The first thing that pulls you back from the heavy, suffocating depths of sleep is the sound of Robin’s laughter echoing through the thin walls of the apartment. It cuts through the quiet morning air, followed closely by the rich, comforting aroma of freshly roasted coffee beans.

Ordinarily, it would be a perfect way to wake up. 

Today, however, it feels like an assault.

A low, guttural groan escapes your lips before you can stop it. You try to bury your face deeper into the pillow, but the movement sends a violent, throbbing spike of pain straight through your temples. Your head feels impossibly heavy, as if it had been systematically crushed under the tires of a truck, leaving a rhythmic, pounding agony directly behind your eyes. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, pressing your eyelids together so tightly that bursts of frantic, multicolored static dance across your vision.

You lie there, perfectly still, breathing in shallow gasps, praying for the nausea to subside.

And then, it hits you

Piece by piece, fragments of the previous night begin to flood your fragile consciousness, tearing through the haze of your hangover. The flashing, chaotic strobe lights of the party. The heat of a hundred bodies packed in the room. The sharp, burning taste of cheap alcohol burning the back of your throat.

Then, the memories become more specific. 

You remember Dylan. You remember his hand resting entirely too low on your waist as he shouted over the deafening bass of the speakers, his breath smelling of stale beer and mint gum. You remember the polite, strained smile you kept plastered on your face because you didn’t want to cause a scene, but lowkey freaking out by his sudden return to the city.

And then… you remember Steve.

Suddenly, the fragmented puzzle pieces of the night snap together with terrifying, electrifying clarity. It’s as if your soul is violently shoved back into your physical body. The tension that had been simmering between you and Steve for months — the lingering touches, the prolonged stares, the unspoken, terrifying pull — had finally boiled over. 

 The desperate need to go back to your apartment. The way he pushed your door opened when you tried to close it on his face. The argument about what you saw in the hallway. And then…

Oh, god.

Pure, unadulterated panic shoots through your veins, instantly clearing the fog of the hangover. Your eyes snap open. 

Robin is in the house. 

Robin is out there, making coffee, completely unaware that her best friend is in your bed.

You spin around wildly, the adrenaline kicking your heart rate up to a frantic rhythm. You reach out, your mouth already forming the panicked words — Steve, you have to go, Robin’s awake, she’s right outside, get up — but the words die instantly in your throat.

Your arm sweeps across the mattress, expecting to hit the solid, warm expanse of his chest. Instead, your fingers graze nothing but the flat, wrinkled surface of the fitted sheet.

The other side of the bed is completely empty.

You freeze, your hand hovering over the mattress. You press your palm flat against the fabric. It’s ice-cold. There is no lingering body heat. It’s as if he was never there at all.

Moving with agonizing slowness, you push yourself up into a sitting position, your shaking hands instinctively grabbing the edge of the blanket and pulling it tightly against your naked chest. Your wide, bloodshot eyes scan the chaotic mess of your bedroom, desperately looking for a sign, an anchor to reality.

Nothing.

His clothes are gone. 

You lean over the side of the bed, peering into the small wire trash can next to your nightstand. 

Empty. 

The foil wrapper and the condom that you explicitly remember him throwing away in the heat of the moment are simply not there.

If it weren’t for the unmistakable, lingering trail of his expensive cologne hanging heavy in the stagnant air of the room you would absolutely swear to yourself that you were having a stress-induced, alcohol-fueled hallucination.

But you know you aren’t. You couldn’t be.

Even amidst the overwhelming adrenaline, the blur of the alcohol, and the chaotic storm of conflicting, terrifying feelings that had consumed you, nothing could ever make you forget the visceral reality of what happened last night. 

You remember the desperate, bruising pressure of his mouth. You remember the exact texture of his hair tangled in your fingers, the sound of his breathing, the way he had whispered your name against the skin of your neck like it was a prayer he had finally been allowed to say out loud. 

Every single detail is permanently seared into your brain. 

He was here. 

He was yours, for a few stolen hours.

And then, he vanished like a coward.

A heavy, suffocating knot of betrayal and embarrassment forms in the pit of your stomach. You force yourself to move, swallowing past the lump in your throat. You carefully gather your clothes from the floor, clutching them against your chest. You crack your bedroom door open, wincing as the hinges squeak slightly, and peer into the hallway. The coast is clear. The laughter is coming from the kitchen.

You slip out of your room, moving with the practiced silence of a ghost, crossing the short hallway as rapidly as you can until you reach the safety of the bathroom at the far end. You slip inside, lock the door, and let out a long, shaky breath.

You turn on the shower, letting the water run until steam begins to fog the small mirror above the sink. You step under the spray, turning the dial until the water is scalding hot, almost painfully so. The heavy droplets cascade over your shoulders and stream down your back.

You close your eyes, leaning your forehead against the cold, damp tile of the shower wall, and wish, with a desperate, pathetic intensity, that the water could wash it all away.

You want to wash away the smell of him. You want to wash away the memory of his hands. You want to erase the intoxicating high of the good parts, and the sickening, hollow low of waking up alone. 

You want to scrub away the complicated, messy reality of whatever you had just done, because you know, deep down, that you have just ruined everything. 

You broke the unspoken rule. You crossed the line, and the realization that he bolted before sunrise tells you exactly how he feels about it.

And while there’s a part of you that wants to wash away what you saw in that alleyway, there’s this voice inside your head telling you that you need to keep that image of him printed in your memory, almost as if to protect yourself… from God-knows-what.

After what feels like an eternity, but is likely only ten minutes, you turn off the water. You step out, wrapping a worn, fluffy towel securely around your body, and wipe a small circle in the condensation covering the mirror to look at yourself.

You let out a harsh, bitter breath, the curse slipping past your lips in a quiet whisper. "Shit..."

Your trembling fingers slowly rise, gently tracing the line of your neck and collarbone. There, blooming vividly against the pale canvas of your skin, is a cluster of freshly done bruises. The marks from his lips. They look angry and undeniable.

You stare at them, your reflection staring back with a mixture of regret and quiet awe. You knew this was going to happen. Even in the dim, chaotic darkness of the living room last night, blinded by desire and adrenaline, you were acutely aware of what his mouth was doing to your skin. You knew he was leaving a mark, and in the heat of the moment, you didn’t care. You hadn’t thought about the consequences. You hadn’t thought about the morning.

Now, staring at the physical proof of your indiscretion, reality sets in. You are going to have to spend the entire week constantly adjusting your collars and hiding your skin so Robin doesn’t ask questions you can’t possibly answer.

Yet, as your fingertips lightly brush over the tender skin, a traitorous thrill shoots down your spine. Despite the mess, despite the undeniable sting of waking up to an empty bed, there is something profoundly beautiful about it. 

It feels as though he had deliberately used you as his personal canvas, meticulously leaving his art behind to ensure that, even in his absence, you would feel him. He had branded you.

You force yourself to look away from the mirror. You quickly dry off and pull on the clothes you brought in: a simple, unassuming long-sleeved gray shirt that perfectly covers the evidence, and a pair of faded denim jeans. 

You don’t bother drying your hair, simply letting the wet strands fall heavily around your shoulders.

You take one last, steadying breath. You unlock the bathroom door and step out into the hallway, mentally preparing yourself for the absolute worst, ready to face whatever domestic reality is waiting for you in the kitchen.

You walk softly toward the living area, the sound of their voices growing louder with every step. When you turn the corner into the kitchen, the scene before you is so painfully, heartbreakingly normal that it makes your stomach churn.

Robin and Steve are sitting casually on the edge of the kitchen counter, their legs dangling, a steaming mug of coffee gripped in each of their hands. The morning sunlight is streaming through the small kitchen window, catching the golden highlights in Steve’s perfectly tousled hair. He’s leaning back on one hand, laughing a deep, rich laugh while Robin wildly gesticulates with her free hand, animatedly recounting something from the night before.

They look like normal best friends. They look like nothing in the world is wrong.

You stand on the threshold for a brief moment, observing the man who had been tangled in your sheets just hours ago. He looks entirely unbothered. His t-shirt is perfectly crisp, his posture relaxed. It makes you want to scream.

"Good morning..." you finally say, your voice coming out softer than you intended, carrying a slight edge of feigned embarrassment, as if you are the one awkwardly interrupting their private moment.

Robin’s head snaps toward you, her face instantly lighting up with a massive grin. 

"Ah! Good morning! If it isn’t Sleeping Beauty herself! Or, wait, should I say Cinderella?" She points an accusing, but entirely playful, finger at you. "Since when do you just vanish and leave the party without saying a single word to anyone? I spent almost an hour looking for you!"

You force the corners of your mouth to pull up into a convincing smile, leaning casually against the doorframe to hide the slight trembling in your knees. 

"Sorry, Robs. I honestly was just completely exhausted from exams week. The alcohol hit me way harder than I expected, and I just needed my bed."

As you speak, your eyes inevitably drift from Robin to lock onto Steve. 

"Hi," you say to him. It’s a single syllable, spoken softly, but it carries the heavy, unspoken weight of the entire night. It’s a question, a plea, and a challenge all rolled into one. Look at me. Acknowledge what we did.

Steve finally looks up. 

His dark eyes meet yours for a fraction of a second. His expression is completely unreadable, heavily guarded. Then, the corners of his mouth twitch up into a polite, sickeningly gentle smile — the kind of smile you give an acquaintance you pass in the grocery store. He raises his coffee mug slightly in silent greeting, takes a slow sip, and deliberately looks away, shifting his gaze out the window.

The casual, dismissive nature of the gesture feels like a physical blow to your chest. The nausea returns, violently churning your stomach. You don't know exactly why it hurts so much — whether it’s the fact that he fled, or the fact that he can sit here in your kitchen, drinking your coffee, and pretend that nothing happened.

"Well," Robin sighs, oblivious to the suffocating tension thick enough to cut with a knife, "I didn’t see you for the entire second half of the night. And Steve didn’t see you either, right?"

Robin turns to look at him, seeking confirmation. Steve doesn’t speak. He just slowly shakes his head “no,” keeping his eyes meticulously focused on his mug.

That tiny, silent gesture is all it takes. It’s the final nail in the coffin. 

That single shake of his head tells you exactly how today is going to go. 

It tells you how tomorrow will go. 

It dictates the dynamic for the weeks that follow. 

He’s going to bury this. He’s going to deny it, repress it, and pretend that the frantic, breathless hours in your bedroom never existed. You don't know how to process that. You don’t want to think about the agonizing reality of reverting back to purely platonic friends after knowing the taste of his skin.

"Anyway," Robin continues, completely unfazed by Steve’s silence, a mischievous, teasing glint suddenly appearing in her eyes. "A little birdie told me that before you mysteriously vanished, you were seen getting awfully close with Dylan..."

Robin sings the words playfully, wiggling her eyebrows at you. You keep your face entirely impassive, refusing to look at Robin. Instead, you keep your gaze firmly locked on Steve.

The change is instantaneous. The relaxed posture vanishes. His broad shoulders instantly stiffen. The muscles in his forearms jump, and a deep, dark frown immediately etches itself across his forehead, his brows pulling together in a sharp V.

"Who is Dylan?" Steve asks. His tone is perfectly casual, desperately trying to sound bored and distracted, but you can hear the forced, tight control beneath the words.

"Oh, Dylan is..." Robin starts eagerly, more than happy to supply the gossip.

But you refuse to let her finish. The sheer audacity of Steve sitting there, playing dumb, pretending nothing happened sparks a sudden, fiery flare of anger in your chest.

"And where did you sleep last night?" you cut in sharply, your voice ringing out loud and clear, severing Robin’s sentence in half.

You look directly at Steve. You don’t blink. Your eyes are dark, challenging, and filled with a dangerous, reckless energy. 

Go ahead, your eyes dare him. Lie to her.

The kitchen falls dead silent. Robin looks back and forth between the two of you, blinking in mild confusion at the sudden, sharp shift in the atmosphere.

Steve’s gaze locks onto yours. You can see the panic flash briefly behind his eyes. You watch as his jaw clenches so tightly that a muscle ticks violently in his cheek. He holds your gaze for one, agonizingly long second, communicating a silent plea. Don’t do this.

Then, he hides. He lifts the ceramic mug to his mouth, taking a slow, agonizingly deliberate sip of his coffee to buy himself time, masking his expression behind the rim.

When he lowers the cup, his face is a mask of cool indifference. 

"At my apartment," he says, his voice incredibly steady, incredibly smooth. "The party was getting pretty dead, so I headed back and crashed early too."

The lie hangs in the air, heavy and toxic.

The nausea that had been simmering in your stomach suddenly violently boils over. It twists your insides into painful knots, making you feel physically ill. You don’t know if it’s the lingering effects of the cheap alcohol, the exhaustion, or the soul-crushing disappointment of listening to him lie so effortlessly to Robin’s face — and by extension, to yours.

It takes every single ounce of self-control you possess not to roll your eyes dramatically. It takes a monumental effort to suppress the burning, destructive urge to just scream the truth right then and there. You want to point to the hallway, point to your bedroom, and declare exactly where he had been at 3:00 AM. You want to shatter the perfect, pristine illusion he’s trying so desperately to maintain.

But you don’t. 

Why would you?

You know you have to lie. You know there’s no way Robin can find out what happened between you two. And you aren’t even sure you want her to know anyway.

The problem is, you can’t tell whether the anger simmering beneath your skin comes from his refusal to accept the reality of what happened the night before, or if it’s your mind’s way of protecting itself from the horrifying images of that dark alley that won't stop invading your thoughts.

You’re afraid you won’t be able to see any version of Steve other than that one.

You bite the inside of your cheek so hard you almost taste blood. You let out a long, heavy sigh through your nose.

You push off the doorframe and walk right past him. You move into the kitchen space, stepping so close to him that you can feel the warmth radiating off his body, but you don’t look at him. You reach for the coffee maker, grabbing a spare mug from the drying rack, and begin to pour the dark liquid, focusing entirely on the task to keep your hands from shaking.

The silence stretches, tense and uncomfortable. Steve shifts his weight on the counter, clearly agitated by your proximity and your silence.

"So, who is Dylan?" Steve asks again.

This time, the question isn’t directed at Robin. He’s looking at the side of your head, his voice lower, harder, insisting on an answer. He’s pushing. He’s trying to regain control of the narrative, trying to redirect the uncomfortable spotlight off of his own actions and back onto your supposed indiscretions.

You set the glass down with a sharp clack against the counter. You don’t turn around.

"No one," you cut him off instantly, your voice utterly dry, devoid of any warmth or emotion. "You don't care."

The finality in your tone leaves no room for argument. It shuts him down completely. Steve opens his mouth to speak, a defensive retort already forming on his lips, but before he can utter a single syllable, a series of rapid, cheerful knocks echo from the front door.

"That’s Vickie!"

Robin shrieks with sudden delight, completely oblivious to the radioactive fallout happening in her own kitchen. She hops down from the counter with an energetic bounce, her face beaming with joy. She practically sprints out of the kitchen, her footsteps thudding rapidly toward the front door to greet her girlfriend.

As soon as Robin disappears around the corner, the remaining air in the kitchen evaporates. You are left completely alone with him, and the polite facade drops. 

Steve shifts off the counter, landing softly on his feet. He takes a half-step toward you, closing the already minimal distance between you. He leans in, lowering his head so his face is only inches from yours.

"And what if I do care?" he says.

His voice is no longer casual. It is a soft, raspy whisper, practically vibrating with a raw, terrifying intensity. The tone sends a sudden, involuntary shiver shooting straight down your spine. He turns his body fully toward you, cornering you against the counter, his eyes searching your face desperately, trying to find a crack in your armor. He wants you to give him something. He wants you to validate him, even after he was the one to leave you alone by morning.

You slowly turn your head to face him. You look into his dark, conflicted eyes, remembering the way they looked when he was looking down at you in the dark. But the vulnerability is gone. Now, all you feel is the cold, hard sting of his rejection.

"Well," you say, your voice dripping with sharp, biting ice, slicing through the tension like a razor blade. "It certainly doesn't seem like it."

You don’t give him a chance to respond. You don’t give him a chance to explain, to apologize, or to spin another web of lies. You simply turn on your heel and walk away.

As you step past him, you deliberately don’t adjust your path. You let your shoulder collide hard against his arm, physically bumping him out of your way. The impact is solid, a physical manifestation of your anger, of your hurt, your confusion. 

Steve stumbles slightly, his breath catching in surprise, but you don’t look back.

You march straight down the hallway, your coffee abandoned on the counter. You walk into your bedroom, the faint smell of his cologne still haunting the air, and you slam the heavy wooden door shut behind you, the loud, definitive crack echoing through the apartment, leaving him alone in the kitchen with nothing but the silence of his own choices.

You know why he did it. You know that there’s no other option than to pretend nothing happened, at least in front of everyone.

But deep down inside, even in the smallest place of your heart, you were hoping he was going to choose to fight for you this time.

Seems like you were wrong. Again.

—

The morning air is thick, clinging to your skin with the promise of an unforgiving, humid day. Your bag hits the asphalt with a dull thud, coming to rest beside an already formidable mountain of luggage. A few feet away, Steve is engaged in a silent, intense battle of spatial geometry, wrestling with the gaping trunk of his car.

Thank God Vickie had decided to head out on her own yesterday afternoon. Her early departure is the only saving grace of this logistical nightmare, leaving exactly one extra sliver of breathing room in the vehicle. Even with her gone, and even with the surprisingly generous dimensions of Steve’s trunk, the car is packed to the absolute brim. It’s bursting at the seams with the accumulated debris of five people preparing to spend a week away from their apartments, venturing back home, for some of them.

The energy radiating from the rest of the group is palpable. It’s an infectious, buzzing excitement that you would normally find endearing, but right now, it’s grating against your frayed nerves. Robin is practically vibrating out of her sneakers. She hasn't stopped talking since she got up, her words tumbling out without much sense. 

She’s currently in the middle of enumerating, in exhaustive detail, every single item on her Hawkins itinerary. She’s listing the diners she wants to revisit, the hidden trails in the woods she wants to show you, and a seemingly endless roster of eccentric townspeople she insists you absolutely have to meet. She waves her hands as she speaks, painting grand pictures in the air, completely consumed by the nostalgia of going home.

Beside her, Jonathan is equally animated, though in a much more subdued, nerdy capacity. He’s adjusting the strap of his camera, firing off random, highly specific trivia about the absolute best geographical coordinates in Hawkins for golden-hour photography. He’s treating this trip back to their hometown not as a break, but as an expedition. He’s determined to conscript every single one of you into acting as lighting assistants and subjects for his new, highly ambitious portfolio project.

And then there’s Nancy, whose posture is usually rigid with an underlying current of perpetual anxiety, now looks incredibly relaxed. You know her well enough to understand that the concept of "going back to Hawkins" usually triggers a complicated cocktail of emotions for her; but today, the relief is winning. The tight set of her shoulders has dissolved. She’s smiling softly at Jonathan’s rambling, her eyes bright.

It makes sense, really. Being in your own home, surrounded by the ghosts of your childhood and the comfort of the familiar, is supposed to be a grounding experience. Being with your people, your family, your roots — it’s inherently pleasant. 

You know this feeling intimately; it’s exactly the same sensation that washes over you whenever you take the long bus ride back to your own sleepy hometown. The world quiets down. You can breathe easier. 

That is what anyone in their right mind would think. That is the universal expectation of returning to the nest.

But as you pull your gaze away from the chattering trio and fix it on Steve, it becomes abundantly clear that he’s not sharing in this collective, warm-and-fuzzy sentiment. In fact, he looks like a man preparing for a tactical retreat.

Since the moment you mumbled a strained "good morning" to him upon arriving at the parking lot — a greeting he barely acknowledged with a cold nod — he has done absolutely nothing but remain in a heavy, impenetrable silence. He has transformed into a machine, methodically organizing, reorganizing, and shifting the bags and the cooler full of lukewarm sodas.

When Robin excitedly shoves a bag of cassette tapes into his face, asking if they’ll fit in the front seat, he merely gives a curt, tight-lipped nod. When Nancy gently taps his shoulder to remind him not to forget the small box of snacks sitting on the curb, he simply grunts an affirmative sound, grabbing the box without making eye contact. The rest of the group seems to flow around him with complete and utter normalcy, treating his silent, borderline-sullen behavior as if it were an everyday occurrence. They act as if this is just Steve being Steve, focused on the drive.

But you know better. You know this isn't his baseline. You know the exact cadence of his genuine smiles and the specific tilt of his head when he’s actually relaxed.

As you watch the muscles in his back tense beneath his shirt, the memory of the conversations crashes into your mind — when he had spoken, his voice low and raspy, about how incredibly complicated his relationship with his family really was. He had described the sprawling, empty Harrington house, explaining how the echoing hallways and the pristine, untouched furniture could sometimes feel less like a sanctuary and more like a carefully curated hell.

Looking at him now, his jaw set so tightly you can see the bone pressing against his skin, you realize that for Steve, returning to Hawkins is not a warm embrace. It’s not a nostalgic trip down memory lane. It's bracing for impact. 

You can't stop the barrage of questions echoing in your mind: Why is it so bad right now? Did something happen with his parents recently? Does he not want to see someone specifically? You desperately want to know the "why" behind the dark cloud hovering over him.

And you would ask him. You would march right up to the trunk, put your hand on his arm, and demand to know what was eating at him.

You would do it, if it weren't for the fact that the two of you have been engaged in a suffocating, deeply frustrating game of silent treatment. It’s an invisible war of who-brakes-first, and you’ve both been playing the ice-cold avoidance game since yesterday morning. 

It feels as though the air between you has physically crystallized, making it impossible to step closer without shattering something. 

You are angry, you are hurt, and above all, you are fiercely stubborn. You have absolutely no intention of being the one to break first. You will not cede the high ground.

Yet, despite your internal declarations of war, your body betrays your stubbornness through sheer force of habit. When Steve finally slams the trunk shut — the metallic clunk echoing loudly, signaling that it’s time to hit the road — you don't even hesitate. Without a single conscious thought, your feet carry you toward the passenger side of the car almost like a reflex.

Your fingers wrap around the cool metal of the door handle, ready to pull it open and settle into the leather seat.

Then, his voice cuts through the muggy air, shattering your trance.

"Robin, you riding up front with me?"

The words are casual, thrown over his shoulder, but they hit you like a physical blow to the chest. Your hand freezes on the handle. A sudden, burning heat rushes up your neck and floods your cheeks. Your face feels like it’s on fire. Is it humiliation? Is it raw, unadulterated anger? Is it the crushing weight of rejection? You can't untangle the knot of emotions tightening in your throat. You just know that you feel entirely, painfully exposed.

You slowly pull your hand back as if the metal has burned you. Your eyes dart up, instantly colliding with Robin’s. She’s completely, blissfully oblivious to the heavy, electric tension snapping back and forth between you and Steve. She just flashes you a wide, bright smile, her blue eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Oh, sweet! DJ privileges!" Robin cheers, already practically skipping over to the passenger side.

You swallow the bitter taste in your mouth. You step back. You let her pass. You watch as she claims the seat that, until thirty seconds ago, you had considered yours, although you’re not entirely sure why.

You force yourself to take a deep, steadying breath. Inhale. The smell of exhaust fumes and incoming spring. Exhale.

You pivot on your heel, keeping your face a carefully constructed mask of indifference, and slide into the cramped back seat, wedging yourself into the corner alongside Nancy and Jonathan.

By the time the six hour of the drive rolls around, the vibrant energy of the morning has thoroughly transformed into an irritable lethargy. The novelty of the road trip has worn off, leaving behind only the harsh reality of being trapped in a moving metal box.

You all have officially run out of music to listen to; Robin’s curated mixtapes have been flipped, replayed, and ultimately ejected in favor of the static-laced hum of local radio stations fading in and out of signal. 

They have run out of nostalgic stories to tell, the well of high school memories running dry around hour two. 

They have run out of stupid road trip games to play, the alphabet game having ended in a bitter dispute over whether "supercalifragilisticexpialidocious" counted as a word.

The car has descended into a heavy, oppressive silence. Robin, whose energy had seemed utterly boundless that morning, abruptly ran out of battery. She passed out two hours ago, her head lolled back against the headrest, her mouth slightly open, sleeping as deeply as if someone had simply flipped a switch on her back. 

On the other side of the backseat, Jonathan and Nancy have formed a tangled, sleeping mass. They are sharing Jonathan’s Walkman, a single foam headphone resting over each of their outward-facing ears, their heads leaning heavily against one another in a picture of domestic tranquility that makes you want to scream.

You are the only one left awake in the back. And you are miserable.

You can hear Wicked Game by Chris Isaak bleeding through Jonathan’s headphones, and it makes your stomach twist. Or maybe that’s just the motion sickness from the drive. You can’t really tell. 

You let out a long, ragged sigh, no longer caring if anyone hears you. Your neck is throbbing with a dull, persistent ache from staring out the window for too long. Your lower back is staging a violent protest against the stiffness of the BMW’s leather seats. Your ass is completely numb from sitting in the exact same position for God-knows-how-many minutes. You are so intensely, mind-numbingly bored that it feels like a physical weight pressing down on your skull.

But beneath the boredom, beneath the physical discomfort, is a deeper, sharper ache. You want Steve to talk to you. You want him to look at you. You want the comfortable, effortless banter back. You want to bridge the abyss that opened up yesterday morning, and the desire is burning a hole through your chest—

"You wanna stop?"

The voice is low, barely a rumble, meant only for you.

Your head snaps up. You look straight ahead and your eyes lock instantly with Steve’s through the rearview mirror. His gaze is intense, dark, and unwavering. 

He’s watching you. He has been watching you.

The sudden, direct contact sends a jolt of electricity down your spine. Caught completely off guard, you instinctively shake your head no. You feel a fresh wave of heat rise to your cheeks. You hadn't realized your sigh had been quite so loud, so incredibly dramatic. You feel like a petulant child caught throwing a tantrum in the back seat.

Before the silent, loaded exchange in the mirror can continue, the universe intervenes. The sound of your sigh, or perhaps the shift in the car’s atmosphere, rouses Robin. She stirs in the passenger seat, stretching her arms out with a loud, theatrical groan. She smacks her lips, blinking the sleep from her eyes.

"I actually want to," Robin announces, her voice thick with sleep. "I’m literally about to pee my pants. My bladder is going to explode."

Steve tears his eyes away from the mirror, breaking the connection. The tension in the car instantly dissipates, replaced by mundane reality. He nods, checking his surroundings.

"There’s a town coming up in about twenty minutes," he says, his voice flat, completely devoid of the quiet intimacy it held just a second ago.

By the time the tires finally crunch against the gravel of the designated pit stop, you realize Steve’s definition of a "town" is remarkably generous. The place is practically a ghost town. It consists of a single, decrepit gas station with peeling paint, a diner with boarded-up windows, and an endless expanse of dry, yellowing fields stretching out in every direction.

The heat radiating off the concrete is visibly shimmering, distorting the air. It’s utterly deserted, feeling entirely disconnected from the rest of the world. But it serves its purpose: it’s a place to escape the suffocating confines of the car and stretch your cramped, aching limbs.

You make a beeline for the restrooms. When you finally emerge a few minutes later, vigorously shaking your hands in the air because the paper towel dispenser was jammed and empty, you take a moment to scan the perimeter.

Robin, Nancy, and Jonathan are nowhere to be seen, presumably having ventured into the dimly lit, dusty convenience store to hunt for edible road trip rations.

But you spot him.

Steve is standing at the far edge of the dirt lot, having parked the car a considerable distance away from the actual gas pumps. He’s standing in the shade of a massive, dying oak tree, completely isolated.

You pause, the wet skin of your hands cooling rapidly in the breeze. You hesitate. A war wages in your mind. The smart thing to do would be to walk into the store, join the others, and maintain the safety of the group dynamic. The smart thing to do would be to keep the wall up.

But your feet are already moving. You walk toward him, the gravel crunching loudly beneath your shoes, betraying your approach.

He’s leaning heavily against the side of the car, his posture a mixture of exhaustion and defiance. As you get closer, you see him fight the wind to light a cigarette dangling from his lips. The sharp smell of tobacco hits your nose, mingling with the scent of his cologne.

When he hears your footsteps, he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t straighten up. He doesn’t even look at you. Instead, he deliberately turns his head in the opposite direction, his jaw set in a hard, uncompromising line, staring out into the vast, empty distance of the Indiana plains.

You reach the car. You mirror his posture, leaning your back against the warm metal of the passenger door, right beside him. You cross your arms tightly over your chest, a defensive barrier.

The silence stretches between you, thick and heavy, broken only by the sound of the wind whipping across the fields and the faint crackle of burning tobacco.

"They went in to buy some snacks," he states, his voice sounding rough and unnaturally loud in the quiet expanse. It’s a peace offering. A mundane observation to test the waters.

You nod slowly, silently, the midday sun is brutal — even if spring is just starting — angled just right to assault your vision. You squint, furrowing your brow as the harsh light forces you to look down at your sneakers.

The silence returns, heavier this time. You can hear him inhale.

"What did you expect me to say?"

The words cut through the air like a knife, sudden and sharp. Steve speaks without looking at you, his voice tight. He takes another long, slow drag of his cigarette, the tip glowing bright red before turning to ash.

Your head snaps toward him. Your heart does a painful, erratic flutter against your ribs.

"Excuse me?" you ask, your tone defensive, trying to buy time, trying to understand where this attack is coming from.

Steve finally turns his head. He exhales, a thick plume of smoke escaping his lips. He turns his face away just enough so that the smoke drifts into the wind, far away from your face, ensuring it doesn't bother you. It’s a tiny, deeply ingrained gesture of consideration that makes your chest ache in a completely different way.

"I said," he begins, his eyes finally meeting yours, dark and storm-filled, "what exactly did you want me to say? Yesterday morning."

He shifts his weight, turning his body fully toward you, cornering you with his gaze.

"Did you want me to tell Robin that we got together? Did you want me to announce to the whole room that I slept in your bed? Did you want me to sit everyone down and give them a detailed account of everything that happened?" His voice is rising, laced with a bitter, defensive edge.

You suck in a sharp breath. Your jaw tightens so fiercely your teeth ache.

No. The word screams in your mind. Of course you didn't want him to broadcast it. You weren't insane. You knew exactly what the fallout would be if he had blurted that out. You knew exactly what telling Robin such a monumental secret would mean. She would have completely, totally lost her mind. The dynamic of the entire group would have been irrevocably fractured in an instant. The questions, the stares, the sheer weight of their expectations — it would be suffocating.

But… you don't know how to explain it to him. You don't know how to articulate the nuance of your hurt. Because even though you logically didn't want him to scream it from the rooftops, there was a tiny, selfish, deeply buried part of you that did. A part of you that wanted him to look at you in the daylight, in front of everyone, and not look ashamed. 

A part of you that hated how easily he had compartmentalized the intimacy you shared, shoving it into a dark box the second other people were around. That was why you had gotten so angry. That was why you had frozen him out. Even if you would rather die than admit it out loud.

You don't answer him. You can't. The words are stuck behind the tight lump in your throat.

Instead, you turn your body to face him entirely. The distance between you is negligible, the air practically vibrating with unresolved electricity. Without thinking, operating purely on adrenaline and instinct, you reach out. Your fingers brush against his knuckles, sending a spark up your arm, and you smoothly pluck the lit cigarette from his hand.

You bring it to your lips, keeping your eyes locked dead onto his, and take a drag.

Steve’s irises widen infinitesimally. His brow furrows in genuine confusion, the anger momentarily gone by your sheer audacity.

"What are you doing? You don't even smoke," he points out, his voice dropping an octave, sounding rougher than before.

You exhale a thin stream of smoke, trying desperately not to cough as the harsh tobacco burns the back of your throat.

"Shut up," you snap, the words clipped and defensive.

For a split second, there’s absolute silence. And then, surprisingly, Steve laughs. It’s not a joyous sound; it’s a short, breathy, incredulous bark of laughter. The sheer absurdity of the situation — you, standing in a dusty parking lot in the middle of nowhere, awkwardly smoking his stolen cigarette to avoid talking about your feelings — seems to break through his armor.

The heavy, suffocating tension that had gripped him since the morning shifts. It doesn’t disappear, but it morphs into something softer, something a little more pliable. He leans back against the car, the rigid lines of his body relaxing just a fraction. He tips his head back, staring up at the blinding, cloudless sky for a long second, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.

When he brings his gaze back down to you, the anger is gone, replaced by a quiet, searching vulnerability.

"Are we really not going to talk about it?" he asks softly. It’s no longer an accusation. It’s a plea.

You stare at him, feeling the familiar urge to run, to deflect, to protect yourself from the terrifying reality of whatever this is. You take another shallow puff of the cigarette, buying time.

"About what?" you ask distantly, feigning total ignorance, your voice carefully neutral.

Steve stares at you for a long moment. He absorbs your deflection, processing the wall you’ve just slammed back down between you both. A muscle in his jaw feathers. He nods slowly, a bitter resignation settling over his features.

"Right. I see," he murmurs, his voice dropping back into a flat, detached monotone. He looks away, the conversation seemingly over.

But you aren't done. The adrenaline is still pumping through your veins, making you reckless. If he wants to drag skeletons out of the closet, you can play that game too.

"Are we going to talk about the alleyway?"

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.

The reaction is instantaneous. Steve’s entire body goes rigid. The momentary softness, the playful banter, the vulnerable guy who had laughed just seconds ago — it all completely evaporates. It’s as if a switch has been flipped. His posture straightens, his shoulders squaring up as he turns to look at you, his eyes suddenly hard and unreadable.

"About what?" he demands, his voice low, firm, and laced with a sudden, dangerous edge.

Whatever ground you had gained is gone. The mention of the alleyway has struck a raw, exposed nerve.

You open your mouth, ready to push him, ready to demand answers. But before you can speak, movement in your peripheral vision catches your eye.

Down the dusty road, you see them. Robin, Jonathan, and Nancy are walking back from the convenience store. Robin is carrying two massive plastic bags, laughing loudly at something Jonathan is saying, while Nancy sips casually from a cup.

The real world is rushing back in, threatening to shatter the fragile, volatile bubble you and Steve have created in this isolated corner of the parking lot. The window of opportunity is slamming shut.

You turn back to Steve. He’s staring at you, his chest rising and falling slightly faster than normal, waiting for your move.

You hold his gaze for one long, heavily loaded second. You let the unspoken words hang in the air between you — the hurt, the confusion, the undeniable pull that neither of you seems able to cut off.

"I see," you say, your voice dripping with quiet, pointed irony, throwing his exact words back in his face.

You reach out, pressing the half-smoked cigarette back into his hand, making sure your fingers brush his one last time. 

You don’t wait for his response. You turn your back on him, walking around the rear bumper of the BMW, your footsteps heavy on the gravel, and pull open the heavy rear door. You slide back into the suffocating heat of the back seat, ready to endure the rest of the agonizing road trip, the tension between you somehow burning brighter and hotter than ever before.

—

Meeting Robin’s parents makes absolutely everything about her make a little more sense. She inherited her father’s sharp, eccentric sense of humor and her mother’s deep, overflowing well of emotion. It’s a combination that pulls a genuine smile from your lips every single time you watch the three of them interact.

After who knows how many hours trapped in the confined space of Steve’s car, staring out the window as the landscape shifted from the highway to the familiar, quiet streets of their hometown, the exhaustion had settled deep into your bones. The sun had already dipped below the horizon by the time the tires finally crunched over the Buckley’s driveway.

Unloading the trunk felt like a monumental chore. Everyone’s muscles were stiff, joints popping in protest as you all hauled duffel bags and backpacks up the porch steps. Nancy and Jonathan, looking completely drained and practically sleepwalking on their feet, had politely but firmly declined the invitation to stay. They just wanted their own beds. 

But when Mrs. Buckley appeared at the front door, wearing a welcoming smile and practically begging the rest of you to stay for dinner, Steve didn't hesitate.

He nodded, flashing that effortless, charming smile of his. “I’d love to, Mrs. Buckley. Thank you.”

You caught the briefest flicker in his hazel eyes as he said it. You know him well enough by now to read the subtle shifts in his demeanor. He agreed so quickly, so eagerly, perhaps because somewhere deep down, he just isn't ready to go back to that massive, empty house of his. The thought of him walking into a dark, silent room makes your chest ache slightly, so you’re secretly glad he’s staying here in the warmth of Robin's chaotic, loving home, at least for a couple of hours.

The dining room is cozy, filled with the rich, mouth-watering aroma of roasted chicken and vegetables.

“So, Robin was telling me that your final project is just about ready,” Mr. Buckley says, sitting at the head of the table, serving a generous portion of mashed potatoes onto his plate before passing the bowl toward you; pulling your attention away from Steve

“Oh, yeah,” you nod shyly, accepting the bowl. The sudden attention makes you shift in your seat. “I have to turn it in the first weeks of April. I still have to interview one more person, but I’m hoping I can find someone willing to talk soon.”

As you speak, your head naturally turns toward Steve, who is just settling into the chair right beside yours. His knee accidentally brushes against yours under the table, sending a sudden, sharp jolt of electricity up your leg. He doesn't pull away.

“Oh, I’m absolutely sure you’ll find someone, sweetheart. Don't you worry about it,” Mrs. Buckley chimes in from across the table. She offers you a soft, reassuring smile that looks so incredibly much like Robin’s that it’s almost uncanny. The warmth in her eyes makes you relax your shoulders.

Then, she turns her attention to the boy beside you. 

“Steve, honey, how is your father doing? I haven’t seen him around town in quite a while.”

The shift in Steve’s posture is instantaneous. It’s subtle — a microscopic tightening of his jaw, a sudden rigidity in his spine — but sitting this close to him, you feel it. You can practically hear the iron gates coming down around his emotions. Still, he masks it flawlessly, offering Robin’s mother a polite, practiced smile as he reaches over to pass her the plate of dinner rolls.

“Uh, yeah, he’s doing well. He’s been on several business trips lately, you know how it is…” Steve’s voice is remarkably steady, smooth as glass.

“I heard he gave a rather generous loan to Mr. Smith so he could finally open that store downtown,” Mr. Buckley adds, taking a sip of his wine. “I suppose business must be treating him well.”

Steve clears his throat, a sharp sound that betrays his discomfort. He reaches for his water glass, wrapping his long fingers around the condensation-slicked surface.

“I really wouldn't know anything about that, sir,” Steve says, taking a slow, deliberate sip.

Even though you are forcing yourself to focus intently on cutting your chicken, you can swear there is a heavy, bitter lie buried underneath those words. 

When Steve lowers his glass, his gaze meets Robin’s across the table. Her, sensing the dangerous territory they’ve wandered into, violently shifts gears to save him.

“We’re going to Lover’s Lake tomorrow!” she announces loudly, waving her fork in the air. “So I hope you brought a good swimsuit, because you better be ready to dive in.”

You nearly choke on your food, whipping your head to stare at her in disbelief. 

“What? Are you out of your mind? Spring literally just started. The water must be colder than a glacier right now.” You shake your head emphatically. “Absolutely not.”

“Boooo,” Robin taunts, immediately tearing off a piece of bread and throwing it at you. It bounces harmlessly off your shoulder. “You’re getting in the water, end of story. Besides, local legend says that if you take a swim in Lover's Lake, you’ll find your one true love.”

You roll your eyes so hard they almost ache, trying to suppress a laugh. 

“You are ridiculous, Robin.” But the teasing pulls a genuine smile to your lips, easing the lingering tension in the room.

“You don't believe in that kind of stuff?” Steve asks suddenly.

The question catches you off guard. When you look over at him, he isn’t looking at you. His gaze is firmly fixed on his plate, pushing a piece of carrot around with his fork, but the tone of his voice holds a strange, quiet weight.

“Do you?” you challenge, raising an eyebrow.

He pauses, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. He offers a slow, noncommittal shrug.

“Maybe.”

“So, what, you’ve already taken a dip hoping to find true love?” you tease, leaning just a fraction of an inch closer to him.

He finally smiles, that famous, devastating grin, and shrugs again, looking up through his eyelashes. “A couple of times.”

“Yeah? And how did that work out for you?”

Your voice drops a register, adopting a tone you can’t quite describe — something soft, almost breathless, entirely too intimate for a crowded dinner table.

Steve finally turns his head to look at you. His dark eyes lock onto yours, and the sudden intensity in his gaze feels like a physical weight. The chatter of Robin and her parents fades into a dull hum in the background. 

Suddenly, it’s as if the two of you are entirely alone again. The air between you crackles, heavy with the phantom memory of dancing in the middle of the empty record store, of the hushed whispers in your bedroom just the night before, of the heat of his hands on your body.

You watch, mesmerized, as Steve’s eyes dart down to your mouth. He slowly wets his bottom lip with his tongue, his chest rising with a shallow breath.

“I can’t complain,” he murmurs, his voice a low gravel that sends a shiver straight down your spine.

“Who wants dessert?!” Mrs. Buckley suddenly interrupts, completely oblivious to the thick, suffocating romantic tension that just filled her dining room.

You snap your head away from Steve, your cheeks burning hot. But as you look across the table, you catch Robin staring at the two of you. Her eyes are narrowed intensely, almost accusatory, analyzing the interaction with a terrifying sharpness. But the moment you make eye contact with her, the suspicion vanishes from her face, wiped clean as she enthusiastically volunteers to help her mother with the pie.

After finishing the apple pie and spending twenty minutes helping Mr. and Mrs. Buckley wash and dry the dishes, Robin’s parents announce that they are exhausted and heading up to bed. They wish you all a good night, leaving the three of you alone on the ground floor.

The transition to the living room is lazy and slow. You collapse onto the long, floral-patterned sofa, and Steve plops down right next to you.

“I think I ate way too much,” Robin groans dramatically. She flops onto the couch, turning sideways and throwing herself directly across your lap and Steve’s thighs, effectively pinning you both together.

“Your mom’s cooking is incredible,” you say softly, gently running your fingers through Robin’s messy hair where her head rests near your arm.

Beside you, Steve adjusts his position. He drapes his right arm along the back of the sofa, right behind your shoulders. He isn't quite touching you, but the heat radiating from his forearm is a constant, burning presence against the nape of your neck. 

You hate how he’s acting like nothing has happened. Not just what you saw in the alleyway, or the night spent together; but also the small fight at the gas station or the fact that you guys haven’t been able to even look at each other all weekend.

But even then, you make absolutely no move to lean forward or avoid him. In fact, you lean back just a fraction, welcoming his warmth.

“God, I know. There really is nothing quite like coming back home and eating mom’s food,” Robin sighs happily, closing her eyes.

You smile, nodding in agreement, but a sudden, heavy knot forms in the pit of your stomach. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Steve’s reaction. His jaw locks tight, a muscle feathering furiously in his cheek. He lets out a slow, silent sigh, turning his head away to stare blankly at the dark television screen. 

The contrast between Robin’s comforting homecoming and Steve’s cold, empty reality is a physical ache in the room. You want to reach out, to intertwine your fingers with his, but Robin’s weight across your legs keeps you aware of her presence.

“Alright, let’s watch a movie,” Steve says suddenly, his voice a little too loud, desperate to break the suffocating silence in his own head.

“What? No, you’re insane. I am completely drained,” Robin complains, letting out a loud groan as she forces herself to sit up, removing her body from your laps.

Steve groans back, throwing his head against the back cushion in defeat. 

“Come on, just one. Something short.”

“Nope. Sorry, dingus,” Robin says, pushing herself entirely off the couch and stretching her arms above her head. “Come on, dingus number two, let’s get you upstairs. I’ll show you your room for the week.”

You smile gratefully, exhaustion finally catching up to you as you stand up from the deep cushions. The moment you move, Steve quickly drops his arm from the back of the sofa, standing up right behind you.

“I’ll help you carry your bags up,” he says, his hand lightly grazing the small of your back as he steps past you toward the hallway.

“Steve, you really don’t have to—” you start to protest, not wanting him to carry your heavy luggage after the long drive.

But Robin is already bounding up the carpeted stairs, taking them two at a time. 

“Bring mine up too, Harrington!” she yells over her shoulder, completely disregarding your polite refusal.

The guest bedroom is quaint, clean, and meticulously organized. The floral bedspread is perfectly smoothed out, the pillows fluffed, and a small vase of fresh spring flowers sits on the nightstand. It’s clearly the handiwork of Mrs. Buckley, showcasing a neat, domestic facet of her personality that Robin most certainly did not inherit.

“Oh, right, my mom told me to get you a towel,” Robin says, doing a quick inventory of things in the closet “Hang on, there should be some fresh ones in the laundry room downstairs. I’ll be right back.”

Before you can say a word, she spins on her heel and darts back out into the hallway, her footsteps thudding rapidly down the stairs.

Suddenly, the room feels incredibly small.

You let out a long, heavy sigh, walking over to the small, antique mirror hanging above the wooden dresser. You stare at your reflection, taking in the dark circles under your eyes and your messy hair.

“God, I look dead,” you mutter to yourself, dragging a hand down your face.

Behind you, there’s a soft thump as Steve drops your heavy bag onto the hardwood floor. He doesn’t step back out into the hallway. Instead, he leans his tall frame casually against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes lock onto your reflection in the mirror.

“You look beautiful,” he says. His voice is quiet, almost tentative, trying to see where you both stand.

Your heart does a frantic, violent flip in your chest. You roll your eyes, though you can’t hide the blush creeping up your cheeks, and turn around to face him. To think that a few hours ago you were declaring war on him and now, with just three simple words, he can completely dismantle your armor.

“Don’t start,” you warn him, pointing a finger in his direction.

Steve chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through the quiet room. He uncrosses his arms and takes a slow step into the bedroom. 

“Don’t start with what?”

“Steve…” you say, your voice carrying a mix of warning and pleading.

He just smiles. That devastating, heart-stopping smile. He takes another step forward, closing the distance between you, and reaches out to gently take your hand, pulling you slightly toward him.

“Steve!” you whisper-shout, your eyes wide as you instinctively pull your hand back. You glance terrified toward the open doorway, half-expecting Robin to appear on the landing at any given second. But despite your panic, your traitorous feet don’t step back.

“Relax, she’s gonna take a while,” Steve murmurs, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. He steps into your personal space, towering over you slightly. “She probably got distracted by something in the kitchen. I know her.”

You bite your bottom lip nervously, crossing your arms over your chest as if trying to build a physical barrier to protect yourself from the magnetic pull he has on you.

He just laughs softly at your defensive posture. Slowly, deliberately, he reaches up. His warm fingertips graze your jawline as he gently tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The brief contact sends a rush of adrenaline straight to your fingertips.

“Are you gonna let me take you for a drive one of these days?” he asks, his gaze dropping to your lips before flicking back up to your eyes.

You feign a dramatic gasp, playing along to keep your rapidly beating heart from exploding. “King Steve is going to take me for a cruise around town in his fancy car? My God, I’d surely be the envy of every girl at Hawkins High.”

Steve groans, tossing his head back in exaggerated annoyance, but you can clearly see the way he bites down on his lower lip to suppress a massive grin.

When he looks back down at you, his eyes are darker, softer. 

“Just say yes.”

You sigh, biting your lip, thinking about it.

“A short drive. As friends.”

Steve shrugs, stepping close enough now that you can smell the lingering scent of his cologne. 

“Of course. As friends…”

Suddenly, the unmistakable sound of Robin’s heavy footsteps padding across the downstairs hardwood and heading toward the stairs breaks the silence.

Panic spikes in your chest, but before you can even react, before you can step back, Steve’s hand shoots out to cup the back of your neck. He leans down and captures your lips in a short, stolen kiss. It’s entirely too fast, fueled by adrenaline and the sheer terror of getting caught, but the pressure of his mouth on yours is intoxicating.

He pulls away just as quickly, leaving you completely frozen, your lips parted, your brain short-circuiting.

He spins around casually, stepping out into the hallway just as Robin reaches the top of the landing.

“Bye, Robin!” Steve calls out cheerfully, passing her on the stairs.

“Uh, bye, dingus!” she calls back, sounding slightly confused by his sudden, quick exit.

Robin walks into the room, holding a fluffy white towel. She looks at you, then looks back toward the empty hallway, her brow furrowing in deep suspicion.

“Is everything okay?” she asks, handing you the towel.

You violently snap out of your trance. Your lips still tingle. You force a bright, plastic smile onto your face and nod rapidly. 

“Yep! All good. Just tired.”

You grab your toiletry bag from the bed and turn around to head to the bathroom, desperate to escape her hawk-like gaze. But Robin isn’t done.

“Hey. Wait.” She leans against the doorframe, crossing her arms.

You freeze, slowly turning back around. 

“Yeah?”

Robin tilts her head, studying your face. 

“From the party…” Robin begins, her voice surprisingly soft. She tilts her head, studying you. “You did go back with Dylan, right?”

You swallow hard, your throat feeling like sandpaper. You nod your head. It’s the truth, technically. It’s the easiest half-truth you can offer right now. 

“Yeah,” you manage to say, forcing your voice to stay level. “I did.”

Robin doesn’t move. She just stares at you, her jaw working as if she is chewing on her next set of words. 

“And…” she continues, her eyes narrowing slightly, the intense scrutiny making your skin prickle. “Did something happen after?”

Panic, cold and sharp, spikes in your chest. You immediately shake your head, perhaps a little too quickly.

Something had happened afterward, yes, your mind screams. But absolutely not with Dylan. But there is absolutely no way Robin can know that. Not now. Not ever. The dynamic between the three of you is already too fragile, a precarious house of cards built on unspoken rules and shared trauma that you don’t even fully understand yet.

Robin looks at you with an expression that screams, “Come on, don't lie to me.” She knows you. She has spent years analyzing you, learning your tells. Without saying a word, she pushes off the doorframe, takes two slow steps into the room, raises her right hand, and points an accusing finger directly at your collarbone.

“Then what’s that?”

Your stomach plummets straight to your feet, the floor seemingly dropping out from beneath you.

You reach up, your trembling fingers brushing against the soft fabric of your t-shirt. You realize, with a jolt of pure, paralyzing horror, that the neckline has slipped slightly off your shoulder in the frantic rush to separate from Steve moments ago. 

There, stark and undeniably vivid against your skin, are the soft purple bruises. The hickeys. The very marks you had spent the entire weekend desperately trying to conceal with heavy layers of foundation, setting powder, and suffocating collars.

Your mind races for an excuse, any excuse, but your brain is completely short-circuiting. The silence in the room feels deafening.

“I… I tripped,” you stammer, the lie tasting like dry ash in your mouth. You sound pathetic even to your own ears. “I tripped over my own feet and, um, fell while… stacking some albums the other day in the store.”

For a second, Robin just stares at the mark. Then, she bursts into a loud, ringing laugh, the tension breaking so abruptly it gives you whiplash. She steps forward, her face splitting into a wide grin, and playfully smacks your shoulder. She exclaims your name in absolute disbelief.

“Oh, come on! You are the worst liar I have ever met in my entire life,” she laughs, her voice echoing in the quiet room. “Tell me the truth. You hooked up with Dylan, didn’t you?”

You quickly shake your head, desperate to extinguish this narrative before it takes root. 

“No! Robin, I swear, no. It wasn’t Dylan.”

Robin pauses, her laughter abruptly cutting off. Her smile fades into a look of genuine, wide-eyed curiosity. She steps a little closer, lowering her voice as if someone else might be listening in the empty house.

“But… something did happen?” she whispers, her eyes bright with a mix of scandalized excitement and interrogative intent. “After he took you back to the apartment? Did someone else come over?”

You hesitate. Your mind races through a million different scenarios, trying to find a way out of this trap. If you say no, she will keep pushing about the bruise. If you say yes, you have to invent a phantom hookup. But the longer you stand there in silence, biting your lip, your eyes darting nervously to the floor, the guiltier you look. You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, betraying you entirely.

Finally, knowing you are backed into an inescapable corner, you close your eyes.

“Fine. It was Dylan… yes.”

Robin lets out a tiny, high-pitched squeal of excitement, her hands flying to her mouth. She jumps in place for a split second, showing the supportive best friend eager for gossip. But the joy is fugacious. Almost as quickly as the smile appeared, it vanishes. She stops abruptly. Her posture stiffens, and her face turns dead serious, the shadows of the dimly lit room suddenly clinging to her features again.

“Okay, wait,” she says, holding up a hand, her tone dropping an octave. “I mean… I don’t know if that’s actually a good thing.” She starts pacing, just a few short steps back and forth at the foot of the bed, her hands beginning to flutter in front of her. “I know the guy is a total idiot, but…”

She stops, planting her feet, and takes a deep, shuddering breath. When she looks at you again, there is genuine vulnerability in her eyes. The frantic energy shifts into something much heavier. She begins to speak a mile a minute, the words tumbling out of her mouth as if she can’t contain them any longer.

“Oh God, can I be totally honest with you? Because I feel like I’m going to explode if I don’t just say it.” She doesn’t wait for your answer. “I was really, really scared that it might have been with Steve.”

The air leaves your lungs in a violent rush.

It feels as if all the oxygen has been instantaneously vacuumed out of the small room. You stare at her, completely paralyzed, your grip on the towel tightening until your knuckles turn a sharp, bloodless white. You try to blink, try to maintain a neutral expression, but your heart is screaming in your ears. She knows. She knows. She knows.

“Because, look, I’m not blind,” Robin continues, her hands gesturing wildly, completely oblivious to the fact that you have entirely stopped breathing. “I noticed that you guys were acting super weird at dinner tonight. The looks across the table, the whispering, the way he kept bumping his knee against yours under the booth. And honestly? I’ve been noticing it for months. God, I don’t know, practically since you guys first met!”

She throws her hands up in exasperation, pacing again. You remain frozen, a statue in the center of the room, listening as Robin unknowingly dissects the secret you’ve been harboring in your chest for the last months.

“But,” she says, stopping to press a hand to her chest, letting out a breath that sounds like pure relief, “I am so genuinely, deeply happy that it’s not him. Because — and please, please don’t misunderstand me here — he is a great friend. He really is. I love him to death. He’s my platonic soulmate, he’d take a bullet for me, and I’d take one for him.”

She steps closer, her blue eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes you want to shrink away.

“But you know how he is. I’ve told you this before. He’s incredibly complicated. With all his family stuff, his endless track record… he’s just… he’s not boyfriend material. Not for someone like you.” She shakes her head emphatically. “He’s damaged, okay? And he doesn’t know how to handle it. He’d just end up pulling you into his mess, and he’d end up hurting you, and I couldn’t bear to see that happen to you, and—”

Robin continues to vomit words at lightning speed, her hands slashing through the air as she passionately dissects Steve Harrington’s deepest emotional flaws. 

You remember every time she warned you about him.

You remember that talk in the radio cabin when Steve disappeared for days, and she told you to stay away for your own good.

But she keeps listing his insecurities, his defense mechanisms, his tendency to push people away when he feels too much. She’s completely, blissfully unaware that with every single word she speaks, she’s brutally shredding your heart.

You hear her voice, but the words start to blur into a localized white noise. Your mind goes entirely blank. A cold, heavy dread washes over you, starting at the crown of your head and seeping all the way down to your toes, effectively drowning out the lingering, intoxicating warmth of Steve’s kiss that had been burning on your lips just moments prior.

You suddenly feel sick to your stomach. You want to scream at her to stop, to tell her that she’s wrong, that Steve is gentle and kind and terrified of exactly what she is describing. 

But you can’t. Because defending him would mean exposing the truth. It would mean destroying the fragile peace of your makeshift family. And at the same time… do you know better than her?

“Anyway,” Robin finishes, letting out a heavy, dramatic sigh of relief, dropping her hands to her sides. “I’m just glad you’re smart enough to steer clear of that particular mess.”

The room descends into a profound, suffocating silence for a second. The only sound is the rhythmic, haunting chirp of the crickets outside the window, bleeding through the glass from the dark Hawkins night. You stand there, mute, a ghost in your own body.

Robin watches you, perhaps finally sensing a fraction of the tension radiating from your rigid frame. Her shoulders drop slightly, the frenetic energy bleeding out of her, leaving behind a profound sadness that makes her look incredibly fragile.

“Listen,” she says softly, the rapid-fire pacing gone, replaced by a quiet earnestness. “I know I’m always vague about this stuff. I know I talk in circles and I beat around the bush and I never just come out and tell you things straight.” She sighs, a weary, bone-deep sound, and rubs the back of her neck. “But it’s for your own good, okay?”

She tilts her head, her eyes pleading with you to understand. 

“We’re good, right? All of us, just the way we are. As friends. Us against the world.”

She steps closer, her voice dropping to a harsh, intimate whisper. The mask of the quirky, fast-talking girl from the city drops completely, revealing the vulnerable teenager from Hawkins.

“We’ve known Steve since before,” she says, emphasizing the word before like it holds the weight of a thousand untold horrors. “We have to carry his demons. We know the ghosts that haunt him because we were there when they were made. But you met him now. You met him in the city. And that is so good. Because you get to know a new Steve. A Steve who is desperately trying to be better, a Steve who is trying to leave the blood and the nightmares behind.”

She looks up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly as if fighting back tears, before her gaze snaps back to you, fierce and protective.

“Look, do you remember that night?” she asks, her voice trembling slightly. “That night when he came to your apartment completely beaten up?”

You nod slowly, the memory flashing behind your eyes. Steve sitting on the edge of your couch, his lip and eyebrow split, blood even in his hair, staring at you with a look of such profound shame and sorrow as you gently dabbed at his cuts with a warm cloth. 

It was the night the undeniable shift between you had solidified. 

The night you realized there was no going back from anything he was pulling you towards… with him.

“Do you know how many times I’ve been through something exactly like that with him?” Robin’s voice cracks, pulling you back to the present. “Do you know how many times I’ve had to clean his wounds? How many times I’ve had to go looking for him in the middle of the night, dragging him out of some dark alleyway? How many times I’ve had to hide his lies, cover for his injuries, make up excuses for why he couldn’t function?”

She shakes her head bitterly, stopping herself before she reveals too much, before she accidentally spills the secrets that she and Steve have sworn to protect you from. 

“Never mind. It doesn’t matter. What I mean is… you don’t have to know that side of him. It’s ugly. It’s painful. And it is absolutely not worth it.”

She looks at you, her eyes searching yours desperately for agreement.

“And honestly, while we’re here in Hawkins for these next few days… you’re probably going to notice that he acts… well, a little weird, you know? He gets jumpy here. Paranoid. Maybe we all will.” She offers a small, self-deprecating smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “You just have to understand that this town does things to us… and it definitely brings out the worst in him.”

Her smile softens into something incredibly genuine, filled with a deep, platonic love that makes the guilt in your stomach twist like a physical knife.

“But it’s a good thing you don’t get it, you know?” she says, reaching out to gently squeeze your arm. “Because you are our future. You are the very first good thing we met when we arrived in the city, trying to run away from all of this. You were a new chapter. You are… you are the first good, pure thing that Steve has known in a really, really long time. And I am entirely sure that he appreciates that more than he could ever say.”

She pauses, her thumb gently stroking your arm, before adding the final, devastating warning.

“But… just as friends. Right?”

You can’t speak. Your throat is entirely closed off, blocked by a massive lump of unspoken truths, unconfessed feelings, and a crushing, suffocating guilt. You can only manage another weak, pathetic nod, confirming a lie that has just shattered the foundation of your world.

“Right,” Robin whispers, seemingly satisfied, the tension completely leaving her body. She believes you. She trusts you completely.

She steps forward, leaning in, and presses a quick, affectionate kiss to your cheek.

“Goodnight,” she says brightly, her voice returning to its normal, cheerful tone as if the heavy conversation had never happened. “Sleep well! Don't let the Hawkins bedbugs bite.”

She turns on her heel and practically jogs out of the room. You hear her footsteps pad down the wooden floor of the hallway, followed by the definitive click of her bedroom door shutting firmly at the other end of the hall.

And then, there is nothing but silence.

You are left standing completely alone in the center of the quiet guest room. The oppressive humidity of Indiana presses down on you, heavy and thick. You clutch the white towel to your chest with white-knuckled fingers, staring blankly at the fading floral wallpaper, feeling as though the floor has entirely dropped out from beneath your feet.

You are completely overwhelmed by the crushing, undeniable realization that you are now the one walking into the darkness. You are the one with the secrets. You are the secret.

You trace a trembling hand up to your collarbone, hovering over the bruised skin where Steve’s lips had been two nights ago. You remember the way he looked at you, the way he held you as if you were the only solid thing in a world that was constantly crumbling beneath him. You remember Robin's words — he’s damaged, he's not boyfriend material, you are our future.

The two realities clash violently in your mind, fracturing everything you thought you knew. You realize, with a sickening drop in your stomach, just how incredibly, dangerously complicated everything has just become. It is much, much more complicated than it already was. 

And as you stand alone in the room, the lingering scent of Steve's cologne fading into the stale air between the walls, you know with absolute certainty that this secret is going to destroy one of you. 

You just don’t know who it will be first.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated !! thank you for reading. ⋆⭒˚.⋆

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new update tomorrow !!!

[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.

[moonchildpdf]

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE Would you consider writing a part two to the sean fanfic??? there is not enough and I have loved it so much! It’s okay if not but please know that you have a devoted reader here haha

thank u so much angel !!

tbh i enjoyed writing about sean so much and i'm already thinking about a part 2 so... probably soon...

[moonchildpdf]

I loved the Sean Lockwood fic wow !!! I have been looking for fics for him for ages and this was INCREDIBLE so thank you !! Is there going to be a part two? I’d really love it if there was but if not I understand, I’m not rushing or demanding, just asking because of the ending 🖤

i'm so glad you like it !! is not demanding at all, i love to hear your guys' thoughts and you can ask or request anything you want !!

and i totally left the ending open on purpose heh

[moonchildpdf]

mama we miss you where are you

i miss you guys so much !! life has been kinda crazy lately but i'll be back with steve's fic as soon as i can i promise

[moonchildpdf]

sean lockwood x actress!reader

summary: after leaving hollywood behind to make a career in the italian industry, you meet sean at one of the elite's lavish parties. what begins as a chance encounter soon becomes something neither of you sees coming. c/w: strangers. tension. yearning. some plot for more context. (18+) use of alcohol and cocaine. smut. oral sex. p in v. no protection. orgasm. creampie words: 17k

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　

You take the driver’s hand to step out of the black car, thanking him with a soft, practiced smile, while the thick heel of your shoe lands firmly on the Roman asphalt. 

The night air is cool, carrying the faint smell of rain and expensive perfume. You pull your heavy coat closer around your shoulders to keep the chill away.

Even from out here on the street, the party is alive. You can hear the loud, energetic jazz music spilling out from the open windows of the grand building. 

The wild notes of the saxophone and the deep, steady beat of the double bass seem to bounce right against your chest. It’s a rhythm that tells you exactly what kind of night this will be: fast, loud, and exhausting.

You take a deep breath and walk up the wide stone steps. As soon as you enter the palace, the heat of the room hits you. A thick cloud of cigarette smoke wraps around you like a heavy blanket and it makes your eyes water for a second, barely letting you see the massive, rich ballroom in front of you. The ceiling is painted extravagantly and giant crystal chandeliers hang from above, making everything shine with a soft golden light.

Before you can even take off your coat, a thin, cold hand grabs your arm tightly, pulling you into the crowd.

"But if it isn’t the most beautiful person in all of America! My gorgeous girl!"

A loud, sharp voice rings in your ears. Even with the loud music, you hear her perfectly. Because of the heavy Italian accent, it’s not hard to recognize who has caught you. It’s Mrs. Agnelli. She has claimed you as her prize for the evening, and you know right away that escaping her claws is going to be impossible.

You already knew this would happen. You’ve prepared yourself since this very rich and powerful family invited you to their "business meeting" — which is what they call it, even though you know it’s just an excuse to throw a huge, wild Italian party — and you knew it would be a long, tiring night.

But you could not say no. The offer to come here was too valuable. The Agnelli family has been in control of Rome’s high society for many years. Knowing them is the best way to get inside the European movie industry; and given that you came to this country looking to grow, to leave behind the old Hollywood rules, and to expand your horizons as an actress, you need these people.

And the truth is, they are in love with you. They are completely obsessed. Maybe the whole world is right now.

With the natural elegance you show, your fresh beauty, and your raw talent, it’s very hard for them not to stare like fools. You are the young, promising actress who crossed the ocean to give them her art. Or, at least, that is the story the newspapers are telling everyone.

"It’s so nice to see you, Mrs. Agnelli," you answer. Your Italian is still a bit rough, but you are trying. You practice every morning, but speaking it in a loud room is different.

"Oh, please, come in, come in!" the older woman says, not really listening to you. She links her arm through yours, practically dragging you deeper into the giant room.

As you walk with Mrs. Agnelli, you look around. Every face is completely unknown to you. There are young, handsome men in very expensive suits holding glasses of dark liquor. There are young women, dressed in shiny silk, laughing too loudly, trying very hard to be accepted by the rich families. 

It’s a complete circus. 

It’s a world that does not interest you at all, but sadly, it’s a world you cannot escape.

Not if you want to have the success you dream of. Not if you want the perfect life.

Mrs. Agnelli finally drops you off at a table with a group of older, very well-dressed people, before running away to greet another guest. You are trapped.

You look at the clock on the wall. Maybe forty minutes have passed since you arrived at the party, and you want nothing more than to run back to your hotel, take off your shoes, and sleep.

Luckily, a waiter passes by and you grab a strong drink. The cold gin is the only thing helping you pass the time.

"I heard that you are filming a movie just outside the city," one woman says. Before she speaks, she looks at you from head to toe, judging your dress, your hair, and your jewelry.

You put on your best face. You just smile kindly, the exact same way you do in every interaction, in every interview, in every set.

"Yes, that is right," you reply, keeping your answer short but polite. "We started filming last week."

"And... is it true that Mr. Mastroianni is part of the movie?" a younger girl next to the woman whispers. She bites her lip, trying to look cute and flirty.

"Oh my God, what a handsome man," another woman sighs, fanning her face. All the women in the circle laugh quietly together, sharing a secret look.

You just keep smiling. You take a slow sip of your drink. You know exactly how this game is played: they want secrets; they want gossip to share with their friends tomorrow.

"I can’t really say anything about that," you answer smoothly, using your best innocent voice. "The director wants to keep things quiet. The only thing I can say is that—"

"It’s Miss Esperanto," one of the man whispers sharply, completely cutting off your sentence.

Suddenly, the mood in the room changes. The small laughs stop. The whispers around your table begin to spread across the whole room like a wave of water. Slowly, trying not to look too obvious, every single person in the room turns their body to look at the main entrance doors.

Your back goes perfectly straight. You feel a sudden cold feeling in your chest just as the young woman steps through the door. And, as if this were a script for a dramatic movie, her eyes scan the room and lock straight onto yours.

Josephine Esperanto.

She stands there with perfect posture and an elegant, slow walk. She is wearing a dark green dress that hugs her body, and diamonds shine around her neck. She has a very powerful place in the movie industry here. You can’t say that you don’t know her, because everyone knows her. But that definitely does not mean you are good friends. In fact, it is exactly the opposite.

From the rumors on the Italian streets to the quiet whispers on the movie sets, you know exactly who she is. You know she’s a very difficult woman to work with. She gets angry easily, she demands the best dressing rooms, and she hates sharing the spotlight.

More importantly, you know she’s not happy at all about your arrival in the Italian industry. You have settled in too quickly. You are getting the roles she used to get. The magazines are calling you the "new star," replacing her name. 

You call her feelings fear… maybe envy. Perhaps a mix of both.

However, you are not going to let your pride win. You are not that kind of person. You do not want to start a fight in the middle of a party.

So, showing how polite you are, you slowly tilt your head down in a respectful greeting. But you don’t blink. You never take your eyes off her.

You don’t get the same polite greeting back.

Josephine looks at you for a long moment, her face totally blank. Then, she quickly turns her head away to whisper something into the ear of the person standing next to her.

That is when you finally notice that she did not come to the party alone.

You look at the man she’s whispering to. Even from far away, you can recognize him. It’s her closest friend and guide, Rufus Priori. Seeing his face makes your stomach turn. You can’t deny that you have had more than a few ugly fights with him back in the crazy American film industry.

He was a producer on your second movie. He did nothing but try to cut your lines, make you look bad, and you had to fight him every single day on set just to be respected. 

Seeing him here, standing next to your new rival, makes perfect sense. Snakes like to stay together.

But your eyes do not stay on Rufus for very long as your gaze quickly moves to another young man standing on Josephine’s other side.

You search your memory, but you can’t recognize his face from anywhere. Still, his presence is impossible to ignore. 

He’s tall, standing high above the Italian men in the room. His dark hair is perfectly combed back and shiny under the lights. His black tuxedo fits his body so perfectly it looks like it was painted on him.

By the way he stands, with his hands in his pockets, looking around the room with relaxed, but fascinated eyes, two things are undeniable to you:

First, he’s American. He has that classic, careless Hollywood look. Second, he’s just another lapdog for Josephine. Another pretty boy she brought to carry her bags and tell her how beautiful she is.

How boring, you think to yourself. You take another drink of your gin, ready to turn back to the gossiping women and ignore the new arrivals.

But the night is not going to be that easy.

—

“And that, fundamentally, is how the entire machinery turns.”

The guy finally finishes his endless monologue, his lips curling upward into an almost mocking smile that suggests he believes he has just imparted the secrets of the universe to a mere mortal.

You offer nothing more than a shallow, mechanical nod. Your lips stretch into a polite, practiced smile — the kind you have perfected while navigating the shark-infested waters of the Italian social elite. 

Without a word, you raise your crystal glass to your lips, taking a slow, measured sip of your… third gin? Fourth? You have completely lost count of the drinks, just as you have lost count of the minutes you’ve been trapped in this corner.

Antonio. Or was it Oliverio? Honestly, the name evaporated from your memory the moment he introduced himself. He has spent the better part of the last half-hour cornering you against a marble pillar, meticulously detailing the inner workings of his father’s publishing house.

According to him, it’s the most prestigious, groundbreaking publishing empire in all of Italy. A titan of literature. 

But you are fairly certain your brain shut down and went on vacation somewhere around the fifteen-minute mark. 

You could not possibly care less if his father printed the Bible itself.

As if dictated by some unspoken, strictly timed Italian social cue you have yet to master, the atmosphere in the grand hall shifts.

People begin to drift away from the velvet sofas and the buffet tables, gravitating toward the polished parquet floor in the center of the room. The band strikes up a lively, bouncing rhythm.

“Do you dance?”

The voice breaks your trail of thoughts. You blink, turning your gaze back to the boy. Lucas? No. You’ve officially surrendered to simply not knowing his name.

You shake your head, the polite smile returning like a mask snapping into place. 

“No, thank you. I think I’ll just watch for now.”

His perfectly groomed eyebrows knit together. He opens his mouth, clearly preparing to insist, likely armed with some terrible line about how a beautiful woman shouldn’t stand alone. The dread pools in your stomach.

But before he can utter a single syllable, a heavy, reassuring warmth settles onto your left shoulder. You are gently but firmly guided to turn around.

“What an absolute joy to see you here.”

The voice is deep, gravelly, and laced with a rich, unmistakable Roman cadence. You don’t need to look to know who it belongs to.

“Mr. Agnelli,” you say, the genuine relief in your voice completely unfeigned. “Thank you so much for the invitation. It’s a breathtaking evening.”

You turn fully toward your host, a genuine smile finally breaking through your fatigue. 

Mr. Agnelli stands tall, an unlit cigar caught between his thick fingers.

However, the warmth of your smile dies a sudden, icy death the very second your eyes drift past him and register the figure standing elegantly at his right side.

“Please, my dear. There is absolutely no need to thank me,” Agnelli booms warmly, oblivious to the sudden drop in your internal temperature. “My wife and I truly wanted you here tonight. We are celebrating the future of cinema, after all.” He steps slightly to the side, gesturing broadly to the woman beside him. “You know Josephine, don’t you?”

She doesn’t just look at you; she assesses you. Her gaze starts at the hem of your gown, slowly raking its way up your body, cataloging every stitch, every perceived flaw, before finally meeting your eyes. 

Her lips curve into a slow, mocking smirk — a micro-expression of pure, unadulterated condescension that makes every muscle in your jaw tighten. You have to actively bite the inside of your cheek to suppress the overwhelming urge to roll your eyes.

“I haven’t had the pleasure, no,” you say, your voice perfectly even, betraying none of the acid bubbling in your chest.

Her smirk falters for a fraction of a second at your cool dismissal, but Josephine is a professional. The smile instantly solidifies into something brilliantly, terrifyingly fake. She tilts her head, her dark, perfectly coiffed hair catching the chandelier’s light.

“Well, we certainly have heard each other’s names floating around the studios,” Josephine purrs, her voice meticulously controlled, every syllable dripping with faux sweetness. “Ultimately, the film industry is quite a small world, isn’t it?”

You can’t argue with the facts. 

At the end of the day, two ambitious American girls fiercely clawing out a space for themselves in the male-dominated Italian film industry of the 1950s do not go unnoticed. 

You are constantly compared in the trades, constantly pitted against one another for the same roles, the same magazine covers, the same oxygen.

You simply smile back, a mirror of her own dangerous sweetness. 

“Indeed it is.”

“So,” she continues, taking a deliberate step closer as Mr. Agnelli suddenly turns away, distracted by a passing politician and leaving the two of you stranded in each other’s gravity. “I heard the news. You secured the lead for the new project shooting just outside the city.”

Now that Agnelli’s watchful eyes are gone, the heavy veil of pretense drops slightly. Your smile dissapears, morphing into a look of quiet challenge. You hold your ground.

“Yes. It’s a fascinating script,” you reply, your tone clipped. “Easily the best project set up in Rome this entire season.”

Josephine lets out a breathy, dismissive laugh that sounds like breaking glass. 

“I highly doubt that,” she says, her words razor-sharp and delivered with deadly precision. “If it truly were the best project in Rome, darling, they wouldn’t have settled for casting you.”

Your brow furrows. The insult hits its mark, a quick, stinging jab to your pride. 

You open your mouth, a sharp retort already forming on your tongue, but before you can unleash it, a glass materializes in the space between you.

“Your drink.”

The voice is male, surprisingly soft, but carrying an underlying resonance that demands immediate attention.

You glance up. It’s the man who had walked in a few steps behind Josephine earlier — the one you had initially dismissed as just another member of her endless entourage. 

Up close, the impact of his presence is startling. 

His hair is flawlessly styled and he wears a dark suit that fits his broad shoulders so perfectly it looks as though it was tailored to his exact musculature just this morning.

Josephine immediately breaks her venomous eye contact with you. Her entire demeanor shifts as she looks at the guy. She smiles — a genuine, almost predatory smile — and reaches up, lightly trailing her manicured fingernails down the sharp angle of his jawline.

“Thank you, my angel,” she coos, her voice dropping an octave.

For a microsecond, the guy looks entirely captivated. His eyes soften, locked onto hers, completely enchanted by the breadcrumb of affection she just threw at him. 

But the spell is brutally, violently brief.

“Lucas! Darling, it’s been ages!” Josephine suddenly screeches, her attention violently snapping to someone across the room. Without a second thought, she pushes past the suited man, her shoulder bumping his chest as she abandons him entirely to chase down a more useful connection, leaving him standing there holding the empty air where she had just been.

You watch him carefully. You don’t miss the subtle, almost imperceptible way he reacts. 

He shakes his head slightly, as if trying to clear a sudden ringing in his ears. His lips press together into a tight, hard line. He takes a slow, deep breath, his broad chest rising and falling beneath the expensive suit, until he manages to reassemble his composure. 

He locks his emotions away into a neat little box.

And then, his eyes find yours.

They are dark, intense, and startlingly observant. For a long moment, the roaring noise of the party around you seems to dial down to a low hum.

“I do believe it is going to be the finest project in all of Rome,” he says. 

His voice is smooth, carrying a hint of an American accent that hasn’t quite been erased by his time in Europe.

You frown, taken aback by the sudden intrusion. You had assumed he was merely part of Josephine’s scenery.

“Excuse me?” you ask, your tone laced with genuine confusion.

He laughs softly. It’s a warm, surprisingly self-deprecating sound. 

He straightens his posture, and suddenly you realize just how tall he really is. 

“How terribly rude of me,” he murmurs, stepping forward and extending a large, scarred hand toward you. “Lockwood. Sean Lockwood.”

Hesitantly, you reach out and take his hand. 

The moment your skin meets his, the physical contrast is startling. His hand easily engulfs yours. Despite the immaculate tailoring of his suit and the high-society setting, his palm is rough, marked by calluses, and his grip is firm, commanding, and decidedly masculine. 

It completely contradicts the pathetic, lapdog image he projected just moments ago while standing beside Josephine.

“Good evening, Mr. Lockwood,” you reply, trying to ignore the sudden flutter of heat in your chest. “I am—”

“I know exactly who you are,” he interrupts smoothly, his voice dropping slightly as he pronounces your full name with a reverence that catches you completely off guard. “I’m a big admirer of your work, truthfully.”

To your absolute horror — and it is something that almost never happens to you anymore, not after years of hardening your heart to the industry’s superficial flattery — you feel a sudden, betraying heat rise to your cheeks. 

You are blushing.

His hand gently squeezes yours one last time before he slowly lets go. The loss of contact leaves your fingers feeling strangely cold. 

You let your hand drop, curling it into a loose fist at your side, trying to preserve the phantom sensation of his touch. 

Desperate to regain your composure, you clear your throat and take a quick, defensive sip of your gin.

“So,” you start, attempting to project an air of casual indifference. You nod your head toward the other side of the room, where Josephine is currently laughing dramatically, throwing her head back for an audience of captivated producers. “Are you a... friend of Miss Esperanto?”

Sean turns his head slightly, following your gaze. The look that washes over his face is incredibly complex, a heavy mixture of emotions that are impossible to fully decipher. There is pity there, yes. But also a deep, lingering ache. 

It’s the tragic, universally recognizable expression of a man hopelessly trapped in the gravitational pull of a toxic star. 

He looks like just another poor casualty standing in the endlessly long line of suitors waiting on the venomous actress.

“Something like that,” he says quietly, lifting his own crystal glass and taking a long, slow drink.

But almost as quickly as the melancholy appeared, it vanishes. 

He turns back, his attention snapping away from Josephine and returning fully to you — or rather, to the ornate velvet wall just over your left shoulder. He reaches a hand into the inner pocket of his jacket, pulling out a sleek silver cigarette case and a matching lighter. With practiced ease, he flicks a cigarette to his lips and lights it.

He offers the case to you. You shake your head silently.

Taking a deep drag, he turns his head sharply to the side, forcefully exhaling a thick plume of gray smoke away from your face to ensure you aren’t caught in the cloud. 

You can’t deny it — it’s a surprisingly thoughtful, gentlemanly gesture in a room full of men who usually blow smoke directly into your eyes.

You study his profile. 

He doesn’t seem like a bad guy. 

There is a quiet intelligence in his eyes, a grounded reality that is severely lacking in this room. But you are not naive. Considering he runs in the inner circle of a viper like Josephine Esperanto, you know that survival dictates you keep him at a safe, guarded distance.

He turns back to you, parting his lips, clearly about to say something else, when a sudden, jarring force grips your arm.

“Come on, enough talking. Let’s dance.”

It takes your startled brain a full second to register the face attached to the hand pulling at your arm. It’s the same annoyingly persistent boy from earlier. Lucas. Antonio. Whoever. He has returned, smelling strongly of whiskey and unearned confidence, and he’s attempting to literally drag you toward the jazz band.

Before you can even open your mouth to formulate a sharp rejection, a sudden movement blurs in your peripheral vision.

A large, heavy hand lands squarely on your waist. With a swift, fluid motion, you are pulled backward, away from the boy’s grasp, and your back collides gently but firmly against a solid, unyielding chest.

“She’s with me.”

The voice resonates through the chest pressed against your back. Sean’s tone no longer the soft, deferential voice of the pathetic little puppy dog who was carrying drinks for the starlet. This voice is dark, heavy, and absolute. It’s a voice that imposes immediate authority — the voice of a man accustomed to commanding a room, a man whose name, whatever weight it holds, demands instant respect.

The annoying guy freezes. His drunken bravado shatters instantly as he looks up at Sean’s imposing frame. His face pales, and he lets out a low, frustrated sound before he sharply turns on his heel and scurries away toward the opposite side of the dance floor, disappearing into the crowd like a frightened rabbit.

The sudden silence between you and Sean is deafening.

You clear your throat softly, your heart hammering against your ribs. You take a cautious half-step forward, creating some space between your back and his chest, though you are careful not to move too far away.

“Thank you,” you say, looking up at him over your shoulder. “But really, that wasn’t necessary. I can handle myself.”

Sean shakes his head, a genuine, almost boyish smile breaking across his face and completely changing the hard landscape of his features. 

Without taking his eyes off you, he leans over, crushing his half-smoked cigarette into a nearby crystal ashtray. He then gently pries the gin glass from your tight grip, setting it down on the table beside you.

“I know you can,” he says smoothly. “But unfortunately, now you are actually going to have to dance with me. Otherwise, he’s going to realize it was a lie and come right back to bother you.”

You let out a breath of disbelief, shaking your head. 

“No, no, I am not—”

But before you can finish your protest, his large hand completely envelops yours. His grip is firm, leaving absolutely no room for argument, and with a surprisingly gentle force, he pulls you directly into the sea of bodies on the dance floor.

The band is in the middle of a frantic, swinging crescendo. As soon as you hit the floor, Sean doesn’t hesitate. He pulls you into frame.

Almost immediately, his movements reveal the truth: he’s not a dancer. 

His steps are a bit too fast, a little jerky, and entirely lack the fluid, practiced elegance of the wealthy Italian men you have danced around here. He’s rough around the edges, stepping slightly off the beat.

But what he lacks in technical grace, he violently overcompensates for in pure, unadulterated confidence.

He spins you outward with a sudden, dizzying force. You gasp, but before you can lose your balance, his hand yanks you right back. The momentum sends you crashing gently against his solid chest. The sheer audacity of his clumsy, confident maneuvering catches you off guard, and a loud, bright burst of laughter escapes your lips before you can stop it.

You look up at him, your guard finally beginning to lower. The tension that had been coiling in your neck all night begins to dissolve. 

Under the flashing lights, surrounded by the blaring horns of the jazz band, you allow yourself to surrender to the rhythm. Your body begins to move in sync with his, finding a strange, chaotic harmony in his erratic steps. 

For a brief, intoxicating moment, the suffocating atmosphere of the Agnelli party fades away. It is just the music, the heat of the room, and the startling warmth of Sean Lockwood’s hands on you.

He spins you out again. You smile, ready to be pulled back into the warmth of his chest.

But as you turn back to face him, the smile dies on your lips.

You look at his face, expecting to find those intense, dark eyes looking down at you. 

Instead, you find his gaze completely detached. 

His eyes have drifted away from your face and are locked onto something far over your left shoulder. You don’t even have to turn around to know what he is looking at. You can feel the exact trajectory of his stare.

He’s looking at Josephine.

A cold, heavy stone drops into the pit of your stomach. A visceral, twisting sensation ripples through your entire body. It’s an ugly, uncomfortable feeling that takes you a second to identify.

It’s absolutely not jealousy. You scoff at the very idea. How could you possibly be jealous of a woman like her? You wouldn’t trade your soul for her hollow life in a million years.

No, it isn’t jealousy. It’s pride.

Perhaps you have grown far too accustomed to being the center of attention. Perhaps the ego of being an actress has corrupted you more than you care to admit. But whatever the reason, it infuriates you to your very core to realize you are sharing this moment. 

It sickens you to realize that this incredibly handsome, enigmatic man holding you in his arms is not actually present with you. 

His body is here, his hands are on your waist, but his mind and his focus are tied to another woman across the room. 

You are nothing but a placeholder. 

A prop in whatever tragic, twisted game he’s playing to capture the attention of a woman who treats him like dirt.

The song reaches its final, explosive climax. The drummer crashes the cymbals, the brass section blares a final chord, and the room erupts into polite, gloved applause.

Sean blinks, as if suddenly waking from a trance. He looks back down at you, a charming smile automatically returning to his lips as he reaches up to smooth a stray lock of perfectly styled hair that had fallen across his forehead. 

His lips part, clearly preparing to say something charming, something to keep you on the floor.

But you don’t give him the chance.

Before the first syllable can leave his mouth, you pull your hands free from his grip. You don’t say a word. You don’t offer a polite smile. You simply turn your back on him and step into the sea of bodies.

You move quickly, your heels clicking sharply against the parquet floor as you weave your way through the crowd, desperate to put as much distance between yourself and Sean Lockwood as humanly possible. You don’t look back. You refuse to give him the satisfaction.

But as you disappear into the shadows of the grand hall, slipping past the velvet curtains and the oblivious socialites, a chill runs down your spine. Even hidden among the hundreds of people, you are absolutely certain of one thing.

You can feel his eyes burning into your back.

And as you push through the grand oak doors, stepping out into the cool Roman night, you know with a terrifying certainty that it will not be the last time tonight you feel the phantom weight of Sean Lockwood’s stare.

—

The Agnelli Palace is not called a palace for nothing. 

In less than half an hour of wandering away from the crowd, you find yourself completely and utterly lost. You had originally walked away from the main ballroom just to get away from the loud music, the fake laughs, and the suffocating crowd of rich people, but now you are paying a heavy price for that choice.

There are simply too many rooms in this place. 

Every corner you turn reveals another long corridor, another dark hallway, or a set of secret wooden doors that seem to lead absolutely nowhere. 

Here, the noise of the party has faded into a very quiet, distant hum that you can barely hear. The laughter, the clinking of champagne glasses, and the jazz music sound like they belong to a completely different world.

Just when you are about to give up entirely and turn around to find a servant to help you, you see a faint, cool light at the end of a narrow, dimly lit passage. You walk toward it, your heels clicking faster against the floor. 

At the end of the hall, there is a heavy wooden door with large glass panes. Through the glass, you can see the deep, dark blue of the night sky over Rome. 

You walk a little faster, your heart feeling a bit lighter than it did a moment ago. You press your palm against the cold metal handle and push the door open. It moves with a soft, slow creak, letting in a sudden rush of air.

When you take your first step outside, the cold air of Rome immediately wraps around your bare skin. It’s a sharp, freezing wind that hits your exposed shoulders like a shock to your system. 

Instantly, you regret leaving your expensive coat back in the main ballroom.

The chill makes you shiver, but despite the cold, you do not turn around to go back inside. The freezing air is much better than the hot, stuffy air of the party. It feels real. It wakes you up.

You walk over to the edge of the balcony and lean forward, resting your elbows on the cold stone railing. It’s a massive, beautiful balcony, carved with old, detailed designs that must have cost a fortune to create. 

You look down at the private gardens below. They are absolutely beautiful, even in the dark of night. The green hedges are cut perfectly into clean geometric shapes, forming a beautiful pattern on the ground.

The peaceful silence of the night is wonderful, but you know it can’t last long in a place like this. 

Suddenly, you hear the clear sound of footsteps coming from behind you. They are heavy, slow, and deliberate steps, breaking the quiet air of the balcony. Instantly, your body goes completely stiff. Your professional habits and defense mechanisms take over before you can even think about it. You straighten your back, lift your chin, and put on your well-practiced social smile.

It’s the exact smile you use for the cameras on the red carpet, for the big studio producers, and for anyone at these parties who comes up to tell you how amazing, how talented, or how beautiful you are. 

It’s a shield. 

You prepare yourself to look charming, to say the right words, and to play the social game perfectly, just like you always do. But when you turn your head slightly and see who is actually walking through the doorway onto the balcony, your fake smile disappears completely from your face.

A wave of genuine annoyance washes over you.

But at the exact same time, a strange, unexpected feeling of relief settles deep in your chest. You realize that with him, you don’t have to pretend.

You let out a long, heavy sigh, turning your back to him completely and looking out at the dark gardens once again, letting him see your irritation.

"Did your owner leave you off the leash?" you say.

Your voice is dry, cold, and incredibly sharp. It cuts through the quiet night air like a knife, showing absolutely no warmth or kindness.

Sean does not get angry at your harsh, insulting words. Instead, he just lets out a soft, low laugh. The sound is warm and relaxed, a direct contrast to the freezing Roman air around you. 

He walks over to the edge of the balcony, moving with a slow, confident stride that shows off his tall frame, and stops right next to you. 

He leans his hips against the stone railing, looking down at the dark garden just like you were doing a moment ago.

"I guess I deserve that..." he says quietly.

You do not answer him right away. 

You keep your eyes fixed on the marble fountain below, watching the water rise and fall under the dim lights of the palace grounds. 

For a few long seconds, neither of you says a single word. The silence between you is incredibly heavy, filled with an unspoken tension that has been building up between you all night inside the ballroom, every time your eyes met across the crowded room. 

It’s a strange mix of deep irritation and weird comfort. 

You kinda hate him, but you also feel somehow drawn to him.

Then, you hear the familiar, sharp click of metal. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch him pull his silver cigarette case from the inside pocket of his expensive designer jacket. 

He opens it with a smooth, slow motion and holds it out toward you, offering you one.

This time, you accept it. You reach out your hand, your cold fingers accidentally brushing against his warm skin for a brief, electric second, and you take a single cigarette from the silver case, bringing it to your lips. 

Sean matches your movement perfectly, taking one for himself. He pulls out a heavy lighter, flicks it open with his thumb, and a small, bright yellow flame appears between your faces. 

He steps a little bit closer to you, using his broad shoulders to block the cold wind from putting out the flame. He brings the fire to the tip of your cigarette. As you inhale, the tip glows a bright, hot orange, lighting up your face.

During those few seconds, neither of you looks away. You look straight into his dark eyes, and he looks directly into yours. 

The light of the flame reflects in his eyes, making them look incredibly intense, focused, and deep. 

You take a slow, deep puff, letting the warm smoke fill your lungs before you delicately remove the cigarette from your mouth with your fingers. You turn your head away from him, looking back out into the cold night, and blow the smoke out into the air.

Even without looking directly at him, you can see his face through the corner of your eye. He is smiling again. It’s a small, knowing smile that makes you want to shake your head in annoyance. 

He lights his own cigarette, the sudden flame illuminating his sharp jawline for a brief moment before he closes the lighter with a sharp, metallic snap that sounds loud in the quiet night.

"I wasn’t lying when I said I am a big admirer," he says, his voice smooth and calm as he blows a cloud of smoke to the side, away from your face.

You shake your head, a small, sarcastic sound escaping your throat. 

"Don’t ruin it," you reply, keeping your eyes fixed on the dark trees in the distance. "We were actually getting along well for a second there. Don’t start with the fake compliments."

Sean turns his body slightly toward you, lowering his head a bit so he can try to catch your eye. He wrinkles his forehead, looking confused by your reaction, but you can see the clear amusement hiding beneath the cigarette resting between his lips. 

"Why would that ruin it?" he asks, his tone genuinely curious about your thoughts.

"Don’t say those kinds of stupid things just because you want to get someone into your bed tonight," you say bluntly, turning to look at him. 

You don’t try to be nice or polite about it. You know exactly how men like him operate, especially the handsome actors in this industry who think they can have absolutely anyone they want with a few nice words and a charming smile. 

You have seen it a thousand times, and you refuse to be another one of his games.

Sean pauses, taking the cigarette out of his mouth. He leans his elbow back on the cold stone of the balcony, turning his entire body to face you now, letting the cold wind hit his back. 

He looks at you with an expression that is half hurt and half challenged, as if he can’t believe you just said that to him. 

"Do you really think that low of me?" he asks, his voice dropping a bit lower, sounding softer and more serious than before.

You look over at him, your eyes meeting his. 

For a split second, a real, genuine smile tries to break through your serious expression. You find his frustration slightly funny. But to hide it from him, you bring the cigarette back to your lips and take another long, slow puff. You let the thick white smoke hide your face and your emotions from him.

"Well, if that is the case... thank you," you say after a moment, your voice dripping with heavy sarcasm as you blow the smoke out.

Sean stares at you, studying every single detail of your face as if he’s trying to solve a difficult puzzle that he can’t figure out. The heavy silence stretches between you again, but this time it feels different. It feels much tighter, filled with his growing frustration, his confusion, and his deep curiosity about you. 

He takes another quick drag of his cigarette, the tip glowing red, then speaks up quickly, breaking the quiet before you can turn away from him again.

"How do you do it?" he asks, the words coming out fast, as if he couldn’t keep them inside anymore.

You wrinkle your forehead, genuinely surprised by the sudden change in his tone and the question itself. 

You turn your head to look at him properly, removing the cigarette from your lips. 

"Do what?"

"This," Sean says. He moves his hands away from the stone railing, opening his arms wide to gesture at the massive, glowing palace around you, the expensive party happening inside with all the powerful executives, and finally, he points a finger directly at you. "Everything. It’s like... everyone just falls right at your feet the moment you walk into a room. It doesn’t matter what you say to them, it doesn’t matter what you do. You always manage to get the absolute best projects in the business. You work with the most powerful people in the entire industry. How do you do it? What is your secret?"

There is a real note of desperation in his voice now. The confident, charming Hollywood actor persona has completely disappeared, replaced by something much more raw, honest, and deeply insecure. He looks like a man who is lost in a world he can’t control, looking to you for answers.

You look away from him, turning your gaze back to the dark gardens below. You take a long, slow puff of your cigarette, letting him wait for your answer in the cold.

"You are here tonight too, Sean," you answer quietly, pointing out the obvious truth. 

You’re reminding him that he is also standing in the Agnelli Palace, that he also has access to this exclusive world of extreme wealth, fame, and power. You’re telling him that he is fully capable of all of it too, if he just realized his own worth.

But Sean just lets out a frustrated, heavy sigh. He shakes his head, clearly unhappy with your answer, thinking you are just dismissing him. 

"It’s not the same," he says, his voice dropping an octave, sounding incredibly tired and defeated.

"Why isn’t it?" you ask, turning your head back to look at him, your curiosity growing as you see his vulnerability.

"Because it just isn’t!" he says, his voice rising a bit, sounding a little frantic and desperate in the quiet night. He stops himself, taking a deep breath of the cold air to calm his racing thoughts before anyone inside can hear him. 

He looks down at his expensive leather shoes for a second, then looks back up at you, his eyes wide and completely open in the dim light of the balcony. 

"Because... because I will never be like that. You all have so much real talent. So much hunger inside you to win. So much natural charisma that makes people look at you. So much—"

"You all?" you interrupt him, cutting him off right in the middle of his sentence before he can finish his list.

He stops talking, blinking at you in surprise, caught off guard by your interruption. "You and… Josephine"

A soft, sharp laugh escapes your throat. It’s a bitter, sarcastic sound that echoes slightly against the cold stone walls of the balcony. 

"Right... of course," you say, your voice turning cold as ice. 

Josephine. 

It always comes back to her, doesn’t it? She is the big star, the shining light of the movie, the one everyone wants to talk to, and he’s just the handsome man by her side, the guy who tags along to the big parties. 

You can see how much it hurts his pride, even if he tries to hide it.

You take one last, deep puff of your cigarette, watching the red tip glow bright one final time in the darkness. You turn around, pressing the glowing tip firmly against the cold stone of the balcony railing, crushing it until it is completely dead and black. You drop the leftover filter into a small glass tray nearby. Then, you turn back to face him completely, your eyes locked onto his.

This time, you do not stay at a safe distance from him. You take a deliberate, slow step forward. Your feet move quietly until your body is almost pressed right against his. You can feel the intense heat radiating from his large frame, a sharp contrast to the freezing Roman air around you. 

It feels dangerous, but you don’t care. 

You look up into his eyes, your faces now only inches apart, close enough that you can see the dark color of his pupils.

"Has anyone ever told you that you act like a little lapdog?" you ask.

Your voice is incredibly low, steady, and completely brutal. You don’t try to hide the harsh truth from him.

Sean’s face changes instantly. His jaw tightens so hard you can see the muscles move, and his forehead deepens into a heavy, angry frown. He looks shocked, insulted, and deeply hurt by your words, his pride taking a massive hit. 

"Excu—" he starts to say, his voice sharp and defensive.

"You are afraid," you say, interrupting him again, your voice full of absolute certainty. You don’t let him defend himself or make excuses for his behavior. "You are terrified. You are scared of what people might say about you if you fail. You care way too much about what people think, about their opinions of you and your work. And it shows, Sean. It shows the very second you walk into a room. Everyone in this industry can smell the fear on you from a mile away. They know they can control you."

As you speak, you raise your hand slowly between your bodies. Your fingers are cold from the night air, but you place them gently on the edge of his expensive suit jacket. 

Slowly, deliberately, you begin to move your fingertips along the fine fabric, tracing the lines of his broad chest, moving down toward his heart. 

You can feel his heart beating incredibly fast beneath the layers of his clothes, reacting to your touch.

"It is a very fine line, you know?" you say, tilting your head to the side, keeping your eyes locked onto his dark ones, completely controlling the moment. "It is a very fine line between having them eat out of the very palm of your hand and at the exact same time, letting them believe that you are just an object for them to use for their own games. You don’t know how to walk that line yet. You just let them use you because you are too afraid to stand up."

The physical closeness between you is intense, almost suffocating. 

Neither of you moves away or breaks the connection. In fact, without even realizing it, your faces have drifted even closer together in the darkness. 

You’re standing so close now that you can feel his warm, heavy breath hitting your face. It carries the smell of the expensive alcohol mixed with the bitter, rich scent of the cigarette smoke you both just shared. It’s an intoxicating, dangerous mix that makes your head spin a little. 

Your eyes drop down to his lips for a brief second, noting the shape of them. He notices your gaze, and by pure instinct, his tongue darts out to wet his dry lips, his breathing becoming heavier.

"It’s not about talent, Mr. Lockwood," you whisper, your voice so soft that your breath brushes against his mouth, teasing him. "It’s about being in the right moment, with the right person, in the absolute perfect place. And knowing how to take what is yours."

Sean looks completely dazed, caught entirely in your spell, unable to think clearly. 

He tilts his head down slightly, closing his eyes a bit, leaning in to close the tiny remaining gap between your lips.

But  just as his lips are about to touch yours, you place your open hand firmly against his chest and give him a sharp, firm push backward. It’s not enough to hurt him or make him fall, but it forces him to take a sudden, clumsy step back away from you. 

He blinks rapidly, his eyes flying open, looking confused, stunned, and completely dizzy from the sudden rejection. He looks like a man who was just woken up from a deep dream.

"Stop acting like a lapdog," you say coldly, looking down your nose at him, re-establishing your distance. "Maybe then you will actually start getting what you want for once in your life. But let me tell you something right now: if you keep following behind her like a good boy, you are never going to be anything more than her eternal shadow. Everyone will just see you as Josephine’s… friend, not as Sean Lockwood."

Before you can say another word to him, and before Sean can even try to find his voice to answer your heavy insult, a loud, cheerful voice calls out from the end of the long hallway inside the palace, breaking the spell completely.

"Just the person I wanted to find right now!"

The thick tension between you and Sean breaks instantly, like a piece of glass shattering on a hard stone floor. 

You turn your head away from him immediately, looking toward the open door of the balcony. A wide, bright smile quickly appears on your face, completely replacing the cold, harsh expression you had just a second ago. You put your mask back on in an instant.

Walking down the hallway are the Agnelli twins.

"If it isn’t the two people who cause the most trouble in all of Rome!" you call out to them, your voice filled with a playful, teasing energy that matches theirs perfectly.

The twins laugh out loud, clearly loving your description of them. They don’t deny it; they are incredibly proud of the chaos they bring wherever they go in Europe. 

The brother steps forward, a mischievous, wild grin on his face. He looks past you for a second, noticing Sean standing there looking frozen, angry, and confused in the shadows, but he quickly turns his full attention back to you, ignoring him. He raises his hand and points toward a dark wooden door further down the corridor, a door that leads to one of the private, hidden rooms of the massive palace.

"We are about to go inside," the brother says, his voice low, private, and highly suggestive. "Do you want some?"

Your eyes slide back to Sean for a brief moment. He’s watching the scene with deep curiosity, but there’s also a look of complete confusion on his face. He seems completely disoriented, trying to figure out who these two young people are and what exactly they are offering you.

"Are you coming?" you ask him, your voice smooth, inviting, and just a little bit mocking.

You don’t wait for him to give you an answer or make up his mind. You turn around on your heel, the sharp sound of your shoes immediately echoing off the stone balcony. 

Your heels click loudly against the cold marble floor of the long hallway as you follow them toward the private room. You don’t even bother to turn around to see if Sean is actually following you. 

You don’t need to check. 

You know that he’s coming right behind you, drawn in by the strange, powerful pull you have over him now, unable to stay away.

The twins lead you into the smaller, dimly lit room down the hall, away from the main areas of the palace. The walls are covered in a dark green silk fabric that absorbs the light, and heavy velvet curtains block out any light or sound from the outside world, making it feel like a secret bunker. 

Inside the room, there are two other young people sitting down on expensive chairs. You don’t know their names, and you don’t care to ask, but you recognize their faces from other high-society parties in Europe. 

Honestly, it doesn’t matter to you at all. To you, they’re all the exact same. All part of the same rich, dirty scum that runs this circus.

"Come on, hurry up and close the door. Our father is already looking for us out there," the sister twin says quickly, looking toward the hallway. She moves over to a large couch, sliding to the side to make space for you. She hits the empty green cushion next to her with her open hand, signaling for you to sit down right there next to her.

You take a seat, smoothing down the fabric of your expensive dress with an easy, elegant motion, acting completely at home in this environment. Then, you look up at the doorway.

Sean enters the room a second later, just as you expected. 

He closes the heavy wooden door behind him, but he stays close to it at first, looking unsure of what to do next or where to stand. 

As you look at him standing there in the dim light, a sudden, intense shiver runs straight down your spine. It’s not a normal feeling at all. It’s sharp, hot, and electric, taking your breath away for a second. 

You can’t explain it, but in that exact moment, something between the two of you just clicks perfectly. It’s a strange, sudden understanding that passes between your eyes across the room, even when you only met a few hours ago at the start of the party.

Sean takes a slow, deliberate step away from the door, his eyes locked onto yours. He walks across the small room toward the couch, his movements a bit looser now, as if he has made a final decision to join your world. He sits down right next to you, his large, heavy body sinking deep into the soft, dark green velvet of the cushion.

You don’t hesitate for even a single second. 

You know exactly what move to make to keep your control over him. 

Without losing an ounce of your elegance or your cool, calm control, you shift your weight, slide over, and sit down directly onto his right thigh. You don’t look at him when you do it, keeping your face calm. But even then you can feel his intense reaction. 

You can feel his eyes on you, his gaze burning into the side of your face and neck. It’s a look of absolute, pure devotion, like a man looking at a queen or something holy that he shouldn’t be allowed to touch. 

His body goes a bit stiff under your weight, but he doesn’t move away from you — he holds his breath, letting you sit there on top of him, accepting your dominance.

"This batch is much better than the last one we got in Milan," the brother twin says, breaking the quiet of the room with a laugh.

He reaches forward over the table and extends a heavy silver tray toward you. In his other hand, he holds a small tube used for inhaling. On top of the polished silver tray, there are several perfect, neat white lines of powder. They sit there under the dim lights of the room, looking clean, sharp and dangerous.

As you look down at the silver tray, you can feel your mouth instantly watering from the sight. The craving hits you fast and hard, a familiar rush of excitement, but you don’t show any sign of desperation to the people around you. You keep your elegant posture.

Quickly, with the smooth, calm movements of a professional who has done this a hundred times before at these kinds of secret parties, you take the small tube from his hand. You lean forward over the silver tray, your dress shifting slightly, place the tube gently against your right nostril, and inhale deeply. You move quickly along the line, taking it all in one smooth, continuous, and perfect breath. 

The sharp, bitter burn hits the back of your throat instantly, making your eyes water slightly and your nose tingle with the chemical heat. 

You pull back slowly, your eyes closing tightly as the powerful chemical rush begins to hit your brain, making your heart beat much faster in your chest and washing away the coldness from the balcony.

"Holy shit," you mutter after a moment, your voice sounding a little raspy, deep, and breathy as you open your eyes and look around. "I believe you. This is incredibly good stuff."

The twins let out loud, messy laughs, clearly pleased with your high praise of their supply. They immediately take the tray back toward themselves and start doing their own lines, their movements practiced, quick, and completely careless of the risks.

You lower your head, your eyes finding Sean again. He’s sitting right beneath you, his thigh supporting your weight, watching the entire scene with a look of pure, dark fascination. 

He looks a bit shocked by how casual and open everyone is about it, but his eyes are wide, glued to the silver tray in front of him, watching the powder disappear.

"You don’t have to take any if you don’t want to, Sean," you tell him softly, leaning down so only he can hear your calm voice. You want to give him an out, to see if he will try to act pure or if he will join in to impress you and the twins.

Sean seems to shake himself out of a deep trance, his eyes moving from the tray up to your face. He blinks quickly, shaking his head as if to clear his mind. 

"No, yes. Yes, I want to do it," he says quickly, his voice suddenly determined, firm, and surprisingly deep. 

He reaches out his large hand, his fingers steady, and takes the silver tray and the tube directly from your hands.

You smile slightly, enjoying his sudden change in attitude, and lean in a bit closer to his face, your breath hitting his cheek. 

"Okay, well, you need to place the tube gently inside your—"

Before you can even finish your sentence of instruction, Sean leans down over the tray, showing he doesn’t need your help. With a fast, incredibly smooth, and highly practiced movement that shows he’s no stranger to this lifestyle, he makes his portion disappear without leaving a single trace of white powder behind on the polished silver surface. 

He pulls back quickly, his head snapping up, his fingers moving to wipe his nose with a smooth motion, and then he reaches out to hand the silver tray back to the brother twin without saying a word.

You stare at him, a bit stunned and completely speechless for a moment. You didn’t expect him to be so fast, so clean, or so experienced with this kind of stuff after how nervous he looked before. 

You suppose you shouldn’t be surprised — he is a famous Hollywood actor, after all, and that dark world is completely full of these expensive, secret habits. But still, seeing him do it with such confidence, ease, and raw power makes your cheeks flush with a sudden warmth. A soft pink color creeps up your neck under your skin, and you look away for a brief second to regain your composure, feeling a shift in the power dynamic between you.

The powerful drug hits his system quickly, and you can see the physical change in his body almost instantly. His posture becomes much more relaxed, losing all of his previous stiffness, nervousness, and fear. 

He leans back against the green velvet cushions of the sofa, stretching his left long leg out in front of him. 

As he settles back into the couch, he raises his large, warm hand and places it firmly on your lower back, your fingers pressing into your skin, almost touching your glute through the fabric of your dress. It’s a bold, possessive touch that claims you completely in front of the others in the room, showing he’s no longer acting like a shy boy. But you don’t move away from him. You don’t complain at all about his touch. 

The sister twin looks up from the table, her eyes bright, wide, and fully dilated from the drug. She looks directly at Sean, a curious, knowing smile spreading across her face as she notices where his hand is placed on your body. 

"You came here with Josephine tonight, right?" she asks, her voice sounding loud, sharp, and clear in the quiet, enclosed room, trying to stir up trouble.

Sean nods his head slowly, his voice sounding a bit deeper, rougher, and more relaxed now as the drug takes full effect. 

"Oh, yeah... yeah, we came together."

The brother twin chimes in, leaning back in his chair as he tries to wipe down the silver table with a saliva so there is absolutely no evidence left behind of what they just did in the room.

"Are you staying here at the palace tonight, or are you going back to a hotel in the city center?"

"Yeah, I’m staying here tonight," Sean answers, his eyes fixed entirely on your face now, ignoring the twins completely. He pauses for a second, trying to remember the details they gave him at the front desk. "Room 15, I think? That’s what the servant told me when we arrived."

The sister lets out a sharp, amused laugh, her eyes darting over to your face to see your reaction to the news. 

"Oh, so you two are going to be really close tonight then. Josephine has Room 18, right down the same hall."

You glare at the sister twin, giving her a sharp, angry look with your eyes. You don’t want Sean thinking about Josephine right now. But the sister just smiles wider, biting her bottom lip, clearly enjoying the little bit of drama she’s causing.

Sean doesn’t seem to notice the angry look you gave her, or maybe he just doesn’t care anymore. He turns his head to look up at you, his face very close to yours once again, his breath warm against your skin. 

The drug has made his eyes look completely different than they did on the balcony. There is a dark, heavy, and dangerous intensity in his gaze now, a completely different feeling that you can’t fully explain with simple words. It looks like pure, raw hunger, but also like something deeper, something permanent. He looks like a man who has finally decided to take what he wants.

"Are you staying tonight too?" he asks you, his eyes locking onto yours. His voice is incredibly rough now, a low, sexy growl that vibrates right against your skin and makes you feel a sudden wave of heat inside your body.

You look down into his dark eyes, feeling the powerful, fast rush of the toxic in your veins and the heavy heat of his large hand on your lower back. You don’t say a single word to him out loud. You just nod your head slowly, keeping your eyes fixed on his.

Suddenly, he raises his other hand toward your face. His movements are gentle and careful. He brings his hand to your cheek, his fingers warm against your skin, and his thumb moves slowly, softly across the skin just beneath your nose, gently wiping away a tiny bit of white powder that you had missed when you inhaled. 

The feeling of his rough thumb against your sensitive skin makes your breath catch completely in your throat, your lungs freezing. Your heart skips a heavy beat. You freeze in place on his lap, looking straight into his dark, intense eyes, unable to move, breathe, or look away from him. 

"Alright, let’s go. Our father is going to absolutely kill us if we aren’t out there soon to greet the final guests," the brother’s loud voice suddenly breaks the quiet of the room, snapping you out of your deep trance and breaking the moment.

The sudden noise forces you to move away from him. 

You stand up quickly, stepping off Sean’s warm thigh, and reach down with your hands to fix the skirt of your dress, smoothing out the fabric to look perfect again. 

Your heart is beating incredibly fast in your chest from everything that just happened in this dark room. 

You look down at Sean one last time, watching him sit there on the green velvet couch, looking up at you with that same intense, hungry, and confident expression, before you turn around and walk out of the private room, stepping back into the long hallway to face the party once more, not knowing exactly what will happen later tonight.

— 

When you finally close the heavy wooden door of the hotel room behind you and rest the back of your head against the surface, you feel like you could faint right then and there. 

Your knees feel weak, your muscles ache, and a deep, heavy exhaustion seems to have settled directly into your bones.

The moment you both came back at the grand ballroom of the Agnelli palace, Sean had vanished. He didn’t even have the decency to make an excuse or ease his way out of your presence. And you knew perfectly well who he left with.

You had watched them from across the crowded room, catching glimpses of Josephine’s bright laughter through the sea of tuxedos and diamond necklaces. You saw the way Sean leaned in close to hear her speak, the way his hand brushed against her arm. 

In that moment, you made a conscious choice: you decided not to care. You told yourself it didn’t matter. Why should it matter? Sean was an adult, free to ruin himself or chase whatever illusion of high society he wanted. 

You had no claim on him, and he certainly had none on you.

But repeating it didn’t stop the dull ache in your temples. Right now, your head is throbbing violently from the sheer volume of empty conversations you had to endure. You had spent hours trapped in corners with wealthy investors, distant aristocrats, and critics who praised your work with hollow words. 

To survive it all, you had clearly taken a few too many drinks. The alcohol is currently humming in your veins, making the world tilt just a fraction when you move your head too fast.

Slowly, deliberately, you begin to strip away the armor of the evening.

You reach behind your back, your fingers fumbling slightly with the long zipper of your gala dress. With a soft rustle of expensive fabric, the heavy gown slides down your hips, pooling at your feet like a dark wave. You step out of it, leaving it on the floor, not caring that it costs more than most people earn in a year. 

Next come the jewels. You unclasp the heavy diamond necklace that had felt like a collar all night, dropping it onto the vanity table with a sharp click. The matching earrings follow, along with the bracelets.

Finally, you reach up and begin to pull out the dozens of hairpins holding your styled hair in place. As the pins drop onto the table, you run your fingers through your scalp, shaking it out, finally letting out a breath you feel like you’ve been holding since eight o’clock in the evening.

You reach for your silk robe, sliding your arms into the wide sleeves. You tie the belt loosely around your waist. The cool, incredibly soft fabric wraps around your bare skin, hugging your body perfectly. It’s a relief compared to the tight, suffocating structure of the dress.

Seeking a moment of quiet, you walk over to the large glass window that overlooks the estate. You press your forehead against the cool glass and look outside. The party is truly over. There are no more black cars lined up in the grand driveway of the Agnelli palace, and the long, manicured gardens are completely empty. Not a single soul is walking down the stone paths under the moonlight. 

The world out there is completely still, completely silent.

Then, a sudden, sharp knock on your door cuts through the quiet of the room.

You jump slightly, your head snapping quickly toward the door. Your heart gives a sudden, hard thud against your ribs. You frown, looking at the clock on the bedside table. It’s well past three in the morning. Who could possibly be knocking at this hour of the night?

For a second, panic flares up in your chest, but you quickly force yourself to calm down. It’s probably just a maid, you think. The Agnelli staff is famous for their round-the-clock service. It’s likely just someone coming by to check if the room needs fresh towels, or perhaps to leave a bottle of water on the nightstand for the morning hangover.

Letting out a long, tired sigh, you pull the edges of your silk robe tighter against your chest, ensuring you are covered. You walk slowly across the plush carpet toward the door. You don’t even bother to ask who it is through the wood. You are too tired for caution, and you fully expect to find a polite, quiet woman dressed in a neat black-and-white uniform, offering a servile smile.

Instead, you swing the door open, and the sight on the other side completely steals the air right out of your lungs.

Sean is leaning slightly against the doorframe, looking completely different from the perfectly polished man who had walked into the gala hours ago. His thick, brown hair is beautifully messy, far looser than it had been during the party. A few stray locks have fallen damply across his forehead, shadowing his eyes. 

The formal black bow tie that had been tied so neatly around his collar is completely undone, hanging loosely around his unbuttoned neck like a discarded ribbon. 

His expensive tuxedo jacket is wide open, the white shirt beneath it wrinkled, with the top three buttons undone to reveal the base of his throat and the hint of his chest hair.

Looking at him standing there in the dim light of the hallway, your mind feels entirely split. Part of you thinks he looks like an absolute angel that has fallen from grace. The other part of you knows better — he looks like sin itself, wrapped up in a ruined suit, waiting to drag you down with him.

Suddenly, the reality of your appearance hits you. You are wearing nothing but a thin sheet of silk, your hair is wild around your face, and your skin is completely bare of makeup. You feel incredibly exposed beneath his gaze. 

Instinctively, your arms wrap tightly around your own waist, a defensive wall built to protect yourself from whatever he’s bringing to your door.

"Mr. Lockwood," you say, your voice cutting through the silence of the corridor. You try to sound cold, distant, and professional, but there’s an undeniable edge of playfulness underneath it. "Are you lost? Did you forget the way to your own bedroom?"

Sean doesn’t answer immediately. 

Instead, a slow, lazy smile spreads across his face, and he bites his lower lip just enough to hide the full width of his grin. His dark eyes don’t stay on your face. 

Slowly, deliberately, his gaze travels down from your tangled hair, over the exposed skin of your collarbone, down the length of your silk robe, and all the way back up to meet your eyes. It’s a thorough, heavy analysis that makes your skin flush with sudden heat.

He lifts his right hand, which had been hidden slightly behind his back. In it, he’s holding a green bottle of expensive champagne. It’s covered in condensation, large drops of icy water dripping down the glass and splashing onto the floor. In his left hand, he holds two crystal glasses, the stems clicked neatly between his fingers.

"I was wondering if you wanted to celebrate," Sean says. He shakes both of his hands gently, making the crystal glasses clink together with a soft, ringing sound.

You raise a single eyebrow, leaning your shoulder against the edge of the open door, refusing to let him in just yet. 

"Celebrate what, exactly? The party ended an hour ago, Sean. In case you didn’t notice, everyone has already gone to sleep."

He shrugs his broad shoulders, a completely relaxed, carefree gesture that irritates you just as much as it charms you. 

"Let’s celebrate life. Isn’t that enough of a reason?"

You roll your eyes dramatically at his ridiculous, empty answer. Yet, despite yourself, you can’t completely hide the small smile that tugs at the corner of your lips. 

To keep him from seeing how much he affects you, you bite the inside of your cheek, forcing your expression back into a hard, challenging look.

"What’s the matter, Sean?" you ask, your tone dipping into pure mockery. "Did Josephine reject you again? Is that why you’re wandering around the hallways at three in the morning like a sad, abandoned dog looking for a place to sleep?"

The lazy, confident smile on his face instantly falters. It doesn’t disappear completely, but the corners of his mouth tighten, and the warmth leaves his expression for a split second. Your words hit exactly where you wanted them to. 

Inevitably, his eyes flicker down the long hallway, turning toward the distant wing of the palace where Josephine’s luxury suite is located.

There is a brief, raw shadow in his eyes when he looks away — a flash of quiet pain, a bruise to his massive ego. It tells you everything you need to know. He had tried to be with her tonight. And she had turned him away, or perhaps she had simply chosen someone else with a higher title and a bigger bank account. Seeing that look in his eyes makes a sharp spike of jealousy and satisfaction twist in your stomach.

But as he turns his gaze back to you, something shifts in the air. The vulnerability vanishes, replaced by a dark, intense focus. He looks at you with a hunger that makes your breath catch. 

There is something inside you — something loud, angry, and deeply desperate — that screams at you to act. You don’t want to be his second choice, but more than that, you want to completely erase Josephine from his mind. You want to make him forget her name, her face, and everything else. 

You want him to want you, right now, so intensely that he won’t be able to breathe.

Letting out a loud, dramatic sigh — as if letting him into your room is the absolute heaviest, most exhausting chore in the entire world — you step back from the door. You turn your back on him and begin walking slowly into the center of your room, leaving the door wide open behind you. 

It’s a clear, silent invitation. You are telling him exactly what you want without saying a single word.

A second later, you hear the sharp, distinct click of the door closing and locking behind him.

He understood perfectly. 

Within moments, the quiet space of your bedroom is completely invaded by his presence. The smell of the night air, the sharp scent of expensive alcohol, and the heavy, intoxicating fragrance of his cologne fill the room. 

You don’t even have to look back to know exactly where he is. You can feel the heat of his body, the rhythm of his footsteps walking slowly, steadily, right behind you.

You walk over to the massive king-sized bed and sit down lightly on the very edge of the mattress. As you settle into the sheets, you deliberately cross one leg over the other. The movement causes the thin silk of your robe to slide apart, revealing a long line of your bare thigh. It’s a calculated move, a subtle display of skin, and it does not go unnoticed.

Sean stops walking the exact moment your robe parts. His eyes lock onto your exposed leg, his throat moving as he swallows hard. A heavy silence fills the room for a few seconds before he clears his throat, breaking the spell. 

He steps over to the low coffee table in the center of the seating area, setting the two crystal glasses down with a quiet clink.

He places his palm over the cork of the champagne bottle. With a firm, practiced twist of his wrist, he forces the cork out.

Pop.

The loud, sudden sound echoes sharply against the high ceilings of the room. Even though you were expecting it, the noise makes you jump slightly, your shoulders twitching upward.

Sean lets out a soft, low chuckle at your reaction, his eyes crinkling at the corners. You roll your eyes at him again, but you can’t stop the genuine smile that spreads across your face this time. 

The tension between you is thick, but it feels familiar, like a game you have played a thousand times before.

He lifts both glasses from the table, his movements slow and steady. He walks over to the bed, stepping directly into your personal space until his shiny leather shoes are nearly touching your bare toes. 

He leans down slightly, extending one of the glasses toward you.

You stand up from the edge of the bed, rising to meet him face-to-face. As you reach out to take the crystal stem from his hand, you ensure your fingers brush deliberately against his. The skin-on-skin contact sends a sharp, electric jolt straight up your arm. 

Neither of you breaks contact. Your eyes are locked onto his dark, intense gaze, refusing to look away, refusing to show any weakness.

You raise your glass just a fraction of an inch between your faces. 

"To success," you say, your voice steady and smooth.

Sean’s eyes darken further at the word. A small, knowing smile touches his lips, and he nods his head once. 

"To success."

You bring the glass to your mouth, tilting it just enough to let the cold, crisp champagne wet your lips. You don’t drink much, keeping your eyes fixed on him over the rim of the glass.

Sean, however, doesn’t hesitate. He tilts his head back and takes a long, heavy swallow, his throat moving rhythmically as he finishes half the glass in one go.

He lowers the drink, letting out a hot, heavy breath. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, suddenly looking a bit restless. He clears his throat again, his fingers tightening around the fragile glass stem.

"You know," he begins, his voice dropping into a quieter, more serious tone. "I’ve been thinking..."

"About what?" you ask. You step past him, your shoulder brushing lightly against his chest as you walk over to the coffee table. You set your glass down on the wood, then turn around slowly, crossing your arms over your chest to look at him.

"About what you said to me earlier," Sean says. He turns around to face you completely, his expression intensely serious now. "About being in the perfect moment, with the perfect person... and how that’s the only way to truly achieve success."

You tilt your head to the side, pretending to be deep in thought, a playful, amused look on your face. 

"Did I say that? Wow. I must be far wiser than I look."

You say it with a clear laugh in your voice, treating it like a joke.

But Sean doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even smile. The playful atmosphere in the room vanishes in an instant, replaced by an intensity so thick it feels hard to breathe. He stares at you, his eyes burning with a wild, hungry light. His knuckles turn white as he grips his champagne glass with immense force.

"I think this is the perfect moment," he says softly.

Slowly, deliberately, he begins to take a few steps toward you. His movements are smooth, predatory, and completely focused. He closes the distance between you until he’s standing right in front of you. 

He reaches out, his arm moving over your shoulder as he leans in to place his own glass on the coffee table behind you. The movement forces his chest to press almost entirely against yours. Your bodies are so close you can feel the radiating heat of his skin through your robe.

Your eyes inevitably drop to his lips. They’re still wet from the champagne, glistening in the dim light of the room. You can see the slight movement of his tongue as he wets them again.

"And am I the perfect person?" you whisper, your voice barely audible in the quiet room.

Sean doesn’t give you a direct verbal answer. 

Instead, his right hand moves with incredible speed and firmness, wrapping tightly around your waist. He pulls you forward, locking your hips against his. The sudden movement forces you to bring your hands up, placing them flat against his broad chest to keep your balance. Beneath your palms, you can feel his heart beating like a wild animal trapped in a cage — fast, hard, and loud.

His left hand rises slowly, his long fingers gently moving a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His touch is surprisingly soft, a sharp contrast to the tight, bruising grip on your waist. His palm settles against your cheek, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

You look up at him, forcing a slight frown onto your face, though your heart is racing just as fast as his. 

"So, is this what this is about, Sean? Are you just going to use me to get what you want? To reach your precious success?"

"Can I?" he whispers back against your skin. His hot, alcohol-scented breath hits your face, making your senses reel.

"What?" your gaze defies him

"Use you," he murmurs, his eyes dropping to your mouth.

The two words completely steal the air right out of your lungs. For a second, you are entirely speechless, your mind spinning. 

To hide how deeply his words have shaken you, you force a soft, mocking laugh from your throat. You shake your head, looking away to the side, trying to regain your control.

"You are completely out of your mind, Sean—"

Before you can even finish the thought, before you can figure out how to push him away or tell him to go to hell, his hand moves from your cheek down to your jaw. His fingers grip your jawline firmly, stopping your movement. 

With a sudden, heavy pull, he twists your face back to him and slams his lips hard against yours.

Any thought completely vanishes from your mind the second his lips touch yours.

Your hands, which had been resting flat against his chest to keep him away, instinctively ball into fists, grabbing the fabric of his white shirt and his open tuxedo jacket. You pull him closer, burying yourself in his warmth, trying to eliminate any remaining space between your bodies.

The kiss isn’t sweet. It isn’t gentle or polite. 

It’s a hungry, violent collision of lips and teeth. It’s a kiss born from a deep, aching need for attention, for power, for success, and for glory. Both of you are fighting for dominance, each trying to impose your will on the other in your own way. 

He sucks at your upper lip, and you pull him closer by the hair, refusing to give an inch, matching his intensity.

His mouth slides away from your lips, moving down the sensitive line of your jaw, his breathing incredibly ragged. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his lips pressing hot, wet kisses against your skin as he moves up toward your ear.

"Let me be with you..." he whispers, his voice shaking slightly against your skin. He presses a hard kiss just beneath your ear. "Tonight... every single night... forever."

Each word is punctuated by another heavy, desperate kiss against your throat.

You tilt your head far back, resting it against his shoulder to give him completely free access to your neck.

His hands slide down from your waist, his palms moving over the smooth silk of your robe until they reach your backside. His fingers dig firmly into your flesh, squeezing tightly, lifting you slightly off your feet as he presses his hard arousal directly against your lower abdomen.

A soft, broken groan escapes your lips, a sound that is half a sigh and half a moan. A wave of pure heat takes complete control of your body.

You begin to move, forcing him backward. Your steps are slow but determined, driving him across the room until the back of his knees hits the hard edge of the mattress.

With quick, efficient movements, your fingers fly to the buttons of his white shirt. You push the tuxedo jacket and the shirt off his broad shoulders, letting the expensive clothes slide down his arms and drop carelessly onto the floor.

You trace the lines of his muscles, your fingertips moving through hair on his chest, traveling down over his abdomen until they reach the stiff waistband of his dress pants.

You lift your eyes, meeting his gaze in the dim light. What you see there makes your heart stop.

There is an expression in Sean’s eyes that is completely indescribable. It’s a look of absolute, terrifying devotion. In your entire life, no one has ever looked at you that way. Not the people who claim to be your biggest fans, not the executives who kiss your hand at parties, not the lovers who have filled your bed in the past, and certainly not the people who spend their days talking loudly about your immense talent. 

None of them. Nobody. Ever. 

Sean is looking at you as if you are the only source of light in a completely dark universe.

Before you can lose yourself in the realization, before you can regain control of your emotions, Sean moves. He grabs the back of your neck, his fingers tangling deep into your messy hair, and pulls your mouth back down to his.

With a sudden, powerful shift of his weight, he twists your bodies. Before you can even figure out how he did it, you are falling backward onto the soft mattress. You catch yourself on your forearms, your back arching slightly off the sheets, while Sean moves instantly to position himself directly over you.

He drives one of his heavy, fabric-covered knees directly between your thighs. The movement sinks deep into the soft mattress, forcing your legs wide apart and creating a sharp, heavy friction directly against your most sensitive area. The sudden rush of pleasure makes a loud, high-pitched gasp escape your throat. Sean moves instantly to silence the sound, slamming his mouth over yours and swallowing the noise whole.

One of his large hands moves up, wrapping firmly around your left breast through the thin silk of the robe. He squeezes gently, his thumb moving with a slow, deliberate stroke over your nipple, which is already completely hard and erect beneath the fabric. 

Slowly, without breaking the deep kiss, his other hand travels down to your waist. He finds the loose knot of your silk belt and pulls it free with a single, sharp tug. He slides his warm palm directly beneath the open fabric, touching your bare skin for the first time.

"Tell me," Sean whispers fiercely against your lips, his mouth moving down to trace your jawline before returning to press a hard kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Tell me right now."

"Tell you... what?" you gasp out, your hands gripping his bare shoulders as his knee moves again, rubbing heavily against you.

"Tell me you’re going to make me the best actor in the world," he demands, his voice a low, rough growl.

You let out a frustrated, needy groan at his words. The man is completely obsessed with his ambition, even now. But before you can give him a real answer, he silences you again with another deep, bruising kiss.

"Tell me," he commands again, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. "Say it."

"You already are..." you pant out between heavy breaths, your head rolling back onto the pillow. "You’re already... the best actor."

You aren’t just saying it to please him; your mind is completely fuzzy from the pleasure. 

His knee is continuing to rub steadily against your center. The thin, wet silk of your night robe is the only thing separating his trousers from your skin, because you got rid of your underwear the second you took off your gala dress an hour ago. Every movement of his leg sends a wave of intense electricity straight to your brain.

"Don’t lie to me," Sean growls, his teeth biting lightly at the soft skin of your neck, making you shiver violently.

"I’m not... lying to you!" you shout back, your voice tight with a mixture of pleasure and sudden irritation at his stubbornness.

Instead of answering, Sean grips your hips with immense force. His fingers dig into your skin as he pulls your body down the mattress with a sudden, heavy jerk, bringing you right to the very edge of the bed. The sudden movement makes a loud sound of surprise fly from your lips.

Sean drops off the bed, landing on his knees on the floor right between your wide-open legs. In that position, with your robe completely pushed aside, he looks down and notices the complete lack of underwear. He realizes instantly that there is absolutely no fabric covering your most sensitive, wet area.

His dark eyes, now looking almost completely black in the shadows, snap up to meet yours.

"You are so beautiful," he whispers, his voice shaking with genuine awe.

"Sean—"

Before you can even say his name, before you can tell him to move or to hurry up, his hands grip the insides of your thighs. He pushes your legs even wider apart, pinning them down. He leans forward, burying his face between your legs, and begins to leave a trail of wet, heavy kisses and sharp bites along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.

You let out a loud, unrestrained moan, your eyes closing tightly as you abandon any attempt to stay upright. You fall completely flat onto your back against the mattress, your fingers clutching the expensive sheets.

The moment his hot breath hits your center, he stops for a single, agonizing second. He looks up at you one final time, his eyes burning, before his face completely disappears between your legs.

Your teeth clamp down hard on your lower lip to keep from screaming. Your hands fly to his head, your fingers tangling desperately into his messy hair, pulling him closer, holding him against you.

His tongue is incredibly warm and wet, exploring every single inch of your skin with an intense, steady rhythm. His lips wrap gently but firmly around one side of your outer folds, sucking lightly before moving to the other side. 

As he slides lower, the bridge of his nose rubs heavily against your clitoris. The sudden, intense contact makes your entire spine arch completely off the mattress, your body trembling from the shock of pleasure.

You can feel the slight movement of his cheeks — you can’t see him, but you know with absolute certainty that he’s smiling against your wet skin. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

One of his large hands presses down firmly on your right thigh, holding it wide open so you can’t close your legs around him, while his other hand settles flat against your lower stomach, pressing down slightly to anchor you to the bed.

You yank on his hair, a silent, desperate gesture of approval. Sean lets out a deep, vibrating groan into your skin, a sound that travels straight through your body, making your core tighten around his tongue.

He focuses his attention entirely on that single, electric button of nerves. His tongue moves over it with incredible speed and perfect, heavy pressure. It was clear that Sean is going to be exceptionally good at this, too. 

He changes the rhythm, his mouth creating a perfect vacuum as he suctions down on you with the exact amount of force you need. 

The pleasure is so intense you literally see bright spots of light behind your closed eyelids.

"S-Sean..." his name tears out of your throat, sounding incredibly broken and embarrassed.

But Sean seems to absolutely love the sound of his name in your mouth. Hearing you cry out makes him increase both the speed of his tongue and the pressure of his mouth, understanding exactly what your body is begging for.

It doesn’t take long at all. Within minutes, the tension in your body tightens into a hard, unbearable knot. 

You have to bite your own wrist to keep from screaming his name at the top of your lungs. You are terrified that the entire Agnelli family, and all their wealthy guests down the hall, will hear exactly what is happening inside your room. 

With a final, violent shudder, your body explodes into a heavy, pulsing climax.

Slowly Sean pulls his face away from you. He stands up. His chin and his lips are completely soaked with your wetness and his own saliva. He doesn’t look bothered by it at all; he simply runs his hand through his face and wipes his mouth dry. 

You push yourself up, sitting up on your elbows, your breathing heavy. You reach down and push your silk robe completely off your shoulders, letting it slide under your hips. You are completely naked now, sitting on the bed.

You look up, and your eyes connect with his once again. Sean reaches out, his fingers finding your jawline, sliding delicately up to cup your cheek.

While he holds your face, you stand up.

Your hands move down his bare chest and you slide your palms over his stomach, moving down past his waist until your fingers find the massive, heavy bulge trapped inside his dress trousers. 

It’s completely impossible for him to hide his arousal now. He’s incredibly hard, thick, and large. The moment your palms begin to massage him through the black fabric, his jaw tightens, and his teeth sink deep into his lower lip as a sharp gasp escapes him.

Your fingers move to the button of his trousers. You undo it slowly, teasingly, before pulling the zipper down. You reach inside, grabbing the waistband of his underwear along with his pants, and push both garments down his thighs.

The moment he’s free from the tight fabric, his heavy, thick member bounces outward against his lower stomach. You can see a small, clear drop of pre-cum glistening at the very tip of his length.

Despite how much you want him, you don’t touch him with your hands just yet. Instead, you lean forward, your lips approaching his lower abdomen. You press a series of slow, wet kisses across his stomach, your tongue darting out to lick his skin. Sean lets out a loud, guttural growl, his head tossing far back as his hands fly up to grip his own face in pleasure.

You look back up into his eyes, keeping your gaze steady. Slowly, you wrap your fingers around the base of his shaft, your grip firm and warm.

Sean’s breath hitches. He reaches down, his fingers tangling tightly into your hair, holding you in place. You look at him with pure intensity, and just as you are about to take him into your mouth, you stick your tongue out and slowly, deliberately lick the drop of wetness from the very tip of his member.

You look up at him through your lashes and flash a sharp, wicked smile. 

Instead of taking him into your mouth completely, you let go of him. You begin to crawl backward across the massive bed, never once breaking contact with his eyes.

Sean stands frozen for a single second, his mind trying to process the tease. 

Then, his eyes narrow with a dangerous, hungry light. 

He understands the game perfectly. 

He drops his knees onto the mattress, balancing himself, and begins to crawl after you, tracking your movements like a predator cornering its prey.

You lay your naked body completely flat against the expensive, dark bedspread, your arms opening wide. Sean moves instantly, sliding his body directly between your wide-open legs, his chest hovering just inches above yours.

He stares down at you, his eyes completely dark, his breathing heavy and hot against your face. His hands move slowly over the curves of your waist and your hips, his touch filled with a strange, deep reverence.

With a final, heavy look that says absolutely everything, he aligns his length with your center. You can feel the thick, blunt tip of his member beginning to push slowly, steadily, inside your wet warmth.

Your fingernails instantly dig deep into the hard muscles of his shoulders. You grip him tightly, needing something to hold onto, needing an anchor to keep you from losing your mind as he fills you up.

It’s completely impossible to keep your back from lifting off the bed. Your spine arches violently as the sheer size of him stretches you open, filling you completely until there’s absolutely no space left between you.

You expect him to slam his mouth over yours to quiet your noises, but he doesn’t. He keeps his upper body lifted on his hands, his eyes glued to your face. He watches every single flicker of your eyelids, every twist of your lips, completely fascinated by the fact that he’s the one making you feel this way.

He drives his hips forward one final time, burying himself to the absolute base, his pelvis slamming hard against yours. Both of you freeze in that position for a long, agonizing moment, your breath catching in your throats.

"Are you okay?" Sean whispers, his voice trembling with an intensity that surprises you.

You can’t even speak. You simply nod your head against the pillow, your lips parting as a soft sigh escapes you. Sean takes the opportunity to lean down, his mouth capturing your upper lip, sucking on it gently as he begins to move.

The rhythm starts out slow, but it builds with terrifying speed. His hips begin to slam against yours with a steady, punishing pace that sends a wave of heat straight through your lower body. Every single thrust is perfect. He enters you completely and pulls out almost to the tip, hitting the exact right spot inside you every single time. It feels so good it makes you lose all sense of time and place.

"My star," Sean gasps out against your mouth. "My beautiful, perfect star."

"God, Sean..." you scream out, your hands sliding up to grip his hair.

"You are perfect. Absolutely perfect," he groans.

He reaches down with his left hand, grabbing the back of your right thigh and lifting your leg high, opening you up even deeper. His right hand flies to your jaw, his fingers gripping your face tightly, forcing you to look directly into his eyes.

"Swear it to me," he whispers fiercely, his words broken by a loud, deep growl as he thrusts into you again. You can feel the muscles of your walls tightening around him, squeezing him with immense force. "Swear to me that you’ll let me stay beside you. Always. Every single day. Forever."

Hearing the word forever brings a sudden flash of reality back to your mind. You look at his desperate, sweating face, and despite the intense pleasure, you slowly shake your head on the pillow.

Sean’s movements instantly stutter. His smooth rhythm hitches, and his tight grip on your jaw loosens slightly. A deep, confused frown wrinkles his forehead.

"Why not—"

Before he can even finish the question, before he can let his ego get in the way, you cut him off.

"Show me," you pant out, your eyes flashing with absolute fire. "Show me that you actually deserve it."

You take advantage of his split second of confusion and doubt. With a sudden, powerful movement, you place your hands flat against his chest and push him hard. Sean doesn’t fight it; his body rolls over to the side, falling flat onto his back against the mattress.

Before he can even move, you scramble across the bed and climb directly on top of him. You sit on his thighs, your hands reaching down to grab his hard shaft, aligning the tip with your wet center without losing a single second.

"Is this what you want, Sean?" you ask, your voice dipping into a dangerous, challenging tone as you look down at him.

Sean nods his head desperately against the sheets, his hands reaching up to grip your waist with immense force.

Slowly, deliberately, you lower your hips. His thick length slides perfectly, deeply inside you, the sensation so intense that Sean’s head instantly tosses back against the mattress, a loud, agonizing groan tearing from his throat.

"And if I say yes..." you begin, starting to move your hips in a slow, torturous circle above him, "are you actually going to be a good boy for me?"

"I’ll be good," Sean groans out, his eyes closed tightly as his fingers dig bruises into your hips. "I’ll be so good for you."

The wet, slapping sound of your bodies colliding begins to echo loudly through the quiet, high-ceilinged room of the Agnelli palace. Sean’s hands tighten on your body, his hips lifting off the bed to meet every single one of your downward movements, helping you ride him, guiding your pace.

"I’ll be the best," he gasps out, his chest rising and falling violently.

It takes only a few more heavy, chaotic movements. You can see the sudden, sharp change in his face — the way his jaw tightens, the way his breath stops. 

“I’ll make you the greatest of all time” your words leave your mouth with a soft moan.

And those words are enough to finish him. 

His hands hold your hips tight as his own hips rise to trust one final time inside you before you feel his hot and tick cum fill you completely.

A second later, your own body tightens into a final, massive wave of completion. 

You fall forward, your sweaty, exhausted body collapsing flat against his bare chest as both of you release everything into the night; an his large arms wrap loosely, tiredly around your back, holding you tight against him as the sound of your ragged, heavy breathing fills the dark room.

With a slow, careful movement, you slide off his torso, rolling onto your side on the damp mattress, feeling his hot fluid sliding between your legs. 

Sean lets out a low, guttural sigh as the weight of your body leaves him. He doesn’t try to pull you back. Instead, he keeps staring up at the dark ceiling, his eyes reflecting the pale moonlight filtering through the glass.

You prop yourself up on your elbow, your tangled hair falling over your face as you look down at him. 

"So," you whisper, your voice rough and dry. "Did you get what you came for, Mr. Lockwood?"

Sean’s jaw tightens in the dark. He doesn’t look at you immediately. He swallows hard, his throat moving rhythmically before he finally turns his gaze to meet yours. The wild, hungry intensity is gone, replaced by a quiet, brooding shadow that you can’t quite read.

With a heavy sigh, he shifts his weight, turning onto his side to face you fully. He reaches out, his fingers hesitant before they finally brush against your bare shoulder, tracing the smooth line of your skin down to your elbow. His touch is light, almost apologetic, a silent truce in the dark.

You don’t say more. You simply lay your head back down on the pillow, turning your back to him. 

A moment later, you feel the heavy warmth of his body sliding closer, his chest pressing gently against your back, his arm looping around your waist to pull you against him. It feels comfortable, it feels safe, but the underlying tension remains. 

You close your eyes, letting the exhaustion take over, drifting off to sleep with the smell of his cologne and your shared sweat filling your senses.

The morning light doesn’t arrive softly. It breaks through the gaps in the heavy velvet curtains like sharp golden needles, piercing straight through your closed eyelids and forcing you back into the waking world.

Your head wakes up with a dull, punishing throb behind your eyes — the inevitable receipt of the excesses from the night before.

For a few hazy, comfortable seconds, you keep your eyes closed, suspended in the warmth of the blankets. Your skin still feels incredibly sensitive, tingling with the memory of a heavy, burning touch. 

Instinctively, you shift your weight, extending your arm across the wide bed. Your fingers reach out, searching for the firm, radiating warmth of Sean’s bare torso. You expect your hand to land on his broad shoulders, or to hear a low, sleepy growl of protest as he pulls you back against his chest.

But your hand finds nothing but smooth, flat fabric.

Your fingers press down onto the mattress. The sheet beneath your palm is completely smooth, completely flat, and entirely cold. There’s no trapped body heat left in the fabric.

Your eyes snap open.

You sit up quickly, a sudden spike of adrenaline cutting straight through your morning hangover. The heavy coverlet slides down your bare chest as you look around the massive suite.

"Sean?"

Your voice sounds incredibly small in the vast, quiet space. It bounces off the high walls, returning to you as nothing but a hollow echo.

There’s no answer. The only sound in the room is the distant, rhythmic ticking of the antique clock on the wall.

A bitter, cynical smile touches your lips as you swing your legs out of bed. You look down at the floor near the edge of the mattress. His clothes are entirely gone. The wrinkled white shirt, the expensive tuxedo jacket, the dark dress trousers — he has gathered every single item in the absolute dark, moving silently like a thief in the night. 

Sean thought he could play his little games of ambition and escape. 

He thought he could use your body to reach his own glory and then slip away before the sun revealed his weakness. 

But as you stand up and tie your silk robe tightly around your waist, you look at the two empty glasses on the table and smile.

He has forgotten one crucial detail: the performance is over, but you are still the one holding the script.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　

⭑ para val, te amo⭑

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