[puck-luck]

s(q)uirmy | quinn hughes

happy valentine's day, all. this was posted by accident on february 6th at 8:05 a.m. for some reason but it was meant to be a SWEET SURPRISE!! so i deleted and rescheduled and now y'all get to enjoy the fic as it was intended <3

warnings: unprotected p in v, light angst about quinn's trade to minnesota and the move pairing: quinn hughes x fem!reader wc: 2,631

Quinn has something he wants to say.

He keeps pinching your ankle, but whenever you look over, he doesn’t ask for your attention. He’s staring at his hands on your skin, the pink discoloration of his knuckles contrasting your pale flesh. His mouth is taut and the tightness shifts from side to side as he chews on his bottom lip. It’s been a long day.

The night sky, visible through the window, went dark hours ago. Quinn turned on a football game when he got home, but his heart wasn't in it. He watched the first two quarters with nary a critique – not for the refs, not for the players, not even when they called horse-collar on what would have been a pivotal interception. Now it’s half time and he hasn’t uttered a word. The silence seems louder because he turned the volume down for you, knowing this analyst’s voice grates your patience like parmesan cheese.

“You okay?”

Quinn’s eyes dart to you. His upper lip has disappeared between his teeth in thought, forming that signature Hughes pout that always makes you laugh. 

You don’t this time, but you tilt your head to the side and offer him a doting smile, giving him your full attention. 

Quinn’s expression softens into a weak, pained smile. His gaze drops to your midsection, like he’s unable to meet your eyes. 

Taken aback, you ask again, “Q. You okay?”

He nods hurriedly before he looks back up. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

You shift forward.

“‘m fine,” he assures you. His grip tightens on your ankle and he brings you closer. “Just… come ‘ere.”

Quinn’s hands never leave you as he reaches for your hips, trailing along your sides clumsily. He pulls you onto his lap, arms wrapping around your waist. 

You settle in, humming and pushing your hands through his hair. “Somethin’ on your mind?”

Quinn shakes his head. “Not really.”

“Okay,” you laugh. “If you’re sure.”

His grin mirrors yours, eyes getting brighter as he looks up at you. “I’m sure.”

You touch his face and allow the silence to sit. You lose yourself in it, Quinn’s muscles getting more loose the longer you stay like this. 

He lets his hands linger heavily on your sides. “I missed you this week.”

“Yeah, I missed you,” you simper genuinely. “The apartment’s so empty when you’re not here.”

“Hotel rooms suck,” Quinn counters. “They’re all the same. White sheets and a white blanket and it’s too tight in the corners. There’s no one to kick me in the middle of the night and steal all my covers.”

“Mm, you’re not sleeping with Kirill anymore?” you joke.

“He sleeps in the other bed,” Quinn reminds you with a half-smile. He squeezes your sides and gives you a little shake. “I miss sleeping with you.”

“Good, I thought so.” You beam at him and pat his chest, fingers resting on his pecs. “You wanna go to bed, then?”

Quinn shakes his head. “This is nice,” he offers. “I like this.”

“I bet you do,” you tease. “Just wanted a pretty girl on your lap, huh?”

“The prettiest.”

You marvel at that, mindlessly admiring Quinn’s features. He can be so soft and sweet, so openly affectionate sometimes. You feel spoiled by it. “Wow,” you murmur. “The prettiest.”

Quinn nods wordlessly. 

Finally, he says it, the thing he’s been weighing over in his mind. 

“I feel bad. Dragging you here. Leaving all the time.” His gaze drops to your midsection again. “It’s better when you’re close.”

You don’t know how to respond.

Quinn continues. He tightens his arms around your waist. “Sometimes I need you close.”

“Like how?” you ask, hearing the load that encumbers his statement. “Like this?”

“More than this,” Quinn answers. He swallows hard. “Like…”

You run your hands over his shoulders and along his biceps. 

He adjusts accordingly, palms sliding to your behind and resting there. Quinn gauges your reaction. “This?”

“This,” you repeat, voice drawling with the discovery. You sink into Quinn’s touch even further, hips shifting to fit against his. His bulge rests directly between your legs, your knees digging into the cushions below you and bracketing his body. You roll your hips. 

Quinn nods again, his breath shaky and his vision trained on yours.

“I can be close,” you say.

“Will you?” His last word forms on his mouth more than it sounds aloud. “Please?”

“Of course,” you whisper.

Quinn’s shirt is the first article of clothing to come off. Your fingertips poise over his heart, chest bare and heaving like he’s out of breath. His yearning creeps from him, emanating through his figure like a tangible force. He needed you more than he’s letting on.

Your fingers fix on the clasp of his chain and you undo it, revealing the full expanse of his neck. Slowly, your lips descend on the space, marking him with your love. 

Quinn keeps his hands on your sides. He takes what you give him, takes and takes and takes. He drinks it in greedily, and doesn’t lift a finger. You feel them twitch and that’s your sign to escalate.

“Quinn,” you sigh, using the gentlest touch of your hand to lift his jaw. 

His exhale brushes over your lips. His kiss is no more than a ghost, a wafting wind that repeats its path wantonly.

His cock stirs beneath you and you unfasten your bottoms before pulling your top over your head. 

Quinn raises your hips and shuffles his pants down, boxers going with them, cock springing free and rebounding toward his stomach. He helps remove your bottoms and panties, but his fingertips shake and hesitate when they contact the band of your bra. He kisses the swell of your breast, pushed up by the lightly padded cups.

“You want this to stay on?”

“Mhm,” Quinn hums. He noses along your cleavage. “It’s nice.”

“Boob guy,” you jest.

Quinn frowns and makes a disapproving noise into your chest. “‘M not picky.” As if to prove his point, his grip tightens on your ass and he makes you rock forward, folds molding around his shaft. He groans brokenly and performs the action again.

“You’re right, I shouldn’t have said you have a favorite,” you murmur. You scratch Quinn’s scalp soothingly. “It’s just not true.”

“It’s not,” Quinn agrees. “I like it all.”

“No, you like me,” you correct.

He huffs out a laugh. “Yeah,” he says thoughtfully. “I like you.”

“Sit back.” Quinn follows your direction and you shift forward, digits curling over the back of the sofa for leverage. You lower your mouth to his jaw, pressing a kiss below the curve. “Relax.”

Quinn’s touch immediately goes limp on your hips, resting in place.

You reach between your bodies and position his cock between your legs, not penetrating yet. You grind over his length, the slick from your cunt coating his engorged penis. You allow your eyelids to flutter shut and arch your back, your chest pushing further into Quinn’s space.

He whimpers and kisses your collarbone, mouthing over the curved skin and sucking a sweet mark. 

“You’re so hard, baby,” you point out. “You really missed having me on top.”

Quinn’s cock kicks, jolting in reaction to your words. He stays silent, mouth hovering over your sternum, and he blinks up at you through his eyelashes.

“But you look so good,” you continue, showering him with compliments. “You feel so good. My good boy.”

Quinn groans, the sound vibrating over your body in a low rumble. “Need you.”

“I know.” You swivel your hips in a slow circle, his sensitive glans directly beneath your clit. As you grind again, his cockhead catches against your hole, seeking entrance. Quinn breathes out heavily, but you don't indulge him. 

Instead, you take his bottom lip between yours and suckle gently, caressing his cheek with one hand while the other holds you steady. Your rolling hips double down, moving faster, grinding harder. 

“Baby,” Quinn says. “Inside.”

“Oh,” you simper. “That close?”

“Fuck off,” Quinn grumbles. His eyebrows furrow like he’s convinced you won’t accept his argument. “Not funny. You feel good and it’s been a while. I’m going to come no matter what and I want to come inside you.” 

You laugh lightly and allow it, delicate grasp guiding Quinn’s tip past your rim. You clench down on him and he unconsciously ruts upward, thrusting deeper into your wet core. You lift yourself, then sink down. Quinn’s cock spears you, pulsing inside you, and the stretch is rich. 

With your bottom lip between your teeth, you start to fuck yourself. Quinn releases a choked noise, his thumbs digging into your soft abdomen. You feel his precum blurt inside you, the salty nectar sinking into your gummy walls. Your movements are feverous from the get-go, all foreplay out of the picture. Your pelvis makes continuous scooping motions, his cock hitting a new spot each time. This is better for you and the angle doesn’t matter for Q. He looks at you like a meteor shower in the middle of the night, eyes wide and awed and tracking each change. 

A whimper escapes you, muffled and wanting. Your hips make figure-eights and your head drops to the crook of Quinn’s neck, forehead pressing into his bare skin. Your hands return to the back of the couch. Your elbows rest on his shoulders, probably digging into his space uncomfortably, but your other movements make the discomfort worth it.

Broken moans tumble off Quinn’s tongue, his lips attached to your clavicle. They roam over the skin they can touch, neck and jaw and collarbone and shoulder, peppering your skin with pecks like freckles. Each desperate kiss is soft and wet and each quiet noise reverberates to your eardrums.

The sex itself is rather quiet, the air still. It’s just you and Quinn in your relatively new space, half unpacked boxes scattered along the edges of the room. It’s the first time you’ve christened this apartment. Quinn has been going a mile a minute since the trade and you’ve been right there with him – trying to find a job and unpack and make this new apartment into a home, barely able to spend enough time awake with your boyfriend to do anything beyond domestic and chaste. You missed this too, almost as much as Quinn seems to have.

Earlier, he was pinching your ankle, just feeling your body under his fingertips. Now, his hands reach behind you and knead your cheeks and tug you closer, closer, as close as you possibly can be. His breath fans in hot, wet clouds over your body and you move to tangle your fingers in his messy hair.

Your lips brush his pulse. Quinn exhales and turns to kiss your cheek.

“Keep doing that,” he whispers. His hand drifts up to your chest, his palm cupping your breast. “Just like that, sweet girl, feels so good.”

You swivel in place, your thighs burning with all of the movement. The position is cramped but you don’t want to be anywhere else. Your hands curl into fists and Quinn’s free arm circles your body in a hug, supporting you as you chase the pleasure his cock provides.

“So tight,” Quinn continues, his voice low and gravelly against your temple. “‘n warm, just what I needed, needed to feel you around me. Missed you so much, ‘s perfect, y’feel perfect.”

His words coax you closer to orgasm. Waves of heat radiate up your body and his cockhead hits your insides in just the right way.

“Touch your clit,” Quinn instructs under his breath. “Rub it for me, baby. Wanna feel you come on my cock, wanna see my pretty girl make herself come.”

“The prettiest,” you retort breathlessly, reaching between your bodies to get your nimble fingers on the bundle of nerves at the apex of your cunt. “You said the prettiest.”

“That’s right,” Quinn amends fondly. He brushes your hair out of your face and joins your lips in a gentle kiss. “The prettiest.”

As you fuck yourself and frantically circle your clit, your hand cradles Quinn’s jaw and his tongue dips into your mouth.

He swallows your pleased hums and smiles into the kiss when your pitch rises to something high and whiny. Quinn has started rocking up into your heat, only aiding you on your quest to come. “‘m close,” he says. “Are you close?”

You answer his question as he’s asking it, a shiver wracking your body and a keen filling the space between your mouths.

Quinn’s pearly teeth reveal themselves as he smiles slightly, admiring the contortion of your face and the way your head tips back, consumed completely by ecstasy. At the same time, you’ve clenched down on his cock, and Quinn can’t help but plant his hands on your hips and drive his cock deeper, thrusting and chasing his own orgasm now that you’ve had yours.

You bounce on his lap in time with his thrusts, a hand placed on his chest to steady yourself. Quinn’s mouth finds your neck again and you arch into his space, releasing a quiet gasp whenever his tip batters your cervix. His hair is wild from when you held it in your hands, the strands jutting askew in a funny way and if he wasn’t in the middle of fucking you so earnestly, you’d laugh. He looks funky, but he’s beautiful, and he’s teetering over the edge of awareness, like he always does when he’s this close to shooting off. He forgets where he is, mind solely focused on the hug of your wet walls around his needy cock, but for the most part, his starry eyes stay trained on you. He grunts on a particularly harsh thrust, his rhythm slowing to something deliberate. He punctures through you only a few more times before his cock kicks and you feel him spew his seed inside you, fingertips digging into your hip bones.

He pulls you in until you're lying over him, blanketing his body. Quinn’s head rests above the swell of your breasts and your cheek covers the top of his head. You both breathe heavily, hands wandering over bare, flushed skin. Quinn stays inside. His cock plugs you, keeps the cum inside, even as he starts to soften.

Quinn lifts his head after a few minutes and you lean down to slot your lips, lingering in his taste. Your heartbeat slows and lines up with Quinn’s, or you like to think it does. He hugs you tightly and you tame his hair with careful fingers.

When you’ve managed to get it back to a reasonable style, you curl up in his space and breathe him in. The smell of sex still permeates the air, but Quinn’s neck smells distinctly like him – like sweat, but in a good way, and body wash.

Circled fingers squeeze your ankle and you pull back, staring expectantly at Quinn. After all this, he still has something he wants to say.

“What?” you jest, snapping at him good-naturedly.

“Ready to go to bed now,” Quinn replies simply, amusement dancing on the curve of his lips.

You whine, rolling your head back on your shoulders before collapsing back into his space dramatically. Quinn’s hands go to your back, rubbing your skin soothingly. “Well, I’m not,” you say. “I like this.”

“Guess I can’t deny you that.” Quinn nudges your cheek with his nose, kissing your lips when you reappear to give him the stink-eye. “You just let me know when you’re ready to go.”

You hum in acknowledgement and hug him closer, shifting on his lap.

Quinn never stops rubbing your back.

The best part about the still scene in your apartment is that annoying announcer’s voice went off the air a long time ago.

a/n: this fic came to me as a very small vision and it took forever to write, but i think my favorite part was the banter. these characters were just very sweet to each other and know each other so well that the humor meshed seamlessly with the tenderness. i hope y'all felt the same way when you read it :)

[heartmoji-deactivated20260219]

clark luvs ur titties ˙𐃷˙

he really doesn’t think it’s weird.

that’s the worst part.

you try to call him out once, half-laughing, half-scandalized, like “clark. baby. again?” and he just blinks up at you from where he’s comfortably nuzzled between your tits like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

like he wasn’t just mouthing at your nipple for the past five minutes with the softest, most annoyingly content hum in his throat. like you weren’t fully clothed two seconds ago and he didn’t just part your shirt with two fingers and a single-minded sense of purpose that made your knees weak.

“what?” he mumbles, all doe-eyed and warm-palmed and completely unrepentant.

like you’re the weirdo here.

like it’s not objectively insane how fast he goes from “casual couch cuddle” to “nursing kink.” like he doesn’t seek your chest like it’s a grounding point, something instinctual and compulsive, something built into the wiring of his fucking alien brain.

like he doesn’t suck on you in his sleep sometimes, half-conscious, slow little laps of his tongue and a breathy whine when he wakes up in your arms, face buried in your cleavage like a man starved.

and god help you if you’re actually naked.

god help you if you’re sitting on top of him, hips slow and grinding, and he’s already panting, glassy-eyed, barely holding it together—because the second you lean forward, the second your chest brushes his mouth, the second your nipple even grazes his bottom lip—

he latches.

without shame. without hesitation. wraps an arm around your waist, holds you still, mouth warm and suckling and reverent like he’s been waiting for this, like your tits are oxygen and he’s been drowning without them.

you go limp. every time.

because he’s strong—so fucking strong—but gentle with it, like he knows exactly how fragile you are. how soft. how easy you melt for him.

he groans into your skin. rubs big hands up your spine. kisses the swell of your chest like a prayer.

“my favorite part,” he murmurs.

like that’s normal. like he’s normal.

he’s not. you know this. but it’s hard to argue when he’s making out with your tits like they’re the main course and dessert, when his mouth is warm and sweet and his tongue circles slow, when he sucks just hard enough to make you gasp and mumbles, “good girl,” with a sleepy smile and a grind of his hips like he knows you’re about to soak his dick just from this.

oral fixation, your ass.

he’s in love.

[puck-luck]

the philadelphia fly-cook | trevor zegras

warnings: unprotected p in v, references to creampies, somewhat ambiguous relationship, restaurant-au, trevor-zegras-being-a-quiet-person-au pairing: line cook!trevor zegras x bartender!fem!reader wc: 3,940

did something new and only used lowercase. not sure if that'll stick around. we'll see!

his hair is in a bun today, knotted up on the back of his head haphazardly. the spatula in his hand clangs against the counter in front of him as he flips the handle and catches it again. he’s whistling a tune as he works, earbuds snugly tucked in place. he’s been up since five, before the sun even graced the sky. the space behind your earlobe tingles and you bite back a smile.

“good morning,” you sing, swinging your purse off your shoulder and onto a barstool. you wiggle your fingers at him, feeling pleased when he glances up at you and lifts his chin in recognition. his hands are busy dicing onions so he can’t wave back, but you don’t mind. you don’t need attention. it’s enough to feel his presence in the room. you feel him like a gravitational pull, aware of his body in proximity to yours at all times. you could find him with your eyes closed.

you walk to the back closet and stash your coat and bag among the shelves. they’re packed to the brim, but you manage to get some primo real estate by the dinner menus. you squeeze into the tiny space where the computer, which hasn’t been replaced since ‘07, lives. trevor left you the legal pad with the specials, as always. you have to decipher his chicken scratch, but you manage to decode his shorthand. you print out a prototype and wave the paper to dry the ink, shuffling out of the closet and rounding the bar. 

“can you check this for me?” you ask sweetly, brushing past him and setting the thin paper within his eyesight but out of his way.

you receive a hum in reply. 

you count the money in the drawer and the safe, mentally checking that off your opening checklist. you fall into a normal routine after that, mindlessly completing your work. time passes and the other girls arrive, tying aprons around their waists and tying back their hair and brewing coffee. laughter starts to fill the restaurant, an easy air settling in as the morning wakes. 

at some point, trevor finishes his prep and chooses a booth in the back to occupy. he sits with his back against the wall and his knees up, fingers loosely gripping his phone and forearms resting on his kneecaps. 

you pay him no mind, cutting extra lemons and limes for garnishes. You restock the champagne and the vodka and the beer, cleaning pitchers in the dish washer and putting them away once you wipe them dry with the rag looped through your belt. the water burns your hands, but it feels nice in the winter chill. the wind comes rushing through the front door with each customer that opens it. 

you take orders and make drinks, moving through the space behind the bar like you own it. you’ve always felt comfortable in a fast-paced environment, when you can turn your brain off and run on autopilot. it’s like a trance. the restaurant is pleasantly busy and you walk back and forth, from seating people while the host is busy running food to clearing plates between printing checks. you smile pleasantly at the regulars and turn on your customer service voice, the bubbly version of yourself that jokes and flirts and smiles privately with strangers you may never see again. you love working at the restaurant.

“runner!” trevor’s voice booms through the restaurant and is accompanied by a clattering plate. the high school girl who runs food on saturday mornings doesn’t get in until eleven, when the service really starts to pick up.

you wipe your hands off and take the short way around to the counter. “behind,” you murmur. 

trevor crowds his workspace to allow you to squeeze by. 

you read the ticket and organize the food to the best of your ability. trevor’s system is chaos, rushing everything out of the kitchen as soon as he can. some tickets are half-fulfilled and you try to narrow down which one he’s talking about.

“B4,” he tells you, gesturing with his tongs. 

you nod wordlessly and start stacking plates on your arms. two plates on your left, a side plate of bacon stacked between those two, and one large plate in your right hand. you turn carefully and navigate around tables and customers, ducking out of the way where you can so no one bumps into you. you drop the food off and head back behind the bar, tossing a few gizmos and gadgets into the sanitizer bucket to get them nice and sterile for the next drink you’ll mix.

two guys sit down at the far end of the bar, so you gather your check book and shove it in your back pocket. you like the jeans you’re wearing today– they’re dark wash denim and low-waisted, flared at the base. they fit perfectly.

a sweet smile curves your lips as you greet the customers. “hey guys,” you say. “how are youse doin’?”

“not too bad,” one of them replies. “yourself?”

“oh, not too bad,” you parrot back, mirroring them. “just working.”

they laugh at that and you wait for it to naturally die down. “what can i get you to drink?”

“a michelob,” the first guy says. the second one mumbles his words and you tilt your head slightly. 

“i’m sorry?” you ask, leaning over the edge of the counter so you can hear him better. trevor’s a foot from you, chopping at the eggs on his cooktop to scramble them for a breakfast bowl. you know he looks. you can feel the back of your shirt rising up, your skin peeking out at trevor, and he’s always been unable to resist stealing a glance. 

“a hazy,” the guy tells you, pointing at the tap beside you like you’re the idiot. 

“yeah, i’ll get that started,” you promise. you have to run a check first, but then you’ll pour their beer. 

the shift slips along regularly, and you make every excuse to wander into trevor’s space as possible. he never removes his headphones. he barks at the boys in the back when they’re too slow on the burgers and the fried stuff. jim flips steaks and seafood and cam works on the other shit, bouncing back and forth between the kitchen and the dry storage, prepping for the afternoon shift. you talk to the dishwasher and roll silverware. you steal a miscellaneous pancake that doesn’t belong to any specific order and wolf it down in the back closet, chewing furiously because you know you probably won’t get another second to yourself until your shift ends.

your tips start to stack up. people tip tens and twenties on bills barely double that. something about the season has them feeling generous. you appreciate it for sure– this money is going toward your heating bill. the cocoon of blankets on your bed is getting stuffy, especially with the extra heat you had burning against you all night. 

the restaurant slows around two, with more customers leaving than coming in. with five booths, four tables, and most of the bar empty, you take the chance to stack up on dishes. it’s like your morning routine again. you make a list of beer to grab from the beer cooler, checking and double checking it multiple times and whispering to yourself as you stack items in the crate you brought with you. you check the taps and replace the dr. pepper in the back of the fountain, your least favorite job of all bar responsibilities. it takes forever and your hands feel gross and sticky. 

you wash your hands in the little sink, scalding them with heat and then drying them on a fresh rag. you inhale deeply and grin at the customers who chose to sit directly over your soda machine, who watched you struggle with the line for the last five minutes. “let’s see if it worked, shall we?” you ask rhetorically, grabbing a cup and filling it with a good chug of the beverage. you drink it like a shot and smack your lips. “perfect.”

the lady, who could be your mom’s age, engages with your antics. the husband is on his phone, having already ordered their food, but you can tell that this lady is itching for someone to chat with about anything. it’s not that she couldn’t talk to her husband, but she talks to him every day. it’s nothing new. 

it’s the opposite of a stroke of luck that trevor decides to hover behind you at the same exact time she opens her mouth to gab with you.

his fingertips press insistently against your lower back, ear poised by your ear like it was this morning. you sense him start to speak, but snap his mouth shut when you lift a finger slightly to placate him.

“it’s better than changing a keg, though, isn’t it?” she asks you eagerly, like an inside joke has forged a bond between you already. 

“at least with the keg i’m not on my hands and knees,” you reply. “these are new jeans, you know.”

“oh, i like them!” she exclaims. “where did you get them?”

“believe it or not, tj maxx,” you reply. “on clearance.”

she gapes at you and you nod. 

trevor’s fingers prod you. you lean into his touch and turn your head toward him only a centimeter. it’s enough to encourage him to speak. you’re still giving the woman in front of you your full attention, continuing the conversation about shopping– because it’s a safe topic, everyone has a shopping story leftover from the past holiday season– but you’re listening to trevor. you’d hear his low request over anything.

“make me a bourbon and brown,” trevor says under his breath. he parts from you immediately after delivering his command, going back to his work. 

you nod once to confirm and start to move like habit, never breaking your focus on the people you’re serving. in a plastic red soda cup, you mix trevor’s favorite local bourbon with the sam adams ale on tap. the request means he’s almost done for the day. it means you’re almost done with the day, too, and suddenly you register how much your feet hurt. you’re ready to go home and lay on your couch for hours. you’ll need to order something to eat before you leave because there’s no way you want to cook after being on your feet for ten hours.

when you place the drink in front of him, you lay your hand flat on the delicate swoop of his lower back. “will you make me some food tonight before you go? i don’t feel like cooking.”

trevor’s lips curl into a smile. “big plans?”

“laundry.”

“mm.”

“i keep finding more and more clothes at my place. i don’t know where they come from.”

“no?”

“no idea.” you blink innocently at trevor, holding back a giggle. 

he huffs out a quiet laugh and the toast pops up behind both of you, suspending the flirtatious moment and bringing you back into your place of work. trevor breaks away from your touch to grab it and you duck under his arm. your light touch sweeps over his ribs as you move, exiting the restaurant through the kitchen. 

one of your first shift change tasks is to restock the beer cooler. that’s where you’re headed now. you walk with a one-track mind, yanking the door open and catching a brief, cold breeze before a larger body pushes you into the shed ahead of them. his finger catches the back pocket of your jeans and spins you to face him, then your back hits the wall of the beer cooler.

“you knew what you were doing,” trevor breathes out, looking down at you. his hands are above your head, elbows bracketing your skull, and he leans in close. “touching me like that.”

you melt under his gaze, fluttering your lashes and biting your lip. your cold fingertips go to the waistband of his jeans. they dip beneath the denim and curl, bringing him closer– bringing his pelvis to yours. “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

trevor mulls your words over, tonguing at the inside of his cheek. his eyes go to your lips and you tilt your chin up imperceptibly. you accept him before he even decides to move forward… and he laughs. it’s quick, a triumphant “ha” that you forget as soon as he does lean in, his mouth sealing onto yours. one of his hands cups your jaw and his tongue darts out, catching your lip. he sucks your lip into his mouth, then lets go and kisses you again. he dives in from a new angle each time and the kisses start to grow hungrier and hungrier. 

you fist his t-shirt and whimper into his mouth, need bleeding from you openly now that you’re alone and he’s on you. this game you play always ends like this. always. you’re too easy for trevor, too quick to show off and tease him until you get what you want from him. what you need. 

and he’s too quick to give it.

“trying to take my clothes off, baby?” trevor asks. “and you wonder where all that extra laundry comes from.”

“you could take them with you when you go,” you reply. “you don’t have to leave them behind.”

“they look too good on you to take off,” trevor says. he kisses you between sentences, each entanglement long and full of passion. “plus, if i take ‘em off…”

“oh, they’ll never go back on,” you laugh. “we’d never get anything done.”

“i barely get anything done when you’re on bar anyway,” trevor says. “messed up three platters while those guys were sitting on my end and you kept bending over the counter to talk to them.”

“you liked that?”

“you’re a fucking tease,” trevor growls, his hands kneading your behind after slipping beneath the fabric of your pants. “i never have this problem when you’re serving.”

you moan and arch into him. the single light in the beer cooler is behind trevor’s head from this angle, shining around him like an eclipse. his wispy baby hairs have started curling around his face from the steam of the kitchen. 

“and what you said to that lady,” trevor continues. he pops the button on your jeans and pushes your panties down with them, halting at your knees. “i thought you liked being on your hands and knees. you seemed to like it last night.”

you’re guided around, face pressed into the cool wall behind you. it’s hard to stay balanced with your pants around your legs, but trevor holds you steady. he touches your side and bends you over a keg, the stainless steel biting into your skin like a sheet of ice.

“trevor,” you chastise out of surprise, looking down and shifting out of discomfort.

he holds you in place. “stay right here, baby,” he commands in a strong voice. you freeze in place under him, relenting to trevor’s desire once again. “stay still for me.”

you hear his zipper as it opens, the rustle of his pants as they loosen and hit the ground. you hear him fit his hand around his cock and pump it. his tip punctures your hole and eases into you. trevor’s breath leaves him and washes out over your shoulder, his lips coming down to linger on your neck.

trevor grunts yearningly, appreciatively, as your gummy walls welcome him in. “you’re fucking tight,” he observes. “always tight. swear i fuck you every night and you keep getting tighter.”

“complaining?”

“nah,” trevor brushes off, a hand coming to your shoulder. his fingers curl over the edge of your body and brace you against him as his hips start to drive forward. “feels good, baby.” his head dips, you feel it happen, and his gaze falls to the place where his cock disappears into your cunt. “fuck, feels so good.”

his tip nudges your g-spot and you gasp. “trevor,” you rasp, voice breaking. your body bounce back at trevor, ass jiggling with each hard smack of his abdomen to your glutes. he grips your hip, fingertips digging into your skin and leaving behind bruises.

“that’s right, say my name,” trevor praises. “who’s making you feel good, honey?”

“you are, fuck,” you keen. your hands come to rest on the wall in front of you, crossing over each other and making a pillow for your forehead to rest on. the steel walls have little stars all over them, raised and pushing against your delicate skin, leaving marks along your forearms that you can’t cover up in your short-sleeve shirt when you return to the restaurant.

after all, that’s trevor’s prerogative. you’ve never said that you’re his, never made it explicitly known to your coworkers or friends, but there have been enough coincidences to put the pieces together by now.

“my name?” trevor prompts. “want you to say my name. moan it.”

“someone will hear, it’s not soundproof–”

trevor snaps his hips. he brings his hand down on your ass, the slap rebounding off the walls of  the chilly room. 

“ah, trevor,” you whine, holding back. he pounds into you with fervor, forcing the noises out of you. it’s like you can’t help it, even though you’re trying to be quiet, not with the thrusts that penetrate you so deeply. 

“louder,” he says. “y’can’t tease me all day and expect to get away with it. louder. who’s making you feel good?”

“you are, oh my god, trevor,” you reply. your voice has raised to a higher pitch, but it’s not loud enough for trevor. his hips move faster, harder, driving into you with everything he has. 

“louder,” trevor commands again, his voice nearly a growl. 

there’s a coil in your stomach and, suddenly, a duet of long fingers circling your clit. they crawled over your hip and fell into place at the apex of your cunt, trevor’s solid forearm lingering across your body and pulling you back into him with each push of his hips. you can smell his natural musk. it envelops you like the hug of his body on top of you, and your voice breaks on a moan. 

“trevor, oh, fuck, oh, yes,” you cry out, lifting your head and looking over your shoulder. “please, trevor, please.”

he smirks softly and leans forward, kissing your cheek before he makes his way to your lips. “sweet girl,” he whispers. his lips brush yours twice, small pecks smacking between you. “gonna come on my cock? make a mess in the beer fridge and go back out there, talk to your customers and the other girls like nothing happened?”

“maybe,” you breathe out. “if you keep touching me like that.”

trevor hums, a light laugh. “how about i fill you up?” he asks. “will that do anything for you?”

you scoff and lay your head on your arms again, rolling your hips.  “you can’t, i can’t have your cum dripping out of me at work. at home?”

“wanna come in you here,” trevor complains wantonly, his hips stuttering. “‘m so close, baby, please let me?”

“me first,” you tell him. trevor pants into your mouth and rubs your clit frantically, groaning when you clench down on him. “backshots.”

“backshots?” trevor chokes. “fuck, that’s hot. yes.”

“good compromise,” you laugh breathily. his fingers pet your clit just right and his tip hits your sweet spot at the same time, jolting you closer to your climax. the pit in your stomach is brewing, bubbling with anticipation and intense desire, like an overflowing pot you left unattended for a minute too long. “easier to wipe off.”

“no, my babies,” trevor drawls. his voice is so thick and drunk on pleasure that you don’t know if he’s aware of what he’s saying, as if his thick ropes of sperm would actually produce a being for each swimmer he releases into you. “don’t wipe away my babies.”

you can’t do anything but laugh, your chest lurching with the force of your exclamation. your legs have started to shake, with trevor hitting your insides perfectly with each thrust, and you’ve slipped down the wall slightly so he can hit you deeper. midway through a cackle, the tense spiral of your orgasm breaks and your noise transforms into a long moan, a low wail complementing the wet splats between your bodies. 

“trevor, trev–” you plead, rising up on your tiptoes as your pleasure starts to turn into overstimulation, aftershocks zipping through your body.

“shh, ‘s okay, you did so good,” trevor murmurs. he drags his hand down your spine and balls your shirt up, revealing the curve of your lower back. his other hand leaves your hip and comes to the base of his cock, already pumping the hard length as he draws it from your weeping hole. “such a good girl. i got you, baby.”

you rest your forehead against your arms and try to catch your breath. soft whimpers leave you involuntarily, your cunt fluttering from emptiness. you hear trevor spit in his hand and you whine, biting down on your thumb to quiet yourself. it’s hot, even in the cold refrigerator where you’re located, and you can barely keep yourself together. 

trevor’s hand is quick as it passes along his cock, his short puffs of breath sounding in time with the slick movements. “almost,” trevor promises. his hand leaves his cock and it runs through your folds, gathering wetness to use as lubricant. “‘m almost there, babe.”

“please,” you whisper. it’s hard to find another word for him, not when you’re spent like this.

trevor’s lips find the smooth skin behind your ear. “almost,” he says again, quieter this time. it’s a pledge. he resumes his self-pleasure, tip knocking against the small of your back gently as he moves. “beautiful,” he adds. “so beautiful.”

it isn’t long before you feel spurts of come rain over your lower back, clinging to your skin the way you wish you were clinging to trevor rather than facing away from him. you hum under your breath as trevor gasps and groans, consumed by the release that conquers him. 

the clicking of his hand over his cock slows until he releases the appendage altogether, tucking it back into his pants before grabbing your bar rag from where it was hung through your belt loops. trevor uses the rag to clean you up, carefully wiping away each strip of cum, but not before he gathers some on his finger and brings it to your mouth. 

you take his offering sweetly, sucking his finger clean while he finishes wiping you down. it’s comforting to suck on something in this state and trevor knows that– it’s why he offers you his fingers every time.

“how about i do the laundry tonight, hm?” trevor offers, dropping effortlessly to his knees and pulling your panties and jeans back into place. he kisses the back of your thigh before your skin disappears beneath the denim, then spins you around to face him. your fingers end up brushing through the wild strands of hair that fell from his man-bun and you smile softly. “you can be cozy in bed instead.”

“you’ll make me dinner too?”

trevor smiles. “i’m already making you lunch.”

a pout appears on your lips.

he folds. trevor rises to his full height and presses a kiss to your forehead, then wraps his strong arms around your shoulders in a hug. “yeah, baby, i’ll make you dinner,” he says into your hair. “whatever you want.”

[ellecdc]

I am absolutely eating up your dunstin’s cousin au! So good!! I was thinking about a scenario where maybe the reader gets hurt and the rest of the party is trying to help/comfort her but in her upset state she only wants Steve and keeps asking for him and everyone’s kinda shocked. xx

oooh hell yes! thanks for the prompt!! <3

Steve Harrington x fem!reader who shows up hurt [1.7k words]

part 12 <- part 13 -> part 14 | series masterlist

CW: part of dustin's!cousin au but can be read as a stand alone, reader is spicy in this one again, mentions of financial insecurity, brief reference to reader's shitty childhood, hurt/comfort + fluff

Steve has a bone to pick with whoever granted you your drivers license. Not because you’re a bad driver or that you don’t deserve it, but because it makes it very hard for Steve to give you the princess treatment. 

Particularly when there’s a group activity that requires two drivers and you’re one of mere two from the entire Party who can drive. 

So tonight, Steve’s stuck giving the princess treatment to the likes of Robin, Mike, Will, and Lucas. 

The best part of the load of crap that is chauffeuring everyone back to Steve’s place is them getting the hell out of his car.

“Would you stop pouting?” Robin laughs as she throws half a Twizzler across the living room; it hits him in the side of the head. “Your girlfriend’s gonna be here soon.” 

Steve bites back the harrumph that threatens to leave him as he sinks further into his chair, arms crossed over his chest rather petulantly. “M’not pouting.” 

Lucas snorts. “Right, and Will here is the spitting image of Arnold Schwazenegger.” 

Steve moves his glare from Lucas to Will when the little shit has the audacity to chuckle. 

“So, you’re not pouting, but she is your girlfriend?” Mike continues, the look in his sideways glance anything but innocent. Steve glares at him too. 

“Don’t call her that.”

“Why? S’she not your girlfriend?” Robin earns herself a glare as well. 

“You just can’t call her that, okay? Especially not in front of her.” 

“You’ve got terrible luck, man,” Lucas muses. “Y’spent years yearning over a girl who didn’t want you, and now you find a girl who wants you but threatens to bolt if you call it what it is.”

Steve’s voice is void of emotion when he asks, “Do you value your life, Sinclair?” 

“Is that really fair though? I mean, how many times has Max broken up with you, Lucas?” Will pipes up in Steve’s defence. He’s Steve’s favourite tonight, he decides. 

“Hey, this isn’t about me, alright?”

Mike makes a noncommittal sound. “Maybe it should be about you…”

“Besides,” Lucas continues undeterred, cocky as ever, “I’ve always gotten her back.” 

“Can’t even begin to understand how,” Mike mutters. 

“You wouldn’t get it, Mike,” Lucas grins as he leans back in his seat, fingers intertwined behind his head as he smiles at the room, “it’s something we like to call Black magic.”

“Think you can lend some to good ol’ Steve over here?” Robin chimes in with a smirk. Steve would almost be mad at her if he hadn’t just been thinking the exact same thing. 

Lucas turns to look at Steve appraisingly but doesn’t have the opportunity to respond when the front door opens and Dustin’s voice rings out into the house.

“Holy shit, holy shit. That looks really bad, dude. Like, really bad.” 

“Dustin, man, you might wanna shut the fuck up,” Eddie advises. 

“It does look pretty bad…” El interjects somewhat warily.

“Everyone just…shut up,” you grit out. Steve sits up at attention like a German Shorthaired Pointer who has picked up a scent. 

Max does not seem to realize that ‘everyone’ includes her. “But is it broken? Do you think it’s broken?”

“Mayfield, what didn’t you understand about shut up?” you bite back. Steve stands at that, knowing it’s unlike you to snap at the redhead.

”I think that’s a fair question for her to ask, gorgeous,” Eddie tries placatingly. “Can you let me see? At least make sure you can still move it?”

“Munson, if you touch me right now I am going to rip your fucking head off, you hear me?”

“Jesus Christ, yeah I hear you. Sorry for caring,” Eddie mutters.

El appears in the archway before Steve manages to round the corner. “I think you should tend to her,” is all she says to Steve before carrying on into the living room. Weird girl; Steve loves her. 

“What’s going on?” Steve asks as he comes upon the crowd still hovering by the front door. Eddie shoots him a look of warning from where he’s kneeling to help untie your shoes as you protectively cradle one arm in the other.

“Y/N shut the car door on her hand,” Dustin tattles immediately, earning him a quiet yet scornful squealer from Max. 

“Baby,” Steve coos consolingly. “Let me see.”

”M’fine,” you murmur, far less bite in your tone than the way you spoke to your friends. Eddie looks up from your feet to shoot you a look chock-full of indignation.

“Okay, let me see it then,” Steve continues as he reaches for you. 

The metal-head finally lets out a scoff of disbelief as he stands when you relinquish your hand to Steve, and Dustin and Max snicker as they walk away to leave you in Steve’s capable hands seeing as you haven’t told him to shut up or threatened to rip his head off for caring.

Your knuckles are already swollen and discoloured, broken skin marking where steel met flesh. Steve can’t pretend he doesn’t feel the way your entire arm shakes within his grasp and knows without a doubt that you’ve got to be in a lot of pain. 

“Liar.” Steve’s voice is heavy with upset. “You are not fine.”

Your voice is a bit tight when you respond. “I am too fine.”

“A bad liar, too,” Steve murmurs as he begins ushering you towards the kitchen. “My poor, lying girl.” 

The two of you manage to shake Eddie who carries on into the living room to recount the incident with far more dramatics than truly took place. 

“When’d it happen?” Steve asks, helping you up onto the counter where granite meets wall. You go willingly – saying nothing of his manhandling – and immediately melt into the wall; Steve’s heart squeezes painfully at the sight. 

“Just now,” you admit. “Getting out f’the car.” 

Steve tsks sympathetically. “Well what’d you do that for, huh?”

“I didn’t do it on purpose.”

He returns to you with an ice pack and tea-towel in hand, though he puts both down beside you in favour of holding his hand out in ask. “Let me see it again.”

You give him your hand; another embarrassingly tender sound escapes him as he brushes the briefest of touches to the back of your knuckles. 

“Can you move them at all, sweetheart?” 

Steve knows you’re feeling really poorly when you don’t fight him over all the petnames he’s pulling out; he wonders how many more he can get away with, and then wonders if he should risk pushing his luck. 

You do your best, holding your breath as you flex your fingers as much as you can. Your subsequent exhale is painfully shaky, but Steve’s relieved to see that most of the resistance seems to be on account of the swelling and how sore your knuckles are, not because anything is broken. 

“Do you think you need to have it X-rayed?” he asks anyway, looking up at your face when you let out a snort of laughter. Your eyes have fallen shut but a single tear slips out from your lashes and trails down to your chin. Steve feels a bit like crying now too. 

“I can’t get it X-rayed.”

Steve lets out an inquisitive hum, pushing your knees apart so that he can stand between your legs. You still don’t open your eyes. “Why not?”

You huff another quiet laugh, though it’s entirely humourless. “I can’t afford an X-ray.” 

“Oh, shut up,” Steve protests. “Don’t be dumb. If you need to get an X-ray, you’re getting an X-ray. Got it?” 

“I-”

“If your appendix burst right now and you needed emergency surgery, you’d get that too, you know?” he carries on, chucking you under the chin to encourage you to look at him. You do, though the sight breaks Steve’s heart. 

You look thoroughly exhausted, far beyond what is just the adrenaline from your injury seeping from your body. It’s the kind of tired that comes from the familiarity you share with pain, from being the only one ever around to take care of you, from having to always figure things out on your own, from being denied or not having access to the things you need. 

“If you dislocated your shoulder and needed it to be reset and put in a sling, that’d happen too,” he explains, reaching up to wipe away another stray tear with his thumb. “Okay?”

You sniff, clearly trying to imbue as much nonchalance as you can. “I can reset my own shoulder.”

“Idiot,” he mutters, though he believes you. “That’s not the point.” 

“‘Kay,” you sigh. 

“Does it need to be X-rayed?”

You consider the question, taking stock of yourself and gently flexing your knuckles once more. You wince, but you manage. “No, I…I don’t think so.” 

“Okay. Thank you, honey,” he whispers, leaning forward to press a kiss above your right brow and lingering a few moments too long before he finally pulls away to wrap the ice pack and hold it out to you. “Try icing it for a bit.”

Steve threatens to undo all of the petnames when he swats your good hand away and takes the ice pack back from your grasp. “Not like that, dumbass.”

You scoff, indignant. “What?” 

“Put your knuckles on the ice, not the ice on your knuckles. You’ll have more control of the pressure that way instead of the weight of the ice pressing down on your sore hand.” 

You hum in acknowledgement and do as told, looking up at him through damp lashes. “Iced a lot of knuckles, have you?”

Steve’s responding yeah comes out as a sigh, moving to lean against the counter beside you.

A thought occurs to him. “You know, for someone who has started a lot of fights, I really haven’t won very many.”

“Or any,” Dustin comments around a Twizzler in his mouth as he and Eddie walk past the kitchen on their way to the backyard.

You snort a laugh, much lighter in nature than the ones before; Steve is grateful for it. 

“Loser.”

© ellecdc; do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere under any circumstances.

[ellecdc]

omg I am sooooo in love with the Steve and Henderson!reader story developments. I feel like now that she’s kind reciprocating privately (and in front of the hawk) there’d be a moment where she didn’t take an opportunity to make a joke about Steve or did something nice for him in front of the group, and before their friends could make fun of her for going soft, Steve either takes the attention away or silences them with a mom glare!! he’s like, don’t spook her guys.

idk if that resonates with you but feel free to run with it or your interpretation of it as a request! either way love the story so much

awwweee this was so cute. i was in the middle of writing this fic when you sent it so i actually combined this prompt with two others! + slip of a moment reader is touching Steve’s hair. The kids still in that moment. Steve doesn’t let anyone touch his hair. + pretty much everyone but robin has caught on and she’s like “You two really need to kiss already” and Steve just chuckles to himself “Oh robin, we’ve been doing that for months already” 🤭

Steve Harrington x fem!reader who basically out themselves [1.1k words]

part 11 <- part 12 -> part 13 | series masterlist

CW: part of dustin's!cousin au but can be read as a stand alone, reader calls Steve insane and threatens to have him committed, fluff and banter

Will doesn’t really love the idea of putting on shoes that have been worn by countless other people, isn’t a fan of shoving his fingers inside small holes of a ball that have been handled by the world’s snottiest attendees at every child’s birthday party in Hawkins, and doesn’t like the way that the pepperonis on the pizza curl under the heat lamp in their glass prisons.

But he loves his friends, so his fear of missing out overrides whatever qualms he has with the local bowling alley. 

El turns out to be very good at bowling, much to her delight and everyone else's dismay. Mike won’t even look at the scoreboard anymore, and Dustin keeps muttering different physics facts as though trying to explain El’s talent away while Max rolls her eyes and calls him a sore loser. Eddie has abandoned the game altogether in favour of splitting his time between flirting with the employee manning the concession stand and feeding nickels into the claw machine, and Lucas and Steve are in the middle of some mad smacktalk as to who is going to go home with second place (it’s Robin, but Will doesn’t bother pointing that out.) 

Will sits down after his turn – knowing his score of six isn’t going to have him moving anywhere on the board – which sees Steve jump up for his turn with a whoop. You and Robin roll your eyes at him in sync. 

“Make sure you’re watchin’, babe! This one’s for you!” Steve boasts; everyone groans in response.

“For me?” Robin squeals. “Oh, Stevie, you shouldn’t have.”

“Not you, freak,” Steve huffs at his best friend before shooting you a wink. 

The party collectively gawks when you don’t immediately ask if that was a nervous tick or if he needs to get his eyes checked.

Even El leans forward and whispers your name like a nervous stagehand prompting you to recite your line. 

“Hey! Hey, hey, hey,” Steve barks, pointing towards himself when everyone returns their attention to him. “Eyes up here, huh? You’re not gonna wanna miss this.”

“I don’t know,” you mutter, looking over towards the claw machine longingly. “I think Eddie had the right idea.”

“Eyes up here!”

“Okay!” everyone choruses. 

Once satisfied with his captive audience, Steve makes a show of picking out the flashiest ball on the rack and steps up to the lane. He pretends to examine the weight of the ball, then licks a finger and holds it up to the ‘wind’ before squinting down at the pins as though calculating the perfect trajectory. 

Dustin breaks first. “Oh my God, would you fucking throw it already?”

“Any day now, dingus!” 

“You’re gonna lose your turn,” Mike mutters petulantly. 

Steve obliges, eliciting a round of groans and whimpers when all ten pins fall. 

“Yes! Were you watching? Did ya see that?”

“Yeah, we saw,” you grumble. “You look like a tool.”

“It did look cool! Thank you!” 

Robin leans into your side as she stage-whispers at you. “Is that because he’s dumb or does he only hear what he wants to hear?” 

“I think it might be a bit of both,” you respond in kind. 

“Alright, who’s bowling for Eddie this round?” Steve asks as he reclaims his seat next to you. Eddie offers a wave of his hand from the concession stand at the sound of his name and Dustin jumps up from Will’s side to do the honors. 

“This game is rigged,” Lucas mutters under his breath.

“Oh? What was that?” Steve jumps in eagerly. “Did you just say Steve’s wiping the floor with me? You’re so right, I was just thinking the same thing.” 

Lucas picks up the last of Max’s bag of popcorn and launches it at Steve; kernels rain down over him and the galaxy-print carpeted floor around him, scarcely missing you and El positioned on either side of Steve save the few kernels that El flicks from her leg and the few you brush off your shoulder. Will thinks Lucas should count his blessings. 

“Hey! What is wrong with you, Sinclair? Are you kidding me? Clean this up right now; you were raised better than that. Like hell you’re leaving that for the employees.” 

Between Steve’s scolding and Max’s complaints from his other side about how she wasn’t done with that, asshole!, Lucas stands and heads towards the concession stand to pay for another bag of popcorn and ask if he can borrow their broom. 

“God. Kids these days, am I right?” Steve mutters to you as though the two of you are sharing a secret. You look at him sideways. 

“Why are you beefing with an eleven year old?” 

Steve guffaws. “He’s fourteen!” 

“That doesn’t make it better, dingus.” 

“He’s a heathen.”

“You look insane, you know that?” you mutter, reaching up and plucking stray popcorn from his person. “Like, committable level insane. I’m gonna drop you off on my way home.”

Steve hums appreciatively and shoots you a salacious look. “You’re driving me home, huh?” 

“Insane,” you insist, moving to fix his hair.

Lucas returns with a broom in hand only to drop Max’s new bag of popcorn when he finds Steve the hair Harrington letting someone mess with his hair. “Is…is he-?”

“Yup,” Will whispers, remembering the hair-tastrophe of ‘83 when Dustin tried to ruffle Steve’s hair as a goof. Everyone shudders from the collective flashback.  

“Holy shit,” Mike murmurs. 

“Do you think Dustin knows?” Max asks quietly, eating from the new bag of popcorn that she procured from the floor, now missing half its contents. 

Lucas lets out a snort of laughter. “What? That his best friend is definitely screwing his favourite cousin? Doubt it, and I’m not gonna be the one to break that news.”

The group is interrupted by Dustin calling your name. “Your turn!”

Steve cheers loudly as you stand and make your way towards the ball rack, which only serves to earn him a withering glare from you. Steve beams as though you just blew him a kiss. 

Will shuffles over to make room for Dustin to rejoin the group and watches as Robin scooches in closer to Steve across the aisle now that your seat is empty. 

“You two have got to kiss already,” she whispers to her friend, offering him a gentle nudge with her elbow.

“Oh, Robin,” Steve chuckles, never taking his eyes off of you. “We’ve been doing that for months now.” 

© ellecdc; do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere under any circumstances.

[ellecdc]

I need some domestic fluff from Steve and Dustin’s cousin, maybe she gets the job she applied for or something and he helps her prep and is just so happy once she gets it and she’s kind bashful like “Steve it really isn’t that big of a deal, like seriously you don’t need to shout about it ahah” she’s kinda laughing at how extra he’s being about it but he’s just so proud

Steve Harrington x fem!reader who got the job, apparently [1.2k words]

A/N: technically part of the dustin's!cousin au but can be read as a stand alone!

part 10 <- part 11 -> part 12 | series masterlist

CW: reader's new to being loved, reader has hair long enough to pull back with a scrunchie, fluff city over here

You step out of the theatre and shed the starched stiff vest from your shoulders, halting in your steps at the sight of a familiar BMW pulled up outside. 

Steve leans against the hood of his car, denim-clad legs crossed and mirroring the way his arms are crossed tight against his chest as he quirks a brow at you. You have the feeling that he’s trying to look chiding, but he looks far too handsome for that and he has a bouquet of daisies in his hand; how mad can a dude be if he’s got flowers in his hands? 

“What’re you doing here?” you ask him instead of saying hello or are those for me?, not bothering to check both ways in the empty parking lot as you make your way towards him. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you got the job?” he counters, still trying to look chiding, still missing by a mile. 

You pull at the scrunchie you used to restrain your hair, looking at a point past Steve’s shoulder as you consider your answer. “I told you I had applied.” 

Steve scoffs. “You told me you were applying to jobs; plural. I didn’t even know you had been called for an interview!” 

“Oh,” you hum, pulling your lips between your teeth. “Well, the interview went well.”

You manage to evoke a laugh from him. “Yeah, I guess so.”

The two of you stand there grinning at each other for a few moments before Steve breaks the silence.

“You got the job!” He cheers. 

You let out a self-conscious chuckle as you scuff the toe of your sneakers on the asphalt. “Yeah, I got the job.”

“And you started today!” he’s still cheering, the dork. 

“How’d you even find out?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Well, I’d been thinking to myself, wow, haven’t seen my favourite girl in a while, I should call and see what she’s up to. Maybe she’ll wanna catch a movie or something.”

You snort at the irony of him then finding you at a movie theatre. 

“But your aunt answered, and when I said hello, she went oh hi, Steve! Dustin’s not here right now, I think he might be at Mike’s if you wanted to try there. To which I replied actually, Ms. Henderson, I’m wondering if your niece is around. And you’ll never guess what she told me.”

You have an idea, but you bite anyway. “Yeah? What’d she tell you?”

“She told me that her beautiful, darling, sweet angel of a niece was actually at work. And she had the grace to – at my obvious confusion – explain that today was your first day of training at the theatre.”

“You’re right. I never would’ve guessed that,” you laugh.

“What part?”

“Claudia referring to me as her beautiful, darling, sweet angel of a niece.” 

Steve lets out a noncommittal hum, looking at the neon lights of the cinema behind you. “I may have embellished my storytelling a bit.”

“Oh, only a bit, huh?”

He hums in acknowledgement, smiling down at you as his eyes soften to near molten levels. You shift uncomfortably, unsure what to do under the weight of his affection. 

“So, you came all the way here to tell me you were mad I didn’t tell you I got a call back?”

“Or about the interview,” Steve agrees, sniffing with faux vexation. “Or that you got it. Or that you were beginning training. And that you didn’t let me drive you to your first day. Anyways, not that you deserve it but,”

He holds out the daisies for you, cellophane and decorative tissue paper crinkling under his grip as you smile at the bow carefully holding it altogether.

You’ve never been given flowers before. 

“Why would you get me flowers?” you ask with a laugh instead of saying thank you or they’re beautiful, taking them into your eager grasp and gently brushing your fingers along the soft petals. You kind of want to cry.

“Well yeah, I don’t know. S’not like you deserve them or anything,” he teases, nudging your foot with his own so that you know he’s teasing. 

You clear your throat, embarrassed to be emotional, embarrassed to be receiving something so pretty, embarrassed at being treated with so much care. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, don’t mention it,” he teases, shooting you a wink. “This is awesome, you know? I’m proud of you.”

You groan. “Oh, stop.”

“What?”

“It’s not that big a deal!” you laugh, though even that comes out slightly panicked. Damn Steve Harrington, he’s definitely trying to kill you; the lump in your throat threatens to strangle you. 

“Don’t be dumb,” he scoffs. “Of course it’s a big deal! You got a new job, it’s great! I mean, it sucks; I already spend so much of my time chasing you around town just trying to hang out with you, now I gotta share you with The Hawk, too.” 

You shake your head at him, mortifyingly fond. 

He watches the last of your new coworkers pull away from the theatre, offering them a nod of his head in acknowledgement as you turn to wave at them. The second their brake lights disappear from view, he’s taking the flowers back and placing them on the hood of his car in favour of pulling you towards him by the waist. 

“You look cute in uniform, y’know?” he murmurs against your lips, the subsequent kiss turning sloppy when you laugh at him and he smiles at the sound. 

“It’s a vest,” you argue, pausing to kiss him back. “Not a uniform.”

He hums into your mouth. “S’cute.”

“It’s horrendous.”

“You make it look sexy,” he huffs, pulling away from your lips to trail kisses down your jaw to your ear before settling at your pulse point. It steals your breath. 

He lets out a groan as though you’re the one attacking his neck. “You smell good.”

You can’t help it, you burst out into laughter at him. 

“I smell like popcorn!” 

“So good,” he reiterates reverently. “You’re so lucky.”

“Lucky to leave work smelling like the inside of a popcorn machine?” you giggle, letting him pull you further into him so that you’re standing between his spread legs. His hands link at the base of your spine and you let yours glide up his chest and towards his shoulders. 

“Yeah, I leave work smelling like the inside of a VHS rewinder.”

Your brows fall as you move your gaze from the swath of skin visible from the open button of his golf shirt up to his eyes. “What does the inside of a VHS rewinder even smell like?”

He shrugs his shoulders, eyes flitting up to a space on your forehead. He leans in to kiss it. 

“Like me after a long day at work.” 

You laugh into his chest before pulling him back in by the collar of his shirt for another kiss. He obliges willingly. 

The two of you spend a few more minutes trading giggly kisses in front of the theater before he returns the flowers to your greedy hands (you don’t think he knows that he’s just created a monster) and drives you home.

Steve insists on picking up celebratory ice cream on the way. You stop arguing with him about it when he puts his hand on your knee.

© ellecdc; do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere under any circumstances.

[ellecdc]

Hello lovely amazing wonderful elle!!

Could we pretty please have a follow up to that single mom!reader fic where maybe steve gets to meet her daughter?? I just know he’d be so soft and sweet and they’d immediately hit it off

I loved it thank you so much for your work, you always bless us 🙏🏻

you sure can, my love!! thank youuuuu <3

Steve Harrington x single mom!reader who introduces him to Lucy [1.3k words]

part 1 <- part 2

CW: kid fic, Steve meets Lucy for the first time, fluff

Steve sometimes feels a little bit bad that he manages to get paid for his coaching gig.

Usually it’s because he just has so much damn fun doing it that he’d, in all honesty, probably do it for free.

But today it’s because he’s wholly distracted and can’t resist stealing frequent glances at the bleachers where a certain two little ladies sit. You’re here, and you brought Lucy. You both came to see him, to cheer for him.

For the very first time. 

You and Steve have been dating for a few months now and Steve must’ve done something right because you’ve decided to finally let him meet your daughter. 

Steve, quite frankly, likely needs glasses, but he doesn’t let that stop him from squinting his eyes as though he might be able to mechanically zoom in on the two of you in your spot; a blanket spread out on the metal bench beneath you as Lucy splits her time between dutifully watching the game and enjoying whatever snacks you’ve packed for her.

She’s perfect; at least what Steve can see of her from here. It’s like looking at a tiny (blurry) version of you. He’s seen pictures, of course, but nothing compares to seeing her here, here to meet him. 

So, Steve already feels bad for billing the league for his hours on a good day, but he feels downright awful for it today when he hardly recognizes the game coming to a close. They won, at least; he must not have been too badly distracted. 

He still has a job to do, though, so instead of rushing to the bleachers at the end of the game (or kissing you stupid through the fence like they do in the movies), he congratulates the kids, catches up with the parents, helps everyone pack up their bags, and tidies up the dugout. 

The diamond has fallen quiet and the distant sound of car doors shutting peters out as Steve shuts his cooler and tucks his clipboard in his bag. 

The sound of gravel crunching alerts him to your arrival. 

“Good game, handsome,” you congratulate. Steve turns to find you standing with your packed bag hanging off of one arm and Lucy in your other. 

Lucy.

Yeah, pictures hardly compare. 

“Thank you, gorgeous,” he replies somewhat breathlessly, eyes flickering between you and your daughter. “Thank you. Hi, baby. You must be Lucy! It’s so nice to meet you.” 

“Can you say hi to Steve, Lou?” you ask her, hiking her up further onto your hip. Lucy smiles, cheeks dimpling as she tucks her head further into the safety of your shoulder and keeps her friendly-though-guarded gaze on Steve. 

She mouths an inaudible hi as though her mouth wanted to say it but her voice couldn’t commit to the action. 

“Hi, Lucy. Did you come to watch the game?” 

That grabs her attention, shyness forgotten as she turns to the baseball diamond and points at it with a pudgy finger before babbling something Steve can’t profess to understand. 

“We did watch the game,” you translate as best you can. “Steve’s team won, didn’t they?” 

Lucy hums in pleased agreement, tucking her hand back into her side at a job well done of communicating. 

“She really liked when the players were running,” you explain to Steve. 

“Yeah? That’s my favourite part too. Mostly ‘cause I don’t have to do the running myself and can yell at them to do it faster.”

You laugh at him – God, that laugh – and Lucy joins you; Steve’s on cloud nine. 

“Do you like to run, Lucy?”

“Run,” she agrees. 

“I bet you’re very fast,” Steve surmises, plucking the ballcap off his head and placing it on Lucy’s. She squeals in delight, laughing when she has to lift the bill of it in order to see. “You wanna try playing baseball?” 

Steve looks to you as he holds his hands out in silent ask. 

You look down at Lucy. “Do you wanna play baseball with Steve, baby?” 

“Play!” Lucy picks her favourite word from the sentence and repeats it with glee, probably not entirely keen on being handed over to Steve but eager enough at a chance to run and get dirty that she allows you to relinquish her to his capable hands. 

She rids herself of the hat and hands it to you before accepting Steve’s outstretched hands. He takes her weight easily and ignores the way his heart squeezes at the feeling of her propped on his hip as he carries her towards the home plate.

“Alright, Lucy, we have to start at home base.”

“Home,” Lucy repeats; a great student. 

“Right. Not home where you sleep, but home base. See this? The plate?” He nudges the plate with his shoe. “This is home base.”

“Home’bay.”

“A natural,” Steve calls out to you earnestly as he gently places Lucy’s feet on home plate, keeping one of her dimpled hands securely in his. “Alright, now we gotta run to first base. To the next one; do you see it, Lucy?” 

“See.”

“Yes, alright. Ready to run? Three…two…one…go!” 

Lucy takes off in the way that toddlers tend to do: faster than her little legs can possibly take her but incredibly enthusiastic despite it. Steve doesn’t let go of her hand, though, strengthening his grip when her feet get caught up underneath her and she threatens to go down. 

Unsteady as she is, Lucy makes it to first base unscathed and cheers loudly when she jumps up onto the plate. Steve takes his hand away to clap as you cheer for her from the other end of the diamond, now wearing Steve’s discarded ball cap. 

Steve’s lungs feel too large for his rib cage.

“You did it! Way to go, kid,” Steve congratulates her, beaming as she does a little celebratory jig on the spot. “Should we try to get to second base? Wanna go for two?” 

“Yes!” 

“Alright!” Steve laughs, offering her his hand and almost tearing up at the speed of which she takes it. “Ready? Three…two…one…”

Lucy is more patient than Steve gives her credit for, because it’s almost a whole three seconds before Lucy shouts go! herself, and the two of them are off. 

They make it to second base where you cup your mouth and holler from the other end, “Hey you! On two! Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle!” 

Steve demonstrates how to wiggle by offering a little shimmy, and much like she is at baseball, Lucy’s a natural. 

They make it to third base in much the same way, and then eventually to home where you greet them with applause. 

“Wow! Look at the two of you go!” 

Steve pretends to be out of breath. “She’s so fast, mom.” 

“S’fast, mama!” Lucy cheers, dancing again. 

“I know! You’re the fastest girl I know!” 

Lucy clasps her hands together and looks up at Steve with a proud smile. He can’t help himself, she looks so damn sweet that he bends down and scoops her up into his arms with little-to-no thought behind the action. “You did so well, kiddo.”

“Can you say thank you, baby?” 

“Fank yew.” 

Steve laughs and ruffles Lucy’s hair before pushing it back into place. “Anytime, sweetheart. It was my pleasure.” 

You and Steve share a smile, though he thinks yours might look a touch watery. He leans in to press a chaste kiss to your cheek and rubs your back comfortingly. 

“I’m really glad you guys are here,” he tells you, leaning back to straighten his cap on your head. He’s never meant anything more. 

“Me too,” you sniffle, brushing back a strand of wispy baby hair from your daughter’s forehead that Steve must’ve missed or displaced. “I…I think this was long overdue.” 

Steve hums in the negative, pulling you further into his side and resting his chin on the crown of your head. “This was perfect.”

© ellecdc; do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere under any circumstances.

[ellecdc]

this song and dance

Steve Harrington x single mom!reader [1.7k words]

summary: Steve’s been hanging out at the local diner to flirt with the cute new waitress who just moved to town. But she knows how this song and dance goes: boy meets girl, boy flirts with girl, girl flirts back, boy asks girl on date, girl lets it slip that she’s got a kid at home, and the song comes to an abrupt end. Steve, though, dances to a different tune.

part 1 -> part 2

CW: fem!reader, kid fic (though the kid doesn't make an appearance here), set post-epilogue, fluff

You’re having an existential crisis. 

A moral quandary. 

An ethical dilemma. 

See, you have a new job. A new job in an old restaurant in a new town. Or, new to you, at least. 

It’s small and quaint and homey and perfect; exactly what you were hoping for when looking to put down roots. 

Right now, roots are a job at the local diner and a two bedroom apartment above a hardware store in the town’s ‘uptown’ (an adorable word for main street) as a way to test the waters before sinking your money into something more permanent.

So far, though? You’re impressed.

But you’re getting off track. 

Roots aside, you have a new job. 

Working at such a central point of a small town – like a diner – means you have become intimately aware of the regulars’ comings and goings as well as the general local population at large. No one is safe from diner gossip, not even individuals who don’t patronize the restaurant. 

And you’ve come to like your regulars. 

You really like one of them in particular; Steve. 

Which brings you to your problem. Because Steve…Steve is really great; he’s got gorgeous eyes and a devastating smile and great hair and big hands and a lovely laugh and you’ve got a big ol’ crush on him like a teenager. 

Except you’re not a teenager, and neither is he. 

But the two of you are young enough in your adulthood that you’re well aware how this song and dance goes. 

A guy like Steve has probably tested the waters of every eligible person in the area and saw a new challenge in the new girl in town. 

Like shiny keys, you’re something new, some interesting to look at. 

But it’s all fun and games shooting the shit with the pretty little waitress at your favourite diner in town, it’s a totally different ball game when you find out she has a little one waiting for her at home. 

So, your existential crisis? Your moral quandary? Your ethical dilemma? 

You let Steve flirt with you. You encourage Steve to flirt with you. You even flirt with him back! 

But you know how this song and dance goes, which mean you’re basically stringing him along.

But can anyone blame you? He’s so, so handsome. And he’s got great hair; have you mentioned the hair yet? And maybe it’s just a little harmless flirting, maybe he’s this sweet and friendly to the waitress who serves him his tuna melts when you’re not clocked in. 

Except Steve always finds a way to ask when you’re working next, as if he only ever wants to be served by you. Except Steve sees you near the counter and smiles, asking what section you’re working before he chooses a seat. Except Steve has only ever come in alone, as if the front of house is sacred ground and he doesn’t want to bring anyone else into this hallowed space. 

And so, you’re a wretched thing.

Just awful, really. Letting him flirt with you, letting him call you sweet things like honey and beautiful, letting him tip you well and eat the majority of his meals in a rather mediocre diner, as far as diners go. 

Cruel girl. 

Maybe you should taper things off. You had your fun, he boosted your ego, he made your shifts much more enjoyable, and now you ought to put the whole thing to bed. 

Terrible, awful thoughts about Steve and to bed aside, perhaps it’s time to release Steve back into the wild where he can woo another girl who doesn’t have someone waiting for them to come home and make them mac & cheese or chicken nuggets. 

Speak of the devil…

“Hey, gorgeous,” Steve greets as he waltzes up to the counter. His smile does something wicked to your stomach and you have to lock your knees to keep you from actually swooning. Foolish girl. 

“Hi, handsome,” you greet in turn, internally kicking yourself at forgetting that you were supposed to be putting this to bed. “Take a seat anywhere you like.”

But Steve hesitates. That’s a first. 

“Actually I- uh, I can’t stay tonight.”

You pause where you’re drying the parfait glasses used for milkshakes to look at him. He shifts his weight between his feet as he brings a (big) hand up to rub at the back of his neck, seemingly unable to make eye contact with you. 

“No?” you prompt when he doesn’t seem like he’s going to continue. “Got a hot date tonight or something?”

It startles a laugh out of him, except this laugh is all high and tense and wrong in nearly every way; it’s nervous. Steve is nervous. “Uh, well…not- no, not tonight. But, hopefully, I, uh- shit, I used to be good at this.” 

You let out a nervous giggle of your own. “Good at what?”

“Good at asking girls out,” he answers honestly, shooting you an apologetic smile.

Oh. 

“Oh.” Your responding laugh is high and tense as well; what a picture the two of you paint.

“Yeah,” he chuckles self deprecatingly. “I, uhm, just wanted to ask if maybe you’d be interested in, I don’t know, getting to know each other outside of work? Or just getting dinner with me. Or, or maybe I make you something for dinner this time? Not that you make the food here, mind you, but-”

“I…I would like that,” you respond slowly, though Steve deflates a bit at the silent but teetering on the edge of your sentence. 

“But…” he guesses.

“I, uhm, well…I think you might’ve gotten the wrong idea about me.”

“Oh,” Steve breathes, cogs grinding in his head as he reroutes his course through this conversation. “Oh. Are you, like, married or something?”

“No, no. Nothing like that.” 

“Okay. Are you” Steve leans in further, eyes flicking behind you as though worried someone from the kitchen might overhear “into girls? ‘Cause if you are, that’s totally cool, and it’ll suck for me a bit but I have a friend I’d like to introduce to you in that case.”

Your following laugh is far more honest. “No, no. I’m- I have a secret. A different secret.” 

“Okay,” Steve agrees. “Okay, you can have secrets, if you want.”

“No- ugh. No, I…she’s not-” you shake your head as though trying to slip its faulty pieces back into place “-it’s not a secret. It’s just that I’ve kept her a secret from you; not that you asked and not that it came up and not that it was necessarily relevant but-”

“Her?” His question is quiet, soft, sweet.

You purse your lips and tilt your head at him. “I have a daughter.” 

A look akin to…relief paints Steve’s face, his brown eyes warming into something sweet and gooey and crinkling in the corners. “A daughter?”

You hum in acknowledgment. 

“How old?”

You clear your throat and start fussing with the parfait glasses again. “She’s two.”

“Two,” he repeats reverently. “What’s her name?”

You look back up at him, wondering if what you’re reading from him really is excitement. “Lucy.”

“Lucy.” He’s beaming at you. “And that’s your secret?”

You laugh. “Yeah, I- I guess, if she can be considered a secret.”

“Cool,” he says, leaning against the counter on his elbows. “And, so, just so I know what to tell my friend when she asks how this went: you don’t want to go out with me because you have a daughter…and you don’t have time to date? Or any interest in dating? Or ‘cause you think I’m a weirdo? It’s cool either way, just need something to report back to headquarters.” 

You’re almost embarrassed at how loudly you laugh, covering your mouth with your hands and turning to ensure no customers have turned to gawk at you. 

“No, I just…no, you’re not a weirdo.”

Steve lets out a theatrical phew and pretends to wipe sweat from his brow. 

“That’s just…usually as far as I get with guys.”

His brows furrow and he tilts his head at you. “What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s usually more fun flirting with the waitress than dating a single mom who’s new in town,” you explain, decorating your grimace with a tight smile. “Men usually look the other way once they know I have a kid.”

Steve scoffs. “Losers. Well, I love kids, so that really doesn’t change much for me. Actually, it’s kinda hot. You gotta be extra competent to move to a new town and set up shop with a little one on your hip.”

Your cheeks burn and the flames quickly spread to the tips of your ears. You keep your gaze pointed at the parfait glasses. 

“So…I’d love to take you out on that date, if that’s alright with you,” he continues, voice dropping low and dangerous as he dips his head in an attempt to meet your gaze. He’s smirking; the bastard. “And if it goes well, which I’m hoping it does, I’d love to meet Lucy one day.” 

And now you want to cry. Great, real nice. Damn Steve and his sweet eyes and his great hair and his charming smile and his big hands. 

“Yeah?”

He must hear the insecurity in your voice, because he ducks his head even lower to shoot you a real smile. “Yeah. Go out with me, don’t make me beg. ‘Specially in public; this is getting embarrassing, even for me.”

You laugh again. “Yeah, yeah. Okay, I’d like to go out with you.”

Steve, the dork, stands to his full height and drums his hands on the counter in excitement. “Think you can make time for me on Friday?”

“I can probably squeeze you in,” you play coy. 

“Good girl,” he purrs. You glare at him and he barks a laugh. “Okay, okay. Friday, I’ll swing by tomorrow to solidify plans, ‘kay?”

“‘Kay.”

“Great,” he beams, walking backwards. 

“Alright,” you laugh.

He bumps into an empty booth, turning to apologize to it. “Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” you agree.

“And then Friday!” 

He’s at the door now, though he pauses and waits for you to confirm.

“And then Friday, Steve.”

© ellecdc; do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere under any circumstances.

[ellecdc]

splintered

ex!Steve Harrington x fem!reader who asks for him in the hospital [1.9k words]

summary: Steve has been operating on autopilot since the wake of your relationship ending, pretending that the ghost of what could've been doesn't haunt his every step. But when Robin calls saying you're in the hospital and asking for him, he doesn't even pretend to hesitate. Being wanted — however briefly — hurts worse than he thought it would.

CW: hospital fic, exes, disgusting amount of yearning and pet names, hurt, hurt/comfort 

“Again, I’m really sorry, Steve,” Robin hisses, barely managing to keep up with Steve even though she’s the one technically leading him through the hospital corridors.

“Yeah, you said,” he mutters, not unhappy with her, not unhappy with you even, just…unhappy. 

“She really is just kind of inconsolable and nothing we did would help and the doctors said it could last days and we-”

“Robin.”

“Yeah?”

Steve sighs and tries to put on his most composed voice. “Can you just show me to her room, please?” 

Robin’s expression pinches as though she’s the one with a painful migraine brewing. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Sorry, she’s in three-oh-seven, just up ahead.” 

“Thank you,” he imparts with a whisper before hurrying towards your hospital room. 

It was one of those quiet evenings where no one needed anything (rare), and Steve had nowhere to go (quite common), which meant it was going to be spent vertically. Or, sort of crumpled up like a tin can and staying in whatever position he landed on the couch in. 

He cursed his father once again for the need to flash his proverbial dick in the form of a cordless home phone (and then himself for leaving the cordless phone within reach) when his apathetic marathon of The A-Team was interrupted by it.

Steve barely rose from his position to swipe it off the coffee table, if only just to stop the horribly grating ringing. “Harrington residence.”

“Oh, thank God,” Robin breathed on the other end of the line, “Steve, can you come to the hospital?”

Steve sat up from his crumpled up position on the couch. “What?”

“The hospital,” Robin simply repeated. “Can you come?”

“Why?” Steve asked, though he was already standing and heading to grab his car keys.

“It’s Y/N.”

Steve swore as he caught the receiver before it hit the ground, returning it to his ear and leaning against the stair railing for support. 

“Y/N?” 

“She needed emergency surgery-”

“Surgery?”

“Yeah, her appendix. She called me ‘cause she didn’t feel well yesterday-”

Steve ignored the way that not knowing you were sick yesterday caused an organ somewhere near his own appendix to spasm painfully. “Is she okay?” 

“She’s…yeah, yes. Well, I mean, sort of? She-”

“Robin.” 

“She’s like, mostly okay. Pretty much okay. It’s just, well, she’s very upset and even more confused and she’s…she’s asking for you.” 

Robin let that sit in the air, Steve allowed it to settle around him like dust. 

“She’s asking for me?” 

The sound of her sigh felt like it could blow him over in that moment. “She’s a little hysterical. Doctors say that memory loss is common when coming off of anesthesia, so I don’t think she really remembers that the two of you, you know…broke up? But the doctors also said it could last anywhere from a few hours to a few days. We’ve tried everything we can think of to calm her down and she won’t. She’s making herself sick looking for you and-”

“I’m on my way,” Steve told her simply as he grabbed his jacket. “Tell her I’m on my way.”

“Thank you, Steve,” she breathed, equal parts relieved and contrite. “I’m really sorry, by the way.”

“Yeah,” Steve sighed. “Don’t be.”  

And so Steve shows up, like he always does. Upset that he didn’t know you had fallen unwell, mad that he wasn’t there to drive you to the hospital, angry that he wasn’t here when you woke up.

Devastated because he has no right to know, no right to drive you anywhere, no right to be here. He has no right to feel any which way about it, but he does. 

“Robin said he’s on his way. He’s gonna be here soon.” Steve hears Vicky’s soothing tones before he sees her. 

He rounds the corner to find the candy striper hovering over your bedside, holding your wrists down on either side of you in a way that could be either restricting or placating. Steve will soon find out that it is both. 

“Hey,” he calls out awkwardly, clearing his throat when his voice catches. Both of you turn to look at him with wide eyes; Vicky’s in relief, yours in desperation. 

“Hey, look who I found,” Robin announces from behind him, shooting Vicky a commiserating look of discomfort over his shoulder. 

“Steve?”

You sound so small, so vulnerable, that Steve has to breathe around the ache in his chest as he takes cautious steps towards your bedside. 

“Hi, baby,” he murmurs, the pet name slipping out like muscle memory and further splintering Steve’s already spiderwebbed heart. He can’t bring himself to regret it though when a relieved, breathy sob leaves you. “What happened, huh? What’s going on?” 

You sob again, leaning towards him even while restrained. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Steve takes each of your hands from Vicky and perches himself on the edge of your bed. “Did you have surgery?” 

Your head relaxes onto the pillow and you look at the ceiling as you suck in a shuddering breath. “I think so.”

Steve hums in agreement. “Robin told me you weren’t feeling very well.” 

Your eyes squeeze shut and twin streams of tears cascade down your cheeks. Steve relinquishes your hands in order to cup your cheeks and catch them before they reach your jaw; an impossible feat. “You didn’t feel very well, hm?”

You hum in the negative. 

“Do you feel better now?” 

“Not so much,” you tell him, pathetically miserable as Steve makes it his full-time job of brushing his thumbs across your cheeks like miniature windshield wipers for tears. 

“Does anything hurt, Y/N?” Vicky interjects then, and Steve stamps down any frustration at his fragile, stolen moment with you being impeded on, no matter how well-intentioned. 

“I don’t want this,” you all but spit, suddenly sort of ferocious despite your despair and elbowing Steve in the ribs. 

He thinks you mean him.

Vicky knows quite well that you don’t, immediately hissing your name and making her way back over. “No, no. You- hey, we talked about this. You cannot pull that out; you have to leave it.”

Steve watches as Vicky pins the hand of yours that was attempting to rip out your IV to the bed, only for your opposite hand to reach up to the oxygen tubes lining your face.

“Hey, you have to leave those too.” 

“Steve,” Robin whines from the edge of the room. He snaps into action. 

“Hey hey hey, enough of that, yeah? What’d Vicky say?” 

You’re unhappy about it but you let Steve pull your hand away from your face regardless. 

“You have to breathe, honey. Relax,”

“I can’t,” you wail.

“Okay, well that’s what the tubes are for, alright?” he explains, taking your other hand away from Vicky and trying not to glare at her for ever having it to begin with. “They’re gonna help you breathe and relax, but you gotta let ‘em.”

“I can’t,” you whisper woefully, eyes magnified on account of the tears pooling along your waterline and lips pursed into a pitiful pout. You look so sad and still so lovely, Steve’s heart splinters again. 

“You can, baby. I know you can. I’ll help, okay?” 

You close your eyes in defeat, tears falling again but Steve doesn’t let go of your hands now that he knows where they’re bound to go if he does. 

“You okay?” Robin murmurs from the other end of the room; you don’t bother responding as if you know just as well as he does that you’re not the one she’s asking. 

Steve looks over his shoulder. “Can you get us some water? Maybe juice?”

Robin quickly vanishes, but Vicky lingers in the doorway. “I’ll be just outside if you need anything, Steve.”

Steve nods at her, thankful for her support and eager for her absence as she steps out of the room. 

The two of you are left with the sound of the oxygen, the gentle drip of whatever pain medication they have you on, and the general humming of the hospital.

“You okay?” Steve asks eventually, no more than a whisper.

“Steve?”

Okay, well, we’ll just ignore Steve’s question then. “Yeah?”

“Do you hate me?”

Another splinter in Steve’s sternum. “No, sweetheart.” 

Your eyes crack open. “Are you mad at me?” 

Steve shakes his head no. “Why would I be mad at you?”

“Because you weren’t here.” The end of your sentence peters out into another sob. 

Steve’s been carrying a heavy grief around since the two of you broke up, but you not remembering that the two of you broke up is a special sort of torture Steve’s not sure he can withstand. “I’m sorry, baby. I…I didn’t know you’d want me here.”

You let out a heavy sigh. “I‘lways want you here.”

Steve’s not sure he heard you right; is quite sure he didn’t hear you right. Isn’t sure he can stand to hear you repeat it. But he asks anyway.

“What’s that?”

“I always want you here.”

It’s a good thing Steve’s in a hospital, because the remaining shards of his heart have finally fallen from their ribcage prison and punctured every vital organ in his torso. Time stills as his bones turn to lead and his muscles to stone and you simply blink at him. 

“I’m here, honey.”

You relax minutely, though wary when you ask, “Will you stay?”

Steve will probably have a fight a nurse or two, or maybe convince Vicky to find him one of those pinstriped dresses, but if you want him here then he won't leave this hospital room until you do.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asks, transferring both of your hands into one of his so he can wipe away a wayward tear from your chin. You nod at him immediately. “Okay.”

The two of you simply watch each other, and Steve wonders what you’re thinking about as he tries to figure out where he went wrong, how he could have lost you, how he can bear to walk out of this hospital once you remember the two of you haven’t spoken in weeks. 

He’s not sure how much time has passed before your blinks start to grow heavy.

“Go to sleep, babe,” he murmurs around a lump in his throat, preemptively grieving the fact that you won’t remember why he’s here – or rather, you’ll remember all of the reasons why he shouldn’t be – when you wake up next. “You’ll feel better once you wake up.” 

Your eyes widen as though you didn’t realize you were drifting, fighting the inevitable as though you know the risk that comes with sleep too. But your head is heavy on the pillow and your hands melt into Steve’s grip. “Will you still be here when I wake up?”

It’s probably the cruelest thing you’ve ever said to Steve, and he finds himself wanting to thank you for it.

“Yeah, honey," he promises. “I’ll still be here.”

He presses an indulgent kiss to your forehead and hopes beyond measure that you’ll still mean it when you wake up; that you’ll still want him here once the anesthesia wears off.

© ellecdc; do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere under any circumstances.

[cha0ticstranger]

𝒾𝒹𝑒𝒶𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓂 𝓈𝒾𝓉𝓈 𝒾𝓃 𝓅𝓇𝒾𝓈𝑜𝓃

or three times you pushed steve harrington away, and the one time you let him stay

s4! steve harrington x mayfield!reader

summary: as steve's ex-girlfriend and current co-worker, he was fully aware of all the shit life had thrown at you over the past three years. he's never been able to get you to open up; not when you were together and certainly not now. so what happens when your cold disposition cracks, and steve finds the pieces of the person he fell in love with? inspired by 'from eden' by hozier word count: 2.2K cw: requested! gn reader, ambiguous ending, hurt/ some comfort

Tensions at home were a little high. Neil had fled town, probably fled the state, and your mom now worked two jobs to sustain a semi-normal life for you and Max. It was a weird time for the Mayfield family. Mom wasn’t around nearly as much. Max had started her freshman year of high school, and here you were, ready for another shitty Saturday shift at Family Video. It didn’t bring in much, but it brought in enough extra to cover groceries or bills if Mom was short that month. It also didn’t help that you were also working part-time with your recent ex, Steve Harrington. 

It was a muggy, grey late-September morning. Hugging your windbreaker closer, you took another hit of the cigarette as the familiar maroon Beamer whipped into the store parking lot. Steve stepped out, swiftly running his fingers through his already mussed-up hair. Yet no matter how many times he seemed to mess it up, his hair always seemed to fall perfectly into place. An annoying little detail you first noticed when you met him two years ago, yet it had grown into a familiar sight. 

“Sorry for the delay. My alarm…” He tossed you a smile that begged forgiveness while carding through his key ring. There was still a touch of tiredness in the gravel of his voice.

You simply shrugged your shoulders, tossing the cigarette butt to the ground and crushing it with the toe of your shoe, “ ‘s fine, Keith knows you’re the one with the key anyway.”

Steve finally unlocked the door and held it open for you. His brown eyes flicked over your frame in concern as you moved inside, “I thought you quit smoking.”

“Just bummed one of my mom,” You called back as you shrugged off your jacket, “Don’t sound so concerned.”

While you made your way to the front counter, Steve was only a few steps behind, “But I am concerned for you— I mean, for you and Max. Between moving and school. Plus, it’s been three months since Bill—”

“I really don’t need a Steve Harrington pep talk right now,” You swiftly cut him off, the familiar Mayfield glare halting him when he attempted to continue. 

Steve swallowed down his words, brown eyes falling to the floor. You couldn’t tell if it was discernment or disappointment, but you didn’t care to find out. He just nodded and tried to brush it off, “Right, I’m gonna go get everything turned on in the back.”

He prodded into the inventory room, leaving you to set up shop for the day. 

— — —

October came, and with it, the first winds of the cold. Your mother’s drinking habits had become progressively worse. Max had freshly dumped Lucas and shut herself off from the world, while you were just trying to coast through your senior year of high school. Homecoming was around the corner, and you made a pact with your little sister to stay home and watch Top Gun instead. It was better than being stuck outside in the bleachers, watching the popular athletes and their girlfriends flaunt their idealistic relationships. 

It was Thursday night before the big game. Robin had begged you to come at least watch the marching band’s halftime performance. You explained to her that while you would love to come support her, you and Max had plans. When she couldn’t convince you, she simply thanked you for covering her shift at Family Video tonight while she had band practice. You brushed it off, merely explaining that you need the money anyway. 

You’re working with Steve that night, and it’s surprisingly dull for a Thursday. Usually, you’d have at least a family or two, maybe some young people picking out a date night flick, but this evening had only presented a series of returns. The most excitement you had was some asshole knocking over a cardboard stand-up when you informed him that Family Video did not have an adult section at this location. 

“I’m just saying that we could probably close, like, thirty minutes early and everything would be fine,” You attempted to convince Steve while shelving a stack of returns. 

Steve scoffed and rolled his eyes, “No, it would be just my luck that Keith or some customer comes by and we get caught.”

“Wow, you’re losing your rebellious teenage flair,” You smirked in his direction and shrugged, “Fine, I’ll just leave you to it. Punch out for me when you leave.”

You started to take off your uniform vest and make your way to the backroom. Steve slid around from the counter and blocked your path, “Why are you so eager to get home?”

“I like being home,” You shrugged in reply. 

Steve’s brow furrowed, “Uh, yeah, right. You’ve never been a homebody, Mayfield.”

“Well, I’m just tired. Long day,” Your tone had a slight trace of defensiveness in it that Steve immediately latched on to.

He crossed his arms over his chest, clearly not convinced, “So you and Max are just planning to be hermits forever?”

“What?” You scoffed, “Don’t sound so ridiculous—”

“Cut the crap,” Steve held his ground, “Lucas told me all about how Max broke up with him when he came over to practice for basketball tryouts. And then I had to find out from Dustin that you dropped out of the Yearbook Committee.” 

Your posture straightened at the silent accusation in his voice, “So you’re using the party to spy on Max and me? Don’t be such a stalker.”

“Yes, because we’re worried about you two,” Steve’s frustration boiled over, his large hand raking through his hair, “I’m worried about you.”

You steeled yourself, eyes cutting down to the ground as you remained nonchalant, “Yeah? Well, I don’t need your pity or your worry. We’re fine, Steve. I’m fine.”

With that, you brushed past him to exit through the back and biked home.

— — — 

November had been the worst month. Mom nearly got a DUI, while Max had pulled entirely out of any extracurriculars. You were trying to forge a path ahead, a way out of Hawkins, which meant all your free time was spent on college applications. The school counselor and admins seemed to coddle you and Max, and it irked you in different ways. Ms. Kelly told you that it was okay to consider a gap year and that it might be an easier transition to stay in Hawkins and find a full-time job. You, however, thought it was bullshit. 

“I just can’t believe that she thinks that I can’t go to a nice college away from this hellhole,” You seethed to Robin and Steve while rewinding another tape. You didn’t tell them everything, but you didn’t mind confiding in them with the little things. “I’m not holding out for Emerson or Notre Dame, but I could at least get into Tech. Any idiot can get into Tech.”

You missed the way Steve’s stance stiffened. Robin tossed him an apologetic look because she knew you hadn’t met it like that. It was supposed to be just a statement, not an attack on Steve. 

While ignorant of their silent conversation, you ejected the tape from the machine and returned it to its sleeve. You swirled around in the chair, quite a few tapes in your arms, “Like, what does she want me to do? I don’t want to take a gap year, only never to leave Hawkins. I mean, who in their right mind wants to stick around here after graduation?”

Without a word, Steve dismissed himself to the break room. You shot him a look of confusion, eyes shifting to Robin once he was out of sight, “Is he on his period?”

Robin smacked her hand over her forehead, “Mayfield… I need you to rewind and think about everything you said in the past five minutes.”

Your brows knitted together in contemplation. 

“Wow, you really— okay,” Robin sighed, and gestured towards the door Steve had left through, “You totally just back-handed Steve.”’

“What? No, Robin, c’mon,” You huffed but thought through your earlier sentiment, “I didn’t mean it like that. It wasn’t supposed to be an insult to Steve. He’s figuring out what he wants from life. I know that I want to go to college.”

The remainder of the shift held a strange tension. You didn’t know whether to apologize or simply act like the whole thing never happened. 

— — — 

December was uncharacteristically quiet. Mom had told you and Max that she would be working Christmas Eve and Christmas Day for the overtime pay. Max informed you that she wasn’t in the spirit for decorating, or shopping, or anything really. At this point, all your college applications were completed, and you didn’t have anything else but work to occupy your free time. You accepted every shift offered whenever a co-worker mentioned spending the holidays with their family or wanting to go ice-skating or stare at Christmas lights. The only downside was that it meant more time with Steve and his own persistent silence…

It was a quiet Thursday night, and the same night as the Hawkins Tree Lighting, which meant zero customers. You were unsure why Keith simply refused to close shop early, but you didn’t press him. If you had to be stuck with Steve for another agonizingly slow hour and get paid for it, then that was just what you were going to do. 

You were in the Kids section, placing tapes back on the shelves while Steve remained at the counter. He continued to click through the tv channels, refusing to put on another holiday flick after the last one finished. You swore he was at least on his third rotation through the channels. 

“What are you even searching for?” You finally broke the silence, your irritation reaching its peak. 

Steve sighed and leaned back against the countertop, “Hmm, I figured that the tree lighting might be on the local news.”

With a roll of your eyes, you marched back over to the counter, “We live in Hawkins, Steve. Channel four doesn’t drive out to hick-ville unless there’s a crime, a conspiracy, or both.”

He shot you a glare from across the counter, “Well, sorry for trying to bring a little joy to your shift. Do you even remember what that is? Joy, fun, happiness?”

Your brow furrowed at his jab, “Yeah. I do. But there hasn’t exactly been anything to be happy about lately, has there?”

Steve scoffed and turned the TV off, “Huh, sure. But you’ll get an acceptance letter from some fancy college soon, and just leave the rest of us idiots behind. Probably just run right back to California.”

Your posture straightened as the subject reverted to your frustrated rant from the previous month. You swallowed down your guilt, just hoping to make it through the conversation without fanning the flame, “I didn’t mean it like that, Steve. You… grew up here, and you like Hawkins, most days. I was forced to move here with my mom, and her shitty new husband, and his shitty son…”

Clearing your throat, you pushed yourself to continue, “It’s never been about going back to California or leaving Hawkins, I…”

Steve heard the crack in your voice and instantly knew you were trying to apologize and bridge the gap between you. He quickly rounded the counter, but stopped just a couple of inches from touching you. He didn’t want to press his luck. So he waited for you to continue opening up. 

“I want to live without this… anger. Ever since my parents started fighting, I’ve just been so angry every day,” You hand shook as the words kept pouring out, “It got worse when they divorced, worse when my mom met Neil, worse when we moved here, worse when Billy died, worse when I cut you off, worse with Max shutting me out; it just keeps getting worse and I’m starting to wonder if I even deserve better.”

Sometime during your little rant, your shaky hand latched onto Steve’s for stability, rather than the counter. Your eyes trailed up to meet his, where he looked completely prepared to whisk you out of Hawkins himself. He remained silent while pulling you against his chest and into a tight hug. And somewhere in that silence, you felt tears prick the corners of your eyes before burying your face into Steve’s chest, allowing them to flow freely. 

He could’ve hugged you for five minutes or five hours. Time seemed to move differently when his large palms rubbed soothing circles against your back, “You deserve the world and more. You deserve every drop of love and more. You deserve to feel peace. You deserve happiness…”

Your face nuzzled against the scratchy fabric of the green Family Video vest, drying your cheeks. A small sniffle escaped you, cracking Steve’s heart open a little further. With a tremble in his bottom lip, he continued, “And… I still want to be the one to show you happiness… to give you some semblance of peace.”

A sentimental smile teased at the corner of your mouth. You cocked your head to the side and released the breath you were holding, “I don’t know if I can give you the same things.”

“That’s okay,” He quickly replied, “I don’t need you to be perfect or at your best. I just want you back. That’s enough for me.”

His words sank in, but you knew that they were more desperate than truthful. He didn’t realize that there would still be trouble ahead, where you shut him out again. Still, you didn’t call him on it. Instead, you rested your head against his chest once more, hugging him closer — your silent answer.

a/n: so like... would a part two interest anybody? 💋

[bewaryofpity]

PARTY ON YOU - Q. HUGHES

[5.6k] socializing at parties was never quinn’s thing, so it isn’t a surprise when he hides in his room with you and some weed, just like any other time. or maybe not.

warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, smut, stoner au, drug use (weed), sex under the influence!!, oral m receiving, nipple play, mention of alcohol use, mention of masturbating (m and f), kinda made them perverts for a paragraph sorry, cum eating but blink and you'll miss it, lots of kissing, spit, and touching, shotgun smoke, best friends with benefits for the night; unedited

a/n: listen, he's so stoner coded to me haha i had to. also i was supposed to post this during the summer and then completely forgot so he's still a canuck in this oops okay

.

It was no secret to you, or any of his friends for that matter, that Quinn smoked every once in a while. For fun or to ease his nerves, he didn't mind indulging from time to time on his own, but for some reason weed always tasted better when he shared it with you.

During his summers he would go a bit more crazy with it, no responsibilities and no hockey to interfere with getting high all day almost everyday if it wasn’t for his brothers’ constant nagging to share some. That was why he found himself walking to the park down the street or staying at your place more often than not, smoking with the window open and a rug by the door apparently were enough to keep the smell out from your unsuspected parents. 

Quinn groaned as he felt his phone buzz under his pillow, waking him up from his nap. He opened his eyes and closed them back quickly as soon as the sun hit his eyes, seeping through the window as it started to set behind the lake. Fishing for his phone, he turned on his back, eyes adjusting to the sunlight while trying to focus on his phone.

He rolled his eyes when he read Jack’s text asking him to help gather everything for the party he was throwing tonight. It was summer after all, and he knew how much Jack loved social settings like this where he could hang out with his friends to no end and get drunk every weekend, but Quinn was getting tired of having to stay up until sunrise and deal with so many people. He tried to escape as much as he could, sleeping at your place instead because as much as you went and enjoyed these parties, sometimes you needed a break, too.

“What time is it?” your voice came through soft, barely above a whisper and a tiny bit raspy from sleep. 

“Almost eight.”

“Shit,” you mumbled.  You couldn’t remember when you both fell asleep, but you knew sleeping later tonight was going to be a struggle. He let out a small breathy laugh as you rolled almost fully on top of his body. His arm instinctively wrapped around your back to pull you closer, as if you weren’t already nuzzling your face in his hoodie-clad chest. “We need to get ready.”

You released a long sigh and got up from your position before stretching your arms out with your eyes closed, completely unaware of Quinn’s eyes on your lower stomach as your shirt had ridden up. Dragging your feet on the way to the bathroom, you picked up a top and shorts discarded on the ground, not caring if they were wrinkled. It wasn’t like a Jack party was that big of a deal anyway. 

“Do we really have to go?” Quinn groaned as he got up on his elbows to focus on you getting ready from the crack of the bathroom door, your back barely visible in the mirror in front of you. As you were done changing, you opened it wider to give him a look.

“Considering you’ve been staying here for the past four days, I’m sure your brothers miss seeing your pretty face.”

“Don’t care,” he mumbled.

“C’mon Quinn, it’s one of the last ones anyway,” you whined at his grumpy remark.

“I’m a captain now, I can’t be caught being irresponsible,” he joked.

“The same captain who has been smoking weed and rotting in my bed almost everyday since the season ended?”

“Okay, fine.”

You knew he was hooked when he threw himself back on your bed, hands coming to cover his face. You giggled, plopping down beside him and weight resting on your elbows. Quinn had always had a sweet spot for you growing up, you were his best friend from day one. From scraped knees playing street hockey to sneaking out past curfews, there wasn’t a single childhood memory where you weren’t right there beside him. You were the one who could always see through him, what was going on in his head, his feelings, his worries.

And then you grew up and nothing changed between you two apart from the fact that you never realized how hot Quinn was all this time until recently. You weren't necessarily catching feelings for your best friend—or that was what you told yourself—but you couldn’t lie that anytime you’d get drunk or high, your mind would wander to untouchable grounds.

It didn’t help at all that you moved relatively close to Vancouver after graduating, meaning Quinn would beg you to meet up after practice or come watch one of his games quite often, either situation ending up with the same outcome: a disheveled and sweaty (or wet) and panting Quinn. All which led to you going home horny and resorting to ‘drastic measures’.

He wasn’t any better though. He lost count of how many times he had to relieve himself under a cold shower after hanging out with you on the boat, skimpy bikinis and ass on display as you tanned. Or the number of times he found himself unconsciously moaning your name as he stroked his cock.

So he couldn’t say no to you, not when you looked so pretty smiling down at him, making him smile too. Happy you had finally gotten your way in less time than you expected, you got off the bed again and put your hand out to him.

He groaned as he resisted your pull, but eventually got up and let you lead the way. The walk to their house was short as you only lived a few houses down, but it felt nice, just the usual comfortable silence falling between the two of you. The chill breeze from the late July evening hit your bare legs, sending a light shiver down your body, pushing you to hold onto Quinn’s arm for some warmth.

The closer you got the slower he walked in hopes you would tell him you changed your mind, that you wanted it to be just you and him for yet another night, but as loud music billowed up with every step you took, you were buzzing, excited to spend time with his brothers and their friends.

“Oh my god, she’s alive!” You heard someone yell as soon as you turned around the corner to the back garden. Trevor’s eyes lighted up from his spot on the outdoor couch, nursing a beer with some guys. And before you could realize it, he was in front of you, shoving Quinn away so he could give you a proper hug.

“You really shouldn’t keep your friends hostage, you know?” He said while glaring at Quinn behind you.

“Don’t blame me, she didn’t want to deal with your annoying ass.”

“I never said that!” You gasped.

Trevor turned his back to Quinn with you still in his arms, lifting your feet off the ground just enough so he could drag you away. “I know, honey. He’s just jealous you like me more than him.”

You saw Quinn roll his eyes as he brought his hands on his hips, utterly annoyed that Trevor, out of all people, was the one to steal you away from him so soon. A giggle left your lips and you let Trevor walk you back to where he came from, while Quinn already made a beeline to the inside of the house, avoiding anyone who bumped into him and started looking for a drink, knowing he was going to need to put something in his body to be able to handle these many people.

It was well into the night when you noticed that Quinn was nowhere to be found. You couldn’t remember when you saw him last, you haven’t talked to him since you arrived, only ever spotting him chatting away with his brothers with a drink in his hand earlier in the night.

You lost count of how many rounds of beer pong you have played, but thankfully you weren’t drunk, Trevor so kindly taking most of the cups for you. But you were over it, tired, and in need of a change of company. 

You made your way inside the house, squeezing between the sea of bodies before you unexpectedly bumped into something, or rather someone.

“Oh Luke,” you said surprised as you looked up. “Have you– are you okay?”

“When did you get here?” he asked.

“Like, a few hours ago. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, just… got up too fast. I think I drank too much,” he said sheepishly and blinking rapidly, the light blush covering his cheeks and ears was definitely an obvious giveaway. He put a hand on your shoulder as he started to walk past you when you stopped him by grabbing his forearm. “Have you seen Quinn?”

“No, I didn’t even know he was here,” he yelled over the music. “There’s only one place he could be, then.”

Of course, grumpy ol’ Quinn couldn’t have been far. The upstairs was always off limits for guests during parties so it was a plausible assumption to say that he hid up in his room away from everybody, especially since he didn’t want to come here to begin with. It was something he always did before settling on sneaking out and coming over to your place for some peace and quiet. 

He loved his brothers, but sometimes the constant blaring of music and dealing with their hangovers the next day made him forget that. He knew they were just letting loose after working so hard during the season, he just had a different concept of “having fun”. Not that Quinn didn't go to parties, but between an ocean of loud and obnoxious people and a quiet day out on the boat in the middle of the lake, he’d definitely choose the latter.

As you started feeling overwhelmed by the crowd around you, you made your way upstairs, making sure nobody saw you sneaking up to the no-zone. You quickly opened his bedroom door and shut it behind you, smirking as you made eye contact with Quinn. 

He stopped in his tracks, hands stuck midair holding a small box, and wide eyes looking at you like a deer in headlights before realization sat in his heart that it was just you. “Hey.”

“What you hiding there?” You teased, making your way to sit on his bed.

He didn’t respond, instead showing you exactly what you expected. “I’m starting to think you have some ready and hidden in your car too.”

“Gotta always be prepared, you know?”

“Jesus Q, you’re such a loser,” you laughed.

He chuckled in response, rising on his knees and reaching for the lighter and a small ashtray in the bedside drawer. He sat down in front of you, legs outstretched as your knee touched his naked thigh. Leaning back slightly with one hand propped behind for support, he rolled the blunt between his fingertips with the other, letting the flame singe the tip.

“Want the first hit?” he asked, letting his tongue run over his bottom lip in anticipation as he lifted the blunt from the flame to watch the smoke start floating in the air.

You nodded eagerly, lifting your hand to grab it, but Quinn beat you to it, bringing his own hand to your parted lips. As you pursed your lips and took a large hit, you let the smoke cloud your lungs and tighten your chest, your eyes fluttering shut at the sensation. It wasn’t until he spoke that you opened your eyes again, noticing his hand resting on your exposed knee, rubbing his thumb as he looked at you with a warm smile.

He took the joint from your hand, taking a drag for himself and blowing a cloud of smoke in the air before dropping some of the ash in the small bowl. “Fuck, I needed this.”

“I bet you did,” you smirked while taking the blunt back, holding it between your lips. “I don’t think you’ve been sober a single day so far.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled lowly, voice tainted with smoke. 

No matter how many times he smoked, he could never get tired of the feeling of his nerves pleasantly lighting up all at once, though his speech and his movements slowed and slurred each time he tried to not get distracted from whatever conversation he was having with you. You weren’t much different from him, finding it funny how you’d reply slowly and a few seconds later after staring at him with a content smile on your lips.

After a while, silence fell between the two of you as time seemed to slow down, the blunt in his hand was half gone by now after exchanging it with you a few more times, and with each hit, you felt yourself fade more and more. 

You inhaled the smoke again, closing your heavy eyes and relishing in the silence, in the stillness of the moment. Everything felt somewhat greater, almost like you were too conscious of your body and your brain hyper focused on things you never noticed before, like how your heart beat into your chest, maybe a bit more forceful than usual. You couldn’t tell, but it had to be a side effect of weed.

As you exhaled, you almost choked on the remaining smoke in your throat as you opened your eyes and met Quinn’s red-eyed gaze. Has he always been this close? Did he move? Was his hand touching my leg before? You were hyper aware of your surroundings now, but it didn’t matter much when his cologne was mixing in with the weed, overpowering everything, and you unconsciously leaned closer, chasing his scent.

“Do you wanna try something?” he asked, his eyes dropping to your lips before bringing them back onto yours.

You nodded, “What?”

He licked his lips and held your face still with his free hand, taking you by delayed surprise, while the other took the blunt between his lips. He inhaled more smoke than usual and pooled it between his cheeks, letting it settle in his mouth before leaning over, his face now mere inches from you.

You opened your mouth slightly, gaze dropping from his hazel eyes to his parted lips as he let the smoke pour out into your mouth. Inhaling slowly, you both stared entranced at the exchange of smoke from one mouth to another and you couldn’t help but feel a jolt run through your spine as you felt Quinn’s lips graze yours. It was a barely-there touch, yet his stubble was tickling your skin.

“Atta girl,” he said, lips daring to get closer to yours. 

The warmth growing in your chest made you act without thinking and you inched closer, seeking for more. Your lips connected with his, eliciting a groan from him as you kissed him tentatively, despite the need that surged over you. 

Before you could get carried away you parted from him, tension filling up the space between your bodies, but you didn’t get far as he took the hand holding your face and placed it on the back of your neck, harshly pushing you back onto his lips. You gasped into the kiss, unexpected of the fervor. 

His tongue danced around yours, exploring your mouth and savoring every inch of it. You were soft, softer than he ever imagined your lips to be and he didn’t want to admit to himself that this was all he ever wanted, that this was so much better than the beginning of his wet dreams he’d have about you. But fuck it, he thought, there was no reason to lie and pretend like he wasn’t downright smitten for you, like he didn’t want to touch, to feel your body on his. And none of this was new, it was only natural for him to feel this way with you after being around each other majority of the time and see you grow into a woman in front of his eyes.

Breathless and panting, he put space between you, gaze fixed on the line of spit connecting your lips. You noticed it too, and didn’t resist the urge to dart your tongue out, licking the string clean off his bottom lip, his mouth closing around the tip of your tongue instinctively.

If it wasn’t for your hand reaching out, he would have forgotten all about what you were actually supposed to be doing. Your fingers wrapped delicately around his wrist and brought his hand up, angling it right so you could take another hit, mirroring his actions from before.

As you took the blunt between your lips, you stared at his hooded eyes, seemingly of darker shades of green now, and let the smoke fill your throat. You let out a moan as the weed fogged up your brain and you reached for him again with an open mouthed kiss, letting the smoke shift into his mouth.

He broke the kiss to puff out the smoke and before either of you could change your minds and realize that maybe making out with your best friend was a bad idea, he put out the remaining blunt in the small ashtray and placed it on the nightstand behind him.

Quinn wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you into his lap, smirking as your legs swinged over either side of his hips. His hands didn't waste time to grip at your thighs and hips, palming at the flesh while he kissed you harder, basking in the feel of your smooth, soft lips.

You ghosted your hands over his chest, fisting the collar of his hoodie to bring him closer to you. His lips were hot on yours, only parting ever so slightly to gasp for air, groans escaping from his mouth every time he would smash his lips onto yours again. He was on cloud nine, the feel of your body on top of him was driving him insane and he was doing his best not to lose control, but the smooth skin of your thighs was making it harder to suppress the ache for more inside his chest.

The noises you let out threw reason completely out of his mind and he let his hands roam further up, squeezing at your waist while his mouth left a trail of wet kisses on your jaw before settling to nip at the skin of your neck.

“Fuck,” you mumbled. Your hand got lost in his hair, tugging at his curls scared that he would pull away.

Quinn groaned as you guided his head toward your chest and took that as his sign for his hands to slide, spreading his fingers to tease underneath your chest, thumbs tracing around the curves of your tits. Without taking his mouth off you, he lowered your top just enough so he could keep biting and sucking at the now exposed skin, dangerously close to where your bra sat. 

Goosebumps rose onto your skin, his breath on your wet skin made you throw your head back as you were sure marks would appear tomorrow. The more he bit and lapped onto your skin, palmed at your tits avoiding your hard nipples, the less control you had over your body. Unconsciously, you started grinding on him, both of you letting out a moan at the sensation, your highs making everything more sensitive even through your clothes. You pulled at his hair, earning a whine from him as he pulled away from your chest and looked at you through hooded red eyes. You held his face between your hands, fingers tangling in his hair. “Quinn?”

“Yeah?” he asked with a raspy voice.

“I want to touch you,” you whispered boldly. He chuckled at your words and let his head rest against the bed’s headboard, smiling as your hands moved from his hair to his lap just to trail up and draw random patterns on his stomach underneath his hoodie.

He hummed, letting his eyes fall shut. “You are touching me.”

“Don’t get smart on me now, Q.”

“Okay, okay,” he said as he straightened himself up before speaking up again, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve been thinking about you touching me.”

“Yeah?”

“Mh,” he nodded. “With that mouth of yours.”

It was your turn to chuckle. He probably didn’t mean it, you were both too high to think straight, but maybe all the times you caught Quinn stare at your mouth should have given you a hint that he was telling you the truth. It had been a while since you started noticing it, whether it was him focusing on your mouth while you were smoking or talking, it was more often than not that you found him staring at your lips.

So while your hands still roamed up and down his body, you ducked your head in the crook of his neck, licking up his pulse point until you reached where it connected to his jaw, planting a wet kiss before you bit at his earlobe. His cock jumped at the action, making your thighs close in as he grew rock hard underneath you.

“Okay,” you said, rising from his neck. You studied his features —his eyebrows furrowed in lust, lips slightly parted already missing yours, light blush on his cheeks as the room grew hotter now. His nails dug into the skin of your hips, his hold tight as he tried to raise his hips to get some friction and feel some relief, but you had other plans.

You crawled back until you reached the end of the bed, your hands working on the zipper of his shorts before you pulled them off, along with his boxers, unhurriedly and messily. He lifted his hips to help you out and looked down at you with sultry eyes, anticipating your next move. Quinn bit his lip and took a sharp breath in as you palmed over him, smirking when his cock bounced against his clothed stomach.

Instinctively, you let your finger run up his shaft, following the bulging vein that connected to his tip up and down until a small drop of precum stained his hoodie. “Knew you were pretty here too,” you said, licking your lips.

You leaned forward and teased him by darting your tongue out, licking over his slit to taste his precum. The groan escaping his mouth sent a jolt to your center and you were growing impatient, hungrier to feel him in your mouth.

“Fuck, don’t tease me like that,” he hissed, one of his hands coming to gather some of your hair in a makeshift ponytail, tugging you down so your mouth could connect with his length again. You chuckled through your smirk, your face closer now you couldn’t stop yourself from planting a small kiss to his head.

“But I wanna take my time with you,” you pouted. “What if this is my only chance to suck you off? Need to savor it.”

His stomach clenched at your words, the idea that you wanted nothing more than to stuff your mouth with his cock, memorize every detail of it because you thought this was going to be the one and only time you’d get to see him like this, had his brain feel fuzzier and foggier than weed ever could.

He thought he already lost it when you first touched him, but as he watched you lean forward and spit over his length, he truly was a gone man now. Your lips wrapped around his cock, soft and smooth as you took him in, whole, until your nose brushed at his pelvis and his tip hit the back of your throat.

Quinn sucked a breath in, fighting for his hand to keep still on the back of your bobbing head as the urge to push you to take him in deeper rose within him, but he was finding it harder not to fuck your pretty face so early in. You wanted to take your time, you said it yourself, and who was he to deny you that, especially not when your warm mouth felt like heaven.

Small sounds of pleasure escaped his lips and he closed his eyes again, the weed in his bloodstream making everything hotter, messier, wetter. Your mouth worked around him, drawing lines up and down his cock with your tongue until you found the perfect spot to make him wither. 

You pulled back up, a line of spit connecting you to his sensitive tip before you kissed it away gently. 

“God, please,” his husky voice threaded through your ears as he begged for your warmth again. He lifted his hips towards you, chasing your tongue as you licked up the bulging vein on the side of his length. 

You giggled at how needy he was and let a ball of spit fall onto his tip before taking him back in your mouth, the added slick making your movements easier as you sucked fervently. You watched him through your lashes, the sight of his head thrown back in pleasure and lips hanging open was intoxicating, probably more than the weed you had just smoked.

“Keep going, baby,” he cooed. “Just like that, yeah.”

His grip on your hair tightened as you swollen lips wrapped around his cock and pushed your head further down until he reached the back of your tight throat. Bracing yourself on his thighs, nails scraping his skin at the feel of your mouth completely full, at how good it felt to have his hot and heavy dick on your tongue, you sucked him whole. 

Quinn lulled his head forward and opened his eyes to stare at you, taking in how fucking hot you looked like this, your mouth stretched around his cock, your saliva sliding form his lenght and pooling at its base, your eyes closed as you focused on breathing, on making sure every inch of him was taken care of. And it only made things worse, encouraging him to lose even the last bit of control he thought he had and push onto your head.

“You were made for me,” he mumbled, buckling his hips to get your throat to close around his tip, earning a small gag from you as you weren’t expecting him to fuck up your mouth like that. He chuckled at your sounds, but a low moan replaced his chuckles as you sucked in your cheeks and picked up the pace, resting only part of him in your mouth while your hand wrapped around the base of his cock.

The squelching sounds coming from your mouth were loud, dirty, borderline disgusting as spit and his precum filled your mouth and slid down his cock like it was nothing, and Quinn didn’t want to admit it to himself that all of this was so fucking hot, way too hot than he would have thought. And he couldn’t help but pray that you would let him have a turn with you and show exactly how lewd it was for your fluids to mix like this, too. Oh, he knew you would taste so sweet he wouldn't be able to part from you.

He tried to ignore the curdle in his stomach and let your mouth work more, let your tongue swirl around him, let you trail kisses up his cock, let you suck on his flushed tip and lick over his slit until he couldn’t bear it anymore. He should have known that looking at you so eager, so hypnotized by his taste, sucking and twisting your hand around him would have made him tumble right over the edge.

“Shit– let me come in your mouth,” he said as he took a sharp breath in. You nodded your head and hummed at the idea, the vibrations from your throat sending another wave of heat through his body. 

Hot and white ropes of cum spilled down your throat before you removed yourself from his cock, letting your tongue dart out and catch the last drops on your tongue and lips as you milked him dry with your hand. 

“Good girl,” he whispered. “So pretty like this.”

Quinn dropped his hand cup your face, thumb brushing your cheek while he mumbled a few more soft praises at you, your eyes still closed as you regained your breath. When you finally opened your eyes, the sight in front of you got your heart to skip a beat. Quinn was panting, lips parted and raw, a few loose curls fell in front of his face, and cheeks red.

As your heartbeat started to slow back to normal, you rose from your position to straddle his lap again, his cock twitching as it made contact with your shorts. You mirrored his actions and let your hand tangle in his curls, his fucked out expression addicting. His eyes trailed over your face, searching for any sign of discomfort, of regret, but your eyes were still full of desire.

That was when he noticed the small drop of cum on the side of your lips that you must have missed, but before he could let you catch it with your tongue, he took two fingers to your face and scooped it on his fingertips and hovered them over your parted lips. Your eyes widened for a second, but when you tasted his cum again on them you couldn’t help but moan.

And maybe he should have stopped right there, but your pretty sounds were like a siren song to his ears and he couldn’t hold back from pushing his fingers past your lips and down your throat. He let out a groan as your tongue separated them, circling around and sucking them clean.

“You like having your mouth full, huh?” he teased, voice raspy sending a jolt to your core.

Quinn sat up and guided you until your back hit the mattress, his fingers never leaving your mouth as you held his wrist in place. He adjusted himself so he nestled with your legs on either side of his hips and pressed his body onto yours, his free hand trailing and squeezing up your leg. 

“Oh,” you whined, his stubble scratched your neck as he kissed, nipped, bit at your skin. And you whined once again when he took his fingers out of your mouth, shining against the small light on his nightstand as they were coated in your spit.

His lips pressed on yours, sliding against each other at a slow pace, fully taking in how it felt to have your tongue tangled with his. It didn’t take long for either of you to get lost in lust and respond to your desires as Quinn’s fingers smoothed over the exposed skin of your waist leaving a wet trail behind.

Your hips buckled and you threw your head back in a soft wail as his hand reached to palm your tit, rolling your hard and sensitive nipples between his wet fingers. The weed in your bloodstream did nothing if not arouse you more, every lap of his tongue in your mouth, every squeeze of your tits, every pinch of your hardened bud, every bite of your bottom lip kept sending shock to your clit. If he kept touching you like this, you were sure you were going to come untouched.

The hill of your foot dug into his lower back begging for friction and then you felt it, his length prodding at your entrance through the fabric of your shorts.

“Fuck,” “yes,” you said in unison. He guided his head back to your neck as your mouth hung open in silent cry, his hand still palming and groping your tits.

Your hand carded through his hair, tugging and pulling, making sure he wasn’t going to part from mouthing at your neck just yet. But all good things must come to an end at some point and you couldn’t help whining when he lifted his head off of you, halting his movements to make sure the knocking sound was all in his head instead.

Both of you groaned as another rapid knocking came from outside the door and Quinn got on his feet, collecting his pants and sliding them on messily, almost stumbling in the process which made you giggle.

“What,” he said breathlessly when he opened the door ajar, not even bothering to voice it as a question.

“Y/N was looking for you,” Luke replied innocently as he took a peak behind his brother’s shoulder just to see you sprawled out in a starfish position staring at the ceiling. “What… are you two doing?”

“Fucking. What does it look like we’re doing?” Quinn rolled his eyes at the dumb question. The window was open, but smoke still lingered up the ceiling and he knew it was likely that the pungent smell of weed made its way to the corridor through the cracks of the door.

“Jeez, isn’t weed supposed to have a calming effect?” Luke smirked, but he didn’t receive an answer as the door slammed right into his face.

Locking the door behind, Quinn reached for the box underneath his bed and placed it on the bed, hurriedly taking everything he needed out to roll another joint. If he wanted to return the favor, he wanted to only think of your pussy on his tongue, to give you a taste of how good it felt to be fucked high.

[luveline]

what about best friend Steve before he got his second chance? like him being mean or what the final straw was for you the first time?

and/or how best friend steve got his second chance especially now that he realizes he’s in love with you

fem, 0.8k

Steve used to be kind. 

Maybe nobody would believe you. Your friends in the art club sneer when you mention him. The girls in your study group have nearly all had their hearts broken by him, always ‘gently’, never them. You try to offer them encouragement —Steve doesn’t mean to hurt anyone, he falls in love too fast, he’s hopelessly romantic until it’s real.

You’re sure when he finds the one he’ll stop making out with girls under the bleachers between periods or blowing them off at parties because Tommy tells him to. 

He really was nice, before Tommy. You were only friends for two years before Tommy H. came and got his claws in Steve, but they were good enough to cement a friendship that lasted. If Tommy came first you were a close second. If Tommy got to see him Friday night, then he was free as a bird on Saturday mornings. You watched movies, and talked shit, and went for hikes no matter how athletically challenged you are, because getting to look out over a lake or a mountain with him was the makings of a perfect weekend.

Your walls are plastered in photos of you or Steve backgrounded by green bluegrass or the clear shores. When he gets permission, he takes you to one of the lakes off of Lake Michigan and you spend an entire day cutting your feet on stoney sands, eating warm sandwiches out of the trunk and swimming until your legs are numb. 

He made you laugh, until you couldn’t breathe. You’d trade blows and he’d wrap a towel around your shoulders to keep you warm on the drive home. 

Nancy Wheeler is not the last straw. The party you aren’t invited to, Jonathan’s camera, radio silence for days, his evil spray paint on the Hawk movie sign, none of it is the last straw. 

You’d licked his wounds for him when it all happened, because Nancy picked Jonathan, Nancy wouldn’t talk to him, Nancy— It didn’t matter. He scrubs off the spray paint and takes an apology tour, Tommy’s basically kicked to the curb, things were awful and now they could be looking up for you both, but Steve forgets you. 

He was your best friend, and he shouldn’t have done any of that shit, and you’re sitting at home five hours after he said he’d come pick you up so you could get a book from an Indy store you’ve waited months for. You don’t tell him much, anymore, but you haven’t shut up about this book, and he never made you feel stupid for it. He just forgets. 

Like he forgot your movie date last week, and your school art show. How he keeps buying you that soda you hate. There are tens of tiny things Steve has done lately, and you’ve forgiven all of them, but you sit there on the couch feeling forgotten and you start to wonder why you have. Why should you forgive him for this? He’ll be sorry, but he’s sorry often. He’ll feel bad, but it won’t make him nice again. 

He doesn’t even call. 

You stop him in the hall at school the next day. Your hands are shaking. You stare your best friend in the face and try to say it without drama. “I don’t think we should be friends anymore.”

Steve grimaces, confused. 

“I don’t want to be friends,” you correct, keeping your voice low lest he hear you trembling. 

“What?”

“I’m done, Stevie. You don’t care about me anymore. You make me feel awful. You make me feel like I’m not worth your attention, and I’m sick of wondering if I’m too sensitive, or too much. We used to be best friends.”

“We are– we–” His eyes go wide with panic, a painful looking flush pinching both of his cheeks. “What did I even do?”

“You don’t know?” you ask. Your sincerity hurts, but a weight is lifting off of your shoulders. Steve might be the most beautiful boy you’ve ever met, but he’s not good. “I’ll see you around, okay? I’m sorry.”

You go to leave, but Steve grabs your wrist.

“Wait a second–”

You yank out of his hold so hard that you hurt yourself, your nonchalance sizzling into pain. “No, Steve, you wait a second. Why don’t you wait, and wait, and see if I remember you?”

You scoff at him, which makes him flinch. His eyes shut off. 

“I hope it was worth it,” you say. And you stop being best friends. 

[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: smut, bj, hand (not crazt descriptive) mean danny harrington words: 9.1k 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: okay... im so sorry.... i just kept deleting and going back and adding... and to be honest im still not loving this but im posting it because sigh </3 thank you all for kind thoughts and support even when my chapters suck 🫩🫩 also it's funny when you want something and i've already written it... so... enjoy the last bit hehee masterlist

Chapter 9

The week before finals wouldn’t really be that bad, except Eddie has become a permanent fixture in your life, and it’s driving you slowly insane.

Since Saturday night, he’s been attached to you and Robin like a lost puppy, trailing after you both with hangdog eyes and restless energy that fills whatever room he’s in. Steve hasn’t talked to him. Every time Eddie shows up at the Pike house, some pledge stops him at the door with an apologetic shrug and the same line: they’re not accepting visitors right now.

And the worst part? Eddie doesn’t actually know what he did wrong. Well—he does, technically, but the three of you don’t talk about it. The kiss sits between all of you like a landmine no one wants to acknowledge, and Eddie’s been left to navigate the aftermath alone.

Robin stays carefully neutral, but you catch her sometimes, jaw tight, a small vein pulsing at her temple when Eddie starts up with his nervous habits for the third time in an hour.

One afternoon in the library, Steve rounds the corner near the study carrels, and for half a second, his face does something soft when his eyes land on you. His mouth curving into the beginning of a smile, shoulders loosening like seeing you is relief itself.

Then his gaze shifts. Lands on Eddie sitting across from you.

The smile dies instantly.

Eddie glances up, catches sight of him, and lifts his hand in a tentative wave, fingers wiggling uncertainly.

Steve’s jaw tightens. He rolls his eyes, pivots on his heel, and walks off without a word, footsteps echoing down the aisle until they disappear entirely.

Eddie’s hand drops slowly back to the table. He frowns, staring at the spot where Steve disappeared, before turning his attention back to the notepad in front of him. He starts scratching at it again—harsh, agitated strokes of his pen that make the paper buckle slightly. Then comes the clicking. Click. Click. Click. The pen cap snapping on and off in rapid succession, the sound grating against the library quiet like nails on a chalkboard.

You try to ignore it. You really do. But after the tenth click, something inside you snaps.

“Can you please stop it?” you hiss, leaning forward, voice barely above a whisper but sharp enough to cut.

Eddie doesn’t even look up, still scribbling furiously. “Helps me think when I’m writing a new song.”

You press your fingers to your temples, exhaling slowly through your nose. “Why can’t you write it somewhere else?”

Eddie’s pen stills. He looks up at you then, eyes shadowed with something resigned and a little bitter. “I normally write in Pike’s sun room,” he says quietly. “They barely use it. Good lighting plus it’s quiet.”

“It’s like you’re punishing me,” you mutter, dropping your gaze back to your textbook even though the words have stopped making sense three pages ago. “It’s not my fault you and your boyfriend are fighting.”

Eddie lets out a sharp exhale that might be a laugh. “Uh, it kinda is, actually.”

Your head snaps up. “What?”

He gestures vaguely between the two of you with his pen, eyebrows raised. “I mean… he’s still pissed that you kissed me.”

You groan, dropping your forehead into your hands. “Oh my God. It’s not that serious.” You lift your head just enough to glare at him. “Did you tell him that it didn’t mean anything?”

“Sweetheart,” Eddie says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, “it doesn’t matter. It’s not about whether it meant something. It’s the fact that he’s not able to and I can.”

The words hang between you, heavy with implication you're not sure you want to unpack. You stare at him, confusion knotting in your chest. "What does that mean?"

Eddie sighs, long and heavy, like he's about to explain something he really doesn't want to. He drags a hand through his curls, making them stick up at even wilder angles. 

"So he built this whole system, right? These rules. No kissing, no sleepovers, no feelings talk, no seeing the same girl more than once a week. It's all designed to keep him at a distance." Eddie leans back, arms crossing over his chest. "But here's the thing—it's not about protecting the girls from catching feelings. It's about protecting himself."

You process his words slowly, turning it over in your mind, trying to match it with the Steve you know. The cocky fraternity— future—president with the perfect hair and endless parade of girls.

"That's..." you start, then stop, because you're not sure what it is. Sad? Ridiculous? Both?

"The kiss thing especially," Eddie continues, voice dropping even lower. "That's his line in the sand. Because kissing is..." He waves his hand vaguely. "It's intimate in a different way, you know? It's the thing that makes it feel real. Makes it feel like it could be something more."

Your stomach does something complicated. "So when I kissed you—"

Eddie's expression is sympathetic now. "He's pissed at me because I got to do something he won't let himself do. But he's more pissed at himself for caring about it in the first place."

The library feels too quiet suddenly, the fluorescent lights too bright. You look down at your textbook, at the notes you've been pretending to take, and none of it makes sense anymore.

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard," you finally say.

Eddie barks out a laugh, sharp and genuine. "Yep. Welcome to Steve Harrington's emotional damage. Population: him and everyone unfortunate enough to care about the bastard."

You shake your head, frustration bubbling back up now that the initial shock has worn off. "Why can't you just apologize or something? Just… I don't know. Tell him you're sorry and move on?"

Eddie's expression shifts into something amused and pitying all at once. "Oh, sweetheart." He shakes his head, curls bouncing. "You really don't understand men, do you?"

"Apparently not."

"We're idiots," he says matter-of-factly, picking up his pen and twirling it between his fingers. "We'd rather suffer in noble silence than actually communicate like normal human beings. It's hardwired into us. Especially guys like Steve and me. We gotta be all stoic and shit, work through our feelings by brooding and drinking beer and pretending everything's fine until it actually is."

You stare at him. "That's the stupidest system I've ever heard."

"Agreed." Eddie grins. "But don't worry. He'll get over it in a few days. Just needs to be dramatic about it first, let it fester a bit, then we'll both pretend it never happened and go back to normal. That's how it works."

"That's how it works," you repeat flatly.

"That's how it works." He nods sagely, like he's imparting ancient wisdom. "Give it till Friday. We'll be fine."

You want to argue more, to point out how exhausting this all is, how ridiculous, but Eddie's already gone back to his notepad, pen scratching across the page, and something in his posture tells you the conversation is over.

Three days later, you and Robin push through the front doors of the Pike house, the familiar smell of stale beer and old carpet greeting you immediately. It's Thursday afternoon, the house quieter than usual, most of the brothers either in class or holed up studying for finals that start Monday.

Robin had gotten a call from Steve earlier—something about needing to go over some details for the winter formal the fraternity is hosting in January—and she'd looked at you with raised eyebrows, a silent question hanging between you.

You'd shrugged. "Might as well."

Now, as you follow her through the entryway and toward the common room, you can hear the low murmur of voices, the distant sound of a television playing something with a laugh track. 

You round the corner and stop.

Steve and Eddie are sitting on the couch together, maybe a foot of space between them, both holding bottles of Budweiser. The TV plays some sitcom rerun. It looks like Family Ties from the brief glance you catch, but neither of them seems particularly invested. Eddie's feet are propped up on the coffee table, boots crossed at the ankle, and Steve's got one arm slung along the back of the couch.

Steve says something you can't hear, and Eddie throws his head back with a laugh. His normal, genuine sound fills the room, not holding it back.

They look... normal. Easy. Like nothing happened at all.

Robin lets out a breath beside you, something relieved and exasperated mixing in the sound. "Unbelievable," she mutters under her breath. "Men."

Steve glances up first, catching sight of you both in the doorway. His face does something complicated. It’s a flicker of surprise, then something softer, warmer, eyes lingering on you for just a beat too long before he schools it back into something more neutral. "Hey."

"Hey," Robin replies, moving further into the room, already heading for Steve. You follow, feeling suddenly awkward, hyperaware of your own movements.

Eddie twists around, draping his arm over the back of the couch, grin already spreading across his face like sunshine breaking through clouds. "Well, well, well! If it isn't my two favorite ladies!" He lifts his beer in salute. "Come to witness the miraculous resurrection of a beautiful friendship?"

"You two made up?" Robin asks, settling onto the arm of the couch near Steve.

"We were never fighting," Steve says, taking a sip of his beer.

"Lies and slander," Eddie announces cheerfully. "Harrington here gave me the cold shoulder for three whole days. I nearly composed a ballad about it."

Steve's jaw tightens, but there's no real heat behind it. "You're so full of shit, Munson."

"And yet you love me anyway." Eddie blows him a kiss across the couch, and Steve reaches over to shove his shoulder, but he's fighting a smile, the corners of his mouth twitching upward despite his best efforts.

You hover near the edge of the couch, unsure where to sit, hands tucked into the pockets of your jacket. Steve's eyes find yours briefly, something passing between you that you can't quite name. It’s acknowledgment, maybe, or apology, or something else entirely, before he looks away, back to the TV.

"Sit down," Robin says, patting the cushion next to her. 

You move, settling onto the couch between Robin and Eddie, the worn cushions dipping beneath your weight. Eddie immediately leans into your space, elbow nudging yours.

"Told you," he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear. "Few days. Like clockwork."

You glance at Steve, who's very carefully not looking at you, his attention fixed on the TV with an intensity that suggests he's not actually watching it at all. His jaw is still tight, and there's tension in his shoulders that wasn't there when you first walked in.

Eddie was right, you think. A few days. That's all it took.

You sit there, watching the way Steve's thumb traces the label on his beer bottle, the way his eyes keep drifting toward you when he thinks you're not looking, and you pretend not to notice. 

Maybe he's still mad at you. Maybe that tension in his shoulders, that careful way he's keeping his gaze averted, means he's holding a grudge about the Eddie kiss. The thought floats through your mind, turning over once before you let it go.

You don't particularly care if he is.

Because yesterday, you were finally alone, while Robin was in a feminist-theory seminar and Eddie was presumably writing sad songs somewhere not at the Pike house, you'd found your way to the sun room Eddie had mentioned. The one barely anyone uses, with the good lighting and the quiet. You'd found Steve there too, textbooks spread across the floor, highlighter cap between his teeth, looking stressed and beautiful and completely surprised when you'd locked the door behind you.

You'd dropped to your knees without preamble, and he'd let you. He let you work him open with your hands and mouth until he was gasping your name, fingers tangled in your hair. You'd kissed the leaking tip of his cock, soft and reverent, tasting salt, warmth, before pulling back just enough to whisper, “Good luck on your finals,” against his skin.

He'd come undone after that, filthy and broken, and you'd left him there, sprawled on the floor, chest heaving. 

So no. You don't particularly care if Steve Harrington is mad at you.

.-.-.-.

You're driving up to Hawkins, the road stretching endlessly ahead of you, broken only by occasional stops to pull over and squint at the map spread across your steering wheel. The route seems simple enough on paper—straight north, a few turns once you hit the smaller highways—but navigating alone makes every mile marker feel significant, every exit a potential wrong turn.

Although you spent the week of Christmas at home with your parents, Robin had invited you to spend the rest of break in Hawkins. Her voice had been bright over the phone, almost pleading: "Come on, you have to. It'll be so much fun. Plus you can finally see where I grew up. And Steve will be around too, so it won't just be me dragging you to boring family dinners."

The mention of Steve didn’t make you feel any certain way, though. You'd said yes because Robin is your best friend, and honestly, what else were you going to do for the rest of break?

Now, as you pass the weathered sign that reads "Welcome to Hawkins, Indiana" in faded letters, you can't help but take in the town with curious eyes. It's smaller than you expected, the kind of place where everyone probably knows everyone, where the same families have lived for generations. Main Street is lined with mom-and-pop shops, a movie theater with a marquee advertising films you've already seen, a diner with a neon sign flickering in the afternoon light. There's something almost frozen about it, like time moves differently here, slower.

You follow Robin's directions, turning onto tree-lined residential streets where houses sit back from the road with neat lawns and shuttered windows. When you finally pull up to the address she gave you, you blink in surprise.

The house is... big. Not mansion-big, but certainly bigger than you'd pictured. Two stories, pale blue siding, white trim, a wraparound porch with wicker furniture, and a lawn so perfectly manicured it looks like it belongs in a magazine. There's a basketball hoop over the garage and flower boxes under the windows, dormant now in the winter cold.

Before you can even fully put the car in park, Robin bursts through the front door, waving her arms over her head like she's guiding in a plane.

"You're here!" she shrieks, practically launching herself off the porch steps.

You barely have time to get out of the car before she's pulling you into a hug, arms tight around your shoulders, rocking you side to side with enthusiasm that nearly knocks you off balance.

"I'm so excited you're here," she says into your hair, squeezing once more before pulling back, hands still on your arms. "How was the drive? Did you get lost? I should've given you better directions. Oh my God, I'm so glad you made it."

"The drive was fine," you laugh, letting her pull you toward the house. "Your directions were perfect."

Inside, the house smells like something savory cooking, garlic and herbs and warmth. The entryway opens into a living room with cream-colored furniture and family photos covering nearly every surface—Robin at various ages, school pictures with increasingly questionable hairstyles, vacation snapshots, formal portraits.

A woman appears from what looks like the kitchen, short brown hair styled in soft waves, wearing slacks and a cardigan that screams suburban mother. She looks exactly like Robin, or rather, Robin looks exactly like her—same nose, same smile, same bright energy.

"Oh, hello!" she says warmly, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. "You must be—" and she says your name like she's been practicing it, making sure to get it right. "We're so excited you're here. Robin has told us so much about you."

"Thank you so much for having me, Mrs. Buckley," you say, offering your best polite smile.

"Please, call me Melissa." She waves the formality away. "Robin's father is in his office right now finishing up some business calls, but you'll meet him at dinner." She glances at Robin, eyebrows lifting slightly. "Sweetie, what time did you say Steve was coming?"

Robin looks at her watch, already bouncing on her feet, restless energy radiating off her in waves. She grabs your wrist, already tugging you toward the hallway. "He'll be here in a few minutes."

"Okay, dear!"

But Robin's already pulled you away, practically dragging you up the carpeted stairs, past more family photos, Robin in a band uniform, Robin at what looks like prom, Robin with a significantly younger-looking Steve, both of them making faces at the camera.

She leads you into a room that's clearly a guest bedroom, everything spotless and coordinated in soft blues and whites. The bed is made with hospital corners, decorative pillows arranged just so, a vase of dried flowers on the dresser. Robin shuts the door behind you, sets your suitcase on a trunk at the foot of the bed, and immediately throws herself backward onto the mattress with a satisfied sigh.

"Did you get your final grades back?" she asks, staring up at the ceiling.

You move to sit beside her, the mattress bouncing slightly. "Yeah, day before yesterday. I passed, but I was worried about Dr. Burrows."

Robin groans, loud and theatrical, throwing an arm over her face. "That asshole gave me a C. A C! After all that work on the final paper."

Then she shoots up suddenly, the movement so abrupt you nearly jump. Her face is red, shy in a way you've rarely seen from her, and she's already reaching for her wrist. "Do you want to see what Nancy gave me for Christmas?"

Your face breaks into a genuine smile. "Do I? Please."

Robin chuckles, holding her arm out so you can see. Around her wrist is a delicate silver bracelet, thin and dainty, with three small charms hanging from it—a music note, a tiny pencil, and between them, a heart with the initial 'N' engraved in flowing script.

She sighs, the sound wistful and soft, staring at the bracelet like it holds the secrets of the universe. "It's perfect, isn't it?"

But then her expression shifts, mouth pulling into a frown. "I feel bad though because I had to tell my parents it was from Steve." She touches the heart charm gently. "Luckily my grandma's name is Norma, so that worked out."

You bite your bottom lip, something heavy settling in your chest as you join her more fully on the bed, crossing your legs. "I've wondered..." You pause, choosing your words carefully. "Are you ever going to tell your parents?"

Robin looks down, fingers wringing together in her lap, twisting and pulling at each other. "I... I've thought about it. And I mean... they love me, I know that, but..." She swallows hard. "My dad's job is really important to him." Her mouth twitches faintly, something sad flickering across her face. "And... Steve. He's already promised that he'll do whatever I need. We kind of made this pact that he'll marry me once we graduate. Get all those benefits and..." She trails off, then continues, "And now Nancy's in on it too. We'll all move in together, tell people she's our roommate so it's cheaper rent."

You chuckle softly at the absurdity and sweetness of it all, but then a practical thought occurs to you. The words slip out before you can stop them. "You really don't think Steve wants to marry... someone else? Sorry, no other way to say that."

It's a genuine question, the kind you'd ask about any friend making a major life decision. Like asking if someone's sure they want to move across the country or change their major. Just making sure all the angles have been considered.

Robin laughs, but there's no humor in it. She looks sad, older somehow. "Don't worry." She picks at the comforter, pulling at a loose thread. "He says marriage isn't for him. Or kids." She glances up at you. "You'll probably meet his parents tomorrow at the New Year's party. His mom is great, but his dad..." Her face twists with distaste. "He's an asshole. Before we... started this whole thing, his dad was constantly trying to set him up with girls from the right families, you know?" 

She shakes her head. "So I guess Steve feels like this is the one choice he can actually make that his dad approves of. And I guess..." She shrugs. "Same with my parents. I have no idea if they'd approve of Nancy, but... the son of the Harringtons..." She drifts off, the implication hanging heavy between you.

She shrugs again, smaller this time. "Sorry, more than you wanted to hear."

You grab her hand, squeezing it firmly. "Robin, I think it's sweet how you're there for one another."

And you mean it. Really, truly mean it.

It's all making more sense now. All the layers of their relationship, the careful construction of their public personas, why Robin is so protective, so keen that no one catches feelings for Steve. Not only because he doesn't think he can have that kind of relationship, but because there's further security in knowing someone will sacrifice a potential part of their life for her. A guarantee that she won't end up alone, that she can have what she wants with Nancy while still maintaining appearances.

And maybe, for the first time, you can respect Steve a bit more. Not romantically, god, no, he's still the cocky frat president with his ridiculous rules (that now are beginning to sound less ridiculous) and parade of girls, but as a person. As a friend who loves Robin enough to give up the possibility of something real for himself so she can have it instead. That takes a certain kind of selflessness you hadn't credited him with before.

It's kind of noble, actually, in a tragic sort of way.

The doorbell rings downstairs, and Robin's head snaps toward the door, a smile breaking across her face.

"That's Steve," she says, already bouncing to her feet. "Come on, let's go say hi."

Robin whisks down the stairs, taking them two at a time with the kind of reckless speed that makes you wonder how she hasn't broken her neck yet. You follow behind at a more reasonable pace, hand trailing along the banister, voices drifting up from the entryway below.

By the time you reach the bottom, Steve is already caught in Mrs. Buckley's embrace, her arms wrapped tight around him like she's trying to squeeze the air from his lungs. His shoulders bunch up around his ears, hands hovering awkwardly at his sides, and over Mrs. Buckley's shoulder he shoots Robin a pleading look that's pure desperation.

Robin, for her part, just stands there watching him suffer, arms crossed, a wicked grin spreading across her face.

You press your hand to your mouth, stifling a laugh.

"Okay, Mom," Robin finally says, voice sing-song with barely suppressed amusement. "Let go of him. You saw him yesterday."

Mrs. Buckley pulls back reluctantly, hands still gripping Steve's shoulders as she sighs, the sound dreamy and fond. "Excuse me if I want to love on my future son-in-law."

Steve flashes a look at Robin, not awkward exactly, but endearing, like this is a familiar routine they've perfected over years, then turns back to Mrs. Buckley with a toothy grin that transforms his whole face into something boyish and charming. "Don't worry, Mrs. B. At least one Buckley loves me."

"Oh, stop." Mrs. Buckley swats at his arm affectionately before finally releasing him.

Steve does his typical performance then, the one you've witnessed countless times, sliding his arm around Robin's shoulders with practiced ease, pulling her into his side before pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. The motion is automatic, muscle memory, performed without thought.

Then his eyes land on you.

His mouth curves into an easy smile, lopsided and casual. "Hey. How was the drive?"

"Good," you answer.

"Good," he echoes, nodding once.

Mrs. Buckley is already ushering everyone toward the dining room before anyone can say more, talking animatedly about the pot roast she's made and how she hopes everyone's hungry because she always makes too much food.

You follow the group down the hallway, Robin already launching into some story about finals week, Steve's laugh echoing off the walls. 

The next day, you think you might be in love with Hawkins.

It's a small town, sure, but there's something charming about it, the way everyone seems to know everyone, the mom-and-pop shops lining Main Street, the way the whole place feels suspended in time. Robin and Nancy drag you to all the important spots, Robin backing up every location with a story that makes Nancy laugh or blush or both.

They show you the high school first, pointing out the parking lot where Eddie used to deal, the gym where Robin played in the pep band, the courtyard where Steve was apparently "king of the assholes" for a solid two years. Then the quarry, the diner where they all spent countless late nights, the park where Robin says she had her first real conversation with Nancy that wasn't about Steve.

At one point, Nancy leans in close, pointing at the Family Video store as you pass it. "That's where I realized I liked Robin," she says softly, a smile playing at her lips. "In the horror section. When I told her scary movies made me nervous, she told me I could hold her hand if I was that scared. Then proceeded to knock the entire shelves. She’s so cute when she’s klutzy."

You grin, catching Robin's face turn pink even in the cold air.

Then they lead you into an arcade, the door chiming as you step inside. The space is dim and loud, all flashing lights and electronic beeps and the constant thunder of games being played. The carpet is worn thin in places, patterned with swirls that might have been bright once but have faded to muddy colors. It was dead, perhaps due to it being New Year’s Eve. A paper was taped to the front: CLOSING EARLY. 

Immediately, you hear shouting.

"Suck my fat one!"

A big kid barrels past you, nearly knocking you off balance, a fistful of tickets clutched in his meaty hand. You stumble slightly, catching yourself against a Ms. Pac-Man machine.

Another kid tears after him, curly hair wild under a baseball cap, braces glinting as he shouts, "Hey, dipshit! I know where you live, Turnbland!"

The kid with the tickets is already disappearing out the door, and the curly-haired boy skids to a stop, swearing under his breath, hands on his knees as he catches his breath.

A very familiar voice calls out from somewhere deeper in the arcade, amused and lazy. "Should've run faster, Henderson."

The curly-haired boy straightens, turning toward you, and his eyes land first on Robin and Nancy. "Hey, Robs. Nance." Then his gaze shifts to you, head tilting slightly. "And person I've never met before. I'm assuming—" and he says your name like he's said it a million times before. Almost like he already knows you. 

Before you can respond, sneakers squeak loudly against the linoleum floor, and Max Mayfield rounds the corner from behind the prize counter, a big smile breaking across her face.

Her hair is down, extra curly, bouncing around her shoulders in a way you haven't seen before, shorter than the last time you saw her, maybe recently cut. She's wearing a faded Pac-Man t-shirt and jeans, a plastic name tag pinned crookedly to her chest that reads "MAX" in block letters.

"Max!" you call, surprised and delighted.

"Hey!" Max's smile widens as she leans against the counter. "Steve said you were coming to Hawkins, but I didn't know when. Are Robin and Nancy showing you around?"

The boy next to her clears his throat pointedly, eyebrows raised.

Max rolls her eyes. "This is Dustin, by the way."

He gives you a toothy grin, braces on full display, and holds out his hand with exaggerated formality. "Nice to meet you, m'lady."

Your brain clicks into place. "Ohhh, you're the infamous Dustin Henderson? Steve and Eddie talk about you all the time."

Dustin immediately blushes, the color rising up his neck and flooding his cheeks. "Ditto." His eyes flick over you, assessing. "Steve was right—ow!" He jerks suddenly, looking down. "Max, what the hell?"

Max gives him a pointed look, slowly lifting her foot off his.

His eyes widen in understanding, and he nods quickly. "Oh. Sorry." He looks back at you, sheepish now. "Max was right. You are really pretty."

You ignore the way Robin and Nancy look at one another. 

You snort, shaking your head. "I'm guessing you both work here?"

Max shakes her head. "No, I do. But this weirdo camps out here trying to win prizes for his girlfriend."

Dustin looks sheepish, warm and rosy. "I would've gotten enough tickets for the big teddy bear if Derek hadn't stolen them."

Max rolls her eyes. "You left them unattended."

"Because I had to piss!" Dustin protests, gesturing wildly. "Maybe if you did your job and watched them like I asked—"

Nancy grabs your arm, tugging gently. "Come on, they'll be at this until the new year. We have more to show you."

You don't move, curiosity piqued. "Wait, how many more tickets do you need?"

Dustin stops mid-argument with Max, turning to you. "Uh... twenty."

You shrug, already scanning the arcade, eyes landing on a basketball pop-a-shot game near the back. You dig into your pocket, fishing out quarters, and head toward it without another word.

Twenty minutes later, you're in the zone, the rhythm of shooting, the satisfying swish of the net, the tickets pouring out in a steady stream. Max has abandoned the counter entirely, standing beside you with her arms crossed, watching with something like admiration. At one point, a kid approaches to ask her a question and she barely glances at him before barking, "Beat it!" so sharply he scurries away.

When the timer buzzes and the final tickets print out, you've won thirty.

Max grumbles as she retrieves the massive teddy bear from the prize shelf, handing it over to Dustin who can barely see over the thing. It's almost bigger than he is, brown and fuzzy with a red bow around its neck.

"Damn," Dustin breathes, clutching the bear like it's made of gold. "Steve was right. You are a hot shot." He looks at you with pure admiration. "Thank you. Jane is really going to love this." His expression turns conspiratorial. "You can meet her at the New Year's party, but please don't tell her you won this for me."

"I won't," you chuckle.

Dustin gives you a salute, already turning to leave, the teddy bear wobbling precariously as he tows it toward the exit. "See you tonight!"

Max watches him go, then turns back to you with a grin. "You just made his entire year."

"Happy to help," you say.

"Alright," Robin announces, linking her arm through yours. "Now can we finish the tour before the party?"

You let her pull you back toward the door, Nancy falling into step on your other side, and as you step back out into the cold afternoon air, you can't help but think that yeah, Hawkins is pretty great. 

The night arrives with the kind of crystalline cold that makes everything feel sharper, more vivid. Stars scatter across the black canvas of sky like someone's thrown diamonds, and the air bites at exposed skin with teeth.

You stand in front of the mirror in the guest room, smoothing your hands down the black dress you'd packed specifically for this, classy enough to pass muster with Robin's old-fashioned parents and their equally conservative friends, hemline hitting mid-just-above-the-knee, neckline modest but strategic. The fabric clings in all the right places without announcing itself, leaving enough to imagination while making certain conclusions inevitable. Simple. Elegant. Dangerous in its understatement.

Robin appears in the doorway, already dressed in a deep navy number that makes her look older, more sophisticated. Her hair is curled and pinned, makeup applied with more precision than usual, and she lets out a low whistle.

"Damn," she says, leaning against the doorframe. "You clean up nice."

"Back at you," you reply, turning from the mirror.

"Ready to meet the rest of Hawkins' finest?"

You grab your small clutch from the bed. "As I'll ever be."

The Harrington house sits at the end of a long, winding driveway lined with trees that arch overhead like cathedral ceilings. Even from the car, you can see it's massive, all stone and tall windows glowing with warm light, cars already packed along the drive and down the street.

Inside, the house transforms into something else entirely. The foyer alone could swallow Robin's entire living room, all marble floors and a chandelier that catches light and throws it in a thousand directions. The air smells expensive. It’s fresh flowers and good wine and something else you can't name but recognize as wealth.

People fill every room you pass, clusters of adults in cocktail dresses and suits, holding champagne flutes and talking in that particular way wealthy people do, voices pitched low, laughter measured, everything performed for an audience that's always watching.

Mrs. Buckley and Robin's father peel off almost immediately, absorbed into a conversation with a silver-haired couple near the fireplace. Robin grabs your hand, pulling you through the crowd with purpose, weaving between bodies until you reach a room that's slightly quieter, slightly younger.

The kids are gathered near the back, clustered around what looks like an elaborate dessert table, and you recognize Max immediately, same curly hair, same sharp eyes, now wearing a dark green dress that makes her look older than her sixteen years.

She spots you first, face lighting up. "Hey! You made it!"

The group turns as one, and suddenly you're being assessed by half a dozen pairs of teenage eyes.

There's Lucas. He’s tall, athletic build even in his suit, standing so close to Max their shoulders brush. His smile is easy, genuine, and when he shakes your hand his grip is firm without being aggressive.

Dustin appears next, hair gelled back at the sides, braces gleaming when he grins. "You came! This is Jane—" he gestures to a girl with dark hair and darker eyes, pretty in an understated way, wearing a simple pink dress. She offers a small wave, shy but warm.

"Hi," she says softly. “I’ve heard a lot about you. You’re really pretty."

Two boys stand slightly apart. One is dark-haired and serious, watching you with quiet intensity, the other smaller with a bowl cut and anxious energy radiating off him in waves.

"That's Mike," Max says, nodding toward the dark-haired one. "Nancy's brother. And Will."

Will gives a small smile, nervous hands tucked into his pockets. 

Mike nods once, polite but reserved, clearly sizing you up. “Hey.”

Before you can respond, a familiar voice cuts through the murmur of conversation.

"There she is!"

Eddie appears from somewhere behind you, and you actually do a double-take because you've never seen him look like this. His usual leather jacket and ripped jeans have been replaced by black slacks and a dark button-down, hair pulled back into a low ponytail that shows off the sharp line of his jaw. He's still wearing rings, still has that dangerous edge, but he's cleaned up in a way that makes him look almost respectable.

"Munson," you say, impressed despite yourself. "You look—"

"Devastatingly handsome?" He grins, spreading his arms. "I know, I know. Try not to swoon."

Dustin immediately latches onto Eddie's arm, pulling him toward the group. "Eddie, tell us about what happened after the dragon—"

And that's when you see it, the shift in energy, the way all the kids gravitate toward Eddie and, you realize, toward Steve.

Steve materializes from another room, and the transformation is startling.

He's wearing a charcoal suit that fits him like it was made for his body specifically, and knowing the Harringtons, it probably was. The jacket cuts sharp lines across his shoulders, tapering at his waist in a way that emphasizes the breadth of his chest, the lean strength of his build. The white shirt beneath is crisp and pressed to perfection, collar points precise, not a wrinkle to be found. His tie is a deep burgundy, knotted with the kind of precision that suggests either practice or help from someone who knows what they're doing.

His hair has been styled with obvious care, pushed back from his forehead in a way that's more sophisticated than his usual casual mess of curls. It looks deliberately tousled now, like someone spent time making it appear effortless, each strand catching the light from the chandelier overhead and turning almost golden. There's product in it, you can tell by the way it holds its shape, but not so much that it looks stiff or unnatural.

The overall effect is devastating. He looks mature, polished, every inch the Harrington heir that his father probably dreams about when he's making donation calls to the university. There's a watch on his wrist that probably costs more than your car, shoes so shined you could see your reflection in them, and when he moves through the crowd there's an ease to it that speaks of growing up in spaces like this, of knowing exactly how to hold himself among wealth and expectation.

It's almost unfair, really, how good he looks. How the suit somehow makes his eyes seem more intense, his jawline sharper, the column of his throat more pronounced where it disappears into his collar. Even his hands look different, elegant, capable, the kind of hands that belong in magazine ads for expensive watches or cologne.

But then the kids spot him, voices rising in excited greeting.

"Harrington!" Dustin calls, waving him over.

And something remarkable happens.

The polished veneer cracks. His posture loosens, shoulders dropping from their rigid line. That practiced smile melts into something genuine, something boyish and unguarded as he makes his way through the crowd toward them. Lucas gives him an elaborate handshake that involves at least four different hand positions, and Steve executes it perfectly, laughing. Max punches his shoulder affectionately, and he staggers back in exaggerated pain. Jane hugs him briefly, and he ruffles her hair in return, his whole face softening.

It's a different Steve entirely—not the fraternity president, not the guy with the rules, not even the person you've come to know over the past few months.This Steve is protective and teasing and warm, crouching down to hear something Will whispers, laughing at something Mike says even though Mike's clearly being sarcastic, his whole body language shifting into something open and accessible.

You watch, fascinated, as he settles into the group like he belongs there, like this is where he's most himself.

Robin appears at Steve’s side, pressed close despite the room full of people. Nancy hovers nearby, and you catch the sad flicker in both their eyes towards the longing barely concealed behind polite smiles. Steve's arm comes around Robin's shoulders automatically, pulling her into his side, and she goes willingly even though you can see the strain in the corners of her mouth.

An older couple approaches, friends of the Harringtons, all bright smiles and a million questions about the future. Robin's smile stretches tighter. Steve's becomes more practiced, more performance than reality.

"Oh, Steve. When are you going to pop the question?" the woman asks, voice syrupy sweet.

"I don’t kiss and tell," Steve replies smoothly, winking, his hand finding Robin's, fingers interlacing. "No rush."

Nancy turns away, and Eddie appears as if summoned, arm sliding around her shoulders, pulling her toward the hallway with a gentle insistence. She follows, smile weak but grateful.

You drift back toward the kids, catching the tail end of a heated discussion.

"—and I'm telling you, there's no way the dragon would've—"

"But the spell modifier—"

"Guys, guys," Eddie interrupts, hands raised in surrender, having returned without Nancy. "How many times do I have to tell you? A DM does not reveal his secrets."

Mike groans, hands flying up in exasperation. "Eddie, please. We need to know if Will the Wise and The Zoomer made it out of the pit."

You tilt your head, curiosity piqued. "Eddie, I didn't know you played Dungeons and Dragons."

Every head swivels toward you.

Eddie blinks, then grins, theatrical and bright. "Back in my youth, sweetheart. The band takes up too much time nowadays." He gestures to the kids with a flourish. "But I promised these adventurers a campaign when I came back for break. The War of Vecna."

Dustin's eyes light up like Christmas morning. "Do you play D&D? You should totally play with us—"

"Whoa, whoa, Henderson," Eddie cuts in, holding up a hand. "She can't hop into a campaign mid-stream. No offense, sweetheart, but I take these things seriously."

Mike speaks up, scoffing. "Yes she can. Technically." His voice softens when Eddie's glare lands on him, sharp and warning.

Eddie sighs, dragging a hand down his face. "The party's big enough with you guys and Harrington—"

"Steve plays D&D?" The words burst out before you can stop them, disbelief coloring every syllable.

Dustin sighs, the sound solemn and long-suffering. "He tries. We spend twenty minutes each turn reminding him what he can and can't do." Then his eyes brighten, hope sparking. "But if you know how to play, maybe you could teach—ow!" He jerks, glaring at Max who's stepped firmly on his foot.

You hold up your hands, laughing. "Sorry, I don't know how to play. Don't worry, Eddie. But I am intrigued to watch."

Eddie's expression clears, relief flooding his features. "Well, I've got nothing against observers." He leans in conspiratorially. "We're meeting one last time on Tuesday. I'll arrange your travel."

You smile, offering the group a small wave before stepping back. "Sounds good."

The night unfolds in fragments after that, faces blurring together, the constant hum of wealth and propriety wrapping around everything like silk.

You notice things in pieces, collecting them like evidence.

Robin being pulled away by her mother to meet someone important, her hand slipping from Steve's with obvious reluctance.

Nancy standing near the windows, staring out at the dark lawn, shoulders tight.

Eddie making the kids laugh with some outrageous story, hands gesturing wildly.

And Steve… Steve who won't look at you. Who moves through the room like water around a stone, always somehow ending up on the opposite side of wherever you are. When you're near the fireplace, he's by the bar. When you drift toward the dessert table, he's disappeared into another room entirely.

It doesn't bother you, not exactly. But it does make you curious.

You'd expected him to be more forward here, away from campus, away from the usual constraints. But the opposite seems true. He's more careful, more controlled, his charm deployed strategically on older couples and family friends, never once straying in your direction.

Maybe it's the setting. All these people who know him, who've watched him grow up, who have expectations already formed. Or maybe it's the rule—no public displays, no crossing lines where others can see.

You're contemplating this, nursing a glass of champagne someone pressed into your hand, when you turn a corner and hear voices.

Not the pleasant murmur of party conversation, but something sharper, more urgent. Heated.

You slow, instinct telling you to retreat, but the words carry anyway.

"Dad, I don't understand why I have to decide this now. I have until the end of March to declare something... why can't I wait until I'm absolutely sure—"

Steve's voice. Strained in a way you've never heard.

"Sure?" Another voice, older, colder. "You're still not sure what you want to do after all that time you screwed around when you graduated high school? And you're still not sure when you're almost done with your second year?"

"It's not that easy—"

"Of course it is." The older voice, Steve's father, you realize, cuts through without mercy. "You get over this bullshit about figuring out what makes you happy and get a job that will provide. If you want to marry Robin and start a family with her, then stop being a pussy. I'm surprised she still wants to be with someone so lazy."

You should walk away. You know you should. But your feet have rooted themselves to the floor.

"I'm not lazy, Dad." Steve's voice is quieter now, something broken threading through it. "I don't know what I'm good at—"

"Because you don't try for shit." The words are brutal, delivered with the casual cruelty of someone who's said them before. "I had to beg the dean of admissions to even let you in. Had to triple my donations for you to be accepted as a pledge. And you think becoming president makes you special?"

Silence falls, heavy and suffocating.

Your hand tightens around the champagne flute, knuckles going white.

"Do we have to talk about this now?" Steve's voice cracks slightly, desperation bleeding through. "It's almost midnight and I..." He pauses, the silence stretching. "Robin."

His father huffs, the sound dismissive and sharp. "You know, if you don't get your act together by the end of the semester, Mr. Buckley will do anything to not let you keep seeing her." A pause, heavy with implication. "Now get out of here. I'd like to enjoy the rest of my year not hearing your excuses."

Shuffling sounds from inside the room, footsteps, the creak of a chair.

Your heart kicks into overdrive. You need to move, need to disappear before—

The door swings open.

Steve stands in the doorway, and the sight of him stops your breath in your chest. His eyes are glassy, wet at the corners like he's been holding something back for too long. His nose flares with each breath, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping beneath skin. The polished veneer from earlier has cracked completely, leaving something raw and wounded in its place.

His eyes lock onto yours.

For a suspended moment, neither of you moves. The party continues somewhere behind you, distant and muffled, but here in this hallway there's only the two of you and the electricity crackling between your bodies.

Steve's chest begins to heave, breath coming faster, harder, like he's trying to outrun something that's already caught him. Then his hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around your arm, not rough, but firm, insistent, and he's pulling you away from the office, away from his father's voice still audible inside, around the corner into a dark alcove tucked beneath the stairs.

He releases you the second you're hidden, dropping your arm like the contact burns him.

The space is narrow, barely wide enough for both of you. Shadow pools thick here, broken only by slivers of light filtering through the gaps in the staircase above. You can hear your own breathing, can hear his matching it, both of you pulling air like you've been underwater.

You watch his throat work as he swallows. Hard. Once, then again.

His eyes haven't left yours. They're dark in the low light, pupils blown wide, and there's something feral in them. It’s something wounded and wanting all at once. The heat radiating off him is palpable, pressing against you in the confined space, making your skin feel too tight, too aware.

Your mind spins, thoughts fragmenting and reforming.

You could take care of this feeling for him. Could ease whatever's coiling tight inside his chest, whatever his father's words have twisted into something painful and sharp. He could do the same for you—could push you against this wall right now, could make you forget where you are, who might see, what rules exist outside this pocket of darkness.

You know he wants it. You can see it in the way his gaze drops to your mouth, lingering there like a touch, like a promise. The air between you thickens, charged and trembling.

His hands come up slowly, palms facing you, fingers spread. They hover near your face, near your throat, near your waist, but never quite making contact but close enough that you feel the phantom of them anyway. Your skin prickles with awareness, goosebumps rising despite the heat, every nerve ending singing with anticipation.

Your fingers find the loops of his belt without permission from your brain, hooking through the fabric, knuckles brushing against the flat plane of his stomach. You pull him closer, not hard, not demanding, wordless invitation.

Steve's forehead comes down to rest against yours, the contact gentle, almost reverent. His nose nudges yours, tilting your face up, pressing, rubbing, the simple friction sending sparks down your spine. His hands finally settle against the wall on either side of your head, boxing you in, caging you without trapping you.

He lets out a long exhale, breath washing warm across your cheek, carrying the faint scent of champagne and something underneath that's purely him.

You close your eyes, leaning into the heat, into the promise of what could happen if one of you just moves an inch closer. Your mouth parts, a silent sigh escaping, offering—

Cold air rushes in.

Your hands fall empty and stupid back to your sides, fingers curling into fists against nothing. Your eyes snap open.

Steve has moved away, body angled sideways, putting distance between you that feels like miles instead of feet. He looks at you, really looks, gaze traveling from your face down your body and back up again, and the expression on his face is something close to defeat. Resignation. Loss.

His hand drags down his face, palm pressing into his eyes, fingers digging into his temples like he's trying to physically pull himself together.

Then he walks away.

His footsteps echo down the hallway, growing fainter, until they're swallowed entirely by the sounds of the party, laughter and music and champagne glasses clinking in celebration of a new year that's seconds away from beginning.

You manage to find your friends, weaving through the crowd of well-dressed adults who are already starting to gather in anticipation of midnight. The energy in the house has shifted, conversations growing louder, champagne being refreshed in glasses, everyone positioning themselves near the grandfather clock in the main hall.

Steve is there with Robin, his arm around her shoulders in that practiced way, but he's not looking at you. His gaze is fixed somewhere over the crowd, jaw still tight, that polished mask firmly back in place. You try to catch his eye, just once, but he won't give it to you.

The countdown begins, voices rising in excited unison.

"Ten! Nine! Eight!"

You're hoping it's not obvious. Hoping the heat in your cheeks reads as excitement for the new year and not the lingering burn of what almost happened in that alcove. Hoping no one can see the way your hands are still trembling slightly, the way your pulse hasn't settled back into normal rhythm. You have just experienced the hottest moment of your life, and you have to pretend you don’t want to pounce Steve right there. 

"Seven! Six! Five!"

Steve still isn't looking at you. His profile is sharp against the warm light, beautiful and untouchable, and you force yourself to look away before it becomes obvious that you're staring.

"Four! Three! Two!"

The room holds its breath.

"One! Happy New Year!"

Cheers erupt, loud and jubilant, people embracing and kissing and laughing. Noisemakers shriek, confetti falls from somewhere above, the chaos of celebration washing over everything.

You watch Steve and Robin plant a quick peck on each other's lips, the motion automatic and obligatory. It's almost funny, actually, the way they both subtly grimace afterward, noses scrunching in identical expressions of distaste, like siblings forced to hug at a family reunion. Robin wipes her mouth with the back of her hand when she thinks no one's looking.

Then your eyes find Eddie, and you have to bite back a laugh because he's found a woman who looks like she's in her forties, all blonde hair and red lipstick and a dress that probably cost more than your tuition. She's got him pressed against the wall near the fireplace, practically devouring his face with an enthusiasm that seems completely at odds with the elegant party happening around them. Eddie's hands hover uncertainly in the air like he's not quite sure what to do with them, but he's definitely not pulling away.

You scan the room, catching Lucas and Max sharing a sweet kiss near the dessert table, his hand gentle on her cheek. Dustin and Jane stand close together, foreheads touching as they share a shy, soft kiss that makes them both blush. You don't see Mike or Will anywhere, and you wonder idly if they found someone to kiss too, or if they're hiding somewhere avoiding the whole tradition entirely.

Damn. You spent all this time at this party and didn't even think to find someone to kiss at midnight.

The thought barely has time to settle before—

Not just one, but two pairs of lips find both corners of your mouth, playful and smacking, totally innocent. Your face is suddenly held between four hands, Robin on one side and Nancy on the other, both of them grinning at you and then at each other with barely contained delight.

Because it's the closest they can get to sharing a kiss in this moment, in this room full of people who can't know, and they're using you as their bridge.

You laugh, the sound bright and genuine, wrapping an arm around each of them as they pull you into a tight hug. Any loneliness you might have felt for a split second dissolves completely, replaced by warmth and affection and the simple joy of being wanted, being included, being loved by these two people who mean so much to you.

Robin presses another kiss to your temple, Nancy's hand squeezing yours, and when you pull back to look at them, they're both beaming.

"Happy New Year," Robin says, eyes shining.

"Happy New Year," Nancy echoes.

"Happy New Year," you reply, meaning it.

And as you say your lieu of goodbyes to the kids, Eddie, and Nancy, you pass Steve. 

His voice manages to kiss your ear. 

“Happy New Year, Hot Shot.”

1988 seems promising already.

[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: fuckgirl! reader is really showing.... smut (not as detailed), overstimulation???? multiple rounds...???? being high and drunk, i really don't know what to warn y'all at this point. severely unedited...... words: 14k (how do these keep getting longer???) 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: phew...... and I ALREADY PLANNED what happens so i did not CAVE JUST SO YOU KNOW. sorry if this chapter sucks tho... im trying masterlist

Chapter 8

Robin comes home on Saturday, the afternoon light slanting pale through the dorm window when the knock finally comes. You swing the door open expecting her, but it's Eddie who stands there first, Robin's duffel slung over his shoulder, grinning like he's just delivered royalty.

"Special delivery," he announces, stepping aside with an exaggerated flourish.

Robin appears behind him, face bright and open in a way that makes something warm bloom in your chest. She doesn't hesitate. She drops her purse and pulls you into a hug that smells like her floral shampoo and the faint cling of travel, arms tight around your shoulders like she's been holding her breath since she left.

"Missed you," she says into your hair.

"Missed you too." You squeeze back, then pull away just enough to catch Eddie watching with an expression that's softer than his usual smirk.

He deposits the duffel with a theatrical grunt. "Alright, I've done my good deed for the day. Try not to burn the place down while I'm gone."

Robin flips him off without looking. "Love you too, Eddie."

He leaves with a two-fingered salute, and the door clicks shut, leaving the two of you in the quiet hum of the room. Robin flops onto her bed with a satisfied sigh, staring up at the ceiling like she's trying to decide where to start.

You settle onto the edge of your own bed, pulling your knees up. "So?"

She turns her head, grin spreading slow and helpless. "So."

"Come on," you press, unable to keep the smile out of your voice. "You couldn't talk about it on the phone. Now you can."

Robin sits up, energy returning in a rush, eyes bright. "God, okay. So—" She stops, laughs at herself, then starts again. "It was amazing. Like, actually amazing. We went to this park near her apartment, and it was freezing, but Nancy brought this thermos of hot chocolate, and we just... talked. For hours. About everything."

You watch her hands move as she speaks, the way her whole body leans into the memory.

"And then we went to this tiny museum—she knew the curator or something, so we got in for free—and she kept pointing out all these details I would've missed, like she was seeing it for the first time too, just because I was there." Robin pauses, biting her lip. "We went back to her place after. Her roommate was gone for break, so it was just... us."

The weight of that word, us, hangs in the air, full.

"Robin," you say softly. "That sounds perfect."

"It was." Her voice goes quieter, almost reverent. "We only had a few hours before I had to catch up with my family, but it felt like... I don't know. Like everything finally made sense."

You reach over and squeeze her hand once, grounding. "I'm really happy for you."

She squeezes back, then straightens, shaking off the vulnerability like she's remembering herself. "Okay, enough about me being a disaster. I need to buy something completely unnecessary before finals kill me. You in?"

You laugh. "Obviously."

The boutique smells like lavender and new fabric, racks of clothes crammed into a space barely big enough to hold them. Robin is already rifling through a display of scarves, fingers trailing over silk and wool with the focused intensity of someone trying not to think about the mountain of studying waiting back in the dorm.

"I am not ready for finals," she says, pulling out a deep green scarf and holding it up to the light.

You hum in agreement, turning over a pair of earrings on a nearby stand. "Me either. I feel like even with studying over break and these next couple of weeks, I still won't be ready."

"Right?" Robin drapes the scarf over her shoulder, checking her reflection in a small mirror. "Like, what's the point of—"

"Robin?"

The voice cuts through the quiet hum of the store—bright, friendly, with a soft Texan lilt that makes the name sound like a song. You both turn.

Polly stands a few feet away, arms full of shopping bags, dressed in a cream sweater that makes her red hair look even brighter. Her smile is warm, genuine, the kind that reaches her eyes without effort. She steps forward and pulls Robin into a quick, easy hug before turning to you with a polite wave.

"Hey, y'all!" Polly says, shifting her bags to one arm. "You two doing some shopping too?"

Robin laughs, slipping the scarf back onto the rack. "Yeah. Pre-final stress buying."

You chuckle along, nodding. "Something like that."

Polly grins, eyes crinkling at the corners. "I get that. I've been avoiding my chemistry notes for two days now." She tilts her head at Robin, expression brightening further. "How was Boston? When I saw Steve yesterday, he mentioned you were there for break."

The words land softly, casual, but they carry weight you weren't expecting. When I saw Steve yesterday.

Something clicks quietly into place. You don't react, your face stays neutral and polite, but the realization settles in your chest without fanfare. Polly. One of Steve's girls. Of course.

Robin doesn't pause, doesn't falter. "Yeah, it was really great. A little colder there than here, though."

Polly nods knowingly. "I bet." Then her attention shifts to you, head tilting slightly as if she's trying to place you more firmly in her memory. She says your name, careful and friendly. "Right?"

You nod, keeping your voice light. "Yeah."

"Did you enjoy your break?" she asks, and there's nothing but genuine interest in her tone, nothing sharp or probing. She's sweet, you realize. Genuinely sweet. And pretty in an effortless way that doesn't need to announce itself.

You smile. "Yeah, I stayed here actually."

"Oh!" Polly's eyebrows lift in surprise. "Was it lonely? I just got back yesterday."

You hesitate, just for a second, trying to find the right way to frame it. "No... I..." You pause, then settle on something simple and true. "I had some other friends in town too."

Polly nods, satisfied, her smile never wavering. "Well, it was great seeing you two!" She adjusts her bags, already stepping back toward the door. "Steve told me there will be a party next weekend at the Pike house... safe to say you two will be there?"

Robin nods easily. "Always."

"Perfect! See y'all then." Polly waves once more, bright and unhurried, before disappearing through the door, the little bell above it chiming softly in her wake.

The silence that follows feels heavier than it should.

Robin picks up the green scarf again, inspecting it with renewed focus, but you can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers worry at the fabric.

You don't say anything right away. You turn back to the earrings, letting the moment breathe.

But the weight of it lingers, unspoken and unexamined, settling quietly between you like a question neither of you is ready to ask.

You catch Robin glancing at you—once, then again, quick sideways looks that land and scatter like pebbles skipping across water. The attention prickles at the edges of your awareness, but you don't acknowledge it, your fingers drifting instead toward a blue dress hanging near the window. The fabric is soft under your touch, some blend of cotton and something finer, cool and smooth as it slides between your thumb and forefinger. Sunlight filters through the glass, catching the color and turning it almost translucent, a pale cerulean that reminds you of early morning skies.

You're still examining the stitching along the hem when movement flickers in your peripheral vision. Two eyes appear above the clothing rack, round and unblinking, locked onto you with an intensity that makes your heart stutter.

You jump, hand flying to your chest as a startled laugh bursts out of you. "Jesus, Robin—"

Robin's eyes narrow, sharpening into something assessing, almost predatory. She doesn't move, just keeps staring over the row of hangers like a cat that's spotted something fascinating and refuses to look away.

The silence stretches, uncomfortable and weighted, until Robin finally speaks.

"You know I know that you two boinked."

The word lands with all the grace of a wet towel slapped against tile. Your face twists immediately, nose wrinkling, mouth pulling into an expression of pure disgust.

"Ew, Robin, don't say that."

"Well, you two did, didn't you?" Robin rounds the rack, footsteps deliberate, the hangers shifting and clinking softly as she brushes past them. Her expression hasn't softened. If anything, it's grown sharper, more focused, like she's conducting an investigation and you're the primary witness.

You exhale through your nose, your gaze dropping back to the dress in your hands. The fabric suddenly feels heavier, harder to focus on. "Yes, we did." You pull another dress from the rack without really looking at it, holding it up like a shield. "What do you think about this?"

Robin doesn't even glance at the dress. Instead, she steps closer, circling slowly, eyes tracking over your face with the kind of scrutiny usually reserved for lie detectors or medical exams. The air between you tightens, and you lean back instinctively, brows furrowing.

"What?"

"You don't want to talk about it?" Robin's tone shifts, confusion threading through the curiosity, like she's stumbled onto something unexpected and can't quite make sense of the shape of it.

You look around the boutique. You look at the mannequins posed in the corner, at the small cluster of other shoppers murmuring near the jewelry display, at the soft golden light pooling on the wooden floorboards, before your eyes settle back on Robin. You shrug, the motion small and unbothered.

"Uh... not really? We had sex and that's about it."

Robin's mouth falls open slightly, genuine surprise flickering across her features. She blinks once, twice, like she's trying to recalibrate. "Oh... well..." She falters, fingers twisting the strap of her purse. "Normally girls—that's all they want to talk about with me. Sorry, I guess I'm just so used to it by now."

You snort, the sound soft and amused as you pull out another dress—this one a deeper navy with tiny buttons running down the front. The fabric whispers as you unfold it, holding it up against yourself. "How'd you even find out? Did Eddie tell you?"

Robin shakes her head, her attention drifting toward a display of shoes near the back wall. She crouches down, fingers brushing over a pair of cream-colored heels, checking the size printed on the inside. "No, Steve told me."

Your hands still. Your eyebrows lift, surprise sharpening your voice. "He told you?"

"Yeah." Robin nods absently, already working to slip off one of her sneakers. She balances on one foot, wobbling slightly as she hooks her heel into the shoe, teeth catching her bottom lip in concentration. The leather creaks faintly as she adjusts her weight. "I mean, it's not like he goes into detail really. Most of the time he just complains."

She pauses mid-motion, shoe half-on, and glances up, eyes widening with sudden realization. "Wait—sorry, he didn't complain about you." Her brow furrows, head tilting as she considers. "Well... when I think about it... he didn't tell me much about it at all."

The words hang in the air, soft and curious, settling between you like dust motes caught in a beam of light.

You say nothing. You smooth the dress back onto the rack, your fingers lingering on the fabric for just a second longer than necessary, feeling the cool slide of it against your palm before letting go.

Robin drops it, and the rest of the afternoon passes in easy rhythm, browsing through racks, trying on things neither of you intend to buy, laughing at the absurdity of price tags on items. By the time you leave the boutique, bags swinging from your arms, the earlier conversation has dissolved into the background, filed away and forgotten.

A few hours later, you're sitting across from each other at the small café near campus. The lunch rush has thinned out, leaving the space quiet except for the low hum of conversation from a couple near the window and the occasional hiss of the espresso machine behind the counter. Your salad sits in front of you, lettuce wilting slightly at the edges, chicken sliced into neat strips that glisten under the overhead lights.

You're mid-bite when Robin speaks, her voice casual, almost offhand. 

"So, was it any good?"

You glance up, chewing, then swallow and reach for your water. "Yeah, but the chicken is a little dry." You gesture at your plate with your fork, poking at a particularly sad-looking piece.

Robin blinks. "No, I meant with Steve."

The fork pauses halfway to your mouth. Because apparently, this café was home to where Robin Buckley talks to you about your sex life.

You set the fork down slowly, the metal clinking softly against the ceramic. Your eyes flick to hers, searching for a joke, a tease, anything that might explain the sudden shift. "Oh. Uh..." You hesitate, fingers fidgeting with the napkin in your lap. "You want to talk about that with me? I thought you didn’t like girls talking to you about it?"

Robin shrugs, the motion loose and unbothered, then lets out a long, exaggerated sigh that makes her shoulders rise and fall dramatically. She leans back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. "I always have to hear about Steve and Eddie's sexscapades from them. But now when I'm actually intrigued, Steve won't tell me anything." Her mouth pulls into a pout, lips pressing together like she's genuinely offended by the lack of information.

You pick up your water glass, condensation cool against your palm, and take a slow sip to buy yourself time. "Maybe because I'm your friend and he wants to respect my privacy."

Robin gives you a look, one eyebrow arched, mouth quirking at the corner, the kind of expression that says she knows better and you should too. It's the look she gives when someone tries to convince her that a reading assignment will be "light" or that the dining hall pizza is "actually pretty good today." Pure disbelief wrapped in affection.

"Steve doesn't care about that," she says flatly. "He probably just knows I'll ask you anyway."

You pause, then try for casual, fingers tracing the rim of your glass. "Why don’t you ask Polly? She seems unbothered enough."

The name drops into the space between you, subtle, careful, like you're testing the weight of it. You don't look up right away, keep your eyes on the water sloshing gently in the glass, trying to appear unbothered, unaffected.

Robin raises a brow. She doesn't deny it, doesn't rush to correct you or explain. Just sits there, studying you with that same quiet assessment from earlier, reading between the lines you're not quite saying.

"I'm not friends with Polly or the others," she says finally. "I mean, not like how I am friends with you." She picks up her own drink, swirling the straw absently. "It's not like I want a play-by-play."

You think for a moment, teeth catching your bottom lip as you weigh how much to say. Then a sheepish smile tugs at your mouth, unbidden and honest. "It was irritatingly really good."

Robin leans forward slightly, interest piqued.

"Like, in a way I was praying he actually sucked and I could just do it and that's the end," you continue, the words coming easier now. "And it's nice that I don't feel pressured for any other stuff. We can just get it out and high five or whatever."

Robin's eyes widen. "You two high-fived after?"

You laugh, the sound bright and surprised, shaking your head. "No, not yet. But honestly, with how... satisfied I am at the end, maybe it calls for a fist bump."

Robin nods slowly, laughter bubbling up from her chest, warm and relieved. The tension that had been coiled in her shoulders, subtle but present, seems to unwind all at once. She sets her drink down, fingers drumming once against the table. 

"I have to admit, I was worried since you hang out with him more than the other girls that it'd be more complicated." Her voice softens, genuine concern flickering beneath the humor. "You're, like, certain you don't have feelings for him beyond desire?"

You shake your head immediately, the denial automatic and sincere. "God, no. He's totally not my type relationship-wise." You stab at a piece of lettuce, the fork scraping against the plate with a sharp sound. "I mean, he's hot and he knows what he's doing in bed, but that's about where it ends." 

You take a bite, chewing thoughtfully before continuing. "He's got no direction, no idea what he wants beyond getting laid." You pause, then add with a small, dismissive shrug, "He's perfect for what we're doing now. Anything more than that would be a complete waste of time."

You wonder if you went too far with how Robin looks at you. She looks conflicted hearing someone talk about her best friend like that. 

Then, her face breaks into a grin, wide and unguarded, eyes crinkling at the corners. She reaches across the table, hand finding yours and squeezing once. "I think I love you more and more every day."

Later that night, you find yourselves back at the dorm earlier than expected. Robin had stopped at a payphone on the walk back, feeding coins into the slot, dialing the Pike house number. You'd stood a few feet away, giving her space, watching the way her expression shifted when Steve's voice came through the line—brightening first, then falling into something flatter, more resigned. When she hung up, she'd turned to you with a shrug that tried too hard to be casual.

"He's busy tonight."

You hadn't asked what that meant. You both knew.

Now the dorm room feels smaller in the lamplight, shadows pooling in the corners as you move through the familiar routine of getting ready for bed. You stand at the tiny sink wedged into the corner, toothbrush moving in slow circles as mint foam builds in your mouth. The mirror above the sink is spotted with age, reflecting your face in soft focus, blurred at the edges.

Robin is already sprawled across her bed, still dressed but horizontal, one arm thrown over her eyes like she's trying to block out the overhead light you haven't turned off yet. The springs creak softly when she shifts.

Then, without preamble, her voice cuts through the quiet.

"Okay, tell me the truth. Is it really that big?"

"What?" The word comes out garbled, muffled by toothpaste and surprise. You lean over the sink and spit, the white foam swirling down the drain as you grab a towel, wiping your mouth with more force than necessary.

Robin drops her arm, turning her head to look at you, expression perfectly serious. "Steve's weiner. He's always complaining about how big it is and I can't tell if that's his ego talking or—"

"Ew, Robin, don't call it a weiner." You turn to face her fully, toothbrush still in hand, incredulous. The fluorescent light catches the water still clinging to your chin. "How didn't I realize you don't like men?"

Robin laughs, the sound bright and unrepentant, echoing off the thin walls. "Beats me." She props herself up on her elbows, grinning. "To be fair, the only person who sniffed it out a mile away was Eddie. He's freakily good at reading people."

You rinse your toothbrush under the tap, the water running cold over your knuckles. "Couldn't you just ask Nancy this?"

Robin's face scrunches up, half-amused, half-exasperated. "You think I'm going to ask my girlfriend about the size of her ex's penis who is also my beard?" She pauses, then adds, almost sheepishly, "Of course I have. She wouldn't tell me. Said, 'Why does it matter?'"

You set the toothbrush down, turning to lean against the sink, arms crossing over your chest. "Because why does it?"

"Just because his man parts don't turn me on doesn't mean I'm not curious." Robin sits up fully now, legs crossed beneath her, eyes sparkling with mischief. "I mean, don't you always wonder?"

"No, I don't," you say, laughing as you move toward your bed. Then you pause, hand resting on the edge of your mattress, memory flickering unbidden. "Okay, maybe I do."

Your mind drifts back to one of the first times you'd hung out with Steve and Robin together—some afternoon in the library, the three of you crowded around a table too small for the spread of textbooks and notebooks. Steve had been wearing a pair of jeans that day, dark denim that hugged his hips and thighs, the fabric pulling taut when he'd stretched his legs out beneath the table. At the time, you hadn't known what you knew now, and catching yourself glancing had made guilt flare hot in your chest, your eyes snapping away like you'd been caught doing something wrong.

And then there were other times—boys on campus running in the early morning, grey sweatpants clinging to their bodies as they jogged past, breath fogging in the cold air. You'd wondered then too, quick fleeting thoughts you'd dismissed just as fast. You want to roll your eyes at yourself, at how right Robin is. It doesn't matter whether you want to sleep with them or not—curiosity doesn't discriminate.

You climb into bed, the sheets cool and slightly stiff against your skin as you pull them up to your chin. Your lamp clicks off with a soft sound, plunging your side of the room into darkness. The only light left comes from Robin's bedside lamp, casting everything in warm amber tones. You listen to her shift gently, the rustle of fabric and creak of springs familiar and soothing. Outside, the wind picks up, licking at the windows with insistent fingers, rattling the glass in its frame.

You sigh, the sound almost swallowed by the darkness. "Okay, yeah. It's pretty big."

Robin nearly gasps, the noise sharp and delighted. "No shit."

You're glad it's dark because heat floods your face immediately, crawling up your neck and settling in your cheeks. Your legs press together beneath the blankets, an involuntary response to the thought of him, to the memory that surfaces without permission—Steve standing in front of you, the first time you'd really seen him, the way your breath had caught. You bite your lip, the small sting grounding you.

"Unfortunately," you continue, voice dropping lower, almost conspiratorial. "I think I totally blacked out when I saw it and didn't even realize we were doing it without a rubber. Didn't care in the moment, but I definitely got tested this week."

The rustle of movement stops abruptly. You hear Robin shoot up, the mattress springs protesting loudly. "Wait, you two did it without protection?"

You sit up too, the blankets pooling around your waist, your heart suddenly beating faster. "I mean, only the first time. It's not like I'm not on the pill, and he didn't finish inside me or anything." You pause, fingers twisting in the sheets. "Guess I was only worried since he's been with so many others, you know?"

Robin's voice comes out sharp, disbelieving. "Yeah, and he has not once not worn a condom. That's like his one thing he's ever serious about. He could be the spokesperson for Trojan." There's a beat of silence, weighted and heavy. "He really didn't use one with you?"

You swallow, throat suddenly dry. "No..."

Robin doesn't say anything. The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable, and you can hear her thinking—can practically feel the gears turning in her mind, working through something you can't quite see. It's a little scary, the way the quiet expands, filling the room with unspoken questions and realizations you're not sure you want her to voice.

Finally, Robin lays back down. The movement is slow, the springs singing softly beneath her weight.

You follow suit, sinking slowly into your mattress, the familiar divot cradling your body. The darkness feels heavier now, pressing down on you, and the wind outside seems louder, more insistent, as if it's trying to get in.

Neither of you says anything else. But the silence between you hums with something new—something uncertain and unexamined, settling into the space between your beds like a third presence in the room.

The week unfolds in a strange, disjointed rhythm. It was like two songs playing at once, never quite syncing up. Anytime Robin is with Steve, you're busy. Buried in the library with highlighters bleeding through pages, or hunched over a notebook in the dining hall, coffee going cold beside you as you try to make sense of concepts that seemed clear in lecture but dissolve into gibberish under fluorescent lights. And anytime you're free, Steve is busy. Gone. Occupied with things Robin mentions in passing—fraternity responsibilities, study groups, plans she doesn't elaborate on and you don't ask about.

Professors are in full preparation mode now, two weeks out from finals, and the air on campus has shifted into something tighter, more frantic. Every class ends with reminders about office hours and review sessions, syllabi being referenced like holy texts, dates circled and underlined until the paper threatens to tear. You feel it settling into your bones—the edge of frustration, the slow simmer of stress that makes your jaw ache from clenching and your shoulders curl forward without permission.

You spend most of your time eating without tasting anything, mechanically forking food into your mouth between chapters, or camped out in the library until the overhead lights start to buzz in a way that makes your teeth hurt. Sleep comes in fractured intervals, your mind too loud to settle, replaying lectures and worrying at problems you haven't solved yet.

By Thursday, you're wound tight, a spring coiled too many times, vibrating with unspent energy. Robin is stuck tutoring some athlete at the student success center—something about a failing grade in intro to literary analysis, threatening his eligibility—and the dorm feels too small, too quiet, the walls pressing in with nothing to distract you from the anxious hum beneath your skin.

You need to relax. You need to turn your brain off for a few hours before it eats itself alive.

It doesn't take long for you to get dressed.

It takes about ten minutes to walk to the Pike house, the cold biting at your cheeks and fingertips, your breath fogging in short bursts as your boots crunch over the sidewalk. The house comes into view, familiar and solid, and you spot them immediately. Steve and Eddie are outside on the deck, tools scattered around them, the damaged railing that's been a campus joke for weeks finally being addressed.

Eddie sees you first. He straightens, a grin splitting his face as he lets out a long, low whistle that carries across the lawn.

"Ohhhhh, Steve," he calls, voice dripping with amusement. "I believe you have a lady caller."

Steve grumbles something under his breath, glancing up from where he's crouched near a pile of lumber. The moment his eyes land on you, his face transforms. The annoyance melting into something sharper, more aware. His mouth curves into a smug look, slow and deliberate, and he straightens to his full height.

"Hey," he says, nodding once. His voice is casual, but his gaze isn't. It drags over you with unmistakable intent.

"Hey." You bite your lip, letting your eyes flick between them before settling back on Steve. "You boys almost finished?"

Eddie and Steve exchange a look, something wordless passing between them, quick and practiced. Steve wipes his hands on his jeans, the denim already streaked with dust and wood shavings. He's wearing a gray shirt tucked in at the waist, the fabric pulled snug across his chest and shoulders, and a tan work jacket that's seen better days, the collar slightly rumpled. His hair is a mess, curls falling loose and wild from running his hands through them, and there's a smudge of dirt along his jawline that he hasn't noticed yet.

Eddie, of course, is shirtless despite the freezing temperature, his jeans slung so low on his hips it seems physically impossible they're staying up. His skin is pale in the cold, goosebumps visible even from where you're standing, but he doesn't seem bothered, grinning like the weather is a personal joke only he's in on.

Steve makes a face at him, something between exasperation and fondness, and Eddie pretends to start putting his tools away, whistling an off-key tune as he gathers hammers and nails with exaggerated care.

Steve puts his hands on his hips, the motion pulling his jacket tighter across his back. "Yeah, we're finished for the day... but uh..." He pauses, gaze flicking away for half a second before returning to you. "I kinda already have plans tonight."

You tilt your head, expression carefully neutral. "Oh."

He licks his lips, tongue darting out quick and nervous, wetting the chapped skin. You see his metallic chain necklace peeking under the collar of his shirt. "Maybe tomorrow though?"

You consider this for a moment, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him shift his weight from one foot to the other. Then you step forward, closing the distance between you until you're close enough to smell him, sawdust and sweat and that familiar cologne clinging stubbornly beneath it all.

"No," you say softly, eyes batting up at him through your lashes. "I think you should cancel your plans."

"What? I—"

You step closer still, near enough now that the heat radiating off his body brushes against you, cutting through the cold. You can hear his breathing shift, shallower now, quicker, chest rising and falling beneath the gray fabric. The tension between you pulls taut, humming in the narrow space separating your bodies.

"I think," you continue, voice sweet and deliberate, "I will go upstairs to your room. And I think you should call whoever and tell them something came up."

Your smile is innocent, disarming, at odds with the heat simmering beneath your words.

Steve's throat moves in a thick swallow, Adam's apple bobbing visibly. His pupils blow wide in real time, dark swallowing the warm hazel until only a thin ring remains. His lips part slightly, gaze dropping to your mouth and lingering there like he's forgotten how to look away.

He glances at Eddie, who has stopped all pretense of working and is now openly watching with a shit-eating grin, then back at you.

He nods, the motion small and jerky. "Okay."

You reach up, patting his chest twice, fingers lingering just long enough to feel his heartbeat thundering beneath your palm. "Good boy," you murmur, the words soft and edged with something dangerous. "See you in a few minutes."

Then you turn and walk into the house, leaving him standing there in the cold, hands still on his hips, staring after you like you've just rewritten every rule he thought he understood.

You can hear some of his brothers in the common room as you step inside, voices raised in laughter over something playing on the television, the low rumble of conversation and the crack of beer cans opening. The warmth of the house wraps around you immediately after the bite of cold outside, and you move through the familiar space with quiet purpose, heading for the stairs.

Behind you, you hear Steve's footsteps, the creak of the floorboard near the kitchen threshold, and then a chorus of greetings from his brothers:"Yo, Steve!" "You done already?" Their voices bright and teasing. He responds with something short, distracted, his tone clipped in a way that suggests he's already somewhere else in his head.

Then you hear it, the soft click of buttons being pressed on the kitchen phone, followed by the quiet stretch of the cord as he turns away from the common room, seeking privacy. His voice drifts up the stairwell, faint and muffled, but clear enough.

"Hey, Amanda..."

The name doesn't sting. It doesn't settle sharp or bitter in your chest. It's just information, neutral and expected, another data point in the arrangement you both understand. You continue up the stairs, fingers trailing along the banister, and let yourself into his room without hesitation.

The space smells like him. Like clean laundry and that cologne you've memorized, layered over the faint mustiness of old wood and a house that's seen too many parties. You cross to his bed and sit on the edge, the mattress dipping beneath your weight, springs sighing softly. The room is dim, late afternoon light filtering through the half-drawn curtains, casting everything in muted golds and grays.

You wait.

It doesn't take long.

The door opens slowly, Steve slipping inside and closing it behind him with a soft click that sounds louder in the quiet. He shrugs off his tan jacket, tossing it over the back of his desk chair, and the gray shirt beneath clings to him in all the right places, shoulders, chest, the taper of his waist. He sits down beside you on the bed, close enough that your thighs almost touch, and the mattress shifts again, drawing you infinitesimally closer.

He runs a hand through his hair, pushing the curls back from his forehead in a gesture that's pure nervous energy. "Did you have a good day?"

"Yeah, I did." Your voice is steady, easy. "You?"

"It was alright." Steve rubs his hands on his thighs, palms sliding over denim in a slow, repetitive motion, like he's trying to ground himself or burn off the tension humming beneath his skin.

The awkwardness stretches between you, fragile and strange, like neither of you quite remembers how this is supposed to start. So you break it.

Your hand moves, settling over his, stopping the restless motion. His hands still immediately, going rigid beneath your touch, and he looks at you, really looks. His whole body turning toward you like you've pulled him in with an invisible thread. The tension in his shoulders melts, his expression softening into something open and wanting.

You lean in, pressing your lips to the warm column of his throat. Your mouth trails downward, finding the thin chain resting against his skin, and you catch it between your teeth, tugging gently. The metal is cool against your tongue, warmed only where it's been pressed against his body, and you feel him go completely still beneath you, breath catching audibly.

"Fuck," he whispers, the word barely sound.

You release the chain, letting it fall back against his neck, and then your mouth is on his throat again, tasting salt and the ghost of his cologne. His pulse jumps beneath your lips, frantic and alive, and you feel the vibration of his breath hitching as your hand begins to drift upward along his thigh, slow and deliberate, fingers tracing the seam of his jeans.

Steve's head lulls back, exposing more of his neck, and a low moan escapes him, rough and unguarded. "Shit," he breathes, voice breaking on the word. "I've missed you."

You smile against his throat, the curve of your mouth pressing into his skin as your hand continues its path upward. "How much?" you murmur, the question half-teasing, half-genuine.

His response is immediate and visceral. His fingers tangle in your hair, firm and possessive, and he pulls you back just enough to look you in the eyes. For a heartbeat, you're suspended there, caught in the dark heat of his gaze, pupils blown wide, mouth parted like he's about to say something he can't quite find the words for.

Then his mouth descends on your throat, hot and hungry, teeth grazing before his tongue soothes the sting. The sound you make is involuntary, startled pleasure that melts into something deeper as his lips map the line of your jaw, the hollow beneath your ear, the tender skin where your pulse hammers wildly.

You kiss him back, or try to, mouths finding necks and shoulders and collarbones, anywhere but lips, the rule holding even as everything else falls away. His hands are everywhere, sliding under the hem of your shirt, fingers splaying across your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. Your own hands work at the buttons of his shirt, fumbling slightly, desperate to feel skin against skin.

The gray fabric parts, and your palms find the warmth of his chest, the scattered hair there soft beneath your touch, the hard planes of muscle flexing as he moves. He pulls your shirt over your head in one fluid motion, and then you're pressed together, chest to chest, heat bleeding between you.

His mouth trails lower, teeth catching on your collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave a mark that will bloom purple by morning. You arch into him, nails dragging down his back, and he groans against your skin, the sound vibrating through you like a second heartbeat.

You shift, pushing him back onto the bed, and he goes willingly, eyes dark and locked on you as you straddle his hips. The friction is immediate and dizzying, the press of him hard and insistent against you even through layers of denim. His hands find your hips, gripping tight, guiding you as you rock against him, and the pleasure that sparks up your spine is sharp and consuming.

Time blurs. There's only the slide of skin, the rasp of breath, the wet heat of mouths tracing patterns that will fade by morning but linger in memory far longer. His name falls from your lips, broken and breathless, and he answers with his hands, his teeth, the low rumble of his voice saying things that dissolve into incoherence.

The world narrows to this—to him, to you, to the space where your bodies meet and everything else ceases to matter. The afternoon light fades into dusk, shadows pooling in the corners of the room, and still you move together, chasing something bright and fleeting and wholly yours.

Until finally, spent and sated, you collapse beside him, limbs tangled, hearts racing in sync, the silence between you warm and easy and full.

A few minutes pass in quiet, the only sound your breathing evening out, the rustle of sheets as you shift slightly, trying to find where your limbs end and his begin. The air in the room has cooled against your damp skin, raising goosebumps along your arms and thighs. You think maybe this is it—the natural end, the place where you both pull apart and return to yourselves.

Then Steve moves.

His hand finds your hip, fingers digging in with renewed purpose, and he pulls you toward him with a strength that makes your breath catch all over again. There's no hesitation this time, no awkward fumbling or careful negotiation. Just want, raw and immediate, blazing back to life like embers that never fully died.

He flips you onto your stomach with surprising ease, your face pressing into the pillow, the fabric cool against your flushed cheek. His weight settles over you, solid and grounding, and his mouth finds the back of your neck, teeth scraping before his tongue soothes. His hands slide down your sides, tracing the curve of your waist, the swell of your hips, fingers pressing bruises into soft flesh.

You arch back into him, a wordless plea, and he answers with action—swift, sure, devastating. The angle is different like this, deeper, and it punches the air from your lungs, leaves you gasping into the pillow as he sets a rhythm that's relentless and consuming. His hand slides up your spine, fingers tangling in your hair, pulling just enough to make your scalp tingle, to make everything sharper, brighter.

The world narrows again to sensation, the stretch and fullness, the drag and friction, the heat of his body covering yours completely. You can hear him behind you, breath ragged and uneven, punctuated by low groans that vibrate through your back. Your fingers clutch at the sheets, knuckles white, anchoring yourself against the onslaught of pleasure building impossibly fast.

When you come, it's sudden and overwhelming, your body clenching around him as your vision whites out, a broken cry muffled by the pillow. He follows moments later, hips stuttering, your name falling from his lips like a prayer or a curse or both.

You collapse together, boneless and spent, the mattress creaking beneath your combined weight. For long minutes, there's nothing but the sound of breathing, harsh and labored, slowly evening out into something more sustainable.

But then—

Your hand finds his thigh, fingers trailing upward with deliberate intent, and you feel him twitch beneath your touch, already half-hard again despite everything. You turn your head to look at him, meeting his eyes, and the heat you find there hasn't dimmed at all, if anything, it's intensified, sharpened by exhaustion and the reckless abandon that comes from pushing past every reasonable limit.

"Again?" he asks, voice wrecked, but there's a challenge threaded through it, a dare.

You answer by climbing into his lap, thighs bracketing his hips, and his hands immediately find your waist, gripping hard. This time, you set the pace. It’s harder, faster, chasing something just beyond reach. His head falls back against the headboard with a dull thunk, mouth falling open as you move above him, and the sounds he makes are obscene, unguarded, beautiful in their honesty.

You ride him until your thighs burn, until sweat drips down your spine, until pleasure coils so tight in your belly it feels like it might break you. And when it finally does, when you shatter above him with his name on your lips, he's right there with you, fingers bruising your hips as he pulls you down hard, grinding deep as he comes undone.

Much later, when the room has gone fully dark and the only light comes from the streetlamp outside filtering through the curtains, Steve finally moves. He pulls out slowly, both of you wincing at the sensitivity, and reaches for the condom. The snap of latex as he ties it off is obscenely loud in the quiet. He tosses it toward the trash bin, the third one tonight, and it lands with a soft thunk before he collapses back onto the mattress.

His hand settles on his stomach, chest heaving, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. You lie beside him, equally wrecked, every muscle in your body singing with exhaustion and the pleasant ache of being thoroughly used.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks.

Then Steve's voice breaks the silence, rough and slightly hoarse. "Wanna hear this new record I got?"

He motions vaguely toward the record player on his desk, not bothering to lift his head.

You turn to look at him, and the answer comes without hesitation, without guilt. "No, I should probably get going. I have an 8 a.m."

You push yourself upright, ignoring the protest of sore muscles, and reach for your clothes scattered across the floor. Your movements are efficient, practiced—bra hooked, shirt pulled over your head, jeans tugged up your hips. You can feel his eyes on you the entire time, tracking your every movement with an intensity that makes your skin prickle.

Steve watches you closely, expression unreadable in the dim light, before finally moving. He reaches for his boxers, pulling them on, followed by a pair of gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips. "Wait, uh... I'll drive you."

You smile at him, genuine but firm. "No, it's okay. I'll be fine."

Steve looks at you for a beat, something flickering across his face too quick to name, before his gaze drops to the ground. He adjusts himself back into his bed, the sheets rustling as he settles against the pillows, suddenly looking smaller somehow, less sure.

"Thanks," you say, stepping toward the door, hand already on the knob. "I needed this."

Steve nods, the motion small and mechanical. "Yeah."

You pause, fingers curling around the cool metal. "See you Saturday, then? The party?"

"Yeah, okay."

You're about to leave, already turning the handle, when something makes you stop. You glance back over your shoulder. "Steve?"

He jerks up slightly, eyes snapping to yours. "Yeah?"

You grin, slow and wicked. "Don't think I forgot about you still having my underwear."

Steve shrugs, a ghost of his usual smirk returning. "You can take them back."

You tilt your head, considering, then let your smile sharpen into something dangerous. "And miss knowing you've been keeping them like some kind of trophy? Or worse—" you pause, letting your gaze drag over him deliberately, "—doing God knows what with them when you're alone?" You bite your lip, eyes sparkling with mischief. "I think I'll let you hold onto them a little longer. Seems like you need them more than I do."

His mouth falls open slightly, a flush creeping up his neck as his eyes darken all over again.

You leave before he can respond, closing the door softly behind you, his stunned expression burned into your memory like a photograph.

.-.-.-.

You’re thankful when it’s finally Saturday. The night arrives with the kind of electric anticipation that only comes from knowing you're about to do something reckless. You'd seen Steve yesterday—Friday afternoon in the library, both of you camped at opposite ends of the same long table with Robin sitting between you like a buffer neither of you had requested but both seemed grateful for. 

You'd pretended everything was normal, discussing study guides and complaining about professors with the ease of people who hadn't spent Thursday afternoon fucking each other senseless.

But Steve had barely looked in your direction. His eyes had stayed fixed on his textbook, on Robin, on the water-stained ceiling tiles, anywhere but you. And when he did glance over, it was quick, furtive, like making eye contact might burn him.

Now it's Saturday night, and you and Robin are standing outside the Pike house, invitation cards held up like golden tickets. The bass thrums through the walls already, vibrating in your chest, and you can see bodies moving past the windows, shadows and light strobing in chaotic rhythm. You're both already a little tipsy from the vodka you'd mixed with orange juice back in the dorm, the bottle passed back and forth while you got ready, dissolving into fits of giggles over nothing and everything.

Robin stumbles slightly on the porch steps, grabbing your arm for balance, and you both dissolve into laughter again, the sound bright and loose in the cold night air.

The pledge at the door barely glances at your invitations before waving you through, and then you're inside, swallowed immediately by heat and noise and the sharp smell of spilled beer mixing with cologne and perfume. Bodies press close, the air thick and damp, conversations shouting over music that pounds through the floorboards.

Like always, it isn't hard to find Steve.

He's near the makeshift bar, talking to Buck, the stocky, broad-shouldered boy he shares a bathroom with, the one whose side of the sink is always cluttered with beard trimmings and forgotten razors. Buck is gesturing wildly with a red solo cup, clearly mid-story, but Steve's attention seems elsewhere, his posture relaxed but his eyes scanning the room with practiced ease.

Robin doesn't hesitate. She barrels forward, momentum and alcohol making her movements loose and uncoordinated, and collides into Steve with enough force that he rocks back slightly. Her arms wrap around his neck, laughter bubbling out of her, and he doesn't even flinch—just steadies her automatically, one arm coming around her waist as he presses a kiss to her cheek with the same easy affection he always does.

Then his eyes lift.

And land on you.

The look is shameless, burning, dragging over you with an intensity that makes heat bloom low in your stomach despite yourself. His gaze traces the line of your body, the jeans that hug your hips, the top that dips just low enough to be interesting, the curve of your mouth when you smile back at him with equal boldness.

You hold his stare for a beat longer than necessary, something electric passing between you, before deliberately looking away.

In some ways, you regret Thursday. Regret using up your allotted time for the week, because now you can't sneak away later, can't pull him into his room and lose yourself in the distraction of his hands and mouth. But it's okay. You can wait. The rules exist for a reason.

"Where's Eddie?" you ask, shifting your attention to Steve, voice raised slightly to be heard over the music.

Steve sighs, the sound carrying a mix of exasperation and fondness. "He's already down in the basement. Some girls flirted with him and convinced him to share a joint."

You pout, turning to Robin with exaggerated betrayal.

Robin gasps, hand flying to her chest dramatically. "Eddie is cheating on us!"

Your faces mirror each other instantly, mouths dropping open in mock horror, eyes widening with theatrical offense. The same wicked thought strikes you both simultaneously, and without needing to say it aloud, you're already moving.

"Wait—no, guys, come on," Steve protests, but there's no real conviction behind it. Robin is already tugging him along, and you're right behind them, the three of you weaving through the crowd toward the basement door.

The stairs descend into dimmer light, the air cooler and hazier with smoke. There are more people down here than usual. Maybe a dozen scattered across worn couches and sitting on the floor, the atmosphere mellower, more intimate than the chaos upstairs. Music still filters down through the ceiling, muffled and bass-heavy, but down here someone's put on something slower, something that makes the space feel like its own world.

Your eyes scan the room and land immediately on Polly.

She's perched on the arm of a couch, red hair catching the low amber light, wearing a soft floral dress that makes her look warm and inviting. She waves when she sees Robin, the gesture friendly and genuine, and then her eyes drift to Steve. Something flickers across her face, recognition, interest, maybe a touch of hope, and you watch as Steve notices her too.

His expression shifts, just slightly, something unreadable passing through his eyes before he looks away.

He hangs his arm around Robin's shoulders instead, the motion claiming, his palm resting against her upper arm. Robin leans into him easily, comfortable, unbothered.

And then you spot Eddie.

He's sprawled on the couch like a king in exile, eyes red-rimmed and glassy, a goofy smile plastered across his face that suggests he's already deep into whatever joint he'd been sharing. His hair is even wilder than usual, curls sticking up at odd angles, and when he spots the three of you, his grin widens impossibly further.

"My people!" he announces, throwing his arms wide. "You've come to join the enlightened!"

Robin snorts, already moving toward him. "Eddie, you look like you've ascended to another plane of existence."

"I have," he says seriously, nodding with exaggerated solemnity. "And it's beautiful here."

You laugh, the sound swallowed quickly by the haze and warmth of the basement, and settle into the rhythm of the night, letting it unfold around you.

You and Robin and even a reluctant Steve take turns catching up with the rest of the group in the basement, the joint making its lazy rotation around the circle. Steve had resisted at first, shaking his head when it was offered, but Robin had elbowed him in the ribs and given him a look that said don't be boring, and he'd relented with an exaggerated sigh, taking a long drag that made his eyes water slightly before passing it on.

The minutes blur together, conversation flowing in strange loops that double back on themselves, laughter erupting at things that won't be funny tomorrow. Someone puts on a different record, something with a bluesy guitar that winds through the smoke-thick air like a living thing.

Eventually, everyone ends up high in a circle on the floor and furniture, bodies arranged in the casual intimacy that comes from shared intoxication. You're wedged between Robin and Eddie, your back against the base of the couch, legs stretched out in front of you. Steve is on Robin's other side, and Polly has claimed the spot next to him, close enough that their shoulders nearly touch.

The weed has made everything soft around the edges, your thoughts drifting like clouds, slow and pleasant and unhurried. You're giggly, the kind of loose, bubbling laughter that spills out at nothing and everything, and your head keeps falling onto Eddie's shoulder without you meaning it to. His denim jacket is rough against your cheek, smelling like cigarettes and the faint sweetness of whatever he uses in his hair, and he doesn't seem to mind, occasionally patting your head absently like you're a sleepy cat.

Steve keeps watching you.

You can feel his gaze even when you're not looking directly at him, but it's heavy, persistent, burning against your skin in a way that makes you hyperaware of every movement you make. His jaw clenches when your head tips onto Eddie's shoulder again, the muscle jumping visibly beneath his skin, and even when Polly leans in to speak to him, her voice low and private, his attention keeps sliding back to you.

Robin is tucked under his arm, her feet stretched across the space and resting comfortably in your lap, toes wiggling occasionally against your thigh. You rest your hands on her ankles absently, thumbs tracing lazy circles over the delicate bones there.

Then a girl across the circle, someone you recognize from parties but whose name you've never learned, leans forward with the exaggerated seriousness of someone very stoned trying to sound profound.

"Wait," she says, pointing between Steve and Robin. "Steve and Robin, if you two decided to have a threeway... would you have a boy or girl?"

Robin and Steve look at each other, and something passes between them. It’s quick, wordless, and practiced. Steve's hand moves on her arm, thumb rubbing a small, comforting circle against her skin. She looks up at him, then over at you, and you can see her trying not to smile.

Steve is the one who answers, his voice easy and unbothered. "I never liked threesomes." He pauses, and his eyes flash toward you, quick and intentional. "I'm too greedy. Want all the attention."

The words land with weight you're not sure anyone else feels, but they settle in your chest like stones dropped into still water.

Polly scoffs beside him, taking a sip of her drink, and you catch her mumbling something under her breath. It’s too quiet for most of the circle to hear, but clearly directed at Steve. He shoots her a look, sharp and warning, jaw tightening again, but no one else seems to notice.

The game continues, questions bouncing around the circle with increasing absurdity. Someone asks a senior whether he'd rather fuck his professor to get an A or fuck the dean to graduate tomorrow. Someone asks another person if they'd rather pee every time they sneeze or pass gas every time they cough. The answers come with laughter and groans.

Eddie gets asked whether he'd rather give up weed for the rest of his life or lose the ability to play guitar. He looks genuinely pained by the question, clutching his chest like he's been stabbed, before finally muttering, "Weed. But I'd be fucking miserable about it."

Then the attention shifts.

Lands on you.

Polly is the one asking, and her smile is sweet, almost innocent, as she tilts her head and studies you with clear, curious eyes. "Would you rather make out with Harrington or Munson?"

You blink, the question registering slowly through the pleasant fog in your brain. The room has gone quiet, everyone's attention suddenly focused on you with the kind of gleeful anticipation that comes from sensing drama about to unfold. The only thing bothering you is the way everyone is staring, waiting.

Your eyes find Steve's across the circle.

"Is that a dare?" you ask, voice steady despite the haze.

You can feel Eddie beside you, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter, his hand coming up to cover his mouth.

Polly laughs, bright and delighted. "I like you. You're funny."

"I wasn't joking," you say flatly.

The room drains of humor.

The shift is immediate and palpable, the easy laughter evaporating as people glance between each other, trying to gauge whether this is still a game or something else entirely. Polly's smile falters slightly, her eyes moving between you and Steve, watching the way you're staring at each other. The way Steve's mouth has curved into something that's not quite a smile but isn't quite anything else either, something dark and interested and entirely focused on you.

You glance at Robin, suddenly worried your teasing might have crossed a line, but she's got an entertained smile playing at her lips, eyes bright with mischief, clearly unbothered.

No one in the room seems to question any of this. And you notice, with a kind of distant clarity, that it's the same people as last time. The same faces who were here when you played body shots, when boundaries blurred and secrets stayed buried. It's like what happens in the basement stays in the basement. A secret society of fucked-up horny college kids who've silently agreed not to ask too many questions.

You move onto your knees, the shift deliberate and slow, and the room seems to hold its breath.

You lick your lips, eyes boring into Steve's, and you watch the way he shifts, the way his hand tightens on Robin's shoulder, the way his jeans twitch slightly at the crotch, betraying him.

Then you turn.

Facing Eddie.

Your hands come up to frame his face, palms warm against his cheeks, feeling the faint stubble there, the sharp line of his jaw. His eyes are wide behind the haze of red, pupils blown dark, and up close you can see every detail. The small scar above his eyebrow, the faint freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose, the way his lips part in surprise before curving into a grin that's equal parts delighted and dangerous.

You pull him in.

The kiss is hungry, wet, smacking loudly in the sudden quiet of the basement. Your mouth opens against his and he responds immediately, one hand flying up to grip the back of your neck, the other finding your waist and pulling you closer. His lips are softer than you expected, his tongue sliding against yours with practiced ease, and he deepens the kiss without hesitation, playing along with theatrical enthusiasm. You can taste beer and weed and something distinctly Eddie, and when you bite his bottom lip gently, he groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating between you.

Then you break away, pulling back just enough to catch your breath.

Your eyes find Steve immediately.

He's frozen, completely still except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest, his expression carved from stone. His eyes are dark, burning, locked onto you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip.

You lick your lips slowly, purposely, tasting Eddie still there.

"That answer your question?" you ask, voice steady despite the hammering of your heart.

Polly gives an impressed look, eyebrows raised, a genuine smile spreading across her face. "Damn," she says softly, almost to herself.

But you're not looking at her anymore.

You're looking at Steve, watching the way his jaw works, the way his fingers dig into Robin's shoulder hard enough that she glances up at him with mild concern. The way something dangerous and possessive flashes through his eyes before he forces himself to look away, throat working in a thick swallow.

The room disperses eventually, people drifting upstairs in twos and threes, drawn back to the noise and chaos of the main party. The basement empties out slowly, bodies peeling away until only a handful remain, and you spot Eddie by himself near the corner, crouched down and gathering his things—rolling papers, a lighter, the small tin he keeps his stash in, all being tucked carefully back into the pockets of his jacket.

You cross the space and place a hand on his shoulder.

He looks up immediately, face breaking into that cheeky grin that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. "Well, well, well," he drawls, rising to his full height with exaggerated flourish. "If it isn't the belle of the basement herself."

"Hey, Eds." You smile back, something warm and easy settling in your chest.

He straightens up, slipping the tin into his inner pocket with a practiced motion, then turns to face you fully, sweeping an imaginary hat from his head in a mock bow. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this private audience, m'lady?"

You glance around briefly, Steve is still there, lingering near the stairs with Robin, but his attention is locked on you and Eddie with an intensity that feels like a physical weight. His expression is dark, jaw set, eyes narrowed in a way that would probably be intimidating if you cared to acknowledge it.

You turn back to Eddie, keeping your voice light. "Just wanted to make sure we're good. That wasn't... I mean, I hope that didn't make things weird."

Eddie throws his head back with a barking laugh, the sound bright and genuine, his hand coming up to clutch his chest like you've wounded him. "Weird? Weird?" He leans in, voice dropping to a stage whisper that's still loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. "Sweetheart, that was nothing short of spectacular. I should be asking if you're okay after such a performance. My lips are a dangerous weapon—many have fallen victim to their charms."

You snort, shaking your head. "I think I'll survive."

"A tragedy, truly." He grins wider, eyes sparkling with mischief as he places both hands over his heart. "But between you and me—" he pauses for dramatic effect, fingers drumming against his chest, "—I'm pretty sure I just ascended to legendary status. Eddie Munson: the man, the myth, the guy who got to kiss the girl who's got King Steve all—" he makes an exaggerated gesture, fingers splaying and twisting like he's wringing out a towel, "—twisted up inside."

You snort, shaking your head. "That’s not—"

"Oh, it absolutely is." He grins wider, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Trust me, sweetheart. I know what pining looks like, and that man—" he jerks his thumb in Steve's general direction without looking, "—is in deep."

Heat crawls up your neck despite yourself. "Eddie, you know Steve. He's persistent on no relationships. And I don't really want one with him anyway."

Eddie tilts his head, studying you for a moment, and something shifts in his expression—the mischief softening into something more genuine, more thoughtful. "You're right. I do know Steve." He pauses, fingers drumming absently against his thigh. "And I know that whole emotionally unavailable thing is bullshit."

You blink, surprised. "What?"

"Harrington might be more of a hopeless romantic than myself," Eddie continues, voice dropping lower, more sincere. "He's just good at hiding it. Even from Robin." He meets your eyes, and there's something knowing there, something that makes your stomach flip. "And as a hopeless romantic, I'm rooting for you two."

He winks.

You open your mouth to protest, to say something that will deflect or dismiss, but the words catch in your throat. Because there's no judgment in Eddie's face, no teasing edge to his tone now. Just honest, earnest hope.

"Eddie I really don’t think—"

"Oh, but I do think." Eddie taps his temple sagely, like he's imparting ancient wisdom. "These eyes see all, dear reader. And what they see is our beloved Harrington over there looking like he's about to spontaneously combust." He pauses, tilting his head with genuine curiosity. "Tell me—on a scale of one to completely losing his shit, where would you say Steve currently ranks?"

You glance over your shoulder. Steve is still staring, his arms crossed over his chest now, posture rigid. Robin is saying something to him, her hand on his arm, but he doesn't seem to be listening.

"I mean..." You turn back to Eddie with a shrug. "It doesn't really mean anything. He's probably just being territorial or whatever. You know how he is."

Eddie's eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline. "Territorial," he repeats slowly, testing the word like it's a new flavor. "Interesting choice of words." He rocks back on his heels, studying you with that same thoughtful expression, the mischief softening into something more genuine. "You know what's wild? And I mean this with all the love in my blackened little heart—you're both dancing around each other like it's some kind of elaborate theatrical production, except neither of you know what play you're in."

You blink, surprised. "What?"

"I'm just saying," Eddie continues, gesturing expansively, "Harrington's over there looking like I just keyed his Beamer and pissed in his cereal, and you're over here acting like it's a normal Saturday night. It's fascinating." He grins, slinging his arm around your shoulders in a gesture that's purely platonic, brotherly. "The drama. The tension. The sheer audacity of two people determined to out-stubborn each other into oblivion."

You can't help but laugh, some of the tension dissolving. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm a connoisseur of human chaos," he corrects, pulling you into a quick, tight hug that smells like leather and smoke and something distinctly Eddie. "And for the record, you're a damn good kisser. Wasted on anyone who doesn't have the balls to actually do something about it."

You hug him back, warmth spreading through your chest. "Thanks, Eddie."

"Anytime, sweetheart." He pulls back, hands on your shoulders, and gives you a look that's surprisingly earnest beneath the theatrics. "Seriously. You ever need anything—backup, a ride, someone to cause a distraction while you make am exit—your friendly neighborhood freak is at your service." He bows again, deeper this time, one arm sweeping out to the side.

You nod, smiling. "I'll keep that in mind."

He releases you with a final pat on the shoulder, then turns to grab his jacket from where it's been draped over the back of the couch. As he shrugs it on, you catch movement in your peripheral vision.

Steve.

Still watching. Still glowering.

Eddie follows your gaze and lets out a low whistle, shaking his head with exaggerated dismay. "Yep. That's the look of a man in crisis." He grins at you one more time, then heads for the stairs, spreading his arms wide as he calls out, "Fear not, Harrington! I return her to you unscathed and virtuous! Well—mostly virtuous!"

Steve's glare follows him all the way up.

And when Eddie disappears through the doorway, Steve's eyes snap back to you—sharp, unreadable, something simmering beneath the surface that he's fighting to keep locked down. He holds your gaze for just a moment before he forces himself to look away, jaw working like he's biting back words that want to escape.

You make your way over to where Steve and Robin are standing near the stairs, the basement now mostly empty save for a few stragglers still sprawled on the couches in various states of inebriation. Robin is leaning heavily against Steve's side, her weight listing like a ship taking on water, and she's giggling at something only she seems to find funny.

"Okay, party people," you announce, reaching for Robin's other arm. "Time to get you home."

Robin's head lolls toward you, eyes glassy and bright, a smile stretching wide across her face. "But the night is young! And so are we! We're like... baby birds. Fresh from the egg. Covered in... egg goo."

Steve catches your eye for half a second, something flickering there that might be amusement, might be frustration, before he looks away, his jaw tight as he adjusts his grip on Robin's waist.

Between the two of you, you manage to guide her toward the stairs, though it's less walking and more controlled falling forward. Robin hums tunelessly, her feet dragging, nearly catching on the first step before Steve hoists her up with practiced efficiency.

"Easy," he mutters, voice low and strained. "Come on, Rob. Work with me here."

"I am working with you," Robin protests, then giggles again. "We're a team. Like—like Batman and Robin. Except I'm Robin. Obviously. Because of my name. But you're not Batman because Batman doesn't have hair like yours. You're more like... like a Kennedy. But not the dead ones. The alive ones. Are there alive ones?"

You bite back a smile, steadying her from the other side as you navigate the narrow stairwell. "Almost there."

The main floor hits you like a wall of sound and heat, less crowded than earlier, but still thick with bodies and music and the sharp smell of spilled alcohol mixing with sweat and cologne. The temperature difference is immediate, warmth pressing against your skin after the cooler basement air.

Steve's grip on Robin tightens as someone stumbles past, nearly knocking into her. His eyes scan the room with the kind of vigilance that suggests he's already calculating exit routes and potential obstacles.

"Robin, you're not walking home like this," he says, voice firm, cutting through her continued rambling about Kennedys and conspiracy theories.

"We'll be fiiiiine," Robin sing-songs, waving her free hand in a gesture that nearly throws off her balance. You catch her before she tips too far. "We've done it plenty of times. What if Eddie drove us?"

"Absolutely not." Steve's response comes too fast, too sharp, his eyes cutting to you for a brief, charged moment before he looks away. He clears his throat, adjusting his grip again. "He's high as shit. No."

Robin's head rolls back dramatically, her neck going boneless. "But Steeeeve. You know what's really interesting? Giraffes. Do you think giraffes know they're giraffes? Like, do they look at their reflection in a lake and think 'wow, I'm tall' or do they just think that's normal because all the other giraffes are also tall? We should ask a giraffe."

"Rob—"

"Why can't you walk us?" you cut in, the question coming out more pointed than you intended.

Robin erupts into giggles, reaching up to poke Steve's cheek with surprising accuracy for someone so intoxicated. 

"Because he already has plans," she announces, then leans toward you in what she clearly thinks is a whisper but is actually loud enough for half the room to hear. "Heard Polly tell him she'll wait in his room. That's why he's being all grumpy. Because we're cutting into his coitus."

Something cold and sharp twists in your stomach, unexpected and unwelcome. You force your expression to stay neutral, unbothered, even as Steve's eyes find yours again, and this time they linger, searching for something you refuse to let him see.

His jaw tightens further, muscle jumping beneath skin, and he looks away first.

You sigh, glancing around the room, needing to focus on something practical instead of whatever complicated feeling is trying to claw its way up your throat. Your eyes land on a familiar figure near the makeshift bar, and something in your chest loosens.

"Hey!" You wave your arm, raising your voice. "Hey, Sammy!"

The guy turns, and even across the crowded room, he's striking in that effortless way some people just are. Tall, with a strong jaw that could cut glass and eyes so green they're visible even in the dim party lighting. 

His brown hair is styled with just enough product to look intentional but not overdone, shorter on the sides and slightly longer on top, falling in a way that suggests he's either just run his hands through it or it naturally does that. He's wearing a tan henley that fits him almost unfairly well, the kind that shows off broad shoulders and a trim waist without trying too hard. 

When he smiles, it's boyish and bright, the kind that probably gets him out of trouble more often than not.

His eyes brighten when they land on you, and he excuses himself from the group of guys he's talking with, making his way over with easy confidence.

"Hey," he says your name like it's something warm, familiar. Then his gaze shifts, landing on Steve with a curt nod. "Harrington."

Steve's face goes stony, expression carefully blank in a way that somehow communicates more than a scowl would. But his eyes, his eyes tell a different story entirely. Dark, sharp, tracking every movement Sammy makes with the kind of intensity usually reserved for threats.

"I was wondering if I'd see you here tonight," Sammy continues, attention back on you, smile widening just slightly.

You return the smile, ignoring the weight of Steve's stare boring into the side of your head. "Yeah, I, um..." You pause, shifting your grip on Robin who's now humming something that might be a Beatles song or might be completely made up. "I know this is a big ask and kind of weird, but did you drive here? Could you drive me and my roommate home? We live in Hall 11."

Sammy's smile doesn't falter. "Of course. Not weird at all."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait." Steve's voice cuts through, sharp enough that both you and Sammy turn to look at him. He's still supporting Robin, but his posture has gone rigid, defensive. "Before they get in your car, did you have anything to drink?"

Sammy looks taken aback, eyebrows lifting slightly. "I had a beer when we first got here, but other than that... no."

Steve's eyes narrow, jaw setting in a way that would be almost funny if it wasn't so intense. "Say the alphabet backwards."

Sammy laughs, the sound genuine and slightly bewildered. "You're kidding."

"Do I look like I'm kidding?"

Sammy's smile fades slightly, confusion flickering across his handsome features, but he opens his mouth anyway. "Z, Y, X—"

"Sammy, stop. It's fine, I trust you." You roll your eyes, shooting a look at Steve that you hope conveys exactly how ridiculous he's being right now.

Steve's gaze snaps to yours, something raw flashing through his expression before he locks it down tight. His grip on Robin shifts, knuckles going white.

You soften despite yourself, understanding clicking into place beneath your irritation. You mouth the words carefully, making sure he sees: We'll be okay.

Inside, something aches. Because you know where this comes from—the accident, Max nearly dying. The weight of guilt he still carries like stones in his pockets. The way he needs control because the one time he didn't have it, everything fell apart.

Steve holds your gaze for a long moment, war playing out behind his eyes, the need to protect, to control, to keep everyone safe, fighting against the reality that he can't, that he has to let go sometimes. Finally, something in him gives. His shoulders drop slightly, the tension bleeding out even as his jaw stays tight.

"Fine," he says, the word coming out rough. He shifts Robin's weight, preparing to hand her off. "Hall 11. Straight there. No detours."

"Straight there," Sammy agrees, moving to support Robin from your side. "Promise."

Robin, oblivious to the entire exchange, chooses this moment to pipe up again. "Did you know that octopi—octopuses? Octopodes?—have three hearts? Three. Can you imagine? That's so many hearts. Where do they even put them all? I can barely handle one heart and it's mostly just confused all the time."

"Alright, philosopher," you murmur, helping guide her toward Sammy. "Let's get you home so you can ponder the mysteries of cephalopod anatomy in bed."

Steve releases Robin slowly, reluctantly, like he's physically forcing his hands to let go. His eyes track her movement, then flick to Sammy with unmistakable warning written in every line of his body.

"Thanks for this," you say to Sammy, meaning it.

"Anytime," he replies, that easy smile returning as he secures his grip on Robin.

You turn back to Steve one more time. He's standing there in the middle of the party, hands now empty and clenched at his sides, looking somehow smaller despite his height. His eyes meet yours, and there's something there, something he won't say, something that makes your chest tighten despite every logical reason it shouldn't.

"Goodnight, Steve," you say softly.

He nods once, jaw working. "Bye."

And then you're turning away, following Sammy and Robin toward the door, leaving Steve standing alone in the heat and noise of the party, with Polly waiting upstairs and absolutely nothing stopping him from going to her.

Sammy's car isn't fancy, a beat-up Honda Civic with a slightly cracked windshield and seats that have seen better days. The interior smells faintly of pine air freshener and old french fries, and when you slide into the back seat with Robin, you have to push aside a calculus textbook and what looks like a gym bag.

Robin immediately sprawls across your lap, her head lolling against your thigh as she sighs contentedly. "This is nice. Your legs are very comfortable. Like a pillow. A human pillow."

"Thanks, Rob," you murmur, brushing her hair back from her face as Sammy settles into the driver's seat.

The engine turns over with a slightly concerning rattle before evening out, and then you're pulling away from the Pike house, the bass-heavy music fading into the background. The drive isn't long, but you spend most of it making sure Robin doesn't try to roll down the window to shout philosophical questions at passing cars or attempt to unbuckle her seatbelt because she "wants to feel free."

"The stars," Robin announces suddenly, pressing her face against the window and leaving a smudge of condensation. "They're so far away. Do you think they know we're looking at them? Do you think they care?"

"I don't think stars have feelings, babe," you say gently, pulling her back before she can somehow unlock the door.

"That's sad. Everyone should have feelings. Even stars. Especially stars."

Sammy catches your eye in the rearview mirror, his lips twitching with suppressed laughter, and you can't help but smile back, shaking your head.

When you pull up to Hall 11, the building is quiet, most windows dark except for a few scattered lights where other students are probably cramming for finals or couldn't sleep. Sammy helps you extract Robin from the backseat. It’s a process that involves her getting momentarily distracted by the dome light and trying to turn it on and off repeatedly while humming the theme from Close Encounters.

"Okay, come on," you say, looping her arm over your shoulders while Sammy takes the other side.

The stairs are a special kind of hell. Robin keeps trying to stop and sit down, insisting she needs to "rest her skin" and "contemplate the nature of vertical movement." You shush her every time she tries to greet the few people you pass in the stairwell, a couple of girls in pajamas who look both amused and exhausted, a girl carrying a stack of textbooks who gives you a sympathetic nod.

"Hi!" Robin stage-whispers to a girl leaving the bathroom. "You have very shiny hair! Is it a commercial? Are you a commercial?"

"Robin, shh."

"I'm being quiet," she protests at full volume.

By the time you reach your floor, you're slightly out of breath and Robin is singing something that might be "Bohemian Rhapsody" but with completely wrong lyrics. You fumble with your keys, finally getting the door open, and together you and Sammy guide Robin to her bed.

She collapses onto the mattress with a satisfied groan, immediately starfishing across it. "This bed," she announces to the ceiling, "is the best bed in the entire world. In the universe. In all of existence."

"I'm glad you're happy," you say, pulling off her shoes and covering her with a blanket.

Within seconds, she's out. Her mouth slightly open, one arm hanging off the edge of the bed, already starting to snore softly.

You and Sammy share a look and both dissolve into quiet laughter, careful not to wake her.

"Well," Sammy says, keeping his voice low, "that was an adventure."

"Welcome to a typical Saturday night with Robin Buckley," you reply, stepping back and really looking at him for the first time tonight.

You'd seen him before, of course—in your algebra class freshman year, where he'd sit three rows ahead and occasionally turn around to borrow a pencil. And at parties, though usually you'd been too drunk or the lighting too dim to notice much beyond the basics. But now, in the slightly harsh fluorescent light of your dorm room, you find yourself properly taking him in.

He really is handsome. Almost unfairly so. Those green eyes are even more striking up close, framed by dark lashes that don't seem fair on a guy. His jaw is strong and clean-shaven, and when he smiles, like he's doing now, still amused by Robin's antics, there's a dimple that appears in his left cheek that you'd never noticed before. The tan henley stretches across his shoulders in a way that suggests he either works out or is just naturally built like that, and his hands, tucked casually into his pockets now, are large and capable-looking.

Your brain buzzes slightly, a warm hum of awareness that has nothing to do with the alcohol still in your system and everything to do with the fact that Sammy really is quite attractive when you're sober enough to notice.

"We should probably head back down," you say, glancing at the clock on your desk. "It's technically past curfew. Boys need to be escorted and all that."

Sammy nods, following you back out into the hallway. You pull the door shut quietly behind you, hearing the soft click of the lock engaging.

The walk back down is quieter than the walk up, your footsteps echoing softly in the stairwell. When you reach the ground floor, Tessa is at the front desk, feet propped up and nose buried in a magazine. She glances up when you pass, gives a knowing smile and a little wave, then immediately returns to her reading. You know she doesn't actually care about the curfew rules, she's broken them herself plenty of times, but you appreciate the pretense anyway.

You and Sammy make your way to the front doors, the glass reflecting the two of you back in slightly distorted doubles. When you reach them, Sammy stops and turns to face you.

"Thanks again," you say, meaning it, offering him a genuine smile. "Really. You didn't have to do all that."

"Anytime," Sammy replies easily, that boyish grin returning. "Your friend is really funny. Even when she's trying to psychoanalyze the interior lighting of my car."

You laugh, the sound soft and genuine in the quiet lobby. "Yeah, she is."

A beat of silence settles between you, not uncomfortable. Sammy shifts his weight, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck.

"Well," you say, breaking the moment, "I'll see you later. Drive safe, okay?"

You start to turn, already thinking about the comfortable pajamas waiting in your dresser and how good it'll feel to finally take off your bra, when Sammy's voice stops you.

"Wait."

You turn back around, eyebrows lifting slightly. "Mhm?"

Sammy scratches his neck, and there's something almost endearing about the gesture—the way it makes him look less like the confident guy who had pressed against you while dancing. It was more like someone actually nervous. "I just—okay, I'm gonna say this before I lose my nerve." He lets out a self-deprecating laugh. "I keep running into you, right? And every time, I kick myself for not asking you out. Especially after that kiss at the bonfire."

Your eyebrows shoot up. You'd almost forgotten about that. The night you'd been trying to distract yourself, the tree bark rough against your back, his mouth on your neck. It feels like a lifetime ago.

"Even though it wasn't my best work," he continues quickly, a flush creeping up his neck. "I mean—God, I don't even know what I'm trying to say. Sorry, I'm really nervous right now."

The admission catches you off guard. There's something vulnerable about it, something genuine that makes your chest feel unexpectedly warm. Here's this objectively attractive guy, fumbling over his words, admitting he's nervous about asking you out.

Heat creeps into your cheeks, and you find yourself leaning back against the door, the cool glass pressing against your shoulder blades. A shy grin tugs at your mouth. "You're nervous?"

"Terrified, actually," he admits with a laugh, hands diving into his pockets like he needs to anchor them somewhere. "Which is stupid because the worst you can say is no, but—" He stops himself, shaking his head. "I'm rambling. What I'm trying to ask is... would you want to go out with me sometime?"

Your stomach flips.

The question hangs in the air between you, simple and straightforward and completely throwing you off balance. Because your mind, traitorous and unwelcome, immediately conjures an image of someone else. It's dark hair falling into hazel eyes, a crooked smirk, the phantom feeling of hands on your hips.

You swallow, forcing the thought away.

One date wouldn't hurt, you tell yourself. One date with a nice, uncomplicated guy who actually wants to take you out instead of just—

"Yes," you hear yourself say, "but I can't until next semester. Things are crazy right now with school."

Sammy's face lights up, the nervous tension melting away as his grin widens until that dimple appears again. "Yeah, of course. I totally get that. Finals are brutal."

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled receipt, something from a gas station, you think, based on the faded logo at the top, and then, impossibly, a pen. An actual pen, just ready and waiting like he's the kind of person who carries writing implements around for emergencies.

What kind of guy carries a pen around with them? you think, somewhere between amused and charmed.

He holds both out to you, the receipt balanced on his palm. "Could I get your number maybe? I'd like to talk to you sometime over break. If that's okay."

Your stomach flips again, more insistent this time, and you take the pen from him. Your fingers brush his, warm and brief, and you try not to think about how different they feel from—

Stop it.

"Okay," you say, and your voice comes out steadier than you feel.

You scribble your number onto the back of the receipt, your handwriting slightly messy but legible, and hand it back to him along with the pen. Sammy takes it, looking down at the numbers like you've just given him something precious, and his smile goes soft around the edges.

"Thanks," he says quietly, and the sincerity in his voice makes something twist in your chest.

"Don't thank me yet," you reply, trying for lightness even as something complicated churns inside you. "You haven't actually survived a date with me."

He laughs at that, genuine and bright. "I'm willing to take my chances. Especially if it means I get a do-over on that kiss."

The words are flirty but not pushy, teasing but not presumptuous, and you find yourself smiling despite the confused tangle of emotions knotting in your stomach.

"We'll see," you say.

There's another beat, this one longer, heavier, where you both just stand there, the fluorescent lights humming overhead and the night pressing against the glass doors behind you.

"Goodnight," Sammy finally says, taking a step back, still holding the receipt like it's something valuable.

"Goodnight," you echo. "And Sammy? Drive safe."

"Always do." He grins one more time, then pushes through the doors, the cold night air rushing in briefly before they swing shut again.

Through the glass, you watch as he heads toward the parking lot, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed. He turns once, catching you still watching, and waves. You wave back, then turn and head for the stairs.

Your mind is too loud, too full, thoughts tangling over themselves as you climb. You think about Sammy's smile, about the nervous way he'd scratched his neck, about how refreshingly straightforward everything felt when he asked you out. No games, no rules, no complicated arrangements that leave you confused about what you actually want.

You think about Steve's face when you kissed Eddie. The way his jaw had gone tight, eyes dark and burning.

You think about Polly, waiting in his room right now.

Your stomach twists again, sharp and unwelcome, and you force yourself to stop thinking entirely.

By the time you reach your floor, push back into your room, and find Robin exactly where you left her, snoring softly, one arm still dangling off the bed, you've almost convinced yourself that saying yes to Sammy was the right choice.Almost.

[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: small misunderstanding at the beginning, mentions of death, mentions of drunk driving, smut, over the pants handjob, dry humping, thigh fucking, sex :P, mean steve a little... he might piss you off at the end of the chapter just a WARNING words: 11.2k 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: this was one of the earlier chapters i had outlined and knew wanted to happen. one of you guessed the fate of a certain character! alsoooo reader and steve WHAT ARE YOU GUYS DOING!!!! masterlist

chapter 7

The next day, it feels weird to do daily errands after last night. 

By the time you make it back to your dorm building, the afternoon has slipped toward evening, the sky outside washed pale and low like it hasn’t decided what it wants to be yet. You’ve spent the day trying to be productive—dining hall food that tasted vaguely of cardboard and salt, hours tucked into the library with textbooks spread open more out of principle than necessity. Studying over break felt like a lie you told yourself so you wouldn’t sit still long enough to think.

Your body remembers anyway.

There’s a pleasant ache lingering in your muscles, a heaviness low in your limbs that makes you pause halfway up the steps outside the dorm, breath hitching when the memory sneaks up on you uninvited. Steve’s weight behind you. His voice, rough and warm in your ear. The way your eyes had fallen shut without permission.

You shake your head once, sharp, like that might scatter the thought, and push through the front doors.

The lobby smells faintly of lemon cleaner and old carpet. Tessa is at the front desk, chin propped in her palm, bright smile already forming when she sees you. She was one of the few RA’s that stayed behind to work the desk. 

“Hey!” she chirps. “You had two calls while you were out.”

You shift your books higher in your arms, eyebrows lifting. “I did?”

“Yeah.” She flips a slip of paper between her fingers. “One was from your roommate—Robin? She said to call whenever you have time.” Tessa hands it over, the number scrawled messily, probably copied in a hurry from wherever Robin’s staying. Then she hesitates, smile turning curious. “And some guy called. Didn’t leave a name. Said he has something of yours, and if you want it back, you’ll need to come get it.”

Your face betrays you instantly.

The grin blooms wide and unguarded before you can stop it, heat flickering through your chest as you clutch your books tighter. Tessa notices—of course she does—and her eyes narrow with interest.

You clear your throat. “Thank you, Tessa.”

She hums like she knows something you don’t say and waves you off.

Upstairs, your room greets you with its familiar stillness. You set your books and half-finished notes on your desk, then drop back onto your bed, staring up at the ceiling as the springs sigh beneath you. The quiet presses in, and with it come the questions.

Was that an invitation?

Had he meant for you to come back tonight, or was he only offering a way to retrieve what you’d left behind? Did it count as twice in one week if it was break? Did weeks reset on Sundays? Did any of that actually matter, or were his rules more flexible than he’d let on?

You bite your lip, mind tangling itself into knots.

Before you can spiral further, you roll off the bed and head into the hallway, feeding coins into the payphone with practiced hands. You dial Robin’s number, fingers tapping anxiously against the metal casing as it rings.

Once. Twice. Three times.

No answer.

You hang up with a soft clack. So much for being talked out of poor decisions.

Back in your room, you change clothes with more care than necessary. You tell yourself it’s practical—you’re only picking something up, after all. Still, you smooth your skirt, adjust your sweater, take an extra second with your hair. It doesn’t hurt to look nice.

By the time you reach the Pike house, the sun has dipped lower, the air sharpened with the promise of cold. It’s just past five when you ring the doorbell, rocking subtly on the balls of your feet while you wait.

The door swings open.

The girl staring back at you is small, all sharp angles and fire—long red hair, freckles scattered across her nose, jeans and a sweater that look borrowed rather than styled. Gum snaps between her teeth as her eyes rake over you with unmistakable boredom.

Her brows knit. “Can you speak?”

Heat floods your face. “Oh—uh, sorry. I—”

Before you can finish, a familiar voice cuts in, warm and easy. “Max? Who is it?”

Steve rounds the corner, already smiling.

The smile disappears the second he sees you.

“Oh,” you blurt, mortified. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I—” The words tangle uselessly, and before either of them can stop you, you’re backing away, turning, halfway down the porch steps.

“Wait!” Steve calls your name, urgency threading his voice.

The door shuts behind him. Footsteps follow, quick and uneven. Then his hand closes around your wrist. It’s not tight, not painful, only enough to stop you.

You spin back, heart hammering, embarrassment burning hot beneath your skin.

“It’s not what it looks like,” he says immediately.

You manage a small, kind smile, even though something uneasy curls in your stomach. “Hey, it’s okay, Steve. I know you see other girls. That’s… fine. Really. I should’ve called first or—”

“No—” He shakes his head, breathless. “Wait.”

You glance back toward the door, then at him again. “…She looks sixteen.”

“She is sixteen.”

Your face falls.

“Oh. God. Steve, okay, that’s—”

“No!” He rushes the word, hands lifting instinctively, panic written across his face. “No, no. Max—she’s my sister.”

You blink. “Your sister? I thought Robin said you were an only child.”

He drags his hands down his face, exhaling hard. “Yeah. I am. She’s not—biological. It’s complicated, alright?” He glances back at the door, then at you again. “Her home life’s a mess. I looked after her. Still do. She was supposed to spend Thanksgiving with her boyfriend’s family in Hawkins, but she heard I wasn’t going home this year. Got it into her head I’d be alone.” A breathy laugh escapes him, strained. “She showed up at the bus station earlier to surprise me.”

He looks at you then, searching, like he needs you to believe him.

And standing there on the pavement, the cold brushing your ankles, you do.

You stare at Steve for a beat too long before your eyes flick past him, back toward the house. Even with the door closed, you can see her. Max’s face pressed close to the front window, grin wide and unapologetic, clearly enjoying every second of this. When she catches you looking, she doesn’t even pretend to be subtle.

“Oh,” you manage, eloquent as ever.

Steve exhales through his nose and drags a hand through his hair, curls springing back into place like they always do. “Yeah…” His gaze drops then, slow and unhurried, finally taking you in from head to toe. The attention makes your stomach dip, makes you suddenly aware of every inch of exposed skin, every choice you made getting dressed.

You swallow, tugging your coat tighter around yourself like it might save you. Or maybe the sidewalk will crack open and swallow you whole. Or maybe Eddie will come screeching around the corner in his van and take you out at the knees. Any of those would be preferable.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” you say quickly. “I just—I came to—”

Steve’s mouth curls, mischief flashing in his eyes before you can finish. “Yeah, I know why you’re here.” He glances at the watch on his wrist, exaggeratedly casual. “Thought you’d show up closer to nine or somethin’, but I guess you’re eager.”

You scoff, grateful for the opening. “As if, Harrington. I have plans later.”

“Oh yeah?” he asks, eyebrow lifting. “What kind of plans?”

You shrug, letting a smile tug at your lips. “I don’t know. Maybe a date.”

The shift is immediate.

Steve’s expression falters, the humor draining from his face as his jaw tightens. He looks away, folding his arms across his chest like he needs the barrier. For a second, the air feels heavier. He glances back toward the house, groaning under his breath when he catches Max still watching. Her eyes go wide before she darts away, laughter muffled somewhere inside.

“I was joking,” you tease. 

“Funny,” he deadpans. 

You hesitate. “Guess… rain check then?” Your teeth catch your bottom lip. “I’ll see you later?”

His brows knit together. “You don’t wanna come in?”

You blink. “I—what?”

“Max and I were about to play poker,” he says, nodding toward the door. “You could join.”

You shift your weight, suddenly unsure of where to put your hands. “Oh. It wouldn’t be… weird? I mean—with your rules and all.”

He laughs, the tension breaking as he uncrosses his arms. “Come on. You’re still my friend.” He says it easily, like it’s obvious. “Hanging out doesn’t have to mean anything.”

Your smile stays in place, even as something small pinches beneath your ribs. “Will Max mind?”

“Nah,” he says. “She’ll probably enjoy having someone else around to help give me a hard time.” He turns toward the door, already moving. “C’mon. Or do I need to teach you how to play poker too?”

You fall into step beside him. “I mean… I did know how to play pool.”

“Right,” he says, smiling.

He pauses before opening the door, then his hand settles at the small of your back, casual, light, like it belongs there. His mouth dips close to the shell of your ear, voice low and teasing.

“You just wanted an excuse for me to touch you.”

He tilts his head, mock-pouting. “I can always help hold your cards if you need me that badly.”

You smirk, catching the way his eyes flick to your lips before he opens the door, arm sweeping out to usher you inside. His free hand stays at your back, guiding you forward like he’s found every possible excuse to touch you, innocent on the surface, charged underneath.

Almost an hour later, Max’s eyes narrow over the fan of cards in her hands, sharp and assessing, darting between you and Steve like she’s watching a tennis match she’s already decided to win. She lowers the cards just enough to peer over them, her expression flattening into something unimpressed, almost bored. After a long, exaggerated sigh, she shoves a messy stack of loose change into the center of the table, coins clinking together in defiant surrender.

Steve clicks his tongue and leans back in his chair, dragging a hand down his face. “I fold,” he groans, tossing his cards down like they’ve personally offended him.

You glance at Max, who is now openly sizing you up, her gaze flicking from your face to your hands, to the pile of money. Your mouth twitches. Slowly, deliberately, you add more change to the growing heap in the middle.

Max snorts. “Full house,” she says, slapping her cards down with a grin that stretches ear to ear.

You suck your teeth, shaking your head, and turn to Steve. He’s already giving you a sympathetic look, lips pursed like he’s about to offer condolences—until you smile. Coy. Sharp. Your eyes snap back to Max as you slam your cards onto the table.

Straight flush.

Max freezes.

Then she explodes—jumping to her feet, shouting a colorful string of swears, smacking the table, the chair, the air, like the universe itself has betrayed her. You laugh, breathless, while Steve leans back even farther in his chair, hands laced behind his head, chuckling low as he lets out an impressed whistle. Your eyes betray you for half a second, catching the flex of his biceps as he stretches, the way the hem of his shirt shows a sliver of his tummy, before you look away.

Max eventually reins herself in, dragging in a deep breath through her nose. With exaggerated maturity, she extends her hand toward you. “Good game,” she says stiffly.

You take it, still laughing, and despite her dramatic meltdown, she smiles. It’s real and bright. Then her attention snaps back to Steve, her face scrunching when she realizes he’s still grinning like an idiot.

“Are you gonna feed me now?” Max asks flatly, cards stacked in a neat pile as she leans back in her chair like she already knows the answer.

Steve exhales through his nose, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling for half a second before looking at her again. “Excuse me for not being prepared for your surprise appearance.”

Max doesn’t bother responding to him. Instead, her attention swings to you, one eyebrow lifting as she takes you in again, assessing, curious. “Aren’t you hungry?” she asks, saying your name with the ease of someone who’s decided you’re familiar now, like it fits easily in her mouth.

You tilt your head, letting a grin pull at your lips. “Actually? I’m starving. It’s been torture.” Your eyes slide to Steve, expression exaggerated into a pout that’s half playful, half pointed. “Why haven’t you fed us yet? Are you trying to kill us?”

From the corner of your vision, you catch Max biting back a laugh, shoulders hitching as she ducks her chin.

Steve leans back in his chair, the wood creaking faintly beneath him. His knee bumps into yours under the table—and then stays there, pressing in, solid and warm, a quiet line of contact that sends a sharp awareness through you. His face remains unimpressed, like he hasn’t noticed a thing, like nothing at all has shifted. He sighs and looks at Max. “This was a mistake,” he says. “Letting you two gang up on me.”

You blink at him innocently, lashes fluttering, and let your hand drift in your lap—then sideways. Your fingers find his knee, slide higher, curl gently around his thigh. You squeeze once, soft but unmistakable. “I think pizza sounds good,” you say lightly, turning your smile back on Max. “Don’t you agree?”

Steve’s breath changes. You feel it before you see it—the subtle pause, the way his chest expands and settles as if he’s recalibrating. His jaw tightens, but his face stays carefully blank. Then his hand closes over yours, firm and grounding, thumb brushing across your knuckles like it’s nothing at all. He releases you a second later, pushing his chair back as he stands.

He shoots Max a look sharp enough to cut. She flips him off without even glancing up.

Muttering something under his breath, Steve stalks toward the kitchen, shoulders tight, stopping at the wall phone and jabbing at the buttons harder than necessary.

Max watches him go, amused. “Okay,” she decides. “I’ve decided you’re cool.”

You laugh, surprised despite yourself. “Thanks. I guess? You’re pretty cool too.” Your voice softens without you quite meaning it. “It’s really sweet of you to come see him.”

Max grimaces, folding her arms. Her eyes flick toward the kitchen, where Steve stands with his back turned, leaning against the wall as he talks into the phone. You follow her gaze, noticing the tension in his shoulders, the way his shirt pulls across his back when he shifts.

“He thinks he’s good at pretending,” Max says quietly. “But he gets lonely.” Her eyes return to you, sharp and knowing. “Something tells me that might not be as much of a problem as I thought.”

Heat crawls up your neck. You laugh, quick and dismissive. “No—Steve and I are only friends.”

Max hums, unconvinced. “Okay.”

Steve returns a moment later, dropping back into his chair with a huff. “It’ll be here in half an hour.”

“All or nothing?” Max grins, jerking her chin toward the poker game.

Later, pizza boxes litter the coffee table, grease-stained napkins crumpled everywhere. Max sits cross-legged on the floor, animated as she talks, hands moving wildly.

“And then one summer,” she says, grinning, “he had to wear this ugly sailor uniform for his job at the mall. We promised not to make fun of him because he snuck us kids through the back halls so we could watch R-rated movies.”

Steve lounges on the couch behind you, stretched out like he belongs there. You’re on the floor, shoulder brushing his leg, close enough to feel the warmth of him through the fabric. You’re laughing too hard to care. “I need proof,” you gasp. “An actual photo.”

“When I get home, I’ll mail you one,” Max says smugly.

“To hell you are,” Steve snaps.

You and Max exchange a look and dissolve into laughter all over again.

“Tell me more,” you say, leaning forward, eyes bright and intrigued. You have only just found out the truth about Steve and Robin, so you haven’t heard any stories like this from them. 

She taps her chin thoughtfully. “How about the time he almost burned down my best friend Jane and Will’s house—”

“The firework fell over,” Steve cuts in. “That’s not my fault.”

“Hopper almost arrested him,” Max cackles. “It popped him right in the butt.”

Steve laughs then too, helpless, head tipping back.

You glance up at him, catching the sheepish curve of his mouth, the way his eyes soften when he realizes you’re watching. There’s nothing guarded there. You smile. He smiles back.

“What time is it?” you ask.

He checks his watch. “Almost eight-thirty.”

The realization settles in slowly. You stand, brushing off your skirt, aware of his gaze following you as you do. “I should get going.”

Max frowns. “You’ll come over tomorrow, right? I’m here until Friday.”

You look to Steve, silent question hanging between you. He lifts his hands, smiling faintly. “Don’t ask me. She always gets her way.”

You laugh. “Yeah. I can come by after I finish some schoolwork.”

Max smiles, satisfied.

As you gather your things, you catch Max giving Steve a pointed look, clearing her throat meaningfully. You pause at the doorway. “See you guys tomorrow.”

Your eyes meet Steve’s. His expression gives nothing away.

You’re almost out the door when you hear footsteps behind you.

“Hey—” your name.

You turn. Steve’s shrugging on his jacket, keys already in his hand. “Let me drive you back.”

“It’s not far,” you say.

He opens the door anyway, ushering you outside, hand hovering at the small of your back as he leads you toward his car—like neither of you is quite ready to let the night end.

You slide into the passenger seat, the vinyl cool beneath your palms as Steve shuts the door and circles the car. The engine turns over with a low rumble, headlights washing over the quiet stretch of pavement ahead. For a moment, neither of you says anything. The car pulls away from the fraternity house, tires crunching softly over gravel, the world outside slipping by in a blur of streetlights and bare branches.

Then Steve lets out a soft chuckle, almost to himself.

“What?” you ask, glancing over.

He shakes his head, eyes flicking toward you for half a second before returning to the road. “Oh, nothing. Just… I think Max likes you better than me.”

“Max is a smart girl,” you say, smiling.

He barks out a laugh, sharp and genuine. “Yeah. She’s something.” But the sound fades quickly, his mouth settling into something quieter, more thoughtful, like another memory has crept in uninvited.

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth. “Will you tell me how you… and her got so close?”

His hands tighten around the steering wheel, knuckles paling. His jaw twitches once before he inhales deeply. “I was sort of buddies with her brother—well, stepbrother.”

“Was?” you prompt gently.

Steve swallows. “Yeah… well.” He exhales through his nose, eyes fixed on the road. “One night he was supposed to be watching Max, but he and I wanted to go to this party. And we ended up taking her with us.”

The car takes a turn, the streetlight briefly illuminating the tension etched into his face. “I got super drunk. I thought he was fine—really, he always held his liquor better than me. Or I would’ve never—” His voice falters, breath catching like the memory still has its hands wrapped around his throat.

“We were rushing back to his place because honestly, his dad was a bigger dick than mine. I mean, mine always says stupid shit, but he never hit me like Billy’s did.” He pauses, fingers flexing against the wheel. “Max was getting freaked out. Billy was messing around, swerving, and—god—if I’d known he was that drunk…”

His voice cracks, sharp and sudden.

“The car wrapped around a tree,” he says quietly. “I crawled out the window. It sliced me up pretty good.”

Your eyes drift to his stomach without thinking, to the place you know bears scars hidden beneath fabric and memory.

Steve pulls into the dorm parking lot and kills the engine. The sudden quiet feels heavy. He stares down at his lap for a long moment before turning to you.

“I got Max out,” he says. “But… it was too late for Billy.”

You reach for him then, your hand finding his, thumb rubbing slow circles into his skin. You don’t speak. You don’t need to.

“Max’s stepdad bounced after the funeral. Her mom’s an alcoholic,” he continues, voice low. “Max was in a coma for two weeks. Physical therapy for half a year.” His jaw tightens. “All because of two stupid fuckin’ teenagers.”

You feel the guilt radiating off him, thick and unrelenting. He looks away, but he doesn’t pull his hand from yours. Instead, he lets you keep tracing those circles, grounding him. You see the way his throat works, swallowing down something painful and unresolved.

“She lost a brother. A dad. A mom,” he says. “And all I got was a month’s grounding.” His laugh is hollow. “So I guess… I feel responsible for her.”

The words hang between you, fragile and heavy, filling the space where the engine noise used to be.

You lift your hand and cup his face, your palm warm against his cheek, thumb brushing gently along his jaw until he looks at you. His eyes are glassy, distant, like he’s still halfway inside the wreckage of that memory.

“That sounds really hard to deal with, Steve,” you say softly. “And scary.”

Something flickers across his face, relief, maybe, or the beginning of something cracking open. He nods once, shallow and quiet. “I guess… a part of me wishes she’d be angry with me.”

Your brow furrows. “Why would she be angry with you for saving her life?” You search his face, steady and sincere. “What would’ve happened if you hadn’t pulled her out? Sounds like she likes her life a whole lot now.”

He freezes, like the question lands somewhere he’s never let himself go. His brows knit together, lips parting as he exhales. “I—” He swallows. “I never thought about it like that,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper.

You smile then, small and warm, tilting your head as your hand drifts from his cheek to his chest. You feel the strength beneath your palm, the subtle flex of muscle as he breathes. Slowly, you slide your hand beneath the hem of his shirt, fingertips tracing the uneven landscape of scar tissue. He tenses at the first touch, then softens, letting you explore what he’s always tried to ignore.

“Steve,” you murmur, “you were brave.” Your fingers move gently, reverent. “And I don’t think Max could ever hate you. Even if you made mistakes, you showed up for her. That matters.” You glance toward the dorm, then back to him. “It looks like she does the same for you.”

He surprises you then.

He threads his fingers through yours, the hand you still have against his own, and lifts it slowly to his mouth. He presses a kiss to your knuckles. It’s soft, lingering, full of something that can’t quite leave the inside of his car, or even this moment.

“I’m sorry I didn’t drive you home last night,” he says. 

You look away, heat creeping up your neck. “It’s okay.”

There’s a pause. The kind that hums.

“I… I had a really nice time,” he adds, a touch of coyness slipping into his voice. “Couldn’t stop thinking about it all day.”

You lean closer without fully realizing it, your hand still beneath his shirt, skimming warm skin. A smirk curves your lips. “You wanna come in for a bit? Or do I have to wait until Saturday?”

“No, the week resets on Sundays,” he says. 

Well, that answers your one question. You keenly scratch at his tummy, feeling the hairs of his happy trail on the pads of your fingers. 

He closes his eyes, exhaling through his nose. “I really would,” he says, honest and reluctant. “But I don’t want Max alone at the house.”

You nod, understanding settling easily between you.

His gaze drops to your mouth. Yours follows suit. The space between you feels fragile, charged, breath shared and shallow.

“You know,” you whisper, inching closer, “this would be easier if we could make out.”

His body betrays him, eyes fluttering shut, hand tightening at your waist as he pulls you closer. His lips part, head tilting instinctively. Then his eyes open again, half-lidded and dark.

“I know,” he murmurs.

You move like you’re going to close the distance. He doesn’t stop you.

But instead, you smile.

You place a soft, reverent kiss just beneath his lower lip. Then another along his chin. A teasing nip at his jaw before you trail your mouth slowly toward the pulse in his throat, feeling it jump beneath your lips.

Your lips drag lower, brushing along the hollow of his collarbone, then down the fabric of his shirt each press a promise, a tease. You shift, sinking further until you can plant a slow, deliberate kiss right over his clothed cock. Beneath your mouth, you feel the sharp, unmistakable jump of him, the way he hardens with the barest touch. You smile, lips lingering, kissing him again, softer this time, letting the heat of your breath seep through denim and skin.

Steve’s breath staggers out of him. His fingers find your hair, tangled and urgent, tugging you back up until your faces are inches apart. His mouth crashes against the side of your throat, rough and hungry, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. You shiver, your hand never leaving him, your palm cupping him through his jeans, rubbing slow, greedy circles, feeling the heat and pulse of him.

He groans against your neck, his lips traveling up to your jaw, then back to your pulse, sucking gently, making you arch into him. His hands are everywhere, skimming your waist, finding the line of your back, holding you as close as could with the console between you. You squeeze him again, firmer, feeling him swell in your grip, your thumb brushing over the tip through the fabric.

Steve’s moan is desperate, high and uncontrollable, his nose pressed to yours, foreheads locked together, both of you panting in the quiet, perfervid dark. You quicken your pace, dragging your palm up and down, feeling the tension in him coil impossibly tight, and then snap. He shudders, hips bucking, coming hard in his jeans, a strangled sound escaping him as he rides it out against your hand.

The moment lingers, thick and golden, the interior of the car fogged with breath and something deeper. You start to pull away, but Steve catches your wrist, his grip gentle, thumb stroking your pulse.

There’s a glint in his eye, wicked and shining. “That didn’t count for the week,” he murmurs, voice low and spent.

It doesn’t count the next night, either, after a day spent trading laughter and secrets with Max and Steve, and even Eddie who joined later. When Steve drives you home, neither of you is ready to say goodbye. The car is parked, engine cooling, streetlights bleeding gold through the windows. You’re in his lap before you realize it, straddling him, your skirt hitched up, his hands sliding under your sweater, finding bare skin.

Your mouths never meet—his rules, always his fucking rules—but his lips roam everywhere else: your neck, your collarbone, the slope of your shoulder. He grinds up into you, gasping, hands cupping your breasts, thumbs rolling over your nipples until you’re trembling. You rock against him, friction building fast and desperate, your body singing with it. His name breaking from your lips, his arms tightening around you as you both come undone, shuddering together in the dark. The taste of him, the smell of him, lingers long after you pull yourself together and slide off his lap.

It definitely doesn’t count the next night, Wednesday, when you end up naked in the backseat, the air charged and reckless. The leather is cool against your bare back, your legs thrown straight up, ankles hooked over Steve’s shoulders. His arm hugs your legs, holding  you together, gaze burning, his cock sliding slick between your thighs, not quite inside, but close enough to make you ache. 

Your thighs are sticky and wet from where he slobbered wet kisses, and smeared his precum. His flushed cock also shiny after he made you spit on it. His leaking tip occasionally brushes your swollen clit, trying to render a melody of pleasure.

He thrusts in and out, using your body, his jaw clenched, eyes fixed on yours. Your hands grip the edge of the seat, breath coming ragged, thighs trembling. His hand perched on your waist snakes to your pussy, thumb pressing, rubbing frantic circles on your sensitive spot. You whimper when he takes his hand away, hugging your legs as his hips slap against the back of your thighs in loud smacks. 

“Steve,” you whine. You feel the edge of your orgasm, that tight coil winding up but stuck at its edge. 

Steve actually rolls his eyes at you. “You don’t need me to touch you to come,” he says almost matter of factly. 

“B-but,” you start to feel irritated. Your body betrays your annoyance, back arching when you feel his cock touch your cunt, ghosting over the sensitive skin. You feel his balls slap against the back of your thighs as he picks up his fervent pace, it vibrates your skin. Finally, the feeling in your stomach snaps, you writhe in his grasp. 

“Fuck!” you cry, feeling yourself leak, dripping against your walls.  

Steve groans your name, voice breaking. When he finally comes, it’s over your breasts, hot and startling, the moment suspended between pleasure and relief. He collapses, spent, his head bowed, hands still tangled around your legs as you both laugh, breathless and wild.

The rules remain unbroken, technicalities stretched thin. 

Thanksgiving arrives softened around the edges, the day washed in a pale afternoon light that makes everything feel suspended, like the campus itself is holding its breath. You show up with cold air still clinging to your coat and a glass pan heavy in your hands, brownies warm beneath the foil, the scent of chocolate trailing after you as Max swings the door open. She grins like she’s been waiting all morning, tugging you inside with an easy familiarity, already talking as she leads you through the house, the sound of clattering dishes and low music drifting in from the kitchen.

Eddie is there first, perched against the counter like a proud overseer, wearing a ridiculous Kiss the Chef apron that looks older than the house itself. Steve stands at the stove, back half-turned, sleeves pushed up, cream knit sweater clinging to his shoulders in a way that makes your fingers itch. His hair has gone soft and unruly, curls falling wherever they please, and when he glances up and catches you watching, his mouth curves into something smug and quiet. His eyes travel over you, slow enough to make heat bloom under your skin, before he turns back to the pan like nothing happened at all.

Eddie slides a glass dish into the oven with exaggerated care, wiping his hands together afterward as if he’s completed a great work of art. “Steve-o,” he announces, clapping Steve on the back, “this’ll probably be the best Thanksgiving meal I’ve ever had. And that’s saying something, ‘cause Uncle Wayne’s sloppy joes are from heaven.”

You step forward and set your brownies on the counter, the clink of glass grounding you. Your gaze drifts back to Steve, curiosity tugging at your mouth. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

He shrugs without turning, shoulders lifting like it’s nothing worth mentioning. “It’s only chicken parm,” he says. “I’d probably burn the house down trying to make anything else.”

Max bounces onto her toes, already restless. “Come on, can we start the Vikings and Cowboys game now? I have a bet with Lucas that Minnesota’s gonna win, and we’re supposed to talk on the phone later about it.”

Steve frowns, glancing over his shoulder. “You’re seeing him tomorrow.”

Eddie pats him again, laughing. “Aw, Stevie. Maybe you’ll understand one day when you have a fair maiden.” His eyes flick to you, quick and mischievous, followed by a wink.

Steve brushes him off with a scoff, rolling his eyes as he turns back to the stove. He pushes his sleeves higher, forearms flexing as he reaches for the sauce. “You guys go start it. I’ve gotta finish this.”

Max and Eddie don’t hesitate, their footsteps already pounding down the hall as the television crackles to life in the other room, the low roar of a crowd bleeding through the walls. You linger, watching Steve move around the kitchen with an ease you didn’t expect, the domestic quiet of it settling something warm in your chest.

“Do you need any help?” you ask, softer now.

He looks up, meeting your eyes, and smiles. “Nah. You’re my guest,” he says. “Go sit down. Relax.”

And for a moment, standing there with the house filling up with sound and warmth, it feels like you belong in this small, borrowed pocket of his life.

By the time the game barrels into its second quarter, the house smells like garlic and roasted tomato and something warm and savory that settles into the walls. Steve and Eddie haul out the old beer pong table from its usual resting place in the corner of the common room.

 It’s the same one you remember from parties, its surface scarred with rings from cans and darkened stains that have long since given up trying to be cleaned. The legs wobble when they unfold it, the whole thing groaning in protest, but Steve smooths a white tablecloth over the top, tugging the fabric tight until it hides the battlefield underneath, transforming it into something almost respectable.

You slip into the kitchen while they argue about a questionable call on the field, stacking plates from the cabinet, gathering mismatched forks and knives, folding napkins with more care than necessary. The small domestic ritual feels strangely grounding, like arranging pieces of a scene you didn’t know you wanted to belong to. 

When you carry everything back, the table looks unexpectedly inviting. A caesar salad bright with flecks of parmesan and crisp romaine, garlic bread glistening with butter that melts into the crust, and the chicken parm sitting in its dish, bubbling faintly, the scent of oregano and melted mozzarella curling into the air. Steam drifts upward in pale ribbons, fogging your vision for a second as you set everything down.

They gather around without ceremony, chairs scraping against the floor, Eddie reaching first like he’s afraid the food might vanish if he hesitates. Steve uncorks a bottle of cheap red wine, pouring a splash into mismatched cups, sliding one toward you and Eddie before reluctantly tipping a little into Max’s glass. She grins like she’s won the lottery before he swaps it out moments later for a Coke, earning a dramatic groan.

You stare down at your plate, appetite blooming sharp and immediate, when Steve leans closer, the movement subtle enough that Eddie and Max, already sucked back into the gravity of the game, don’t notice. His shoulder brushes yours, voice dropping low.

“Need me to cut it up for you?”

The words slide over you, syrup-thick, warm enough to pool low in your stomach. You turn toward him, peering through your lashes, unsure whether he’s teasing or something else entirely.

“Why?” you murmur. “You gonna feed it to me too?”

His mouth tilts, crooked and knowing. “If that’s something you’re into.” 

His gaze dips toward your lips, brief and hungry, before Max suddenly shouts, “Bullshit!” at the television, jerking both of you back into the room like a snapped thread.

You duck your head, unable to stop the smile tugging at your mouth, and the conversation shifts and folds around you as naturally as breath. Between plays, Eddie launches into tangents about bands you’ve never heard of, Max argues stats with the television like the players can hear her, and Steve drifts easily between them, pulling you in whenever you hesitate, explaining references, filling gaps without making it feel like charity. The rhythm of it surprises you. The way they make space without pointing it out, the way laughter arrives without effort.

You catch yourself watching Steve while he talks about the fraternity election, describing it with exaggerated annoyance and reluctant pride, recounting how the vote had tipped so heavily in his favor that the former president snapped the ceremonial gavel in half out of spite. His hands move while he speaks, eyes bright, curls falling into his face as he laughs at his own story, and you realize with a quiet sort of clarity that whatever strange, electric familiarity has grown between you this week might not survive the return of crowded lecture halls and packed schedules. The thought doesn’t sting the way you expect. It settles somewhere calmer. You’re surprised by how content you feel with what exists now, with the easy shape of friendship settling around the sharp edges.

When the plates empty and attention drifts back toward the game, you slip away to grab the brownies cooling in the kitchen. You barely notice Steve following until the air behind you shifts and his hand settles against your hip, fingers curving along the side of you, hovering dangerously close to the swell of your backside. The contact feels casual to anyone walking in, yet it sends a quiet spark threading through your spine.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. Why?”

“I dunno.” His thumb presses lightly, a small squeeze before he reaches past you for a stack of dessert plates. “You seemed quiet.”

You huff a laugh, sliding the foil back from the brownies. “I was thinking how surprised I was you know how to cook chicken all the way through.”

He shoots you a flat, unimpressed look that lasts half a second before it breaks into a smile, crooked and smug. “Suppose I like being thorough with my work,” he says, the suggestion curling through the words.

You bump your hip into his, nudging him sideways, but the laughter fades into something softer before you can stop it. “I guess… another thing is I didn’t realize I didn’t have any friends last year until I met Robin.” You pause, fingers resting against the edge of the pan. “And I think I really like being your guys’ friend.”

Steve’s expression shifts, something warm settling into his eyes, quieter than his usual charm.

“We like being your friend too.”

By the time the game bleeds into post-game commentary and the commentators begin dissecting plays with the slow, droning certainty of men who have nothing left to say but refuse to stop talking, Max has already disappeared upstairs, into Steve’s bedroom so she can talk to Lucas without Eddie loudly offering terrible relationship advice in the background. You can practically hear her gloating, telling her boyfriend to pay-up because the Vikings beat the Cowboys. 

The house settles into a softer quiet, the kind that follows a full meal and too many hours spent sprawled in the same room. Outside, the light drains from the windows, dusk sliding into evening in slow gradients of violet and deepening blue.

Your stomach is warm and pleasantly heavy, your limbs loose from the wine and the steady hum of comfort that has wrapped itself around the afternoon. At some point, while Eddie rambled about his band and Steve argued about whether the Cowboys’ defense had been overrated all season, your eyelids had grown too heavy to fight. The television had blurred into streaks of color and motion, voices melting into background noise, and you must have drifted off without noticing.

When you blink awake, the room is dimmer, the television volume lowered, the edges of the world softened by sleep. A blanket rests over you, tucked loosely around your shoulders, and your cheek is pressed into something warm and solid. It takes a second for your brain to catch up, for awareness to bloom, and then you realize you’re leaning against Steve, your temple nestled into the curve of his shoulder, his arm angled carefully behind you like he’d been holding himself still for longer than was comfortable.

He’s mid-conversation with Eddie, voice low, movements measured, as if any sudden shift might wake you. You push yourself upright slowly, the blanket slipping down into your lap. Steve glances at you immediately, smile blooming soft and reflexive, though he keeps talking, finishing whatever point he’s making about Eddie’s inability to follow basic cooking instructions.

You rub your eyes, blinking away the last threads of sleep, and when a lull falls between their conversation, you stretch your arms above your head, a yawn catching you off guard.

“Hey, Eds,” you mumble, voice thick with lingering drowsiness. “Can you drive me back to my dorm?”

Eddie’s head snaps toward you, grin spreading across his face like Christmas arrived early, relief shining in his eyes at the thought of his van finally being granted passenger approval. You’re so exhausted the usual reluctance doesn’t even surface; the idea of getting home as quickly as possible outweighs everything else.

You turn toward Steve, ready to say goodbye, but the words stall when you notice the shift in him. His jaw tightens, a small muscle jumping near his temple, eyes cutting toward Eddie with a heat that flares and disappears in the same breath. When he speaks, his voice comes out through clenched teeth before smoothing into something casual.

“Actually,” he says, then flashes a tight smile, “Eddie said since I cooked, he’ll clean up. So I’ll drive you back.”

He’s already standing, movement decisive enough that any argument feels pointless before it can form. Eddie leans back in his chair, expression bright and deeply entertained, flashing a grin that shows too many teeth.

“Yeah,” Eddie drawls, dragging the word out with theatrical satisfaction. “You take your mistress home while your wife stays and cleans up after you.”

Heat crawls up your neck so fast it feels like it might leave fingerprints. Steve doesn’t flinch. If anything, his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smirk before he turns back to you, expression settling into something calmer, steadier.

“You should probably go say bye to Max,” he says. “I’m taking her to the bus station in the morning. So you probably won’t see her again and she’ll be pissed if you don’t.”

You nod, gathering the blanket and folding it loosely before leaving it draped over the back of the couch, heading toward the stairs. Halfway up, you hear a dull thump followed by Eddie yelping, “Ow, what the hell, man?” and you bite back a smile, climbing the rest of the way with lighter steps.

Max is sprawled across Steve’s bed when you poke your head inside, phone cord stretched precariously across the room, her voice animated as she recounts something that makes Lucas laugh loudly enough for you to hear through the receiver. She spots you instantly, covering the mouthpiece with her palm.

“Hey,” she says, bright and warm. “You leaving?”

“Yeah,” you whisper back, leaning against the doorframe. “See you soon.”

She beams, nodding emphatically. “You better. Call me anytime you need backup.”

You laugh softly. “Deal.”

She waves, already pulling the phone back to her ear, and you slip out, closing the door quietly behind you.

When you descend the stairs, Steve is waiting near the front door, jacket pulled on, keys hooked loosely around his finger. In his other hand, he holds the empty brownie pan, washed clean, the metal catching the soft glow from the hallway light. He lifts it slightly when he sees you, offering it back like an afterthought, but there’s something in his expression—something amused, something knowing—that makes warmth curl low in your chest.

You take the pan from him, fingers brushing, and a slow, wicked smile spreads across your face, the last fog of sleep evaporating entirely as you meet his gaze.

The back of Steve's BMW is cramped and dark, the windows already fogged from your breath, from the heat building between your bodies. You're both naked, clothes discarded in careless piles on the front seats, and the leather is cool against your back until Steve's hands slide up your thighs, spreading you open. His palms are warm, slightly rough, and they leave trails of heat everywhere they touch.

"Look at you babygirl," he murmurs, voice low and rough, eyes dark as they drag over you. "So fucking pretty like this."

Your breath catches, skin prickling under his gaze. The air in the car is thick, humid, smelling faintly of his cologne mixed with sweat and sex. "Steve—"

"Shh." He presses your thighs wider, settling between them, and the smirk on his face is wicked. His breath ghosts over your inner thigh, making you shiver. He presses his lips there, soft at first, then harder, teeth scraping. "I want to taste you first."

He doesn't wait for permission. His mouth is on you before you can respond, tongue sliding through your folds in one long, deliberate stroke that makes your back arch off the seat. The wet sound is gross, slick and hungry. Your hand flies to his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands, and he groans against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. 

"Fuck," you gasp, hips rolling up to meet his mouth. The leather squeaks beneath you.

Steve's hands grip your thighs, holding you in place as he works you over with his tongue—slow at first, teasing, circling your clit without quite touching it. It's maddening. His lips trail up to your hip bone, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses there before returning to where you need him most. Your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging, and he laughs, the sound dark and pleased, breath hot against your sensitive skin.

"Impatient," he murmurs against you, lips brushing your pussy as he speaks.

"You're being an asshole," you manage, voice shaky, thighs trembling under his grip.

"Yeah?" He flicks his tongue over your clit, quick and light, and you jolt, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat. "You want me to stop?"

"Don't you fucking dare."

His grin is sharp, dangerous. "That's what I thought."

Then his mouth is on you properly, tongue pressing flat against your clit, and the pleasure hits you so hard your vision blurs. He's relentless, alternating between broad strokes and tight circles, sucking gently before soothing with his tongue. 

The wet sounds fill the car—slick, salacious, the sound of his mouth working you over. He moans against you, the sound vibrating through your core, and your hips buck involuntarily. Your thighs tremble against his shoulders, and he holds you tighter, keeping you exactly where he wants you. His fingers dig into your flesh, possessive, claiming.

"God, you taste so good," he mutters, pulling back just enough to speak, his chin glistening. He kisses the inside of your thigh, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. "Could do this all fucking night."

Your hand slides down, fumbling between your bodies until you find him. He’s hard and heavy in your palm, already leaking. Steve groans into you when you wrap your fingers around his cock, stroking slowly, feeling the way he twitches against your hand, hot and thick. Your palm slides over him with a slick sound, his precum making the glide easier.

"Jesus," he breathes, pulling back just enough to speak. His lips are wet, drenched, swollen. "You trying to make me lose it already?"

"Maybe," you say, breathless, squeezing him a little tighter. Your thumb swipes over the head, spreading the wetness there, and his hips jerk forward.

He bites the inside of your thigh in retaliation, not hard enough to hurt but enough to make you gasp, teeth scraping sensitive skin. The sting blooms into heat. He soothes it with his tongue, licking over the mark he just made. "Careful," he warns, voice rough, and then his mouth is back on you, tongue sliding inside you while his thumb finds your clit. The dual sensation makes you cry out, hips bucking up, and your hand on his cock falters, grip loosening as pleasure floods through you.

He fucks you with his tongue, slow and deep, curling it inside you while his thumb circles your clit in tight, precise movements. You can hear how wet you are, the squelching sounds filling the car, mixing with your ragged breathing and his low groans.

"That's it," Steve murmurs, voice muffled and rough. "Let me hear you. Want everyone in this fucking parking lot to know what I'm doing to you."

You're close, so close, thighs shaking, hand still working him in clumsy strokes. Your palm slides over him, feeling every ridge, every vein, and he's so hard it must hurt. He curls his tongue inside you, thumb pressing harder against your clit, and the tension coils tighter, tighter—your toes curl, your free hand gripping the edge of the seat so hard your knuckles go white.

"Steve, I'm—"

"I know," he says, and he sounds smug about it. He pulls his tongue out, replacing it with two fingers, thrusting deep while his mouth closes around your clit. The wet sounds are filthy, his fingers sliding in and out of you with a slick rhythm. "Come on, honey. Give it to me."

The orgasm crashes over you, sharp and overwhelming, and you cry out, fingers tangling in his hair as your whole body tenses. Your walls clench around his fingers, pulsing, and he works you through it, tongue gentle now, coaxing every last tremor from you until you're gasping, oversensitive, pushing weakly at his shoulders. Your skin is flushed, damp with sweat, and you can feel your heartbeat everywhere—in your throat, your chest, between your legs.

He pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and the look on his face is pure satisfaction. His lips are red, swollen, and his eyes are dark with want. He leans up, pressing hot kisses along your stomach, your ribs, the valley between your breasts. His mouth is everywhere except where you suddenly, desperately want it. 

"Good?" He’s not actually asking, his tone cocky and sure. 

"Shut up," you breathe, still shaking, chest heaving.

He laughs against your collarbone, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there before he sucks hard enough to mark. You gasp, arching into him. He reaches for his jeans crumpled on the floor, fishing out a condom from his pocket. 

A shy look flashes his eyes, like he’s had it in there the whole day, waiting for this exact moment. 

You watch, chest heaving, as he tears it open with his teeth and rolls it on, and the sight of his hands on himself makes heat pool low in your belly all over again. He's still hard, flushed and thick, and your mouth waters.

"Turn around," he says, voice rough, commanding. His hand wraps around himself, stroking once, twice, and you watch his jaw tighten.

You hesitate, just for a second, just to see what he'll do. Your pulse thrums in your ears.

His eyes narrow, mouth curving into a smirk. "Don't make me ask twice."

Something in his tone sends a thrill through you, heat licking up your spine. You turn, shifting onto your hands and knees in the cramped space, and the leather shifts beneath you, sticking slightly to your damp skin. Steve's hand slides up your spine, slow and possessive, fingers tracing each vertebra before gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. His lips follow the path his hand just took, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your spine, teeth scraping occasionally.

"Fuck, look at you," he mutters, almost to himself. His other hand palms your ass, squeezing. He leans down, kissing the small of your back, then biting gently at the curve of your hip. "So perfect."

You glance back over your shoulder, catching his eye, hair falling across your face. "You going to do something about it, or just stare?"

His jaw tightens, and then he's moving, positioning himself behind you. You feel the head of his cock pressing against you, blunt and hot even through the condom, and then he's pushing in, slow and steady, stretching you open inch by inch. The angle is different like this, deeper, and you feel every inch of him. The sound is lewd. It’s wet and slick as he sinks into you.

The sound you make is broken, desperate, and Steve groans, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave marks. "God, you feel so good," he breathes, sinking deeper. His voice is strained, tight with control. "So fucking perfect for me."

You push back against him, taking him all the way, and he curses, hips snapping forward. The angle is perfect, hitting something deep inside you that makes your arms shake, makes stars burst behind your eyelids.

You gasp, voice breaking, "Steve, please—"

He doesn't need to be told twice. He pulls back and thrusts in hard, setting a rhythm that's rough and relentless, the sound of skin against skin obscenely loud in the confined space. The slap of his hips against your ass echoes in the car, punctuated by the wet sounds of him fucking into you. 

The car rocks with each thrust, suspension creaking. His hand slides up your back, wrapping around to your chest, palm cupping your breast, squeezing, thumb brushing over your nipple until it's hard and aching. He leans forward, pressing his lips to your shoulder blade, kissing and biting as he moves.

"This what you wanted?" he asks, voice low and rough in your ear, breath hot against your neck. He kisses just below your ear, teeth scraping. "Wanted me to fuck you like this?"

"Yes," you gasp, barely able to form words. Your arms are shaking, struggling to hold yourself up. "Yes, fuck—"

His thumb brushes over your nipple, circling, pinching lightly, and you moan, pushing back to meet his thrusts. The sound of your bodies colliding fills the car—skin slapping against skin, wet and rhythmic. The car rocks with the force of it, windows completely fogged now, the air thick and humid, smelling like your heat and his. You can feel perspiration sliding down your spine, between your breasts.

Steve's arm tightens around you, holding you against his chest, and his other hand slides up, fingers trailing over your collarbone, your throat. He kisses your neck, hot and open-mouthed, sucking hard. He pauses there, palm resting gently against the column of your neck, and you feel your pulse hammering against his hand, wild and erratic.

"This okay?" he murmurs, breath hot against your ear. His hips don't stop moving, a steady, punishing rhythm, the slap of skin on skin relentless.

"Yes," you breathe, and you mean it. Your voice comes out thin, needy.

His fingers tighten, just slightly, just enough to make your head spin, and the pressure sends a jolt of pleasure straight through you. He's still moving, hips driving into you, and the combination of his hand on your throat and his cock inside you is overwhelming. The slick slide of him inside you, the slap of his hips against your ass. You can feel him everywhere, surrounding you, filling you, consuming you. His mouth finds your shoulder again, biting down gently before soothing it with his tongue.

"Fuck, you're so hot like this," Steve groans, and there's something raw in his voice now, control slipping. His rhythm falters for just a second. "Taking me so well. Look so fucking good on your knees for me."

You try to respond, but all that comes out is a broken moan. His hand loosens on your throat, sliding up to cup your jaw, fingers pressing into your cheeks, and then his thumb is pressing against your lower lip, tracing the shape of your mouth. He kisses the side of your neck, just below your jaw.

"Open," he says, voice rough, commanding, and you can hear the strain in it, the way he's barely holding on.

You do, parting your lips, and he slides his thumb into your mouth. The taste of his skin, slightly salty, floods your senses, and you close your lips around it, sucking gently. Your tongue swirls around the digit, and you hear him curse under his breath.

Steve makes a sound that's almost a growl, hips stuttering, thrusts becoming erratic. The slap of skin against skin grows louder, more frantic. "Jesus," he moans your name. 

You hollow your cheeks, tongue swirling around his thumb, sucking harder, and his grip on you tightens, thrusts becoming harder, more frantic. He pulls his thumb out just to push it back in, fucking your mouth with it in rhythm with his hips. The wet sounds are everywhere now, his cock sliding in and out of you, slick and depraved, your mouth on his thumb. 

The angle shifts slightly, and suddenly he's hitting that perfect spot inside you with every stroke, and you're climbing again, pleasure building sharp and fast. Your whole body is trembling, skin flushed and hypersensitive. He bites your shoulder, teeth sinking in just enough to make you gasp around his thumb.

"That's it," Steve breathes, thumb pressing down on your tongue. "Fuck, you're close again, aren't you? I can feel it. Feel you getting tighter around me."

You moan around his thumb, nodding as much as you can, and his hand drops from your mouth to between your legs, fingers finding your clit. They're slick with your saliva, and the touch is almost too much, oversensitive and perfect, and you cry out, body tensing. 

He circles your clit with quick, precise movements, and you can feel yourself clenching around him, your body coiling tighter and tighter. The wet sounds intensify, squelching as he shamelessly fucks into you harder.

"Come on," he urges, voice strained, breaking. He kisses the back of your neck, teeth scraping. "Come for me again. Want to feel you, honey."

His fingers circle your clit, quick, and the orgasm slams into you without warning. You come hard, clenching around him, vision whiting out, and Steve curses, hips snapping forward one last time before he follows, groaning your name into your shoulder. 

His mouth is hot against your skin, biting down as he comes. His whole body goes rigid, shuddering against you, and you feel him pulsing inside you, the condom the only barrier between you. The sounds are wet and desperate, skin slapping one final time before you both still. Steve’s hand lightly smacks your ass, then smoothing the skin. 

For a moment, there's nothing but the sound of your breathing, harsh and uneven, bodies still pressed together. Steve's forehead rests against your back, and you can feel his heart racing, matching yours. His breath comes in hot puffs against your damp skin. He presses a soft kiss between your shoulder blades, then another at the nape of your neck. The car smells like desire, the windows completely opaque with condensation.

Slowly, carefully, he pulls out, and you both collapse onto the seat, limbs tangled, skin slick with sweat. Your muscles feel like jelly, boneless and spent. The windows are completely fogged, the car still rocking slightly on its suspension. You can see the imprint of your hand on the window where you braced yourself.

"Holy shit," you breathe, staring up at the ceiling, watching a bead of condensation slide down the window.

Steve laughs, breathless and satisfied, running a hand through his hair. It's completely disheveled, sticking up in every direction. "Yeah. Holy shit."

You turn your head to look at him, and he's already watching you, eyes soft despite the smirk still playing at his lips. His chest is still heaving, skin flushed and damp. For a second, you think about leaning in, about breaking the rule, about finally knowing what his mouth tastes like. But you don't. Neither does he. The tension hangs between you, thick and charged, and somehow that makes it even hotter.

Instead, he reaches out, fingers catching a loose strand of your hair and guiding it away from your face, the gesture featherlight now, strikingly tender compared to the urgency that had lived in his hands not long ago. The shift in him feels like stepping out of a storm and into quiet snowfall—soft, careful, almost reverent. He leans forward, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple, then your cheekbone, tracing the line of your jaw with slow, thoughtful intent, mapping everywhere except the place your breath hitches for.

The windows of the car are fogged from warmth and breath, the outside world reduced to blurred halos of parking lot lights and the faint silhouette of your dorm building looming only a few yards away. The air smells like his cologne, like leather seats warmed by body heat, like the fading electricity of something shared and spent.

"You good?" he asks, voice quieter, smoother, the roughness sanded down into something low and intimate that vibrates through the small space between you.

"Yeah," you say, and you mean it. Your voice sounds worn thin, stretched through something bright and consuming. "Really good."

His smirk unfurls into something gentler, less practiced, warmth settling into the corners of his mouth as he studies your face like he’s cataloging it for later. "Good. Me too.”

Your stomach tightens at the admission, heat stirring again despite the heaviness pooling in your limbs, the languid pull of exhaustion anchoring you against him. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah." He shifts slightly, and the confined space forces his knee against yours as he carefully lifts your arm from around his shoulders, guiding it back toward your side. The contact breaks with a quiet finality that settles between you. No cuddling. 

You follow his lead, pushing yourself upright as much as the limited space allows, the leather creaking beneath the movement. Steve braces a hand against the back of the front seat, reaching down to gather his clothes from the floorboard, pulling his underwear on with absent familiarity before stepping into his jeans, balancing awkwardly for a second as he tugs them up his hips. The soft rasp of denim and the muted click of his zipper seem louder in the enclosed car, punctuated by the distant hum of wind moving through the nearly empty lot.

You gather your own clothes slowly, savoring the warmth still lingering in your skin as you dress piece by piece. When you lean forward to retrieve your underwear tangled near his jacket, you pause, turning toward him as he fastens his belt beneath the dim glow of the overhead dome light he flicked on minutes ago.

"You know you still have my underwear?"

Steve stills for half a second before releasing a soft laugh that rumbles low in his chest, the sound filling the tight space between you. "Yeah, I do don’t I?"

You tilt your head, watching him through lashes that still feel heavy with sleep and satisfaction, your shoulder brushing the cool window behind you. "You know, I can come get them tomorrow evening once Max is gone."

He swallows, fingers finishing the buckle with a small, precise tug. His shoulders shift, tension threading through his posture before he glances back at you, an apologetic crease forming between his brows as his hand scrubs once over the back of his neck.

"Uh… I have plans tomorrow."

"Oh yeah… that’s okay."

You pull your shirt over your head, smoothing the fabric down as you catch him reaching for his own. He drags a hand through his hair, disrupting it into that effortless disarray that always seems accidental and never is. When he looks back at you, his smile settles into something easy again, familiar, like muscle memory.

"You can always grab them next week."

You nod, the meaning settling easily into place. A gentle redirection. A boundary. A rhythm he keeps steady and predictable. If you saw him again this weekend, it wouldn’t be like this. The understanding doesn’t sting. Not really. You tuck it away, neat and manageable.

"Okay, sounds good."

Steve grins, leaning forward in the narrow space to press a quick, noisy kiss against your jaw, playful enough to soften the edges of the conversation. Then he shifts toward the passenger door, pushing it open and stepping out into the cold night air. You think he’s going to hold out his hand and help you out, the dome light flickering briefly before dimming when the door shuts behind him.

For a moment, you remain in the backseat, the leather still warm beneath you, the fog on the windows slowly fading as cooler air seeps in through the slight crack he left behind.

When you slide out a second later, clutching the empty brownie pan against your hip, you find him leaning against the hood of his car, cigarette balanced between his fingers, the ember glowing sharp against the dark. Smoke curls upward in thin ribbons, dissolving into the crisp night air. The parking lot lights fracture across him in pale gold, catching the angles of his face and leaving the rest in shadow.

You shut the door quietly, adjusting your coat around you as the chill brushes against your still-warm skin. For a moment, you consider asking him to linger, to stretch the fragile warmth of the night a little longer. Maybe walk you to the entrance, maybe stand beneath the yellow dorm lights and talk about nothing at all while the quiet settles around you. Maybe ask to come up for another few minutes of pure sinful ecstasy. 

But he looks far away, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the rows of parked cars, expression shuttered in a way that feels practiced, like slipping into something familiar and protective.

"Goodnight, Steve," you say.

He turns slightly at the sound of your voice. For a split second, something unreadable flickers across his face before it smooths into neutrality, the easy openness from earlier sealed neatly away.

"Yeah, later," he says.

The words land flat, casual, almost indifferent, like a door clicking quietly into place.

The walk back to your dorm feels longer than it should, your breath fogging faintly in the cold as the building rises up ahead of you, all concrete lines and glowing windows stacked like quiet sentinels. Your body carries a slow, pleasant ache—muscles sore in a way that speaks of fullness rather than exhaustion, of warmth and food and laughter, of moments that keep drifting back whether you invite them to or not. When you push through the front doors, the lobby greets you with stillness, emptied out for the holiday, smelling faintly of disinfectant and old carpet and something nostalgic you can’t quite place.

You start toward the stairs without thinking—then stop.

The payphone sits against the wall at the end of the hallway on your floor, metal dull under fluorescent lights, cord coiled neatly as if it’s been waiting its turn. It looks out of place among the corkboards and scuffed linoleum, like a relic that somehow knows exactly when to make itself known. You hesitate, then reach into your pocket, the coins cold against your palm as you feed them in. The receiver is heavier than you expect when you lift it, solid and grounding.

You dial Robin’s number from memory, leaning your shoulder into the wall as the line rings, eyes tracing the edges of a flyer peeling loose from the bulletin board across from you. One ring. Then another.

“Hello?”

When her voice finally breaks through the static—bright, familiar, unmistakably hers—something inside you loosens. The sound of it steadies you in a way you hadn’t realized you needed. You close your eyes, letting your head rest back against the wall, the hum of the building settling around you.

“Robin! Hey.” Your smile comes easy now, settling into your cheeks fondly.

She repeats your name in the exact same sing-song tone, stretched out and delighted, like she’s been waiting for you to call.

The hallway is quiet. The dorm sleeps. The night feels held in place.

You stand there with the receiver warm against your ear, coat slipping off one shoulder, the ache in your body easing into something softer, something content. Whatever the day held, awkward moments, laughter, lingering glances, it all seems to fold neatly into the present, into this narrow hallway and the comfort of a voice that knows you.

[trizharrington]

all in - best friend!steve harrington

pairing: best friend!steve harrington x fem!reader

request: "bsf!reader being the first girl to take steve all the way in? without any problems at all and steve just losing his mind since no one managed to take all of him before like omgg".

warnings: smut with no plot, big dick!steve, belly bulge, p in v, no protection.

note: MY FIRST REQUEST, TYSM. i had lost this one, i had to use a screenshot, so i hope it reaches whoever sent it !!!! love this one omg. english is not my first language, so if you find something that doesn't really seem grammatically correct, that's why Imao. also, requests are still open !! enjoy :)

don't repost or translate my work.

steve’s lips capture yours in a slow kiss, tongue slipping into your mouth, tasting you. both of your clothes are forgotten on the floor, he’s on top of you, out of breath.

you can feel the tip of steve’s hardness rubbing on your wet folds.

steve is big… definitely way too big. you’ve heard it before, robin mentioned it once or twice, dustin “joked” about it before, even carol perkins told you that one of her girl friends that banged steve couldn’t take all of him.

as steve’s best friend you never really gave it a thought (okay maybe once or twice but who’s counting?), until now.

for the past week, you and steve have been messing around but it never got to this point. the no-clothes-on point.

you know it’s wrong, as his best friend, to feel and do something like this after so many years of having the perfect friendship but can you really blame yourself? it’s steve, he’s charming, he’s irresistible in some way…

so, obviously, after 6 days of ‘it’s just making out, there’s no harm’ steve got carried away and here you are. naked in his bed, completely undone under him.

“fuck, baby.” steve panted. “you’re so fuckin’ wet, it’s driving me insane.”

“i need you, steve.” you whine as steve’s tip slowly enters your cunt, stretching you open.

you spread your legs a bit more, allowing him to get deeper. steve hesitates.

“what is it, steve?” you almost moan the words out, worried he was regretting it already but still breathless.

“babe- shit, i don’t want to hurt you. really- i could just eat you out or-”

before steve can even finish his sentence, you grab the side of his hips and pull him towards you, his cock going deeper inside. only halfway tho.

his size catches you off guard but you can never get enough of steve. your sudden action makes steve gasp and bite his lower lip.

“fuck! jesus, baby don’t do that without warning me first- shit, you feel so tight around me.” steve groans at the feeling of your walls clamping around him.

“ah- gosh, you’re so big, steve.” you moan out, grabbing onto his bicep.

“baby, i can pull out, it might not even fit all the way and-”

“steve.” you stop him in his tracks. “just- shut up and fuck me.”

panting heavily, he started to move, pulling out slowly before thrusting back in. almost immediately, steve was completely inside you. his balls resting on your ass.

it hurts, but it’s the good kind of pain. like steve belongs inside your pussy.

he looks like he’s in a different dimension. eyes closed, one hand on your ass and the other on your cheek, kinda making sure you’re real. grounding you.

“you feel incredible.” he whispers, close to your mouth. “so perfect, like you were made for me.”

“oh, steve! steve!” you gasp, back arching, somehow making his cock hit a certain spot inside you, making you moan louder.

“you’re making me lose my shit over here, sweetheart- ah!” he panted, his hips rolling in a hypnotic rhythm. “how the hell are you taking me balls deep inside you right now?”

one hand slid up your side to cup your breast, kneading the soft flesh and rolling your nipple between his fingers.

“stevie, please move. faster, baby. please.” you plead, nails scratching steve’s back.

a low growl escaped steve’s throat at your breathless plea, his hips snapping forward much faster. “love hearing you beg, angel. you feel so good on my cock.” he panted, picking up the pace of his thrusts.

the new rhythm was intense, each stroke aimed to hit that special spot deep inside you.

steve’s eyes lowered and widened as he noticed the bulge of his cock stretching your tummy, the visual evidence of just how deep he was buried inside you.

“look at that, angel.” he calls you. “taking me so fucking deep like no one’s ever done. you’re making me crazy.”

the wet, obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mixing with your loud moans.

“oh, fuuuuck yeesss, steve!” you almost yell, nails digging into his skin.

his hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise as he sets a punishing pace. “fuck, i’m gonna cum, baby. where do you want it?”

“inside. ah steve!” your moan comes out sharper than before when his fingers come in contact with your clit, rubbing tight circles.

“you sure?”

“fuck fuck fuck! yes, i’m on the pill, stevie.” your body starts shaking underneath his.

his balls slap against your ass with each powerful thrust. you start feeling numb, it was so much but you didn’t want to stop. your legs now wrap around his waist, pulling him even deeper.

with a last thrust, steve barely manages to say something that was half your name and half a moan and bucks his hips hard, sending you over to edge along with him.

“jesus christ, baby. fuck- gosh.” steve pants, his hands are everywhere, sweat dripping down his face into your chest.

steve grabs both sides of your hips, lifting them up carefully so he can bring you closer, deeper, and grind his hips into yours, driving both of your orgasms to last longer. fucking his cum back into you.

your back arched more beneath him, your nails digging into his shoulders as you threw your head back and screamed steve’s name. your orgasm crashed over you, your pussy clamping down on his big cock.

for a long moment, he stays like that, deep into you as he rode out the aftershocks of your orgasms. his forehead rested against yours, breaths mixing.

moments later, steve’s lying on his back beside you, one arm tucked behind his head, the other behind your head. his chest rises and falls a little too fast.

you’re staring at the ceiling, body slightly shaking, your core aching. the absence of his cock making you feel empty.

steve is staring at you.

“…hey.” he finally says.

you hum softly, still catching your breath.

he shifts onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow so he can look at you properly. his hair’s a mess, curls flattened on one side.

“you okay? anything hurting too much?” he asks, gentle.

you nod. “i’m good, just sore. are you okay?”

he lets out a breathy laugh.

“yeah…” he says. then quieter. “yeah, i’m just- jesus…” he mutters.

you turn your head toward him. “what?”

he shakes his head, another breathless laugh leaving him as he drags a hand through his ruined hair.

“i don’t-“ he stops, tries again. “i didn’t think that was gonna… work.”

you blink. “work- what?”

he looks at you then, eyes wide, honest.

“with my dick.”

there’s no ego in it. no bragging.

“i mean,” he continues, lowering his voice. “i’ve had girls straight-up tap out before. like, nop. not happening. whole thing becomes a conversation.”

you snort despite yourself.

steve huffs a laugh too, but then his expression softens again, serious.

“you took it like a champ.” steve tries keeping a straight face after the words come out of his mouth but it doesn’t last long after you let out the loudest laugh he’s ever heard.

maybe there was some ego and bragging in it.

“you’re so weird, steve!” you laugh, staring at his dumb expression like he’s already regretting what he said.

he laughs softly with you, shifts closer, his hand settling carefully on your waist, thumb rubbing slow circles.

“don’t think i’ll ever get over that.” he says quietly.

after a beat, he adds: “kinda ruined me for everyone else.”

you roll your eyes. “steve.”

“what?” he grins, pulling you closer into his chest, arm wrapping around you protectively. “i’m just sayin’. if my best friend can handle all of me and still want more…” he kisses your temple softly, “i think i’m doing okay.”

note: omg i loved writing this one, thank you sm to whoever sent it ♡ requests are open btw, u can also request for other stranger things characters !!!!

[trizharrington]

here me out. coach!steve coming home after a baseball game with his students and instantly begging his wife!reader for kids. HEAVY breeding kink. like hello🥹

pairing: coach!husband!steve harrington x fem!wife!reader

request: "hear me out. coach steve coming home after a baseball game with his students and instantly begging his wife!reader for kids. HEAVY breeding kink. like hello”

warnings: breeding (obviously), smut, mentions of pregnancy and kids, kinda possessive steve?, p in v, no protection, not proofread.

note: TYSM TO WHOEVER SENT IT !!!! english is not my first language, so if you find something that doesn't really seem grammatically correct, that's why Imao. also, requests are still open !! enjoy :)

don't repost or translate my work.

the front door opened with a familiar creak, followed by the clink of steve’s keys hitting the ceramic dish.

you stayed in the kitchen, finishing up the sandwiches you’d promised him before he left for the game.

his footsteps came in slower than usual.

you glanced over your shoulder and saw him standing there in his blue coach steve jacket, hair slightly damp from sweat, cheeks warm and flushed from the sun.

he was just staring at you. not saying anything. not moving.

“…hi?” you said, smiling a little.

his expression softened immediately, like seeing you brought him back into his body.

“hi.” he said quietly, almost like he’d forgotten how to speak for a second. “i didn’t mean to just stand there like an idiot, i was just- i don’t know. i think my brain’s still at the field or something.”

you laughed lightly. “was the game that bad, coach steve?”

he let out a soft breath that almost turned into a laugh.

“no, actually… it wasn’t bad at all. we won. they played really well today. better than i expected, honestly. i mean, derek finally listened to me about keeping his elbow straight, which is apparently a miracle.”

you smiled. “wow, you must be so proud, hon.”

“i am…” he admitted. “i really am.”

he walked toward you slowly. his hands settled on your hips naturally, thumbs rubbing circles against your sides.

he leaned down slightly, soft lips landing on yours.

“i missed you today, baby.” he murmured.

you smiled instinctively. “steve, you were gone for, like, three hours.”

“yeah, well,” he said quietly, tightening his arms around you, “it still felt too long.”

you leaned back into him, enjoying the warmth. he rests his chin on your shoulder.

he stayed quiet for a moment. unusually quiet.

you noticed it immediately.

you turned your head slightly. “okay, harrington… what’s going on in that head of yours?”

he hesitated. “i held a baby today.” he said finally.

“oh yeah?” you smile at his confession.

he nodded against you, then gently moved you in his arms so he could see your face.

“yeah. one of the kid’s moms came to talk to me after the game, and she had her baby with her, and she just asked if i wanted to hold her. and i almost said no because i was terrified i was gonna somehow drop her, but she handed her to me anyway.”

you let out a quiet laugh.

“she was so small. like… so small… this small, sweetheart!” steve demonstrates with his hands how tiny the baby was. “gosh… and then she grabbed my finger when i was holding her…” steve almost melts.

you watch his face soften as he speaks.

“and i swear to god, i didn’t wanna give her back.”

your heart melted. “oh, stevie…” you pout slightly.

he shook his head slightly, almost embarrassed by how much it affected him.

“i didn’t expect it to hit me like that. i thought it’d just be one of those things where you hold a baby and you’re like: ‘oh cool, that’s a baby,’ and then you move on. but it didn’t feel like that at all. it felt like… like something clicked.”

he looked at you. really looked at you.

“and the whole time i was holding her, i just kept thinking about you.”

your breath caught.

“i kept thinking about what she would look like if she was ours.” he admitted, voice quieter now. “what it would feel like to come home and see you holding our baby in your arms, walking around the house like it was the most normal thing in the world.”

his hands slid slightly around your waist, holding you more firmly now.

“i kept thinking about how much i would love that. i could actually see it happening. i could actually picture our life like that, baby.” he let out a slow breath.

“i want kids.” he said honestly. “not just someday in a vague way. i mean i really want them. i want the late nights and the crying and the mess and all of it. i want someone that’s part of you and part of me.”

you stared up at him, heart racing.

“i wanna teach them how to throw a baseball.” he continued, voice growing steadier. “i wanna teach them how to ride a bike, and help them with homework, and embarrass them by being too overprotective when they get older. i wanna be there for everything.”

“hon, stevie, we’ve talked about this a hundred times before… you know i want kids too.” you giggle at his slight desperation as he speaks.

“i know, baby. and that’s exactly why i’m talking about this right now.” he added quickly. “i’m saying it because when i held that baby today, i realized that i don’t just want a life where it’s only ever us. i want a family. and i don’t want it with just anyone.”

his thumb brushed gently over your hip as he reads your expression.

“i want it with you, as soon as possible.”

he swallowed.

“i need to know if that scares you.” he admitted. “because the last thing i ever want is to push you into something you’re not ready for. but i also can’t pretend that i don’t want it, because i do. i want it more than i’ve ever wanted anything. besides marrying you.” he laughs softly.

your voice came out softer than you expected along with a laugh. “it doesn’t scare me.”

he searched your face again.

“it doesn’t…?”

you shook your head slowly. “no. it makes me happy.”

he froze.

“happy?” he repeated quietly, like he needed to hear it again to believe it.

“yes, baby.”

he let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“jesus, angel.” he whispered, almost laughing in disbelief. “you have no idea how relieved i am to hear you say that, because i was standing there at the field thinking that maybe i’d lost my mind for wanting something like that this badly.”

“i’ve thought about it too, steve. ever since we got married, i’ve caught myself thinking about it. about what our life would look like in five years. or ten. about what our kids would look like, and whether they’d have your hair or my eyes. i’ve thought about it in the grocery store, in the car, when you fall asleep next to me…” you confess.

“you have…?”

you nod softly. “i just never said anything because i know you, steve. you care so much about being able to provide.” you said gently. “about making sure we’re okay. about making sure you’re doing things right.”

his hands tightened on your waist.

“i know you want to give us everything,” you said softly. “and i love you for that. but i never needed perfect, steve. i just needed you.”

“i’ve been scared of that…” he admitted. “i’ve been scared that i wouldn’t be able to give you the life you deserve yet. that i’d somehow mess it up by not being ready fast enough.”

“i just need you, steve.”

“i want to be more than enough.” he whispered. “for you. for them.”

them.

the word hangs in the air.

steve wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a kiss.

“can i admit something without you laughing at me?” steve asked.

you tilted your head slightly against him, smiling. “can’t make that promise... i’m listening.”

“i think about you pregnant way more than i should… i don’t mean it in some weird way…” he said quickly, almost defensive. “i just… it pops into my head sometimes. like when you’re standing in the kitchen or walking around in one of my shirts, i’ll just randomly picture what it would look like if you were round with our baby.”

“you think i would look hot pregnant?” you ask, smiling up at him.

“god, you’d look like a fucking goddess, baby…” steve almost melts at the thought of it, lips landing on your neck. “i think about being the reason…” he admitted quietly.

you frowned slightly. “the reason for what?”

“for you being pregnant.” he swallowed. “i think about being inside you and knowing exactly what it could mean.”

“steve…” you sigh into him as you feel open-mouthed kisses on your neck.

“gosh, baby.” steve pants, talking against your skin. “let me show you how much i want it, angel.” he pulls you closer, if it’s even possible, hand sliding up under your shirt, his large hand gently squeezing your breasts.

he slides his other hand down to grope your plump ass, giving it a firm squeeze.

“really? right now, steve?” you ask, out of breath.

“uhum.” he hums, capturing her lips in a passionate kiss. his tongue delves into your mouth, exploring every inch as his hands roam your curves possessively.

you moan softly into the kiss, body melting against his. your hands slide up his chest. you nip playfully at steve’s bottom lip before pulling back slightly, a coy smile on your face. “you’re gonna be the best daddy to our kids, steve.”

“jesus, you can’t just say something like that and act all innocent, sweetheart.” steve groans, effortlessly lifts you up, encouraging you to wrap your legs around his waist.

steve carries you upstairs to your room, carefully, never breaking eye contact with those soft brown eyes of his.

god, his eyes… you hope your kids have his eyes.

“i’ve been thinking ‘bout knocking you up for so long, baby. been thinking about you all day…” steve slowly lays you down on the large bed, crawling on top of you.

in one swift motion, he removes his shirt, revealing his hairy happy trail. steve leans down to capture your lips once more as his hands make quick work of removing your top, exposing your lacy bra.

steve kisses your cleavage, hand sliding down to your stomach. daydreaming.

“fuck. can you imagine it, baby? you round with my baby, skin glowing, your breasts swollen with milk. you’re gonna look even more beautiful, angel.” steve’s eyes turn dark with desire, pressing hot open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone now.

“yeah, stevie. i can’t wait to walk around town pregnant with your baby.”

your words make steve’s cock twitch in his pants. “y-yes, jesus.” the feeling making him stutter. “every guy in hawkins would be jealous they weren’t the ones knocking you up, baby.”

steve groans again, nipping at the sensitive skin of your cleavage. his other hand reaches behind to unclasp your bra, freeing your perfect breasts.

steve quickly sheds the rest of his clothes, his massive erection springing free, already rock hard and leaking pre-cum.

he hooks his fingers into the sides of your soaked panties and yanks them down, tossing them aside carelessly.

“holy shit, baby. you’re so wet for me already.” he growls, running a finger through your drenching folds.

steve brings his coated finger to his mouth, sucking it with a deep moan. “fuck, you taste so good.”

he settles between your spread thighs, the thick head of his huge cock nudging at your entrance. steve locks eyes with you, his expression intense.

“beg for my cock, angel.”

“please, stevie. fill me up, baby!” you moan, grabbing both his biceps to stabilize yourself.

with a grunt, steve pushes himself fully inside your wet cunt in one powerful thrust, stretching your impossibly tight walls around his dick.

steve sets a slow pace but pounds into you with deep, forceful strokes that make the bed frame shake.

“ah! steve, fuuuuuck!”

“oh my god- i’m gonna fill you up so hard, baby. you’re so tight around me. jesus christ.” he moans.

you always make sure to remind steve how much you love the fact that he’s loud in bed.

the obscene sound of loud skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixing with your high-pitched moans and steve’s grunts.

you cry out in pleasure, nails running down steve’s back as he pounds into you mercilessly. your walls clench around him.

“fuck fuck fuck, stevie. oh- fuck, d-don’t stop.”

steve grits his teeth, fighting back his orgasm already. he slows his brutal pace to deep, grinding thrusts, stirring up your insides.

“you’re gripping my cock so fucking hard, fuck, babe.”

he flips you two over so you’re straddling his lap, allowing him to reach even deeper inside your cunt.

“ride me angel, bounce on my cock.“ steve commands, gripping your hips to guide your movements.

his calloused thumbs massage your sensitive nipples as you grind yourself down onto him.

“‘m gonna make you a mama. how bad do you want it, baby? tell me.” steve’s hand snakes between your sweaty bodies to rub tight circles over your clit, determined to make you fall apart.

steve changes the angle of his hips, making sure to hit a special spot inside you with every upward thrust.

“s-so bad, s-steve.” you’re too cock-drunk to even reply properly. you do your best to answer steve.

“fuck, baby. i’m gonna cum inside ya.” steve punctuates his words with sharp upward thrusts again, hitting your cervix with every pass, making you reach your high at the same time.

“ugnnhn, stevie. oh my- fuck fuuuuuck fuck, yes honey. cum inside me, gonna make you the best daddy in the world.” you praise steve when you feel his thrusts speeding up, bouncing harder on his cock.

as your walls start to quiver and clench around him, signaling your climax, steve feels his own release dumping inside you. with a loud groan, he buries himself deep, painting your insides white with thick ropes of cum.

steve holds your body against his, grinding your hips together as he pumps what feels like an endless stream of cum deep into your pussy.

your mutual orgasms seem to go on forever, wave after wave of intense pleasure crashing over.

“mhhmmm, fuuu-uuck!” you almost let out a yell.

“mm, my pretty girl full with my cum. don’t move, sweetheart. wanna make sure it stays inside your pretty little cunt, huh?” steve keeps you firmly planted on top of him, his softening member still nestled inside you. he runs his hands soothingly up and down your back as you both come down from your intense orgasms.

he rolls his hips lazily, stirring the big amount of cum sloshing around inside you, making sure you’re absorbing everything.

“steve…” again, cock-drunk on steve’s lap, you can barely say a full sentence, grabbing onto his broad shoulders.

he presses a soft kiss to your throat.

then another.

and another.

“you did so good.” he whispers, nodding.

silence settles between you.

his hand lays on your stomach, thumb rubbing slow circles.

his other hand comes in touch with your cheek as he lays your back down on the bed again without his cock slipping out from inside you.

your eyes are heavy, still processing the orgasm.

he leans down and presses his forehead to yours, noses brushing.

“you think… you think it worked, stevie?” you whisper against his lips.

he nods. “i’m sure, baby. and if it didn’t, we have plenty of time to try again, sweetheart. can’t get enough of you.”

“i want you to fill me with everything you’ve got. i want something that’s ours.” you confess softly.

he makes this broken sound and immediately buries his face into your neck.

“jesus…” he whispers. “you have no idea what you do to me.”

his arms tighten around you, pulling you impossibly closer.

your fingers slip into his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp.

“i love you, angel. you’re gonna be such a good momma.” he murmurs.

note: ugh, i love steve with a breeding kink. hope this is exactly what the anon wanted !!! like, comment and reblog if you want, it's always appreciated!! mwah <3

requests are open btw, u can also request for other stranger things characters or someone else from my request list !!!!