peace.

tal. 18+ only. she/her. prompts and suggestions are always accepted, just take note that i may not get to everything that is sent in.

[writtenfromhawkins]

eddie munson

jonathan byers

psycho killer -  a post-movie night smoke session brings up an interesting question.

robin buckley

you got me flowers? - surprising your girlfriend at work.

steve harrington

hoax -  when his father lets him know his presence is expected at a company dinner party, steve blurts out he’d be taking his girlfriend. the problem? he’s very single. now stuck in a lie, he goes to you for help.

hoax p2 -  as you had feared, your fake date changed the dynamic between you and steve. but maybe that wasn’t a bad thing.

[corvase]

lovely little domestic prompts

feel free to use! :)

running their love interest a bath after a long work day

covering the sharp part of the table when they pass so they don’t hit their hip

“your mom is coming over today.” “tell her to bring fried rice or she’s not invited.” “you tell her, she’s your mom.” “but she likes you more!”

deciding together how they want their house to look

painting their child’s room together

“i meant it when i said i wanted to start a family with you.”

baby-proofing everything not because they have a child or are planning for one but because one character is clumsy as hell and the other is a worried mess alllll the time because of it

“wake up and come get breakfast, love.” “…. now…….. when i said yes to this whole marriage thing i thought we were on the same page and you understood when i said i don’t wake up before 6pm.” “i made hashbrowns.” “i’ll be right there.”

one character covering the other with a blanket when they fall asleep watching a movie on the couch

making tea or coffee for their love interest before bed (and just the fact that they know exactly how they like their tea and coffee swooon)

cooking anything together honestly, not even needing to ask where the items are because they’re so in tune and used to each other

“where’s the new coffee mix?” “i’ll tell you if you tell me where you put the keys?” “i TOLD you i don’t know where—”

long movie nights where one is in charge of the blanket and pillow fort and one is in charge of the snacks

them going on a short trip and one character nagging the other about bringing their allergy meds

nagging in general, frankly

“it’s your turn to do the dishes.” “let’s get a divorce.” “we aren’t married yet, my love.” “well we sure as hell aren’t getting married now.”

“i am one hundred percent content to stay with you on this couch until the end of time.” “that sounds pretty damn lovely to me.”

[writtenfromhawkins]

daylight.

ship: photographer!jonathan byers x model fem!reader

summary: reader finally gets to work with the jonathan byers.

word count: 6.5k.

warnings: drugs/drug use (there is one brief scene where the reader actually uses a hard drug, otherwise it’s just mentioned), swearing, smut, eating,  mentions of creepy behavior and assigning morality to food i.e it being good or bad (it’s the 90s and the fashion industry is gross). just listen to supermodel by maneskin and you’ll get the vibes. minors do not read or interact.

authors note: totally self-indulgent fic here, but i hope you enjoy it anyway. getting this out later than i had anticipated, but if there’s interest, i’ve already come up with some ideas for additional parts.

there are so many lines that i’ve crossed unforgiven.

Early spring on the East Coast is a dreary affair and even a city as magical as New York can’t escape it. The air crisp, a light downpour made the already heavy traffic come to a standstill and you arrive outside The Plaza a good twenty minutes after you were supposed to.

You probably should have felt at least a little bad about it. Showing up late was never a good look. But hey, you couldn’t control the weather or the traffic or the fact that the photographer’s assistant scouted a hotel that required you to travel to it. 

“Shoulda did this at the Carlyle,” you tell your manager, Murray, who, much to your surprise, had been in the car that picked you up from JFK. This was all a very last-minute affair. You’d sent your own assistant home and had expected to be alone in The Big Apple.

You don’t get a real response, just a gruff laugh as he continues perusing your schedule for the next few days. 

He was a strange man, one who seemingly did not belong in the fashion industry, but he knew what he was doing and made you more money than you thought possible. That was certainly enough to endear you to him.

“Alright,” he says, slamming the planner shut, “this Guess shoot should be over and done quick. I hear this Byers kid is a real professional.”

Keep reading

[spilvy]

I usually don’t read anything for Jonathan but this was just too good to pass on

[writtenfromhawkins]

thank you for reading! 🖤

[writtenfromhawkins]

daylight.

ship: photographer!jonathan byers x model fem!reader

summary: reader finally gets to work with the jonathan byers.

word count: 6.5k.

warnings: drugs/drug use (there is one brief scene where the reader actually uses a hard drug, otherwise it’s just mentioned), swearing, smut, eating,  mentions of creepy behavior and assigning morality to food i.e it being good or bad (it’s the 90s and the fashion industry is gross). just listen to supermodel by maneskin and you’ll get the vibes. minors do not read or interact.

authors note: totally self-indulgent fic here, but i hope you enjoy it anyway. getting this out later than i had anticipated, but if there’s interest, i’ve already come up with some ideas for additional parts.

there are so many lines that i've crossed unforgiven.

Early spring on the East Coast is a dreary affair and even a city as magical as New York can’t escape it. The air crisp, a light downpour made the already heavy traffic come to a standstill and you arrive outside The Plaza a good twenty minutes after you were supposed to.

You probably should have felt at least a little bad about it. Showing up late was never a good look. But hey, you couldn’t control the weather or the traffic or the fact that the photographer’s assistant scouted a hotel that required you to travel to it. 

“Shoulda did this at the Carlyle,” you tell your manager, Murray, who, much to your surprise, had been in the car that picked you up from JFK. This was all a very last-minute affair. You’d sent your own assistant home and had expected to be alone in The Big Apple.

You don’t get a real response, just a gruff laugh as he continues perusing your schedule for the next few days. 

He was a strange man, one who seemingly did not belong in the fashion industry, but he knew what he was doing and made you more money than you thought possible. That was certainly enough to endear you to him.

“Alright,” he says, slamming the planner shut, “this Guess shoot should be over and done quick. I hear this Byers kid is a real professional.”

You don’t say it but you’ve heard the same thing. Somehow this would be the first time working with Jonathan Byers but you certainly were familiar with the name.

Some of the girls had gushed about him—he was so cute and nice and made them feel at ease. Others complained that he didn’t accept their advances or entertain their diva antics. Even worse, one regaled you with a horrific tale of getting caught doing blow on set. He’d tossed the little baggie in the trash without a word. 

Personal opinions varied from model to model but one thing stayed consistent: he was really, really good at his job.

“That means,” Murray continues, “you have the rest of the day and night to yourself. Have fun but, for the love of God, behave yourself. I’m begging you, please. You’ve got two big campaigns coming and name-dropping Gianni can only save your ass so many times.”

You huff at that. You don't even do anything that bad—the tabloids liked to pick on you. Sure, you might have gotten kicked out of a club or two and yeah, you trashed a couple hotel rooms with your shitty ex-boyfriend. You might have even accidentally shoplifted a Chanel scarf once but who hasn’t?

“I’ll be good,” you assure him anyway, properly admonished despite your refusal to accept any wrongdoing. 

“That’s what I like to hear. So, all you gotta do tomorrow is a fitting for Calvin Klein and then you’re free to fuck back off to the West Coast for the rest of the week.”

“Great,” you nod, opening the door.

“You’ll notice the vultures aren’t out right now. Since you just got back from Milan, I figured you could use the break.” You’re actually about to thank him when he says, “but they’ll be here when you’re done so whatever shit they put on your face? Keep it on.”

Asshole. “See you later, Murray.” You don’t give him the chance to say anything else before you’re outside and walking towards the building.

Head low, sunglasses on, you’re able to cross the lobby with zero issues and snag yourself an empty elevator. You settle into the corner, back pressed against the wall as you grab ahold of your Prada bag, dipping into its contents to pull out a tiny, clear vial. You almost salivate at the sight.

Though the neatly packed powder excites you—probably more than it should—the tiniest bit of shame creeps its way in, the way it usually does when you know you’re doing something wrong. It’s for the best. Fashion Week just ended, your flight was long and you were tired—you needed the energy, after all. 

You twist the top off with ease, holding it against the neck of the bottle, so you can slip one manicured nail inside. You pucker your lips, wiping the digit across your top gums once, twice, a third time for good measure, and then you’re putting the lid back on and carefully tucking it away. 

By the time the doors open up on the top floor, you can already feel it. Your body feels warmer, and there’s an extra pep in your step. You’ll feel like shit in a couple hours but for now, you’re golden.

The whole floor was booked, a way to give you privacy and a quiet place to work, but the room you actually needed to be at has its door cracked, they were expecting you. You push your way inside.

Jonathan is directing his assistants as they set up the lighting until he spots you. He pats one on the back, giving one last instruction before heading over.

You’re surprised at first. With the way some of the girls talked about him you expected a little more Brian Austin Green and a little less Kurt Cobain. But then he’s smiling at you and you think you get it.

“Hey! Jonathan Byers,” he introduces himself, extending a hand to you.

You know who he is, he knows who you are, but only pretentious assholes acknowledge that so, you shake his and return the pleasantry.

“Nice to officially meet you.” And the way he says it lets it be known he’s not the only one with a reputation. Yours, though, is a little less sparkling. “Right through there,” an arm extends, motioning towards the bathroom and you catch yourself admiring the sinewy muscle the action exposes before following its direction, “is Gina and Zack.” With both doors open, you can see them in the adjoining room. “They’ll take care of you and then send you back to me.”

It’s most definitely not your first day on a set and, if this was coming from anyone else, you’d find it condescending. But with the way Jonathan says it, it sounds nice, like you’re being looked out for.

“Cool,” you acknowledge the sentiment and head right towards hair and makeup.

—

In no time your hair has been teased, your cheeks highlighted and your lips glossed. You emerge from the bathroom in a black cocktail dress.

Jonathan claps his hands together when he sees you. “There she is! We’re gonna start off on the dresser. Can you get up there?”

You can and you do. Once you’re situated, you pull the hem of the dress down slightly and look up at him expectantly.

“Need you to move a little.”

When you do, he shakes his head. “No, no, I need you…” He trails off, sighing. “Back, a little more to the left.”

You shimmy your entire body in the direction he mentioned but he still doesn’t look pleased. “That’s not—“ His gaze flickers from you to Gina, the makeup artist, who is lingering nearby for touch-ups. “Can I do it?”

In quite literally any other situation a photographer wanting to touch you would be enough to send up hundreds of red flags and set off all the alarms. It’s their way of trying to cop a feel or start something equally unseemly. But, despite all your experience and years in the business, nothing in the request was enough to unnerve you. 

You just met the man and you were finding yourself trusting him, feeling as though you were actually safe. So the decision was an easy one, you nod your consent. 

Once you agree, Jonathan loops the strap of his camera around his neck and steps toward you, the heel of your stilettos brushing against his knee. Two big hand grabs ahold of your hips and, with surprising ease, slides you back to your original position, only with your left hip cocked back leaving you at an angle.

Somehow you’d just been manhandled in the gentlest, most respectful way possible.

You gaze up at him to see he’s already looking at you. Jonathan studies you for a moment—really, really studies you—and seems to see something he doesn’t like as the corner of his lips twitch downward before he steps back. 

“Perfect. Don’t move, okay?”

You take a few pictures exactly in that position. Another with you bent down, cleavage exposed, one finger hooked in the back of your heel as if you’re taking it off. Another with your legs spread but only slightly—we’re not shooting for Penthouse here, Jonathan had said.

The next outfit is a completely unbuttoned white dress shirt, a lacy black bra, and a pencil skirt in the same dark shade. You don’t know if slutty businesswoman really fits Guess but who are you to complain?

From the door to the nightstand by the bed, you’re photographed undressing as you cross the room. The shirt is discarded immediately, the rest is an illusion, hinting at nudity as you unzip the skirt but never pull the fabric below your hips.

Last is a tiny little romper and stockings which you’re donning as you’re sprawled out on the mattress, arm by your head. It’s fitting because all you want is to crawl into bed minus the glitz and glamor and the designer clothes. By this point, you’re coming down. The high never lasted long enough but, after only getting a tiny amount far too long ago, it was painfully brief. You’re a little foggy and tired, and you hope, as you switch poses, Jonathan can’t see your hands shake.

“I need you to kneel on the bed for me now.”

You’re a little slow, but you get into position as requested—

“Ass off your heels, please.”

Okay, almost as requested. At the order, you lift your bum up, looking at Jonathan, almost expecting some praise. It doesn’t come. You only know you’re where he wants you because he raises the camera. You drop your hands to your thighs, tilt your head and prepare for the telltale flash that never comes.

“You’re totally dead behind the eyes.”

“What?”

He looks at you with a frown. “Nothing is going on up here,” he points to his own visage, “you look bored, tired.”

You freeze, feeling like you’re caught. “I-uh,” you stammer, wincing at your lack of an immediate answer. Could this get any worse? “I am tired. I was just in Italy and I came here right off the plane.”

“Uh huh,” Jonathan nods. You don’t think he believes you. “But the people who see these pictures aren’t gonna get the backstory. You gotta grab them on first look so I really need you to try to perk up a little.”

You bristle, embarrassed to have let anything affect your work. “Got it.”

“Look at the camera like it’s a delicious, juicy steak.”

“I’m a vegetarian.” It’s supposed to be a joke but he doesn’t laugh.

“Then a nicely seasoned chunk of tofu. We’re almost done here, let’s get this last shot and finish up.”

You sigh as you look at the gadget, desperate to finish the shoot off on a high note. You do everything you can—you picture the camera as a beautiful man, a beautiful woman, a brand new Balenciaga.

You have no idea if it’s working until Jonathan says, “that’s a wrap.” He comes around to your side of the bed and offers his hand, which you take. “Let’s get you changed.”

Once you’re back in your street clothes, you say your goodbyes and thank yous to the people on set. It’s a nicety that you don’t partake in often, just when you’re trying to make a good impression. 

The rounds, as expected, take a while and you’re deliberate in their order, saving Jonathan for last. When you approach him, drained but still enthusiastic, it’s with a smile. “I wanted to say goodbye! It was really nice to work with you.” It’s true and you hope to do it again.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “It was a pleasure.” He sounds sincere as he grabs your elbow and leans close. You almost think he’s going to kiss your cheek but he goes past, lips an inch from your ear, his voice just a whisper. “Next time, show up sober.”

—

maybe i've stormed out of every single room in this town.

It doesn’t take long for your jet-set lifestyle to have you back in New York. It’s closer to summer, still a little cold, but not enough to deter you from wearing your favorite little red dress when night hits and you receive an invitation to hit the town with some friends. The Roxy most certainly deserved to see you at your best.

Besides, you believed that part of feeling good was looking good and you were certainly both as you settled into the VIP section your group had snagged, bottles and shots flowing. You’d just gotten comfortable, only able to drink half of your vodka cranberry, when, without even really thinking, you grabbed a Marlboro Red and lit up. You didn’t even get the chance to take a drag before security was stomping over.

“Hello, miss, we’re gonna need you to put that out. This isn’t the smoking section.”

“Excuse me?” You pull back, instantly bothered by the intrusion.

“You can’t smoke here,” the security guard explains, a little more straight to the point this time.

Entirely out of spite, you bring the ciggy to your lips, inhaling deeply before exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Interesting, because it seems like I’m managing to do it just fine.”

The man’s jaw clenches, taking a deep breath before speaking again. “I’m going to ask you one more time, please put that out.”

You shake your head, stubborn, annoyed that your buzz had been killed before you could even get a real one going. “Don’t think I’m going to do that.”

“Okay, then you need to leave.”

“Yeah, don’t think I’m gonna do that either.”

You’re being unreasonable. He’s rough and a bit loud, he’s a New Yorker after all, but the man just doing his job certainly has not been unkind to you. There's no reason for you to not comply with the club rules… besides the fact that you have a problem with authority. You hate being told what to do and you’re beyond frustrated that your night out—always damn near a religious experience for you—had been interrupted.

“Well, those are your options. Put out the cigarette or go.”

Eyes rolling towards the ceiling, you grab your purse from beside you and wiggle it. “How much to make you go away so we can go back to enjoying ourselves?”

“Alright,” he says, reaching over to grab ahold of your arm, “it’s time for you to go.”

“Hey,” you call out, trying to wiggle out of his grasp. He tightens his hold as you struggle. “Let go of me.”

“You need to leave now!” Still doing his best to be gentle, he pulls you to your feet and leads you down the stairs.

“This is ridiculous.” All the way you’re pulling, pushing, all in an attempt to get free. In the may lay, the still lit cigarette fell from your grasp, getting stomped out shortly after by another patron’s dancing feet.

“You had your chance.” He’s talking to you the way one would a naughty toddler and it rubs you the wrong way—as if he hadn’t already done enough to end up on your shit list. 

“Oh, fuck off,” you scoff, ignoring the curious stares as you pass, “Do you even know who I am?”

“Yup,” he’s quick to answer. “You’re the lady too stubborn to put out a stupid cigarette.” You don’t know how he’s managed it but he’s gotten you to the door much quicker than you could have anticipated.

With a soft push to your back, he’s nudging you through it. “Now, you enjoy the rest of your night.”

“Asshole!” You call back of your shoulder, arms crossing over your chest.

You’re alone, it’s late and you need to figure out a way to call a car—there’s no way you were going to take a taxi, you were down bad, but not that bad. Before you can make any plans, you hear a voice behind you say, “Man, that was really embarrassing.”

It’s been a while, but you still recognize it instantly. “Jonathan Byers,” you almost sound impressed. “What are you doing here?”

“Once a year they let me out to socialize with all the beautiful people.” He moves so he’s beside you now. You can see he cleans up pretty well. “Got here just in time to see the end of your temper tantrum.”

“Hey, that’s not fair! I didn’t even do anything wrong.”

“Right.” He’s smirking because you’re full of shit and he can tell. “Can’t believe they threw you out like that for no reason. Don’t they know who you are?” His amusement, though, fades as he leans a little closer. “How fucked up are you?”

That was the problem. “I’m not, I’m totally sober,” you bemoan as if there was no bigger tragedy than not being plastered on a Friday night. “Listen—”

You’re ready to ask if he had a cell on him—your hunk of brick had taken an unfortunate trip earlier that month backstage at a show when you were feeling particularly miffed—when you’re interrupted by flashing lights. Paparazzi, of course. When you first got there, you’d been able to enter through the back exit. Now, though, you got thrown out the front door and were a literal sitting duck.

“Shit, shit, shit!” You become frantic, hands jumping to your hair, patting it down, moving to your stomach, smoothing wrinkled fabric. “Murray is gonna kill me if they catch me lookin’ a mess.”

In a second, Jonathan gets an idea. It’s probably (definitely) not a good one, impulsive, sure to disrupt his night. But he’s certain the friends he’s going to have to ditch will understand. “Think you can run in those?”

You follow his gaze down to your shoes. They’re sky-high and strappy. “I’m sure as hell willing to try.”

Before you can react further, Jonathan grabs you and is leading you down the sidewalk before you both break out into a full-on sprint, the sound of your name getting more and more distant. All the paparazzi get are a few shots of your back, hand-in-hand with a “mystery” man.

A few poorly lit, sketchy alleys and sharp turns later, you’re in a parking lot. You practically throw yourself against the nearest car, cold metal soothing your warm skin. You hunch forward, breath labored, smile wide. Jonathan is right beside you, laughing, face flushed and you take a moment to just appreciate the sight.

“You’re a lifesaver.”

“Heard that a time or two,” he teases, catching your gaze. “I’m parked somewhere in here… You need a ride?”

“You have a car? In New York City?”

“Makes escaping from paparazzi really easy.” It’s a total joke. 

Up until a matter of minutes ago, he had zero experience with the concept and hadn’t even been sure his plan would work. Outside of those in the industry, he was able to maintain a certain anonymity and that was a serious benefit to being on the other side of the camera. “Come on, where am I taking you?”

You didn’t think it was possible but somehow your grin gets bigger.

—

In record time, you’re idling outside the Carlyle, the only hotel you’re willing to stay at in the city, a few slices of dollar pizza Jonathan had insisted on paying for on your lap. You’re quiet, so is he. But you’re not sitting in silence, Man In the Box plays on the radio. You picked it out.

As soon as you’d gotten settled in the passenger seat, you started rummaging through his CDs. Turns out, you had very different taste in music, not a surprise, and that was the only band you recognized. Your latest douchebag you’d dated for a couple weeks had been a big fan and dragged you to a show.

“So…” The word comes out in a single breath as you grip the handle but don’t open the door. “Do you wanna come up with me?”

He takes so long to answer you think he’s going to say no but, much to your surprise, he says, “Yeah, sure.”

One quiet elevator ride later, you’re opening the door, kicking your shoes off, and tossing your purse and room key on the bed. You plop down on the sofa and motion him forwards. “Come on,” you hold up a piece of pizza in each hand, “let’s eat.”

He ends up on the opposite side of the couch, pressed as tightly to the armrest as he could be while you take up the rest of the space, legs stretched out and toes tucked under his hip. 

You take your first bite and hum in pleasure, eyes closing. “This was a really good choice.”

“I practically lived off this shit when I first moved here,” Jonathan admits. “I know all the best cheap spots.”

“How did you even end up in New York?” The question falls out before you can even think about it. You don’t want to come off as nosey, but you’re curious. “Aren’t you from, uh, Illinois?”

“Indiana,” he corrects. “Hawkins, Indiana.” You blink, you’ve never heard of the place. “It’s a tiny, tiny town a couple hours outside of Indianapolis.”

You nod as if that clears everything up. “Big difference compared to here.”

“Huge,” he agrees, wiping the corner of his lip with a napkin. He misses a spot, you don’t mention it. “Always wanted to go to NYU, though. So I think I was prepared for it in a way.”

“NYU,” you repeat. “Good school. I’m guessing that’s where you majored in photography?”

“Yup.”

“How’d that translate to you getting involved in fashion? Doesn’t seem like your scene.”

“You got that right,” Jonathan laughs. Not your first time hearing it that night but you decide in that moment you really like the sound of it. “I honestly kinda stumbled into it by accident. A friend of a friend needed a photographer for a show and she sweet-talked me enough that I couldn’t say no. 

“Then I guess I liked it enough that I never stopped.” Younger him would be shocked. He always pictured himself photographing world events or foreign conflicts. “Not as cool of a story as yours, though. Didn’t Vogue say you were discovered in Paris?”

He says it like it’s no big deal but you’re honored that, not only had he read something about you, he even remembered. “Yeah, I was on vacation with a friend. We went out one night, ran into the right person, and here we are.”

“So you just went out to grab a drink and someone decided you should be on magazines?” He shrugs. “Makes sense. So you were on a trip to Paris but you’re from…”

“Here, actually. Born and raised on the Upper East Side.”

Jonathan can’t help himself. When you admit you’re a born and bred New Yorker, he looks around, wondering why you’re here in a nice, yes, but impersonal hotel room. He doesn’t ask about it, though. Instead, he settles for a diplomatic, “Must be nice to be able to come back so often.”

“I guess.” You’re non-committal because, while you love New York, there’s no real sentimental value to it. You’re not close with your family and you always avoid the Brownstone you grew up in. “It’s nice to visit some of the old haunts, for sure.”

From there, with the basics out of the way, the two of you settle into an informal game of 20 questions. You find out he has a young brother, his favorite color is green and he really likes the Friday The 13th franchise.

You talk about your love for travel, how buying beachfront is the best decision you ever made, and your almost excessive collection of glass dolphin figurines.

You trade facts, both important and seemingly insignificant until it’s the wee hours in the morning and you can’t keep your eyes open anymore.

—

When you wake up, still on the couch, a blanket has been draped over you, the sun is shining through the open curtains and you’re alone. It doesn’t surprise you, there was no need for Jonathan to stay, but you still find yourself disappointed as you swing your feet to the ground and sit up.

You’re mid-stretch, arms raised to the ceiling when you heard the door open. You jump, contorting your body so you’re both cowering behind the back of the sofa and peeking over it.

No masked intruder appears. it’s only nice, totally not scary Jonathan with your room key in one hand and a greasy paper bag in the other.

He seems amused by your reaction but still manages to let out a barely believable “sorry” as he walks towards you, handing off both items.

“Didn’t think you’d be up yet,” he admits, fighting a smile. “I’ve got an early morning shoot so I need to head out. I figured I’d drop by the bodega and grab breakfast before I do.”

You didn’t even notice you were hungry until you realize what you were holding—a delicious, totally bad-for-you bacon egg and cheese. You can’t remember the last time you had a BEC, too much fat and carbs and far too naughty, but you’ll enjoy every second you spend devouring it.

Your finger pokes at a spot where the grease made the paper especially thin, and you grin. “You’re a bad influence, Jonathan.”

“Jon.” The correction is a knee-jerk reaction, one even he hadn’t been expecting. The list of people who call him that is very small and you apparently just got added to it.

“Well, Jon,” you put emphasis on the second word, “thank you. For breakfast and last night. I had fun.”

“Me too.”

A silence falls over the two of you, neither speaking until Jonathan clears his throat and motions towards the door, “Well, I should…”

“Yeah, yeah, of course. See you around?”

“Definitely.”

—

all of you, all of me intertwined.

The next time you see Jonathan it’s in Paris for Fashion Week.

“I can’t believe they brought you all the way out here for runway work.” You associate him with editorials, high fashion magazines, and designer campaigns.

He waves that off. “Karl’s always been so good to me. If he calls, I answer.”

“So you’re just doing the Chanel show today?”

“Mhm,” he confirms, nonchalant. 

You’re a bit busier, having to walk for Givenchy, Dior, and Jean Paul Gaultier. For models, being a bigger name was both a blessing and a curse: more shows, more publicity, more money. But a busier schedule also meant more pressure and less free time.

“It’s gonna be a while, but do you wanna grab dinner or something later?” You weren’t one to beat around the bush. It’d been a while and the two of you ending up in the same city in another country felt a little bit like fate.

“Don’t they have parties after these things?” He knows they do, he just can’t believe you’d willingly miss out on one.

“Yeah, why? You going?”

That gets a chuckle out of him. “Fuck no. I guess I figured you would be, though.”

You shrug. “I think I can miss one. So… dinner?”

“It’s a date.”

He says it so casually like it’s nothing, but the implication weighs heavily on you. Through hair and make-up, last-minute fittings, and the actual shows, that’s all you can think about.

—

You decide on a little café near your hotel. It’s not the height of cuisine, especially not in a city like Paris, but Jonathan certainly wasn’t going to complain and it’s easy for you.

It had been a long day and you were feeling the effects. You rarely did a show without a little help, let alone three. But you hadn’t forgotten the first time you met Jonathan.

Next time, show up sober.

Sober was an interesting concept, something you didn’t find yourself being often. Sometimes it was a more hedonistic desire—to indulge, to have a little fun. Others it was purely professional, a little bump here and there to give you some energy, to give you an edge. It was a routine—definitely not an addiction, as you always insisted—that you’d been so quick to disrupt because… well, you weren’t entirely sure why.

You were drawn to Jonathan. In an industry full of fake and phony, he was real, refreshing. Maybe—just maybe—that made you wanna do better. At least, you know, when he was around.

You lounged in the dark, iron seat, picking at your croissant between breaks in conversation. A full meal seemed like too much so you both decided on pastries and fancy little drinks.

“I saw your last show. You did great.”

You look up, surprised. “Seriously?”

“How did those giant ass hats not mess up your balance?”

“What?” You guffaw, hand flying to your mouth in hopes of quieting the noise. Givenchy’s show had a few fanciful accessories, but none that obstructed day-to-day movement. “They’re just straw, Jon.”

“Oh. Well, they were still kinda silly.” He leaves forward conspiratorially, voice quiet, a brow quirked. “I don’t think I understand fashion.”

You beam back at him, “I promise your secret is safe with me.”

“You looked beautiful, though. Even with the hats.”

You preen at the praise, practically glowing. But you play it off, tone almost teasing as you say, “Alright, you sweet talker.” You still want to seem cool and collected.

Jonathan picks up his cup and takes a sip. Left behind is a little whip cream mustache.

“Oh, you got a little—“ You point to your mouth, watching as he gets the message, hand dropping to the table to grab a napkin.

He doesn’t get the chance to make another move before you’re leaning over the table, thumb swiping over the smooth skin. You’re the closest you’ve ever been to him. You can feel his breath, see the way his brow furrows, the way his eyelashes kiss his cheeks when he blinks.

Head fuzzy, abandoning any restraint, you cut the little bit of space left and press your lips to his. You’re in public so it’s not as wild and passionate as maybe you would expect—or hope. But it is nice, soft. He tastes like mocha and Chapstick and it feels right.

You don’t want it to stop but he pulls away far too soon for your tastes. He’s quiet and you’re worried you crossed a line, maybe read some signals wrong. But then he’s smiling, resting his forehead against yours. “Where are you staying? Are you closer?”

—

The walk to your hotel is brisk and fun. You’re holding hands, bumping shoulders, giggling. You feel like a teenager again. If that was innocent, sweet, the ride in the elevator is anything but. You get in more messy kisses and heavy petting than you thought possible in a brief lift ride.

Even then, you’re both holding onto the little bit of self-control you have left until you’re in the safety of the hotel room. The door shuts and a switch flips, Jonathan spins you around so your back is pressed against it. His hands grip your hips, yours rest on his chest.

He’s always gentle, and deliberate in his actions, but now he’s running on instinct, primal need. His hands move to your chest, fingers sliding into the gaps of your blouse. There are too many buttons for him to mess with so he pulls them apart, sending them flying to the floor. His eyes widen, and he licks his lips—you’re not wearing a bra.

You pull away, gasping. “Jon, I liked that shirt. It was Chanel.”

He’s in no way apologetic when he says, “I’ll get you another one. I know a guy.”

He means it too. But exploring the newly exposed flesh is far more interesting to him than discussing clothing. Pushing the now torn fabric off your shoulders and tossing it to the ground, his mouth attacks your neck, sucking on a sweet spot.

You moan, fingers digging into shoulders, back arching, and god, he would do anything to hear that noise again. Only once he’s sure he has paid enough attention to that side, he switches, still being mindful of your work, careful not to leave any marks.

Your grip moves from his shoulders to the hem of his shirt, tugging on the fabric. “Wanna see you.”

How could he deny you of that? He breaks contact just long enough to rid himself of the garment before he’s back on you, lips moving from your neck to your chest.

You marvel at the smooth skin that’s been unveiled, surprised by the hard muscle beneath your touch. His definition is a sneaky one, he’s lean, almost kind of soft looking, but built. He’s beautiful.

Jonathan’s mouth is occupied, tongue flicking against one hard nipple has his hands travel lower. With the ease of experience, he pops the button of your jeans and slips a finger past the band of your panties, swiping it against your folds.

“You’re soaked, baby. Soaked.”

You practically whimper at the words, rutting your hips, desperate for some friction. “More, please.”

“I hear you, baby, I hear you.”

He has all sorts of ideas in mind but they require there to be far less clothing involved.

Jonathan pulls his hand back, grabbing ahold of your pants and underwear, pulling them down in one swift motion. He helps you step out of them, his hand finding the small of your back to urge you forward. “Get on the bed, sweetheart.”

The rest of his clothing joins you on the floor—in his haste to get to you, his foot catches in his slacks and sends him stumbling, he prays to a God he doesn’t believe in that you don’t notice—and by that point, you are sprawled across the bed, chest heaving. You’re desperate for him and he has to take a moment to just marvel at you. “You are…” every word in existence flies through his head—breathing, stunning, exquisite—all are fitting but he settles on “incredible.”

“Just c’mere.” With more skin exposed, you’re even more eager, hands reaching out towards him. He’s not just beautiful, you’re able to confirm, that he’s beautiful from head to toe.

He indulges your desire, crawling into bed, hovering above you, his hands coming up to rest on either side of your head as he dipped low, mouth finding yours. This kiss was different than the others. Sloppy, but with the knowledge that you didn’t have to rush, that you both could take your time and enjoy each other. Caged beneath him, you think you can get used to this.

Almost reluctantly, he pulls away, his lips leaving a trail down your neck, your sternum, wet kisses being left on your stomach. The lower he gets, the more time he takes until he’s right above your pussy. On instinct, your legs spread and he settles in-between them.

“This okay?” He asks.

Eyes squeezed shut, you’re beyond words so you nod. He nips at your thigh, not hard but enough bite behind it to get your attention.

“Gotta be sure you want this, sweetheart. I really need you to use your words, okay?”

You let out a huff of air, body on fire. “Yes, yes, it’s okay. More than okay. Want you.”

Satisfied, he lowers himself back down, but your hands stop him before his mouth can make content. “No, no, I want to feel you.”

He’s surprised and, wanting a taste, a little disappointed. Jonathan sits back, looking at you. “You sure?” His gaze moves to his crumpled pair of pants where his wallet sat. “I didn’t bring anything.” He sure as fuck did not expect the night to go this way.

“I’m on the pill, it’s fine.” You prop yourself up on your elbows. “Just need you inside me.”

Well, fuck. Who could say no to that? He dips two fingers in your wetness, and curls them inside you, just teasing at this point, before wrapping the digits around his length and pumping it a few times. He lines himself up with your entrance and slowly pushes in, inch by inch.

His hands fall to your thighs, squeezing the soft flesh. “How you feeling, baby?”

“Good,” you assure him, “need more.”

At your assurance, he starts thrusting, not too hard, but steady. He looks down watching himself go in and out of you, still amazed he ended up in your bed.

You moan and tremble underneath him, enough to spur him to go a little harder, a little faster. Your whines and his breathy groans mix in the air. It’s a nice sound.

Keeping up with the pace he set, he leans forward, bracing himself on his forearms so he can capture your lips in a bruising kiss. You’re sweaty, out of breath and Jonathan is sure he’d never seen you look better—not even on the cover of magazines.

He dips to nibble at the flesh of your neck, across your collarbone. You arch off the bed, almost embarrassed by how quickly you came undone and you can feel that familiar tightness in your belly.

“I’m close,” your voice is husky, barely above a whisper.

That’s all he needs to hear. He balances him on one arm, the other sliding in between your two bodies, the pad of his thumb finding your clit and rubbing it in slow, tight circles.

Your arms fly up, wrapping around his shoulders, manicured nails digging into the flesh there.

“Come on, pretty girl,” he encourages, continuing to pump into you. “Let go, need to see you cum for me.”

His words alone are enough to send you over the edge but coming with his strong, steady strokes and his thumb on your clit, it’s almost too much. Your thighs clench, your toes curl and you come completely undone.

He’s not long behind you. “Where do you want it?”

“Inside,” your quick to answer, still coming down. “I want you to come cum inside me.”

He groans, taking one deep thrust and he’s done, officially too far gone, spilling his seed. Jonathan pumps into you, slow, milking the rest out of him before he comes to a stop, staying perfectly still for a few moments before pulling out.

He collapses beside you, trying to catch his breath.

You’re tired, legs still quivering and you’re totally on cloud nine. “Can’t believe that just happened.”

“I’ve been thinking about it since I met you,” he admits. “Next time—“

If possible, the words perk you up even more. Gone is any desire to seem cool, unbothered. You twist around to get a good look at him. “There’s gonna be a next time?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.” Jonathan pauses, bravado slipping a bit. “If, you know, you want to.”

You shift a bit, pressing a kiss to the part of his body closest to you—his bicep. “I definitely want to.”

—

[writtenfromhawkins]

my birthday present to myself is going to be finally finishing this damn jonathan x reader fic. coming soon to a screen near you.

[archive-on-jpxfrds]

Injury prompts:

CW for mention of injury, blood and death

Bandaging them up while you both tell each other about your day

Using your hand to lift up their face to check for any injury, when suddenly you notice how pretty their eyes are, causing you to blush

Scolding them for their reckless actions, while they look at you, smiling softly

Trying to hide your injury from them, but failing miserably once you faint right in front of them

Hugging them tightly, telling them how worried you were

Staying the night in case they need your help, being asked to sleep on the bed instead of the couch/floor

Helping them wash off the blood from their body

Carrying your wounded enemy on your back, taking them home to treat their injuries

Noticing some not-so-recent scars on their back while applying some ointment, asking them where they got it from

Dragging them to the nearest clinic since they're too stubborn to go get themselves healed

‎‎‎

Dialogue:

"Stay still, I don't want to hurt you"

"Drink this. It'll help you heal faster"

"Go to sleep, you need rest"

"This might hurt a little..."

"Where does it hurt the most?"

"Is it a deep cut?"

"How long have you been hiding this?"

"You moron... Why are you so careless!?"

"Relax, it doesn't hurt that mu- Ow!"

"I have a perfectly reasonable explanation for this"

"I don't know it was just... there when I woke up" || "...That's the best excuse you can come up with?"

"I promise I'm fine... I just need some rest that's all"

"I'm glad you're alright"

"I... thought I lost you..."

"Never do that again. Please"

"I'd hate to be a burden..." || "It's alright, (Name). I don't mind taking care of you"

"...Who did this to you?" || "Let it go (Name), it doesn't matter-" || "Yes, it does. Who did this to you?"

"You saved me...? And bandaged me up? Am I dreaming?" || "Yeah, well, I wasn't going to let you die just like that..."

"Are you okay!? Are you hurt!? A-" || "Calm down, it's just a scratch"

"Don't even try to get up" || "Watch me!" *stumbles and falls on the ground*

(X)

[writtenfromhawkins]

asking a few fic writers i follow this cause im curious. whats your favorite work youve done?

thanks so much for asking! I don’t have a huge body of work to choose from at the moment, but I’d probably say part one of hoax. it was so easy to write (which never happens for me - I find writing really, really hard always) that I busted it out in a couple hours and had it edited and posted the next day. it’s a good reminder that working FOREVER on something doesn’t always make it better.

[writtenfromhawkins]

the way this Jonathan fic is already at 2k words, it’s not close to even being half-done and only one sort of substantial thing has happened.

[nikasholistic]

Don’t care about your writing pace. Care about the joy writing brings you. Care about your story, the wonderful creation of your imagination.

[sattlersquarry]

Worse Than Ghosts [Finale] (Steve Harrington x Reader BFU AU)

READ THE PROLOGUE HERE. READ PART ONE HERE. READ PART TWO HERE. READ PART THREE HERE.

Summary: Y/N and the Spirit Search team head to the Creel House to try and stop the demon. They get an assist from a strange girl with superpowers. Y/N faces her biggest fear.

Word Count: ~3.8k

Warnings: Language, talks of death, drowning, and deep water, Vecna's typical bullshit.

HAPPY GHOST FILES WEEK!!!! Thanks for everyone who read along and enjoyed/reblogged/commented on this series. Let me know what you thought and if I should do another AU sometime!

Y/N, Steve, Robin, Jonathan, and Argyle stood in the Creel House’s front yard for the second time that day. This time, they were prepped for war.

Robin handed out the water pistols filled with Holy Water. Jonathan and Argyle passed around the more traditional weapons—baseball bats studded with nails for Steve and Robin, an ax for Jonathan, a slingshot for Argyle, and a makeshift spear for Y/N. 

“We all clear on the plan?” Steve said, glancing around the group.

“We head up to the attic,” Jonathan said, “where Y/N had her first real vision.”

“Robin uses her weird-ass radio thing to talk to the demon,” Argyle said. 

“It’s a spirit box, not a radio!” Robin corrected with a huff. “It will allow us to hear and hopefully understand the demon, if it tries to communicate with us. Maybe we can learn why it’s doing this.”

“Once we get it talking,” Y/N continued, “I’ll start reading the Bible passage to weaken it, or whatever. If it shows itself in any way—”

“Give that bastard hell,” Steve said, gripping the handle of his bat a bit tighter. “We’re not letting this thing win. Got it?” 

“We got it, dude,” Argyle said. “Y/N, you’re coming home with us safe and sound.”

Waves of anxiety washed over Y/N. Sure, in theory, this was the perfect plan. But what was that saying about “best laid plans”? They always…fall to shit, or something like that. 

“You’re going to be okay,” Steve said, sensing her nerves. He pulled her in for a hug and gave her a soft kiss on the forehead.

Jonathan and Robin shared a knowing smile. Argyle’s features pulled into a confused squint.

“Huh?” he said. “How long have you two been schmacking booties?”

“I’m going to pretend I don’t know what that means,” Y/N said with narrowed eyes, “and that you didn’t just ask us that when we’re about to fight a demon. Does everyone have their cameras?” 

“Are you sure you want us to wear these?” Robin said. She gestured to the night-vision cameras strapped to their jackets. “This is really personal.”

“This is the proof you’ve been looking for!” Y/N said, incredulous. “Don’t you absolutely want to film it?” 

“Proof doesn’t matter when you’re in danger,” Robin said.  

“That’s insanely kind,” Y/N said, “but we’re called Spirit Search for a reason. We search for spirits, and if we find them, we record them! Even if they’re trying to kill me. If it does kill me, though, don’t let Argyle edit my ‘In Memoriam’ segment.”

“You aren’t going to get killed!” Steve said sharply. Y/N recoiled. He cleared his throat. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to yell. I’m just kind of maybe…massively freaking out.”

“We all need to stay calm,” Jonathan said. “We can do this. We study spirits, ghosts, and demons for a living. How hard will it be to kill one?”

Famous last words, Y/N thought. Before any of them could chicken out, she headed up the porch steps and into the demon’s homebase, her friends following close behind. 

Back in the attic, she felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. 

“It’s here,” she murmured. “I can tell.” 

Jonathan and Steve raised their water pistols. Robin switched on her spirit box and white noise crackled throughout the attic.

“Is anyone there?” Robin called, voice wavering slightly. 

The box started skipping through radio stations. Snippets of popular songs and DJs yammering about radio contests reverberated out of the device. 

“Yo!” Argyle hissed. “Is the demon dude trying to talk to us?!”

“Shhh!” Robin hissed. “I think so!”

The group listened carefully. The only thing Y/N could focus on was the sound of her heart pounding.

“Is this the entity targeting Y/N?” Robin said. 

They couldn’t pick out anything over the static. Robin let out a groan of frustration. 

The sound of Steve’s bat clattering to the attic floor startled them. 

Y/N whipped around and let out a frightened shout.

“No!” she shouted. “Steve!” 

Steve stood stock-still, eyes closed and moving back and forth under his eyelids. Blood trickled out of both nostrils and down his chin.  

“The demon jumped into Steve!” Robin cried out.  

“Wake up, Harrington!” Jonathan said, shoving the boy’s shoulder. 

“Brochacho, open your eyes!” Argyle yelled into Steve’s ear. “You’re being possessed, yo!” 

Y/N snatched the spirit box out of Robin’s hands and yelled into it, “Why are you doing this?! Huh?! Answer me!!!”

And then, silence. 

Y/N looked up. She stood alone in the attic, holding a now-defunct spirit box.

“I know this is another one of your goddamn tricks,” Y/N snapped. “Show yourself, you fucking coward!”

“Coward? I am the coward?! Do not make me laugh, Y/N.”

Before her very eyes, the dreaded grandfather clock zapped into existence. The clock face shattered into pieces, and the door to the pendulum swung open. 

This time, water didn’t pour out. A man stepped out of the clock and onto the dusty attic floor.

“Man” wasn’t the right word to describe him. He was a monster. He was tall, with desiccated gray skin. Tentacles grew out of his neck and back. One hand was much larger than the other, with sharp, ugly claws. Every step he took squished. Y/N felt nauseated just looking at him. 

She reached for the Bible and flipped through it with shaking hands, starting to recite the first verse she saw. It was from “Song of Solomon.” Y/N grumbled and flipped ahead for something more intimidating and less lovey-dovey. 

“Do you really think those words will stop me?” the monster said with a dark laugh. “Despite what people say about me, I am not a demon. If anything, I am more like a god myself. A god of my own creation.” 

“Good to know you’re humble,” Y/N spat. She raised her water pistol and leveled it at his chest. “Why are you doing this to us?”

“Do not take it personally,” the monster said. “I needed two weak-willed victims that I could easily manipulate and destroy. It just so happens you and your darling Steven have the right amount of trauma.”

Y/N’s throat constricted. She remembered Steve mentioning having nightmares last night too. She worried about him, stuck in his own head, reliving his own terrible memories. 

“But why?!” she said. “What, do you get some twisted pleasure from killing, or something?”

“Every time I kill,” the monster said, “I gain strength. Soon, I will have enough strength to open The Gate, permanently.” 

The Gate?! Y/N didn’t know what the hell that meant. She just knew she had to stop him before he could kill her or Steve, or any of her other friends.  

She shot him in the eye with the water gun. The water pressure was immensely strong for a child’s toy, causing the monster to stumble back. She then let out a battle cry and charged, her spear pointed at his fleshy, disgusting abdomen. 

Before she could make contact, he threw out a hand. The spear flew out of Y/N’s hands and embedded itself into the wall nearby. She skidded to a stop and scrambled back as he stepped closer. 

“It is over, Y/N,” the monster said. “I will kill Steven. Then, I will kill you. And there is nothing you can do to stop me.”

“No!” Y/N screamed. She charged once more, but with a wave of the monster’s hand, Y/N was somewhere else entirely. 

She was back in the ocean, tossed around by the dreaded riptide. 

She screamed for help until her throat was raw. She fought back, but the churning waves offered no respite. They pulled her below, into the depths. 

👻 👻 👻

“SHIT, SHIT, SHIT!” Argyle yelled. He smacked the unconscious Steve across the face. The latter didn’t react. “WAKE UP BITCHES!”

Robin, Jonathan, and Argyle tried everything to snap Y/N and Steve out of their respective trances, with no luck.

“Why isn’t the Holy Water doing anything?!” Jonathan yelled, splashing it on Y/N’s face.

“I don’t know!” Robin cried out, tears rolling down her cheeks. “They’re going to die!” 

“FUCK!” Argyle screamed. “SHIT! FUUUUUUCK!”

To their relief, Steve gasped and woke up. He stumbled backwards and fell on his ass. 

“Steve!” Robin said, throwing herself to the ground next to him and wrapping her arms around him for a tight hug. “Holy shit! What happened? What did you see?” 

“My dad,” Steve croaked out. He haphazardly wiped the blood off his lip and chin with his sleeve. “He was screaming at me. Calling me useless, as usual.”

“How did you get out of it?” Jonathan said urgently, eyes flicking back to the still-frozen Y/N.

Steve noticed her still-possessed state and let out a cry of anguish. 

“No!” he yelled. With Robin’s help, he stood on his unsteady feet.

“Steve! How did you wake up?!” Jonathan repeated.

“I don’t know!” Steve said. “This girl showed up!” 

“A girl?!” Argyle said. “Victor Creel’s angel chick?” 

“No,” Steve said. “She was too young for that. A teenager. She snapped me out of Henry’s vision, gave him hell, and sent me back here. I have no fucking clue how.”  

“Henry?” Robin said. Recognition flashed across her features. “You don’t mean—”

“Henry Creel is the killer,” Steve said, eyes wild with fear. “Always has been, even when he was just a little kid. But we don’t have time to talk about this right now!” 

The four of them screamed and shouted for Y/N to wake up. They shot Y/N with the Holy Water (despite its apparent futility). Robin even started speaking in Latin, although the only phrase she knew was “Carpe diem.” 

“Maybe that teen angel will save her?” Argyle said hopefully. 

To their utter horror, Y/N’s feet lifted off the floor until she was levitating in the middle of the attic.

All hell broke loose as the Spirit Search crew lost their shit.

👻 👻 👻

Back in Y/N’s mind, she tried her hardest to tread water and keep her head above the waves, but it was getting increasingly difficult. Storm clouds rolled overhead, and red lightning cracked in the dark sky. 

“Give up, Y/N,” the monster said, his voice seemingly coming from all sides. “Give in to the waves and let me take your suffering away, once and for all.” 

Y/N let out a cry of frustration. She didn’t want to give up. She couldn’t! But she was getting so, so tired…

Just before she could be fully submerged by the waves, a memory popped into her head: the day she met Robin for the first time, and her ghost-hunting career began. 

Her junior year of college, Y/N transferred to a new school. At the transfer involvement fair, she found a booth for the Paranormal Investigation Society. Robin was the face of the club—and, at that time, the only member.

“Join PIS!” Robin said, handing out flyers to disinterested students. “Yes, I’m aware that we need a new acronym.” 

“I don’t really believe in ghosts,” Y/N admitted, approaching the table. “But I love ghost-hunting shows. Do you watch My Ghost Grandma?” 

“Are you kidding?!” Robin said, face split into a beam. “I love MGG! Last week’s episode had me pissing my pants. Do you really not believe in ghosts after seeing the freaky apparition they captured on video?” 

“I think that was just a lens flare,” Y/N said. 

“Pfft! No way. You’ve got to come on an investigation with me, and I’ll prove to you that ghosts are totally real.”

Y/N took her up on that offer, and the duo spent a chilly night at an abandoned dorm building on their campus. Robin convinced her best friend Steve to come along on another investigation—“For safety,” Robin said, “because although we’re two badass ladies, this is a college town and I don’t trust the frat guys.”

Y/N remembered being a bit smitten with Steve the moment they met—he had kind eyes, a gorgeous smile, and a laugh that seemed to make all her problems melt away. 

Overnight investigations of local haunted spaces became a regular thing for the trio. Robin came up with the idea to make a YouTube show about ghost hunting, inspired by her and Y/N’s love of My Ghost Grandma. Thus, Spirit Search was born, and fellow students Jonathan and Argyle joined the team as crew members. 

Y/N saw flashes of all her favorite moments with her friends: eating pineapple pizza at 4 a.m. after they all got kicked off a haunted battleship. Watching Argyle yodel to catch a ghost’s attention. Late nights editing episodes with Jonathan and listening to him babble about his favorite new song. Giggling as Steve and Robin sang an off-key rendition of “Total Eclipse of the Heart” to distract her after she tripped and sprained her ankle on an investigation. 

She didn’t want to leave her friends behind. She wanted more memories, more time with them. 

When stuck in a riptide, you aren’t supposed to swim against the current or try to swim to shore. You’re supposed to swim along with the current until you can get away from it. 

Y/N didn’t know that as a kid, but she knew now. And that’s what she did: she threw all her energy into swimming parallel to the shore. 

Eventually, she was free of the current and could swim to safety. The storm subsided, and the clouds above her parted, revealing a brilliant blue sky. 

When she arrived on the beach, sopping wet, she was afraid she’d see the monster again. Instead, a teenage girl with a buzzcut waited for her.

“Are you that demon in a different form?” Y/N said cautiously.

The girl scrunched up her nose.

“Demon?” she said. “You mean One?”

“His name is One? Like the number?”

“Or Henry Creel,” the girl said. “He won’t be bothering you anymore. I took care of him.”

“You killed him?” Y/N said, eyes bugging out to the size of saucers. “By yourself? How?! He’s got telepathic powers!” 

“So do I,” the girl said, like it was obvious. “And I didn’t kill him. I sent him to a place where he can’t hurt anyone. For now. My friends and I can handle him if he shows his face again.” 

“Your friends?”

The girl nodded. She held out a hand. Y/N hesitated before shaking it. 

“I’m El. My friends Max, Mike, Lucas, and Dustin are big fans of your show, by the way. Max has a huge crush on Steve the skeptic.”

“I do too,” Y/N admitted with a small smile. “Thank you, El. I still don’t totally understand what happened here, but I think I owe you my life.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” El said. Her eyes twinkled. “But…you could do me a small favor…”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, curiosity overtaking her.

“What did you have in mind?”

👻 👻 👻

After she and El made their deal, Y/N woke up in the Creel House attic.

More precisely, she woke up three feet off the ground, and shot to the floor like a bullet, landing on her back. Her friends cried out and crowded around her, Steve rushing to wrap his arms around her and hold her steady. Y/N felt a rush of relief that he was awake again, seemingly unharmed. 

“Are you okay?” Robin asked. 

“Did the teen angel save you?” Argyle said. 

“‘Teen angel’?” Y/N said. “You mean El?”

“She has a name?” Steve said. 

“You saw her too?” Y/N said. She cupped his face in her hands, scanning him for injuries. “Did the Henry guy hurt you—”

“I’m fine,” Steve said with a shaky smile. He ran his hands up and down her arms, a comforting, grounding touch. “I’m so glad you’re okay too. So, so glad.”

“I still don’t understand,” Jonathan said. “So, some kid showed up and defeated Henry Creel? And she woke you up?”

“Yeah,” Y/N said. “She’s got powers. Same as Henry’s, but she’s not evil, I guess? First, I saw the monster, and then I was back in the ocean. I was drowning, and I almost just gave up.” 

Steve held her a little tighter.

“But then I remembered all the great times we’ve had together,” Y/N continued. “I didn’t want to give up. I wanted to fight back. I guess that coupled with El’s powers is what saved me.” 

“Holy shit,” Robin said, shaking her head in disbelief. “This is nuts. Absolutely bonkers! You do realize you were floating in the air, right? For like, five full minutes!” 

“Did you get it on video?” Y/N asked urgently.

“That’s what you’re thinking about right now?” Jonathan said with a laugh of disbelief. “Y/N, I think you think about work too much.” 

“We all deserve a vacation, yo,” Argyle said. “Let’s get the fuck out of Hawkins.”

Jonathan, Robin, and Argyle stood, brushing dust off their clothes and gathering their supplies. Steve helped Y/N to her feet, and she cleared her throat.

“Actually,” she said, “we have one more stop…”

👻 👻 👻

The next morning, Max Mayfield—leader of the Spirit Search Fan Club at Hawkins High School—paced in front of the arcade. Her fellow club members Mike Wheeler, Lucas Sinclair, Dustin Henderson, and El Hopper sat on the curb behind her.  

“They aren’t coming,” Max said bitterly, crossing her arms over her “Rock And Roll, Buckaroo!” novelty t-shirt. 

“They’ll be here,” Mike said. “The producer Y/N said they would. Right, El?”

“Right,” El said. “Y/N promised. And friends don’t lie.”

“She’s technically not our friend,” Lucas pointed out. Max glared at him. “But don’t worry, Max! They’re probably just running late.” 

“They probably overslept,” Dustin added. “After facing off with One, they need all the rest they can get.” 

“If they don’t come,” Max said, “I’m never watching the show again.” 

“Oh, come on,” Dustin said. “I know you can’t tear your eyes away from Steve and his ‘dreamy eyes.’” 

He, Mike, and El snickered. Max blushed. Lucas rolled his eyes.

“You know my eyes are dreamier,” Lucas said, batting his eyelashes at his girlfriend. “Way dreamier.”

“That’s presumptuous of you,” Max said. But she couldn’t resist smiling back at him. “And maybe, possibly true.” 

A yellow van peeled into the parking lot.

“That’s them!” El said, hopping to her feet. The boys followed suit.

“Holy shit, holy shit,” Max said. Her eyes sparkled. “They actually came!” 

The van doors slid open. Robin, Steve, Jonathan, Argyle, and Y/N clamored out.

“Who’s ready to search for spirits?!” Robin said, using her well-known catchphrase.  

The teens cheered.

“Who’s ready to buy some merchandise?!” Argyle said, holding up his backpack of t-shirts.

Y/N grabbed the bag and corrected: “Who’s ready for some free merchandise, since you saved our lives?” 

The teens cheered again, crowding around the group. 

“I’m Max Mayfield,” Max said, aggressively shaking hands with each of the team members. “President of our school’s Spirit Search fan club. It’s an honor to meet you!” 

“It’s nice to meet you too,” Steve said, with a kind smile. Max, suddenly bashful, looked at her shoes. 

“I’m Mike,” Mike cut in. “Vice-President of the club. You interviewed my annoying sister Nancy for the show. This is Lucas and this is Dustin. And you know El, at least partially.” 

“It’s great to see you in the real world, El,” Y/N said. 

“Thank you for coming,” El said. 

“Are you kidding?” Robin said. She slung her arms around Steve and Y/N. “It’s the least we could do after you saved these dinguses!”

“So,” Jonathan said, “is fighting interdimensional demons a common thing for you guys, or…”

“Unfortunately,” Lucas said, “yes. It’s become an annual thing.”  

“Technically,” Mike corrected, “he’s not a demon, or a ghost.” 

“There are some things worse than ghosts,” Max said solemnly. Y/N and Steve shared an uneasy look. 

“But El’s a total badass,” Dustin said, lifting the spirits of the group. “One will think twice before he tries anything again.” 

The Spirit Search team handed out t-shirts with the show’s logo on them and signed some of Max’s ghost-hunting equipment. Dustin procured a selfie stick he’d fashioned out of an old curtain rod and they took a group photo. 

They spent another forty-five minutes talking about their show and listening to the teens’ own experiences with the supernatural. 

“This has been fun,” Y/N said, “but we’ve got to head to the airport. Thank you, again, for stopping Henry and saving us.” 

“If you ever find yourselves back in Hawkins,” Lucas said, “come find us!” 

The Spirit Search gang bid the teens goodbye and headed off, back to sunny Southern California.

🌊 🌊 🌊

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I’m sure, Steve.” 

A week later, Y/N stood on a sandy beach in Santa Monica, watching the choppy blue waves. After their experience with Henry, she knew the only way to get over her fear was to face it—in real life, not just in her head. 

Steve stood by her side, in a pair of ridiculous neon-green swim trunks. After a few more minutes of Y/N intensely staring at the ocean, he cleared his throat.

“If you’re not up for it,” he said gently, “we can just hang on the pier instead—”

“No! I’m swimming!”

Before fear could hold her back any longer, Y/N kicked off her sandals and ran full speed at the water.

“Whoa, whoa!” Steve called, racing after her. “Wait up!” 

“Woohoo!” Robin shouted, from a little up the beach where she built a sandcastle with Argyle, Jonathan, and Jonathan's brother Will. “Go, Y/N!” 

Y/N didn’t hesitate, not even when sharp seashells poked the bottoms of her feet. Not even when cold waves smacked her, hitting her up to her chest.

She took a deep breath and dove under. 

She felt the same weightlessness she’d felt the day she almost drowned. This time, though, she didn’t feel powerless. There was a sense of peace as she swam under the water, feeling lighter than air. 

She resurfaced just as Steve swam out next to her. 

“You okay?” he asked, reaching a hand out to rest on the small of her back.

“I feel…amazing!” Y/N said. She squealed and threw her arms around Steve’s neck. He laughed and hugged her back.

“I’m glad,” he said. “Hell, you’re fast. Like, Katie Ledecky fast. Maybe it’s not too late for you to become an Olympic—”

Before he could finish, Y/N pressed her lips against his. He tasted like salt water and coconut sunscreen and hope. 

“That’s the second time you’ve kissed me to shut me up,” Steve murmured, his nose lightly brushing hers. “Are you trying to tell me that I talk too much?”

“Yes,” Y/N said. And she kissed him again, and again, and again as the water lapped around their shoulders.

🌊 🌊 🌊

Tags (I’m also tagging some mutuals & others that have expressed interest in this series! Thank you so much for your comments and reblogs!): @thehauntingof-nancywheeler @mxltifxnd0m @lilysnotes @writtenfromhawkins @stevebabey @spideystevie @musicmoviestv @wutheringplights

A/N: And that's it, the end of this series! I had a lot of fun with it. STREAM GHOST FILES ON 9/23/22!!!

[glamoroussource]

charlie heaton for gq hype, may 2022.

[writtenfromhawkins]

just hopping on to say thank you for 100+ followers! I can’t overstate how much I appreciate that any of you read my stuff, let alone interact with it and choose to actually follow me. 🥰 working on something a little more self-indulgent at the moment (the photographer!jonathan brain rot was too much to ignore) but I’d like to do a little drabble event later this week to celebrate. stay tuned, and thanks again! 

[writtenfromhawkins]

hello! i don't know why but i am craving such a deep level of angst lol. can i ask for a plot w steve h. where him and the reader are in a very heated argument, both yelling. it's not very common for reader and steve to argue, they barely do and reader has never seen steve so mad nor heard him raising his voice like that. neither the reader or steve realize this - how bad this whole thing has got to the reader emotionally - until reader goes to get a glass of water for themselves in the kitchen and slowly their state starts getting to their attention, their hands shaking, breath getting heavier. they try to call out steve's name as they start getting more alarming symptoms as blurry vision and heart pain but their voice barely comes out before they pass out. steve hears the glass shatter noise and that's when he gets alarmed and goes check.

eader doesn't realize how bad this whole thing had got to them emotionally until they distance themselves from the argument to the kitchen to get a glass

hi, friend! i'm of the firm belief that some angst is good for the soul so i totally get it. i tweaked this a little—went with a panic attack versus a full-on fainting spell, just felt i could do it more justice this way—but i hope you still like it. if not, feel free to  send it again also, my apologies it took me so long to get to this. 

ship: steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: after a close call in the upside down, steve doesn't know how to handle the thought of losing you and acts out.

word count: 1.6k

warnings: curse words, feelings of anxiety, panic attack, fighting, reader and steve both had shitty parents, some s4 spoilers i suppose (i kinda played around with things to make them fit, but there are some talks of vecna and demobats). if i forgot anything, please let me know and i'll update these warnings.

would it be enough if I could never give you peace?

With everyone safely dropped off at home—or, in Eddie's case, with a quiet, desolate place to sleep for the night—you think a warm shower and some cuddles, because God, could you use both, is in your future. But, instead, as soon as the front door shuts behind you, Steve is spinning around, pretty eyes clouded with anger as soon as they fall on you.

"What the fuck were you thinking?"

You freeze on the spot, mouth agape. Even if you had the slightest idea what he was talking about, you wouldn't have been able to articulate a response, completely taken aback by his tone.

His voice, usually smooth like honey, always filled with such affection for you, was almost unrecognizable. Hard, angry, loud—in six months of dating, he has never so much as raised his voice and you don't know how to handle it.

"Steve, I—"

"I told you to stay in the God damn boat and what do you do?"

"That's what you're mad about?" You can't help yourself, you scoff. Nothing about the situation then or now is humorous, but it is absurd.

"That's funny to you?" Steve bellows, the question is rhetorical, but you're going to answer it anyway.

"Of course not!" Thrown on the defensive, your shoulders stiffen, your brows furrow. You hate yourself for it, but you match his volume almost instantly. "But I don't know what you expected me to do."

"I expected you for once to just listen to me. That's it, just fucking listen."

He flings his arms out, an act of pure exasperation and you take a step back. Physically backing down, but certainly not verbally. Your boyfriend was in danger and you acted accordingly. Steve could throw as many temper tantrums as he wanted to but you did nothing wrong.

"I thought you were drowning and I was supposed to just sit there? Don't be stupid."

Stupid. A word Steve hated and was far too used to hearing. From his father, ex-girlfriends, and teachers. It followed him around like a shadow.

You weren't exactly calling him that but it didn't matter—treated like an imbecile, used to condescending answers and pitying looks, it set Steve further off anyway.

"Stupid?" He repeats it, tone venomous, spitting the word out through gritted teeth. "That's what this is about, isn't it? Your big buffoon of a boyfriend can't be taken seriously, huh?"

"You know that's not what I meant."

"No, I think it was," he disagrees, taking a step towards you. It's a subconscious movement, but one that sets you on alert.

Heart thumping wildly in your chest, body warm, pure adrenaline coursing through your veins, it's like you went back in time. In an instant, you went from a self-assured, confident young woman to the scared, lonely kid hiding in the stairwell, peeking from behind the door frame as your parents argued.

You didn't like that feeling then and you sure as hell don't like it now.

"You're dating the town idiot, right?" Steve continues. "Gotta make sure dummy doesn't get himself into trouble."

Deep down, Steve knows what he's doing and saying isn't okay. Nothing about this is constructive or helpful, but he can't stop himself.

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees it. He's in the Upside Down, the bats barreling down on him and, in that moment, convinced he's going to die, his mind is on you and only you. He can't think of anything more tragic than not being able to see you one last time.

But then, in an instant, you're there. Actually there, not just a figment of his imagination. When he's able to take that first deep breath, all he feels is relief. That feeling, though, once he remembers where he is—where you are—is replaced by anger.

By coming after him, you put yourself in danger and, with all the death-defying situations he had found himself in, that scared him more than anything.

Maybe if the two of you weren't screaming at each other you would have been able to read between the lines, to see what was really bothering him, but you were too far gone.

"You're not an idiot, I don't think that." You're desperate, hands shaking and mouth going dry, you want him to stop, to just drop it. "I just—I wanted to help."

"You don't get it, I didn't need your help."

Your gaze drops to his neck where an angry red ring mars the smooth, tan flesh. You jut your chin out, gesturing towards the wound. "Seems like you did need it, actually."

Instinctively, one hand goes up to cover the spot in question, hoping to conceal it. "We're not talking about me, we're talking about you and the stunt you pulled."

"Stunt? That was a stunt to you?" The trivializing of the situation, of just how much you cared and were willing to do for him, was the most insulting thing he'd said thus far. "Fine. My deepest apologies for saving your fucking life, then."

Okay, sure, it was a group effort ultimately. Had Robin, Nancy, and Eddie not also joined, you both would have been bat food, but you were the first to jump in after Steve and that should count for something.

"What, you want me to get on my hands and feet and thank you? I had it handled."

He most definitely didn't, but you didn't have it in you to argue. Not anymore. Between Vecna, the gate, and now this, you were drained.

You just didn't feel right. This awful feeling settled in the pit of your stomach, your chest felt tight and your cotton mouth only got worse.

"Whatever, I'm getting some water."

You brush past him as you head towards the kitchen. You have been inside the Harrington home more times than you could count so just grabbing a cup should have been an easy task. 

But your hands—why won’t they just stop moving?—made it damn near impossible.

“Shit, shit,” just above a whisper, you repeat the word like a mantra as if that would steady the appendage.

It worked too. Kind of, anyway. At least until it was time to head to the sink. Just a few steps away from your destination, the glass slips from your unsteady grasp, hitting the floor and shattering into tiny pieces.

“Oh god.”

If you were worried before, this new wave of panic kicks it up several notches. Steve was already so angry at you, that you didn’t want to even consider his reaction if he saw the mess you made.

So, when you hear him call your name from the other room, you drop to your knees, ready to clean it up. You just needed to buy yourself some time. 

You open your mouth but nothing comes out. The kitchen should have been silent but you could hear this awful noise. It’s labored, kind of wheezy and you wonder for a moment if there was something wrong with the fridge. It takes you a few seconds to realize it’s coming from you. 

You couldn’t breathe, not like normal. Your hand flies to your chest, the tightness  replaced with a stabbing pain, your heart still going a mile a minute, you hope even light pressure would relieve it enough to allow you to fill your lungs. It doesn’t happen.

You have your back pressed against the cabinet, hands dangerously close to the glass shards when Steve walks in. He heard something drop and your lack of response had him worried. He knew then and there something wasn’t right but that assumption still didn’t prepare him for the sight before.

“Baby?” Just like that, any petty frustrations fell to the wayside. All he felt was concern.

When he first saw you, he was worried Vecna had somehow cursed you, but when you looked up with wide, wild eyes he was relieved. Whatever was going on was more tangible, maybe he could actually help.

“What’s going on?” You don’t answer—you can’t—but he carries on, kicking glass out of the way so he can join you on the floor. “Look at me.” It feels impossible, a Herculean task, but you manage it somehow and when you do, he takes your hand. “Good, good. Let’s breathe, yeah?” He’s totally out of his depth, woefully unprepared, but he figures that can’t hurt.

Inhale, exhale.

Inhale, exhale.

You don’t know how long you’re sitting there with Steve just breathing but after a while, you start to feel better. The tension in your body eases, you feel almost calm, the color comes back to your cheeks. He notices it too.

“There’s my girl. What was that? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I guess I just got a little overwhelmed with everything going on. You know, the Upside Down, you being mad at me..” It’s a jab, yeah, but one you figured you earned the right to take.

“I wasn’t mad at you.” You quirk a brow and he sighs. “I really wasn’t. I was scared.”

It was hard for him to admit. He didn’t grow up talking about his feelings; that was not a lesson taught in the Harrington household, you pushed it down, ignoring it until you exploded. All he knew was passive aggression—thanks, mom—and full-on active aggression—thanks, dad—but healthy conversations were foreign to him.

But for you? He was willing to try.

“Why, though?”

“Because when you followed after me, you could have died. You shouldn’t be wrapped up in this stuff and it’s my fault that you are. You should be just a normal, ridiculously pretty girl in a lame small town totally unaware of this sci-fi shit. Going to college, dating a business major with a nice family.” And a real future.

“God, Steve, I gotta say... that all sounds really boring.” Neither of you are feeling particularly jovial but that still gets a smile out of him. You consider it a win. “I think it’s really sweet you want to protect me. But you gotta understand, I’m an adult. If I’m here, it’s because I wanna be.

“I love you, okay? And I want to be on whatever crazy ride you’re going on with you. You don’t have to like it, but when you have a problem, I need you to talk about it.”

How could he argue with that? “You’re right, totally right,” he agrees. “I love you too and I’m really sorry. I don’t—” I don’t want to be like my dad is what he wants to say, but instead he goes with, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I know.” And you do. He may not be perfect, but you truly believed everything he did was with the best intentions.

“Good. Now, let’s get you upstairs. I think someone could use a shower.”

“Rude!” You try to sound offended but fail.

With no complaints, you allow Steve to gently pull you to your feet and lead you towards the stairs. You were exhausted, things were still weird and you had a teen-killing interdimensional monster to deal with but you were still somehow feeling optimistic.

—

[deactivated-blog]

The 'married' couple that is just friends

"You're coming over? bring me coffee I ran out,"

"ah, my friend looks like he's about to kill you, you best leave,"

"I'm going to have to beat people off with a stick aren't I?"

"Man, thanks, I haven't been able to get to the dishes, you're a life saver,"

"do you have my sad hoody? I need my sad hoody,"

"Can you come over? I need your cooking,"

"We have plans! why do we have plans?"

"you're like my child, call me daddy.... nevermind, that sounds wrong,"

"we're going to your parent's for Mom's birthday tomorrow?"

"I left you lunch,"

"who's apartment are we in?"

"I have a key, it's not breaking an entering,"

"I don't care if it's 2am, I'm lonely, come watch a movie,"

"you remembered my snacks right?"

"Did you just get slapped? oh man, I need to high-five them, where are they?"

"Nooo let me sleep,"

"do you remember where I put my purse?"

"Buy me food, I'm broke,"

"Of course, you're my ATM, who else is going to give me money and not expect it back?"

"I forgot my wallet, hey! I need your bank card,"

"This is why I love you,"

" I can't believe you're making me do yoga,"

"What are we married?"

"yeah sure take it,"

"we're out of brain cells,"

"no milk? aw man she hates black coffee,"

"Is it safe yet? I brought Icecream?"

"I got us tickets to the concert, you owe me,"

"if you're going to cry I'm going to punch someone,"

"Hey, hey, It's okay, I'm here,"

"we won!? man, I'm good at this,"

"he did it,"

"excuse me? I was innocent, you corrupted me,"

"you fixed my sink! thanks!"

"I gave a dude your number, he wouldn't stop bothering me, give em' hell,"

"What's for dinner?"

"you have plans that don't involve me? since when?"

"Happy Birthday hoe,"

"isn't this illegal?"

"who's body are we hiding?"

Join us on Discord! with fellow writers and readers. Ask for writing advice, Join game nights, reading sessions, voice parties, and just hang out!

[writtenfromhawkins]

bundled up in my djo hoodie with decide on repeat as I work on this request. there’s some steve angst coming your way tomorrow. 🖤

[sattlersquarry]

Worse Than Ghosts [Part III] (Steve Harrington x Reader BFU AU)

READ THE PROLOGUE HERE. READ PART ONE HERE. READ PART TWO HERE.

Summary: Y/N tells her friends about her past trauma and they make a plan to (hopefully) defeat the demon at the Creel House. Afraid of what might happen, Steve finds the courage to speak his truth...

Word Count: ~2.3k

Warnings: Language, description of near-death experience (drowning/riptides), fear of drowning and deep water, fluff, first kiss and a nice dose of making out with Steve Harrington (bc who wouldn't want that?!). Also brief allusions to weed (ily Argyle let me smoke with you) and sex.

There will be one more part after this! Thanks to everyone who has read along, commented, and/or reblogged!

Y/N sobbed in the backseat of their rental van, wishing she was anywhere in the world except Hawkins, Indiana. 

She was cursed to die by the same demon that had killed the Creels, Chrissy Cunningham, and Jason Carver. Why? She wasn’t sure. She didn’t care to find out. She just wanted to be uncursed. 

A light knock on the van window alerted her to Steve’s presence. He waved at her through the window, giving her a small smile. She quickly wiped her tears away and opened the door for him. 

“Hey,” he said. “Can I join?”

Y/N nodded, scooting over on the bench seat. Steve climbed in next to her and handed her a to-go box.

“I brought your lunch,” he said. 

“Thanks,” she said, voice hoarse from crying, “but I’m not hungry.” 

Steve nodded, moving the box to the side.

“Do you think I can get the others,” Steve asked gently, “and you can talk about what’s going on?” 

Y/N wanted to cry some more, but knew that wouldn’t do any good. 

“Sure,” she said flatly.

Steve waved the Spirit Search crew over. They stood in a semi-circle outside the open van door.

“Heyyy, Y/N,” Argyle said, with the fakest smile Y/N had ever seen. “How’s it going?”

“Bad,” Y/N deadpanned. 

“Do you maybe want to elaborate on what you said in there?” Jonathan said. “You know, about you dying tonight?” 

Y/N took a few deep breaths, trying to compose herself. Steve hesitated, and then placed a hand on her shoulder. The touch anchored Y/N, giving her the strength to tell her tale. 

“When I was ten years old,” she said, “I almost drowned in the ocean.” 

She stared at her scuffed-up sneakers, unable to look the others in the eye as she recounted that horrible day.

“I wasn’t supposed to swim that day,” Y/N continued. “It was stormy and there was a riptide warning. But I was a dumb kid who thought I was invincible, and my grandparents’ beach house was on a private beach, so there was no lifeguard to tell me not to.”

Memories churned in her mind: the sensation of weightlessness, of powerlessness, as she was dragged through the dark, inky waves and pulled underneath the current. Saltwater burning her lungs, choking her, enveloping her—

“I don’t even remember how I got saved,” Y/N admitted. “I think my dad pulled me out. One second, I was gasping for air under the waves, and the next, I’m puking up seawater in the sand dunes, my family screaming and crying and yelling at me for being such an idiot.” 

“You weren’t an idiot,” Steve said. He squeezed her shoulder before removing his hand—Y/N wished he wouldn’t, missing the warm touch. “You were just a kid.”

“A stupid, stupid kid,” Y/N mumbled. “That day has haunted me ever since then. I don’t swim at all any more. Not in oceans, not in lakes, not even in freaking swimming pools.” 

“Wait,” Robin said, eyes squinting as she brainstormed. “Nancy said the Creel family saw their worst memories because of this demon. Have you been reliving your near-death experience?” 

Y/N nodded.

“Yeah. Last night, I had these insane nightmares about it. This morning, in the Creel House attic, I had a hallucination where I almost drowned in saltwater. It happened a third time when I passed out in the library. This thing is targeting me, and I’m willing to bet it’s going to try and kill me next.” 

A tense silence followed. 

“But why?” Steve said, after a moment. “Why did the demon go after you?”

“Maybe because we went into his house and he got pissed,” Argyle said. 

“But the nightmares started before we went to his house!” Y/N said. 

“Maybe the demon doesn’t just operate out of the house,” Jonathan said. “Remember Eddie’s story, about the cheerleader in the nineties? She started having problems before she ever got near the house on prom night.” 

“Can a demon do that?” Y/N asked. “Have jurisdiction over a whole town?”

“I don’t see why not,” Robin said. “Maybe this town is built on something cursed. Like in Poltergeist!”

“Shit, man,” Argyle moaned. “This is too trippy. I need some Purple Palm Tree Delight if we’re going to keep talking demons.” 

“You need a clear head if we’re going to figure this out,” Jonathan said. “We can smoke as much as we want once we’ve stopped the demon terrorizing Y/N.”

“How do we stop it?” Steve said. “How do we kill a demon?” 

“You don’t kill a demon,” Robin said. “You exorcize it.”

“Okay,” Steve said with a huff. “Fine. You and Argyle are the official believers of the group. How do we exorcize a demon?”

“We need Holy Water to start,” Robin said. She unzipped her belt bag and procured a travel-sized shampoo bottle. “I bring a tiny bit everywhere, but it’s not enough for a demon this intense, and we can’t exactly buy Holy Water from the corner store.” 

“This is Indiana!” Steve said. “There’s a church on every corner. We can just steal some.”

“Steal Holy Water from a church?!” Jonathan said. “Dude!” 

“What?” Steve said. “Desperate times! Jesus would understand. He forgives sinners, right?” 

“We don’t need to steal Holy Water from a church,” Y/N said. “We can buy multiple gallons of ‘secular water’ from a grocery store and bring it to a church to be blessed. Robin, what else do we need?”

“We should bring a Bible.”

“Which,” Steve said, “we can—”

“Don’t say steal from a church!” Robin warned. 

“Borrow from a church,” Steve corrected, “with the purest of intentions.”

“Nearly every hotel in America has a Gideon Bible in the nightstand,” Jonathan said. “I’d be willing to bet our motel is one of them.”

“Thank you Gideon!” Argyle whooped. After a beat, he added, “Wait, who’s Gideon?” 

“Thirdly,” Robin said, “we need tech. My spirit box, more precisely, to try and communicate with this thing.” 

“And we need weapons!” Steve blurted out.

“Weapons?!” Jonathan scoffed. “For something without a physical form?”

“This demon thing is unhinged!” Steve said. “What if he’s strong enough to, like, manifest himself a body?! We need to cover our bases.” 

“I hate to agree with the dingus,” Robin said, “but he might be right about this. Better to be over than underprepared.” 

“Are you guys serious about this?” Y/N said, eyes wide. “You’re willing to throw yourselves in the path of a psycho demon for me?” 

“Of course,” Steve said. “Y/N, we’re not going to let him take you without a fight.” 

“We’re like a family,” Robin added. “An uber-dysfunctional ghost-hunting family.”

“The only spirits that can mess with one of our own,” Argyle said, “are the fun, Casper-style ones.”

Y/N was honored. For the first time all day, she smiled. 

“Okay,” Jonathan said. “Let’s gather our exorcism equipment. Then, back to the Creel House to end this.”

👻 👻 👻

The plan was set: Robin headed to a local store to get bottled water (lots of it). Then, she’d bring it to a local Catholic church to be blessed. Argyle and Jonathan planned to go to a hunting goods store to get some weapons. Steve and Y/N went back to the motel for the Gideon Bible. Then, the five of them would meet back at their van and drive to the Creel House. 

In her and Robin’s motel room, Y/N pulled open the nightstand drawer and sighed with relief. She pulled the Bible out of the drawer.

“Thank God, literally,” she said. “They’ve got one.”

She sank onto the edge of her bed and clutched the book close to her chest. Steve sat next to her. If he shifted a millimeter closer, their thighs would touch. Y/N’s heart fluttered with something she couldn’t quite name. 

“You feeling okay?” Steve said. “Any more freaky visions?”

“Not since the library,” she said. “But I can…feel something. You know? Like I can tell the demon’s still there. Waiting. For what, I’m not sure. I don’t want to fucking find out.” 

“We’re going to stop it before it comes back for you,” Steve said firmly. “I promise, Y/N. And, maybe, once we’ve done that…we can finally go see that movie.” 

“You still want to see a movie with me?” she said, forcing out a laugh. “Even though I’m a demon-magnet?”

“For you?” Steve said, nudging her shoulder with a smile, “I’ll take the risk.”

He reached over and brushed a lock of hair out of her face, eyes sparkling. Y/N’s mood soured when she realized what was happening. 

She turned away and grumbled, “Okay, cut it out.” 

Steve retracted his hand, eyebrows knitted together. 

“Uh, cut what out?” 

Y/N scoffed and stalked across the room, tossing the Bible onto Robin’s bed. It bounced off the mattress and onto the floor with a thwump! 

“I’m not one of your fawning fangirls,” Y/N said sharply, “or your hookup of the week. Quit flirting with me to mess with me.” 

Steve’s face contorted into a scowl. He stood from Y/N’s bed and mirrored her body language, crossing his arms as well. 

“I am not messing with you!” he snapped. “Do you seriously think that little of me? That I’m flirting with you as some kind of sick joke?!”

“I don’t think little of you! But c’mon, Steve: you flirt with every girl you meet.” 

“I do not!” Steve said. Off Y/N’s eye roll, he sighed and corrected: “Okay, I don’t anymore.”

He cleared his throat and hyper-focused on his Nikes. 

“The last few months,” he said, voice quieter than usual, “I’ve only flirted with one girl, actually. One girl that I really, really like.”

Y/N chewed her bottom lip. She didn’t want to dare to hope he was saying what she thought.

“Tell me about this girl,” she whispered.

“For one,” Steve said, “she’s smart.” With each new sentence, he cautiously stepped closer to her. “And she’s organized. Without her, this show would fall apart. Robin created the show, but this girl is the heart and soul of Spirit Search. The glue that keeps us together.”

Steve ran a hand through his hair. He took a deep breath to get the courage to keep going.

“She has this weird quirk where she says hotel vending machine candy is better,” he said. He chuckled, a lovestruck beam spreading across his face. “It’s not. It really isn’t! It’s all from the same manufacturer. But if she asked me to, if it would make her smile, I’d go to every hotel this side of the Mississippi and get her peanut M&Ms from each one's vending machine.”

A hazy warmth spread through Y/N head-to-toe. 

“Steve…”

“She’s also insanely beautiful,” Steve blurted out. He stood so close now, he could reach out and touch her. She wanted him to touch her, so much. “Like, seriously, it’s unreal how gorgeous she is. I like her so much, and sometimes, I get the feeling that she feels the same as me, but she’s holding back…and I don’t understand why.”

Y/N’s heart melted. She wanted to kiss him, but he kept talking—

“If I’m absolutely reading this wrong and she doesn’t feel the same,” Steve said, “that’s okay. It won’t affect our friendship or working partnership.” 

“Steve—”

“And I’m scared,” Steve said, eyes wide with fear, “because she’s in real danger right now and everything I believed about the world is wrong! I don’t really know how I feel about that, but I know how I feel about her. And I couldn’t not tell her how I feel before we throw ourselves into danger. But again, if she doesn’t feel the same—”

Y/N grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled his lips against hers.

For a moment, he froze. Then, he kissed her back with fervor, hands gently squeezing her waist.

Only one word could properly summarize how it felt kissing Steve like this: intoxicating. Y/N always assumed the crush she harbored was unrequited, that niche-internet-micro-celebrity Steve Harrington would never seriously be interested in his mousy producer. But the way he held her close now, the way he murmured her name between kisses, made her realize she’d noticed his advances but denied the very-real weight behind them out of fear and insecurity. 

If her experience with this demon taught her anything, it was that life was too short to live in fear.

Y/N’s foot caught on the corner of the discarded Bible, causing her to stumble forward into Steve. They fell onto one of the mattresses. Y/N mumbled out apologies and scrambled back to her feet. 

Steve, cheeky as ever, grinned like the Cheshire Cat.

“Trying to get me in bed already?” he teased, leaning up on his elbows. “You move fast.” 

“If I’m cursed to die by the hand of a demon,” Y/N said with her own sly smile, “I might as well enjoy myself before I go.”

Steve’s pocket started blasting a Queen song: his ringtone. 

Steve sighed, annoyed at being interrupted, and pulled out his phone.

“It’s Robin,” he said, putting it on speaker. “Hey, Rob, what’s up?”

“The water has been blessed!” Robin cheered. “And I bought some water pistols. This demon’s not going to know what hit him when we bring out these bad boys. Did you guys find a Bible?”

“Yeah,” Y/N said, picking it up off the floor. “We got it.” 

“Great! Head back to the van. I just spoke with Jon and Argyle, and they’re wrapping up too.” 

Steve and Y/N promised they’d head back to the meeting spot. After the call ended, Y/N wrapped her arms around Steve’s neck and gave him another quick kiss. 

She leaned her forehead against his.

“I really hope we kill this fucking demon,” she said, “so we can do that a lot, lot more.” 

“You and me both,” Steve said. “C’mon, let’s go. Unless you think we have a few more minutes…”

“Priorities, Steve.”

“Right, of course. The demon. Let’s go.”

👻 👻 👻

Tags (I'm also tagging some mutuals & others that have expressed interest in this series! Thank you so much for your comments and reblogs!): @thehauntingof-nancywheeler @mxltifxnd0m @lilysnotes @writtenfromhawkins @stevebabey @spideystevie @musicmoviestv @wutheringplights

A/N: ONLY ONE MORE PART BABYYYY. And it's going to be a TRIP.

[writtenfromhawkins]

photographer!jonathan who went to nyu and fucking thrived in a way he never could have if he stayed in hawkins but who also still has a chip on his shoulder because you just don’t forget when you grow up like he did. then there’s reader who is pretty and privileged and got her big break by pure happenstance. constantly struggling with the expectation that she’s must always be perfect and just how vile and toxic the fashion industry can be. both of them thinking the other could never understand - think the jancy season 3 fight but with the “fun” addition of a very public relationship.