CAMP UPSIDE DOWN PART TWO
Steve Harrington x fem!reader
[33K] summer camp, broken kayaks, too much tension and that boy you hate. an enemies to lovers camp counsellor story.
I can’t stop, the way I feel.
Camp Upside Down was about eighty miles outside of Hawkins, Indiana, just past Belmont and hidden amongst the trees of the YellowWood State Forest.
It held too many kids, a collection of old wooden cabins, a few impressively sized lakes, sports equipment that was made in the sixties and Steve fucking Harrington.
It’s not like you had always hated the boy, you just couldn’t really remember the last time you liked him.
The first of June brought blue skies, summer rolling in with thick white clouds, the kind that didn’t look real. The Indiana air was warm and hazy, growing hotter in the afternoon, long days, bright nights and the return of fireflies and open air pools.
Each year you left Hawkins behind, a kiss pressed to each cheek by your parents, your old car packed to the brim as you headed west for six weeks, to your home from home, buried between cedar trees, amongst giant redwoods and overgrown wildflowers.
You rolled out of town and took the sun with you, windows down, radio blasting music and static, that soft buzz that you loved so much. You sped past the water tower, the quarry and the wheat fields, the strawberry patches and the forest that no one liked to wander too far into.
You hated that Steve Harrington followed, his car newer, shiner, faster. You hated when he overtook you on the straight, before you had even had a chance to leave town. So you would hang your arm out the window, middle finger poised in a pretty salute just for him and he’d send you one back, like clockwork, like you’d practised it, like it happened every year.
If you could get close enough, your car bumper threatening his, you could just make out the scowl behind his raybans, the twist of his lips cursing you out in the reflection of his rear view mirror.
It went on like that for the whole drive, never stopping unless the boy did, refusing to fall behind, because bathroom breaks were for losers and you did not fucking lose to Steve Harrington.
It was flat out, foot down, wind whipping in on the highway; a game of cat and mouse, curses yelled over the radio, hair messy in your face, just pushing the speed limit until overhead signs and four lane roads turned into something else.
It’s like the sun got softer when you turned off the freeway, the light hazy between the trees and it made this part of the world seem like it was just for you.
Single track roads took you through the forest, past rivers and lakes, mountains in front of you, Hawkins behind you and the air was sharper, muddled with pine and moss, still wet tree trunks from the morning rain, wildflowers and something too sweet to name.
Smoke threaded through it all when you got closer to camp, the big wooden archway greeting you like an old friend, the cabins appearing through cracks in the forest, the doors open, staff carrying in pillows and sheets, prepping for the arrival of the kids in a few days time.
And when you pulled your car into the staff parking, a clearing between trees behind the big gymnasium, you turned off your engine, closed your eyes and listened to the little slice of peace you’d get in your six week stay.
No kids, no screaming, no arguing, no singing. Not yet.
Just bird calls and the buzz of insects, soft wind between branches and the slow crackle of the main campfire if you strained your ears hard enough.
“Your shitty car gets slower every year, princess.”
You swore, low under your breath, the soft “for fuck sake,” mixing with a sigh as you let your head fall onto the seat and you opened your eyes.
Steve was standing at your open window, hip leaning against the side of your car, arms crossed, expression smug. He grinned at you.
“Harrington,” you greeted, a drawl that lacked any sort of warmth, tinted with annoyance instead.
The boy tsked, sarcasm dripping from him as he leaned in, arms on the window ledge, peering into the car and peering at the pile of cassettes on your passenger seat.
“Blondie? Really?”
You swatted at him, brows knitted together already because you’d been at Camp Upside Down for quite literally three minutes and the boy was already doing his best to infuriate you.
“That’s not very nice,” he told you but he was still grinning. “You didn’t miss me?”
You pushed the car door open, knocking Steve out of the way in the process and you scowled as you popped the trunk, turning to him with a glare.
“Miss you? I saw you at the store two days ago.”
Steve watched you haul out your bags, snorting when you let them fall to the forest floor without much care.
“Yeah, but you called me a dickhead and hit me with your cart.”
“You yelled across the store and asked me where my cauldron was.”
You set the boy with a stare, a little dead behind the eyes, just like you’d perfected. Your lip twitched into an almost smile when you let another bag tumble out of the trunk, narrowingly missing the boy's foot when he flinched out of the way.
Steve shrugged, tongue pressed to his cheek to stop his grin as he stared at you right back.
“It was a valid question.”
You slammed the trunk, your gaze on the boy withering and you kicked at one of your bags. You hated this part.
“Are you gonna help me with these?” You really didn’t know why you were bothering to ask, because the boy was already backing away, hands shoved into the pockets of his Levi’s and he was still fucking grinning.
“Why would I do that?” He questioned. “Besides, I only came round to tell you Hopper wants everyone in the office. Now.”
You glared at Steve, seething, lips parting with a high pitched scoff as you threw an arm out and gestured to all your belongings, most of your life packed into four too big duffel bags.
“You fucking just watched me unload the car.”
Steve hummed happily, too far away for you to throw a pine cone at. He tutted, all faux concern and sad brown eyes.
“Damn, I did, didn’t I?” And then he was walking away, heading to the offices that were housed in the row of cabins by the lake. “Don’t be too late, princess, Hops already in a shitty mood.”
——————
Camp leader Jim Hopper, was indeed in a foul mood when you arrived twenty minutes later, out of breath and just as annoyed as he was.
The cabin was full, bodies squeezed between desks and the moth-eaten couch was piled with people. Faces new and old stared back at your sudden entrance, the scowl that was already on your face only deepening when Steve, who was leaning lazy against a wall, wiggled his fingers at you.
“Hawkins,” Hopper barked, “how nice of you to finally join us. You think after doing this for four years, you’d know that the first day meeting is always at eleven o’clock sharp.”
Hopper's habit of calling people by their hometown should’ve been insulting, if it wasn’t for the fact that he was a teddy bear looking man, moustache twitching when he was either annoyed or amused, but he had soft eyes and an even softer patch for the camp kids.
When you first pointed out that there were three counsellors that came from Hawkins, he merely started calling you Hawkins number two, so you tended to not remind him after that.
“Sorry,” you huffed, not sounding all that sorry, and you glared at Steve as you squished yourself between Eddie Munson and Robin Buckley.
“Okay, shitheads, listen up,” Murray, Hopper’s right hand man, stood with a clipboard, thick rimmed glasses slipping down his nose. “Roll call.”
“Muson, music. You’ve got three new kids that have signed up for private guitar lessons, you’ll get their info by tonight, make sure you check in with Joyce at reception.”
Eddie Munson, one of the older boys nodded, long, dark curls already frizzy with the warmth that the forest trapped beneath its canopy. Originally from Philadelphia, the boy was still dressed in his leather jacket, a denim vest that had ripped sleeves and a giant Dio patch sewn messily onto the back, ready for a metal concert rather than s’mores around the campfire.
“And for the love of god, wear the proper uniform this year.”
On cue, Hopper started throwing out the mandatory shirts, white and years old, the sleeve cuffs red, just like the printed ‘staff’ on the back, in bold, capital letters.
“Nancy, you’re moving up this year, senior counsellor,” Nancy Wheeler, another Hawkins native, nodded sharply, her hair clipped back and uniform already on. “We’re gonna need the first week's schedule done for the kids arriving at the weekend and christ, make sure these idiots turn up for their shifts.”
Robin snorted from beside you and Murray rounded on her, a finger pointing accusingly. “Buckley, any more missed shifts from you this year and you’ll be on clean up duty for every dinner shift. Bob wants you in the mess hall tomorrow for lunch prep.”
The girl scowled, mumbling under her breath about how it wasn’t her fault she never heard the morning tannoy. A pretty girl from Detroit, Robin was all ripped jeans and backwards caps, sarcastic comments and sleeping wherever she could make herself comfortable.
Hopper threw a shirt at her, grinning when it landed against her face with a soft thump.
“Jonathan.” The boy who was busy fiddling with the camera around his neck suddenly looked up, eyes wide as if he’d been caught half asleep. “The parents are more than happy to buy more of the photo packages this year and we need new prints for the newsletters so we want content, content, content. No slacking and distracting your girlfriend or you’ll be sleeping on the other side of the lake.”
Jonathan Byers, from Bloomington, just a few hours from Hawkins, mumbled an agreement before walking over to sit by Nancy and resting his head on top of hers.
“Hargrove,” Hopper barked from behind his desk, “you’re back on sports but we’re a lifeguard down this year so you’ll be splitting shifts with Harrington.”
Billy Hargrove, California bad boy, was sliding an unlit cigarette between his lips, getting the tip slick as he grunted his agreement. He caught his staff shirt as it flew through the air at him, winking at you when he tucked it into the waistband of his too tight jeans.
“And for fuck sake, Billy, no non staff members in the cabins after six,” Hopper groaned, “I’m not having screaming mothers at my door at one in the morning this year, corrupt the girls of Indiana on your own time, not mine.”
“You two,” Murray finally rounded on you and Steve, a sardonic grin pulling at his lips. “Lovebirds, you’re both on games and swimming.”
Steve and you both huffed out a protest at the term, features pulled into a scowl and you flipped off both Robin and Eddie when they chuckled.
“And Jesus Christ, if any more of your lovers' tiffs result in more broken equipment, it’s coming out of your wages.”
You scoffed, a sound of protest as Steve swore. “Bullshit, what broken equipment?”
The rest of the team snickered as Hopper levelled you with a stare from over the top of the computer screen. Murray snorted from behind his fist and even Steve had to try to hide his grin at your words.
“There’s three cracked kayaks, fourteen broken tennis racquets and a box of punctured basketballs sitting behind the gym as we speak, sweetheart, don’t even go there.”
You rolled your eyes and pushed yourself off of the couch, grabbing Robin’s hand and yanking her up with you when she batted at your arm.
Everyone else shuffled to their feet, leaving the few newbies in the corner, wide eyed and worried as they waited for their orientation.
Hopper glared at the seven of you as you lined up at the door, restless and waiting to escape to your cabins, to steal some food from the kitchens when Bob wasn’t looking.
“No drugs,” Hopper announced before Eddie could open the door. “No smoking, and for god sake Munson, don’t tell the kids that you can eat the mushrooms, not again.”
Eddie had the audacity to look bewildered, brown eyes big and doe like as you held in a snicker from behind him. He swatted at your leg and you thumped him back, grinning when the back of your hand caught the edge of his rolling tin in his front pocket.
The older man moved onto Billy, glaring when the boy only smirked, sliding a pair of gold rimmed aviators over his eyes.
“Nudity is for the showers and your own cabin, California, I don’t wanna see your ass comin’ out of the lake, I don’t care how early it is in the morning.”
Billy simply grinned wider, snickering when Nancy blushed, rolling his eyes when Robin dug her fingers into his ribs.
“And you two,” Hopper lifted a hand, gesturing between you and Steve once more, “if I gotta break up any more fights, or play couples therapist, you’ll be paying for my own before summer is over, you hear me?”
The pair of you sulked, eyes lowered to the floor and feet shuffling as you weighed up your options of arguing back, but the office room was lacking its usual cloud of cigar smoke and the coffee machine in the corner had a piece of paper with a big ‘out of order’ scrawled on front.
“Loud and clear, chief,” Steve smirked, eyeing you from where he stood, Eddie grinning between you both.
Murray opened the door to the forest and the sun, the wall of heat seeping in and fighting with the old aircon unit and Hopper’s last words to you all before you slipped out were:
“Play nice and don’t kill the kids.”
Billy caught Steve by the shirt as they left, the boy’s watching as the rest of you walked down the gravel path that led through the trees, splintering off from cabin to cabin.
The blonde boy turned, grinning sharklike, sunglasses still on. He nodded to your retreating frame, taking a second to watch the way your shorts rode up the backs of your thighs as you climbed the cabin stairs behind Robin.
“You tapped that yet, Harrington?”
Steve glowered, ripping away his arm from the other boy but his reaction only made Billy smirk wider, a lighter appearing from his pocket as he lit his cigarette.
“Get fucked, Hargrove,” Steve did his best to sound bored, like he didn’t care.
But it only made Billy laugh, blowing smoke to the blue skies and he followed Steve down the opposite trail, heading towards the same cabin that Eddie was currently dragging a small amp into.
Steve huffed when the blonde boy stomped up the stairs behind him, stepping over the forgotten bags that lay unpacked on the floor.
“Maybe that’s Hawkins' problem, you know?” He asked, referring to you. Billy eyed Steve, leaning against his top bunk, the air in the wooden cabin so much cooler than outside. “Maybe she just needs a good seeing to.”
Eddie raised his brows, looking carefully between his bunkmate and Billy, wondering if there was about to be a new record for how quickly a fight broke out. The current sat at seventeen hours after arrival, but there had been a lot more vodka involved that time, and maybe a comment or two about that one time Billy got the clap from some girl in the next town over.
“Now now, boys,” Eddie intoned, “I’ve not nearly had enough sleep to deal with this shit.”
He went ignored.
Billy continued, teeth sharp and white and bared as he followed Steve around the bunks, leaning against the dresser before the boy had a chance to open it and his eyes flashed when he watched the muscle in the brunette’s jaw twitch.
“Think she’d let me?” Hargrove asked, “think she’d get a little wild for me?”
“Don’t you have shit to do?” Steve snapped, refusing to look at Billy, ‘cause he could feel the tips of his ears getting hot, a horribly uncomfortable tightness clawing at his throat.
But Billy could see right through him, years of spending summers together, watching the way you and Steve argued, nose to nose and chests panting. He always made sure he had a front seat to the show and poking the angry bear only made the inevitable first argument so much more fun to witness.
Billy clicked his tongue, still grinning unbearably wide. “Maybe I can go visit Hawkins… I’m sure there’s something heavy that your girl needs help with.”
“She’s not my fucking girl.”
The blonde winked at Eddie as he passed, the longer haired boy doing nothing to hide his smile, knowing fine well what game Hargrove was playing. And shit, he was winning, ‘cause by the time Billy left and Steve spun back around, his fists were clenched and a heavy scowl pulled his brows together.
“You’re too easy, Harrington.”
“Shut up,” Steve muttered, but there wasn’t much heat behind it. He liked Eddie, and god, he knew he was right.
——————
“You know, every summer I expect you and Harrington to walk into camp, hand in hand, talkin’ all sweet to each other,” Robin wasn’t looking at you as she spoke, too busy stuffing already crumpled shirts into the shared dresser, but you knew she was grinning. “The sexual tension has to break sometime, you know?”
“Over my dead, fucking body.”
Your reply was one she’d heard before, year after year, summer after summer, because every June, the same thing happened. Fall outs, arguments, screaming matches in the mess hall, head to head battles on the dock, late night yelling over a campfire and a bottle of cheap bourbon.
“I still don’t get it,” the girl smirked, finally eyeing you from over the top bunk. The late morning light made the small cabin glow, the surface of the lake reflecting in through the open window and off of the panelled walls. “Steve isn’t that bad.”
“That’s because you didn’t have to go through high school with the King himself,” you deadpanned, already bored of the conversation. You’d had it before, several times over with almost all the camp staff, each one wondering why you and Steve fucking Harrington wanted to kill each other over a game of dodgeball, the last poptart at breakfast, picking teams on games night. “Harrington got everything I worked hard for, just ‘cause his daddy has some money.”
You threw your now empty duffle bag to the ground kicking at it until it slid underneath the bed. Your own pillow was in its rightful place on top, the peach coloured case clashing horribly with the army green duvet, but it smelled like home.
“I announced I was running for class president in sophomore year, and then that asshole decided he would to,” you levelled Robin with a stare, still petulant after so many years. “He threw a party at his stupid rich house and by Monday, everyone was talking about Steve Harrington’s pool and how they were voting for him.”
“Don’t you think it’s unhealthy to hold onto such a grudge-”
You cut the girl off, on a tangent now she’d brought the sore subject up. “Like, wasn’t it enough that he was the swim team captain? And then! When we got into that stupid fight in Junior year, we both ended up with a weeks detention but no, no. Mr Harrington swoops in with a little two grand donation to the school’s library upgrade and low and behold, little Stevie is suddenly off the hook.”
You kicked another bag, this one not as empty and you tried not to wince when your toe made contact with what you assumed was a collection of books.
“As long as his record is squeaky clean, right? S’not like his dad won’t just pay his way into fucking Yale, or Princeton, for him anyway,” you were grumbling now and when you looked up to see Billy Hargrove walking by with a too smug smile, you flipped him off, trying to make yourself feel better.
He just wiggled his fingers at you in a wave, winking when you grimaced.
“I think I need a drink,” you said, throwing yourself down onto the bed and concluding your Steve Harrington rant, more than likely only the first of the day.
The sheets smelled the same, like they always did. A little musty, like the back of a storage cupboard, almost hidden by the laundry detergent you knew Joyce made Hopper use. Fresh like pine needles, like the forest floor and mountain air. Kinda like another home.
Robin barked out a laugh before coming over and standing between the space between your knees, your legs splayed over the too narrow mattress. She offered you a hand, exaggerating a loud groan when you took it and she pulled you back up to sit. An affectionate pat fell on your head before she looked around the mess of your half unpacked cabin, sheets and folded towels on the dressers, drawers open and half full, a litter of shoes by the door and an unplugged radio on a chair.
“You know what?” She huffed out, “we both need a drink.”
——————
The keg party by the lake was a first night tradition, the older staff members long gone to their beds after a tiring first day in the forest heat, lugging around equipment and furniture.
The rest of you gathered at the dock, crowding the small part of the water front that had sand instead of rocks, the air still warm from the leftover sun despite the stars in the sky. It was inky black in the middle of the woods, the clouds navy, the lake a mirror and the fire gave off an impressive amber glow.
Everyone was painted in orange light, pink and red on their cheeks, smoke in their hair and a different kind of fire in their chests when Billy produced a few bottles of cheap whisky, a half bottle of bourbon and surprising everyone, Nancy had added a bottle of vodka to the pile. Cheap beer came in the form of lukewarm kegs and despite the effort it took, Jonathan pulled the short straw and drove out of camp, meeting the delivery boy on the main road to pick up a pile of hot pizza boxes.
It smelled like summer, smoke and god awful decisions.
The dirty beat of Need You Tonight by INXS started through the tannoys above you, the old, tinny speakers hidden in the trees.
Some people cheered, others moved to the sand to dance, a slow grind of bodies with their bare feet in the lake, water lapping at ankles as they moved. Steve was grinning from the dock, a rip in the one knee of his jeans, the skin underneath already tanned as if he belonged under the sun. The white t-shirt he wore was threadbare, years old with ‘camp upside down’ faded in green on the chest.
He was watching you, a feeling that used to make you unravel, like you knew he did it just to earn a rise from you. So you waved instead, sugary sweet and full of sarcasm, huffing when he beckoned you closer with a hand that was holding the last of the bourbon, and you told yourself it was the promise of alcohol that made your feet move.
You rolled your eyes before narrowing them at the boy in front of you, your red cup clutched to your chest and you couldn’t help but take another step forward, just a small one, until the toes of your shoes were touching his.
He looked down at the wooden boards, the water lapping underneath, barely seen between the cracks in the dark, but the boy was too focused on the way your converse bumped his nikes. It felt like a challenge, like everything with you did and when he looked back up, your chin was tilted high and your eyes were glittering.
You looked like trouble and he hated it.
“Is this another one of your shitty mixtapes, Harrington?” You let the words drip from your lips, whisky mixing with distaste and the late night air.
Everything was warm and sweet, bourbon and peaches, campfire smoke and leftover lake water on your skin. Steve looked at you, eyes shining, freckles on his nose like stars and he grinned.
“How’d you know, princess?” He took the cigarette that had been tucked behind his ear, slid it between his lips as he kept your gaze, always undefeated in the staring contests you both never meant to start.
“‘Cause it sounds like something a boy would make when he’s trying too hard to get a chick in his bed.”
He lit the cigarette, still grinning, the end of it caught between teeth and Steve Harrington looked so unbelievably ready to play one of your little games with you. The ash burned red in the dim light, the sounds of your friends and co-workers dull behind you both.
“Does that mean it’s working?”
“You fucking wish, wonder boy,” you scoffed and you made a grab for the bottle he was holding, twisting your lips to hold in the annoyance when Steve moved it out of reach, holding the amber liquid above your head.
“So mean already,,” Steve tutted and you hated the familiar warmth that wrapped around his words, like it was supposed to be a compliment. “Don’t you usually wait for day three before breaking out that one?”
“Give it,” you demanded, and from over Steve’s shoulder you could see Eddie and Jonathan watching, expectant smiles on their faces and interest in their eyes.
“Make me, princess,” Steve answered, voice just as short as yours but he sounded too amused, like he always did when he was trying to push your buttons. The boy was too tall, his hand and the bottle well above your head, leaking into the night sky above and you weren’t going to humiliate yourself by trying to jump for it.
So you drained what was left in your cup, the vodka was too cheap and it burned your tongue but the mix of cherry kool aid made up for it, staining your tongue red. You swiped at your lips, grinned and planted your hands on Steve’s chest much to his surprise.
But just as his mouth fell into a pretty ‘o’ shape, his brown eyes darkened to that dark honey shade you were used to, you pushed, hard. He hit the water with a splash and to the raucous sound of whoops and cheers, a wolf whistle when he emerged, white top soaked and clinging to the ridges and dips of his muscles, tangled at his waist.
He spluttered, waist deep in the lake as he stared back up at you, hair dripping into his eyes and oh, he was mad. You were fucking joyous, wrapped up in the way people were laughing and you didn’t break eye contact with the boy as you bent at the waist and picked up the bottle that’d dropped as he fell.
You pulled off the lid, grinned and brought it to your lips, draining the rest of the smoky drink, another burn that nipped at your throat, your chest, your skin. You felt too warm when you chased a stray drip of it with your thumb, sliding over your lip before sucking it back between your lips.
“Made you,” you told Steve.
The things you do, don’t seem real.
The kids arrived in a wave of colours and chaos, bags forgotten on buses, new cabins already turned inside out and Joyce had a queue as long as the lake outside of her office, her hands full of allergy medication, inhalers and requests to change bunks ‘cause ‘Kyle Jamison snores like a seventy year old with a lung condition.’
The camp itself was just as messy, it always had been. The old cabins littered the space, winding dirt tracks leading you into a cluster of trees, surrounding the old wooden huts, the porch light almost always flickering in the dark.
There was faded bunting hanging from branch to branch, the old gym that sat with its rusting tin roof near the back, the dock with its splintering planks by the lake. The grassy hub at the centre was worn down by constant running and makeshift picnics and the wildflowers that free in between it all were getting too tall, bursts of red, yellow and orange between green moss.
It was getting old, things were a little broken but the entire forest smelled like morning dew, that ‘it’s just rained’ kinda way and old campfire smoke. It was another home.
Camp Upside Down was officially in full swing.
You were pleased to see you had some of your returning favourites in your group that year: Will Byers, Lucas Sinclair, Suzie Bingham and Dustin Henderson.
You were just going through the last of the names on your list, kids gathered in front of you and awaiting their assigned cabins when Steve snatched the clipboard from your hand, huffing.
“Harrington!”
“What the hell is this?” Steve grumbled, looking at the sheet of paper and at your group. He singled out Dustin, and the boy flushed, all nervous grin and bright eyes underneath his curls. “Henderson, I thought you said you were requesting my group this year?”
The young boy shrugged, glancing at the trees instead of Steve.
“I, uh, I said I was happy with either of you,” Dustin grinned, front teeth coming in more than they were last year and you beamed back. “Besides, Hawkins sneaks us extra cookies before bed.”
You shot the boy a look.
“Hey! I told you not to tell anyone about that,” you admonished, eyes rolling. “And that’s not my name, Dustin, we spoke about this last year.”
But before Dustin could argue back, Steve was pulling you aside, his hands shockingly warm as they wrapped around your wrist. You stumbled into the tree line with him, shoes sinking into moss, senses surrounded by cedar and cicadas and Steve.
“What the fuck? Steve!” You hissed, pulling yourself from his grasp with a scowl.
Before either if you could say anything,Lucas Sinclair, a tall, dark haired kid tapped a passing new counsellor on the arm. They looked concerned when the boy pointed to you both, hidden in the trees.
“Mom and Dad are fighting again,” he told them, voice bored and lacking any real worry.
“You’re stealing my kids, princess!” Steve’s voice was just as annoyed as yours, his brow furrowed as he stabbed a finger at your sheet of names.
“Stealing?” You scoffed, whacking your clipboard against his own. The metal clip narrowly missed his fingers and he swore at you hotly. “Stealing? They’re children, Harrington, not collectibles.”
The kids in question were giggling where you’d left them, your group mixing with Steve’s as they stared in that unabashed way only preteens could. You flushed when you heard one of them - Nancy’s brother, Mike, you were sure - made wet, kissing noises. Immature and highly ironic, you noted, considering he was standing hand in hand with a girl called El.
You glared at them all and they quietened, but only just.
Spinning back round to deal with your other problem, you pointed a finger to Steve’s chest, hating the way he smirked at your sudden frustration.
“And what’s your point anyway, huh?” You huffed, “you have Maxine this year, I always have Max in my group!”
Steve looked entirely too smug as he bent a little at waist, crowding down into you so you were both toe to toe.
You hated it.
You hated his brown eyes, the way they caught the sun. You hated the smattering of freckles he got every summer, the moles on his neck, the ones you knew dotted the rest of his skin. You hated his hair, how it fell into his eyes when he got mad at you, how he was too focused on you to push it back.
“Maybe Max just likes me better.”
You gasped, entirely offended at his accusation and before you could hurl something sharp and quick back at him, the girl in question raised her hand from the middle of the crowd, face scrunched in uncertainty.
“Hi, uh, yeah” You both turned to look at the redhead. “Yeah, no, that’s absolutely not true.”
You rounded back on the boy, a shit eating grin on your face as you raised your brows, your expression victorious.
“Whatever,” he mumbled, almost nose to nose now and you could smell the spearmint gum he’d chewed, the clean smell of his cologne, whatever body wash he’d used that morning. “Good luck keeping mini Byers alive.”
“Hey!” Will piped up, louder than he’d been last summer and he was scowling at Steve. “I only have three inhalers now.”
Steve rolled his eyes, finally moving out of your space and rounding up his kids like some sort of rogue cowboy, sans horse. He waved the boy away, sounding somewhat placating when he congratulated him.
“That’s great, Will, honestly buddy,” Steve offered a fist bump, one that the smaller boy happily accepted. “Just don’t let Hawkins here let you forget them yeah?”
Steve turned back to you once more, still smug, still infuriating. “We wouldn’t want her to get in trouble now, would we?”
——————
“Camp has been in session for five minutes.”
Murray was standing in front of you, hands open in a gesture that screamed ‘for the love of god, explain yourselves.’ Hopper was sitting at his desk, eyes closed, fingers running circles at his temples and he sighed heavily.
Neither you nor Steve spoke, eyes trained on the old, worn floorboards, converse shuffling, shoulders shrugging, lips twisted to hide your matching smirks.
“Does someone want to explain what happened this time? Because we can’t keep throwing kayaks in the trash like they’re broken cups, people! They're not cheap!”
“Well, you see, Steve has this real annoying habit of-”
“- just because the princess feels then need to win at everything-”
“I need to win at everything?! Me?! Are you fu-”
“Yes you! Always breathin’ down my back, waitin’ for me to fuck up so you can-”
“Enough!“ Hopper jumped up from his chair, hands slamming on his desk as he hunched over it, shoulders heaving, face too red. “Who. Broke. The Kayak?”
You and Steve sighed, shoulder slumped, heads tilted to the ceiling as if you could avoid the question, each other, the inevitable punishment that was coming your way. You sighed, Steve groaned and you both swore.
Because, honestly? You weren’t sure who’s fault it was. Maybe yours, probably Harrington's. More than likely both. ‘Cause the kids had stumbled out of the lake, giddy and a little sunburnt, leaving you to haul the kayaks onto the shore on your own.
Steve had only watched you for a few minutes, smirk on his face as you struggled with the faded red boats, huffing as you attempted to lift them onto the racks, feet clumsy and damp hair sticking to your forehead, your cheeks.
In fact, he looked entirely too amused as he leaned against the dock and by the time he’d come over, offering a rare display of help, you stubbornly told him to ‘fuck off.’
He’d laughed at that, angering you more and you squeaked as he stretched out behind you, his chest still bare from helping his group in the water, and the solid warmth of it brushed against your back when his hands moved to help yours.
He jumped when you did, hands stuttering over your own, over the kayak and you had to push yourself up onto your toes when the boat slipped from the railing. You both caught it in time, Steve pressed into you, cedar and mint and boyish cologne as the curve of your ass settled into his hips. As soon as the kayak was in place, you spun, pushing at his shoulders.
“I can do it myself,” you mumbled, suddenly far too flustered to sound overly annoyed. “I don’t need your help.”
“Christ, princess, you sound like a five year old,” Steve scoffed, but you couldn’t help but notice the flush on his cheeks, looking like you felt. “Can’t admit when you need help, huh?”
“I don’t need help from you, wonder boy,” you tried to laugh, but it came out too pitchy, too forced.
The camp was quiet now the kids had gone back to their cabins, the lake settling after the afternoon swim, the smell of churros and pizza rolls coming from the mess hall. The air fizzed with summer heat and something else and you weren’t sure why, but your chest was heaving, the straps of your swimsuit suddenly feeling too tight.
“Stop calling me that,” Steve growled, eyes flashing and he moved into you again, the way he did when every argument started. “You know I fuckin’ hate that.”
“No shit,” you spat, meeting him in the middle, chin raised in a taunt, a dare, a challenge. “You think I’m here to make your life easier than it already is?”
“You’re fucking infuriating,” Steve hissed, “you know fuck all about my life, princess, don’t act like you’re so hard done by.”
You pressed a hand to Steve’s stomach, ignoring the way the muscles there clenched under your touch and you pushed at him, something inside you crackling when he didn’t budge.
You hated his stupid smile, the way his lips twisted when he made you mad enough to scrunch your nose at him. You hated the way he looked down at you when you were this close, through his lashes, like you were something to be studied. Like he liked the way got into his personal space.
“Well damn, why don’t you tell me how you really feel, Harrington?”
Steve pushed his tongue to the inside of his cheek to try and hide his grin, and he shrugged, trying to look entirely unbothered at your pushing. He took another step towards you, chasing you slowly when you stumbled back, body pressed to the stacked kayaks behind you.
The old boats were warm from the sun, the cheap pvc hot on your skin, back bared down the low cut of your swimsuit, your shorts doing nothing to protect the backs of your thighs. You wondered if that’s why your chest felt flushed, if that’s why your face was heating up.
“Can’t do that,” he said, tutting before taking his time letting his eyes drop down your body, before trailing back up again. He caught your gaze, held it, bolder than ever. “I’ll get in too much trouble.”
And then, he fucking winked.
So really, it was Steve’s fault that you stumbled into the racks, the kayak that the boy had just helped you push into place rocking on the rails. Neither of you had the reflexes to do anything about it when it slipped backwards, landing on the hard ground, the dull thud ringing out across camp, the sound ending with a sharp crack, the pvc splitting across the bow of the boat.
So that’s how you both ended your night in the mess hall, waving after Bob as he finished serving up sloppy joes and went to find the gaggle of kids that demanded that he needed to fix their broken Walkmans and waterlogged Mattel electronic games.
Murray had stood in front of you both, grinning widely as he handed you mops and cleaning supplies, gleefully pointing out the mustard stains on the linoleum, the spattering of jello that had somehow painted one of the windows.
It was times like these that you were almost sure you preferred Hopper’s red face and grumbled lectures.
“I want this place spotless,” Murray told you both, waving a pair of yellow rubber gloves at Steve. The boy snatched them, face less than impressed when the man simply chuckled. “If you can flirt somewhere away from expensive camp property, you can work out some of this sexual tension by trying to get rid of that dried in chilli from last year.”
You would’ve gagged at the mention of the fossilised food if you hadn’t burned at the insinuation of flirting. And sexual tension. With Steve fucking Harrington.
But the boy beat you to it, as always, his eyes widening and he brandished the mop like a weapon as he pointed at you.
“We were not flirting,” he insisted, “we do not flirt.”
Murray chuckled, “alright Casanova, keep your hair on.”
You snorted and Steve scowled, shooting you a look that clearly was meant to tell you to shut the fuck up, but you couldn’t help yourself.
“Murray, I’d like to think in all the years that we’ve known each other, you’d think I had better taste than to pine after Harrington,” you turned to the boy, smiling as sweet as the summer outside. “Wonder boy has enough of the fifteen year olds twirling their pigtails for him.”
“Stop calling me that.”
You ignored him, splashing his trainers with your mop instead and he kicked your bucket in return.
“Yeah, no, this?” Murray clicked his fingers at you both, pointing back and forth at you as if you were a science experiment. “This is ridiculous. Do something about it before you both implode. I’m not having you take the entire camp down just because you’re both too horny to come to terms with normal human emotions.”
Your jaw dropped, a small noise of indignation coming from you and Steve looked completely bewildered.
He grinned once more, smug as he shook his head, like he was the only enjoying whatever inside joke was going on. He turned to leave, not before reaching into his pocket and flicking something at Steve.
The boy caught it instinctively and he turned to the man with wide eyes. But Murray was already walking away, a stern hand raised in the air, finger pointed to the roof as if he was giving you both some sage words of wisdom as he called out:
“Keep it clean!”
You realised he wasn’t just referring to the mess hall when Steve held up the object, face aghast and cheeks positively on fire, the square, foil packet pinched between his fingers.
You were burning, mouth open in surprise and you panicked, batting Steve’s hand and making the condom fall into the sudsy water you had both already spilled onto the floor.
You definitely preferred Hopper’s way of punishment.
“Put that in the trash, right fucking now,” you demanded, staring at the offending object like it was a ticking time bomb, waiting to blow.
“Christ, settle down, princess priss,” Steve huffed, “it’s not gonna bite.”
But for once, he did what you asked, the highs of his cheeks still tinted pink as he snatched the silver packet from the floor, stuffing it deep into the trash bags you’d both been equipped with. He didn’t look at you.
You both worked in silence as the late afternoon turned into dusk, the sky outside the window a pretty lavender, the clouds over the lake turning the water tangerine and it was so quiet.
Most of the kids would be in their bunks by now, some excitedly making their way over to one of the older cabins where Eddie would organise a game of Dungeons and Dragons for them all. Nancy would be in Hop’s office, going through the next week's schedule and Jonathan would be hidden in his makeshift darkroom, a small shed that was once used for bikes.
You were almost certain Billy would be skulking the woods, looking for a ritual sacrifice or some lone kid to blow his shrill whistle at. Either option seemed likely.
Robin would probably already be back in your shared cabin, music on, one of Eddie’s free joints hanging from her lips and you wondered if Steve would normally spend his down time alone, or if he liked to wander the collection of bars the next town over had to offer. If he brought some girl back to his cabin, if he pressed her down onto his stupid bunk that probably smelled like sunscreen and his cologne.
Your stomach twisted ugly at the thought and you slammed the soaking mop down onto the floor harder than you needed to.
You were positively glowering at the streaks of leftover over pudding some kind had smeared across the floor, kicking the forgotten baseball cards and tiny action figures so they skittered under the stacked chairs.
“What’s got your panties in a twist?” The boy called out.
He was sitting on one of the long lunch tables, legs swinging with a smirk on his face. He’d hardly cleaned, you’d come to realise, but you couldn’t find it in you to care. You had other reasons to be mad now.
You stared at him from across the empty hall, chest heaving with an annoyance that only Steve Harrington could pull from you. You let mop clatter roll the floor, uncaring as you rounded on him.
“You,” you spat, hands on your hips and hair messy from where the late night heat made it stick to your forehead.
“Me?” Steve asked, all faux shock and innocence with a hand pressed to his chest. He grinned, wolfish and sharp edges. “Didn’t realise I had an effect on your underwear, princess, wanna elaborate?”
There it was again, you realised. That flirting lilt that weaved its way through his usual taunts and teases, Steve’s normal bite not quite cutting as deep. Not this year, not this time.
It made you flustered, on edge, unable to formulate the kind of barbed reply you usually kept on the tip of your tongue, just for him, and oh my god, it infuriated you.
“You have absolutely no reason to be thinking about what’s under my shorts, Harrington,” you told him, eyes narrowed as you went about moving the stacks of chairs against the wall.
“Bold of you to assume I’d want to, Hawkins.”
The light was leaking from the day and what was left of the sun made the shadows on Steve’s face lilac and peach. You didn’t know you’d marched over to him until you were able to reach out and touch him.
You didn’t. You couldn’t.
“Don’t call me that,” you snapped, “don’t call me that as if you don’t come from the same shitty, backwater town as me.”
Steve leaned forward, his hands curling around the edge of the table as he raised his brows, ready for another argument. You could feel the heat radiating from him, like he’d trapped the sun in his chest, like summer lived inside of him.
“D’you prefer princess? The princess of Hawkins, is that it?” His voice was mocking, his eyes sarcastically soft.
“Fuck off, Harrington,” you snarled, and you couldn’t help but lean in too, Steve’s knees pressing into the front of your thighs, your fists clenched by your sides. “At least I’m getting away from that place without my daddy paying my way out.”
“Watch your mouth, sweetheart,” Steve spoke lowly, more serious than you’d heard him before. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
“Ooh, did I hit a nerve, sweetheart?” You bit back.
The boy stared at you, gaze heavy and hot in a way that made you squirm. The air was buzzing, popping and crackling like there had been a fire lit between you and suddenly, you didn’t know how you were supposed to end this fight.
The tension was too thick to walk away from, sticky like honey, trapping you there.
“You’re fucking impossible,” he whispered, staring at you like you were a puzzle piece that just didn’t fit. “You’re a pain in my ass, you have been since fucking freshman year.”
You scoffed, pinched and nipped by his words because you were just as aggravated by his presence as he was yours. Maybe more. And probably for longer.
“Freshman year?” You said, surprise colouring your tone. “That’s real cute Harrington, but you’ve been getting on my last fucking nerve since seventh grade.”
“Seventh grade? What the fu-”
You sucked in a breath, preparing yourself. You’d been waiting for this moment for eight years.
“Mrs Duncan’s science fair!” You burst out, “I worked my ass off making those vegetable batteries!”
Steve was staring at you blankly, lips parted.
“I had my tables and all my charts, I even bought a metre to measure the voltage with just my pocket money!” You jabbed a finger to his chest, lips twisted into an almost pathetic pout but you felt twelve again and Steve Harrington still pushing your buttons.
“And you! You waltzed in half an hour late, with a stupid bottle of coke and some mentos, claiming that you’d been the one to discover fucking CO2.”
Steve, unable to hide his amused smile, just shrugged. “I was barely thirteen, Jesus Christ princess…”
“And then your dad came in behind you,” you sniffed. “He walked right up to Mrs Duncan and handed her a piece of paper. And I remember it had a few zeros on it,” you laughed without much humour.
The smile slipped from Steve’s face.
“It was so weird, y’know? How that happened and then you won? And then the next week the library had been restocked and suddenly there were new bunsen burners in the science lab.”
You were genuinely surprised when Steve shoved past you, his hands a shocking heat on the dip of your waist as he grabbed at you to tug you out of his way. You didn’t know when you’d moved to stand between his legs, close enough to see the different shades of brown in his eyes, the way there was a small freckle just below his left brow.
He was marching across the mess hall, mop and trash bag forgotten and you were so shocked that it took you a few seconds before you called out, weaker than you had previously been speaking.
“What’s wrong, wonder boy? Don’t like it when you’re called out?”
You weren’t sure if you felt smug or concerned when he spun on his heel, stalking back towards you and moving into you, close enough that the mess of his hair brushed your forehead. But you stood your ground, your legs bumping into the back of the table he’d just left, and you watched through interested eyes as Steve’s chest heaved.
He looked like he wanted to say something, to yell at you even. But you tilted your chin in one last act of defiance, the tip of your nose just, just brushing his and you swore on everything that was holy that you watched the fight leave him.
He was still breathing heavily, like he’d run a mile, took a few hits in a boxing ring, got into a fight with a pretty girl and walked back in for more. You hated it when you realised your chest was moving the same, breaths leaving you in short bursts but you didn’t dare let your stare drop from the boy’s.
You watched lips part, you watched his gaze drop to your mouth and suddenly the birds outside stopped chirping and you could’ve sworn that the world ceased spinning. It felt like the forest was waiting.
Like it was holding its breath.
But then the mop that Steve had left resting against the table he had crowded you against fell, clattering to the floor with a sharp echo. It startled you both, jumping apart as you shared one last breath together, eyes on the floor, cheeks burning.
You didn’t try to stop him when he left a second time, managing to disappear out of the door and into the summer night. You watched the trees and the shadows swallow him, fireflies and leftover smoke in the air and fucking hell, you hated that you watched him walk away until his cabin door could be heard slamming shut.
Tell me what you’ve got in mind.
By the end of the second week of camp, the staff was starting to show the stress of running after a bunch of kids twenty four hours a day. Some of the younger children in Robin's group had caught a bug, and between your friend, yourself and Joyce, you were all run ragged, hauling buckets across camp and dishing out cold compresses like sweets.
So when Saturday rolled in, warmer than the last, you were all ready to let off some steam, meeting behind the gymnasium when the sun went down, greeted by a small fire that Eddie got going in an old trash can. He brought some pre-rolled joints, some stolen bags of chips from Bob’s secret stash and the gym was far away enough from the rest of the camp that no one heard the noise of the boombox Jonathan brought with him.
You threw your own additions into the middle of the makeshift circle that the seven of you made, the newer counsellors still too scared to toe the line of what might get them fired. You stared at the pile of paraphernalia in the middle of the halved logs, makeshift sofas in the too long grass.
A baggie of weed, a grinder and Eddie’s tin of joints, Billy’s favourite whisky, another bottle of vodka - loaded with cherry jolly ranchers that made it pretty and pink. A few cassettes, some homemade mixtapes, the stolen chips, some red vines and sour patch kids, the packet already open and sugar coating the grass.
You hadn’t really spoken to Steve since the mess hall incident.
You’d rather immaturely begged Eddie to switch block sessions with you, allowing you to take your kids to the other side of camp, far from where Steve spent time with his group. You’d organised a massive arts and craft project with Nancy instead, avoiding her knowing looks and pointed questions, letting Dustin go crazy with googly eyes, glitter and neon felt tips instead.
It didn’t matter if you’d asked the kids to make their favourite animal, you’d accept Henderson’s four eyed, sparkly green lizard looking thing over Nancy’s inquisition any day of week. You felt a little bad though, when you all discovered as a group that Will was most definitely allergic to the new type of glue sticks that Hopper had bought.
But it meant that you’d only seen Steve during some meal times, a glance over breakfast, a small collision during one dinner, fries and a bottle of iced tea falling to the floor and everyone had stopped, stared, waited for the yells.
They hadn’t come.
You’d watched him argue with Max when she climbed a tree that he’d already warned her was too tall, you and your group stopping mid swim in the lake to bob around in the current, watching as the boy kicked a dead branch in frustration before scrambling up after her when Max inevitably got stuck.
You knew he was listening in when Dustin started asking why you worked at the camp, a question he asked you every year. You always told the boy it was because you loved seeing him and the rest of the rugrats he called friends. And it always worked when he was younger, ‘cause he’d smile and let you muss up his curls, overjoyed with such an answer and a piece of bubblegum from your pocket.
But he was older now and less believing and when you gave him the same adoring monologue, he simply raised his brows and asked again.
“College,” you had told him simply. “Or money really. I need the cash to be able to leave Hawkins and go somewhere else.”
“Where?” Dustin had asked you, sincere in only the way kids could be.
You were overly aware that Harrington was sitting behind you at the other table, back to back with you on the benches as he showed El how to tie her elastic just right, so that her slingshot would definitely beat Sinclairs. You didn’t have it in you to tell both of them that that kind of craft project definitely wasn’t allowed.
You leaned into Dustin instead and shrugged, smiling softly despite the way you saw Steve in your peripheral, turning just enough so he could hear you say:
“Anywhere.”
So it was a little jarring when he arrived at your little staff get together, camp shirt replaced with one of his own, a sunshine yellow tee that made his eyes look like honey and his skin more tanned. You hated that you noticed, that you knew he looked good.
He greeted everyone warmly, bar you, sending you a curt nod of his head over the burning fire that had Nancy rolling her eyes and Robin poking you in the ribs. Because there were no barbed wire words exchanged between either of you, no jabs, no bites, no smug smiles or sarcastic grins.
“What is going on with you two?”
You ignored her question, giving her a warning glare that she also chose to ignore, ‘cause she went and sat next to Eddie and Jonathan instead, whispering to them behind the plumes of smoke they’d created.
After a few drinks and several people telling Billy to shut up, the night turned darker, the sky navy and the air still stiflingly warm. The fire was more a source of light than heat at this point, or as Eddie liked to remind everyone, ‘it’s for the ambience,’ and everyone was doing their best to stay away from the flames, skin already tight and sore with fresh sunburn from that day.
It only took the vodka bottle being emptied before Billy announced a game of truth or dare, to which everyone groaned and asked what age he was. But he tutted, unperturbed and dropped the empty glass bottle into the middle of the messy circle your bodies had made.
“Don’t be so fuckin’ boring,” he intoned, “it’s either this or hitchhiking into Bloomington to find a chick that likes being on top-”
The girls groaned, faces pulled into disgust and Jonathan was shaking his head, a bemused look on his face.
“-and quite frankly that seems like too much effort tonight.”
Steve scoffed, taking the joint Eddie offered him, pushing it between his lips for a hit before he turned to Billy, one eyebrow raised.
“You mean finding a girl that doesn’t already know you’re a giant dickhead is gettin’ harder to find?”
Sometimes you wondered if Steve hated Billy more than he hated you.
“There’s always your princess,” Billy grinned, eyeing you in a way that made you feel like you were under a microscope. “She’s gotta give into me sometime, right?”
“Keep dreaming, Hargrove,” you butted in, doing nothing to hide the disgust in your voice. You wanted to kick yourself when you realised you’d responded to being Steve’s princess, your name never even being mentioned. “I’d rather kiss Harrington.”
The wave of something washed over the group at your words, wide eyes and soft smirks, and you felt your stomach sink. Steve was staring at you, eyes lit up with something that looked akin to a challenge, a dare that you hadn’t yet been asked.
Fuck.
“Is that so?” Billy laughed, a harsh noise that let everyone know he wasn’t happy at your statement. But he grinned, sharp teeth and sharper blue eyes, steely on you. “You always pick dare, don’t you, sweetheart?”
“That’s not-”
“I dare you to give us all some entertainment and make out with Harrington,” Billy continued, talking over you without even blinking. “Maybe if both of your mouths are busy, we’ll get some fuckin’ peace and quiet around here.”
Nobody breathed.
But someone must’ve picked your mixtape out of the pile, ‘cause the opening beat to ‘I Think We’re Alone Now,’ by Tiffany, started to play. You stared at Billy, shocked at his suggestion, his demand. The game suddenly felt less fun and the only sounds were the echo of your strangled scoff and the crackle of the fire.
But then Nancy was pushing her foot into your ankle from where she sat on her boyfriend's lap, eyes glittering.
“On you go,” she told you, and you think she was trying to be encouraging.
“What?”
“What?” Nancy repeated, doe eyes innocent and wide, like she didn’t know what she was doing. “You picked dare!”
“I didn’t say shit!” You exclaimed, looking around at your friends for help. Robin and Eddie were cackling, faces pressed into each others shoulders, and being absolutely no fucking help to you. “Guys!”
“C’mon, Hawkins, you don’t like to lose now, do you?” Billy was grinning from where he lazed across some old crash mats, his voice a slow drawl as he chewed some gum obnoxiously. “Give Harrington a little lovin’.”
‘Children, behave… that’s what they say when we’re together.’
You turned to Steve, who was still leaning against the gym wall, his eyes finding yours even in the dim evening light. He looked unsure, nervous even, like he was ready to tell the rest of them to shut up, to pack it in. But then he watched the way you brought the bottle of wine to your lips, letting the rest of the sweet drink trickle past your lips and god, he looked at you like he was ready to fight.
Dark brown eyes, smirk on his lips, cocky tilt of his head like he was waiting for you.
He sucked a breath in through his teeth as he watched you stand there, thinking, weighing up your options.
“What’s my forfeit?” You asked cautiously.
You turned when Billy chuckled, blue eyes looking as navy as the sky. He let his head tip back, smoke slipping from his lips and into the trees before he grinned at you, far, far too happily.
“Me,” he told you.
So Steve sighed, overly dramatic before he spoke to the group, voice full of that easy confidence you hated so much.
“Don’t worry princess, you can give it your best shot and I promise I won’t feel a damn thing.”
Your friends cackled and hollered around you; always thoroughly amused by the show you and Steve put on. Robin shook her head from where she sat beside Eddie, a shit eating grinning pulling at her lips and she spilled some beer as she leaned forward and called out:
“What’s that they say? It’s a fine line between love and hate?”
More laughs, whispers and knowing nudges, dollar bills exchanging hands as the group placed their bets on what would happen next.
“I bet your dick says otherwise.”
You don’t know what made you mention Steve Harrington’s dick, but it made the boy’s jaw go slack and the rest of the circle lost it. More whistles, jeering and catcalls broke the quiet of the night, loud over the music, louder because of the vodka and you couldn’t help but set Steve with a smile and a shrug.
This felt like a game you wanted to win.
So you walked over to where he stood, leaning lazy against the gym wall, watching you move towards him like a predator stalking its prey. He was looking at you the same way he did when you ended up on opposite teams for a game of capture the flag, all red hot intensity, pride and confidence bubbling over.
You were surprised when Steve’s hands settled on the dip of your waist, holding you there as you pushed up on your toes to find his lips. Your hand grabbed at his shirt, fisted at the collar to pull him down to you and something in your stomach tumbled when he obeyed.
He didn’t make any more moves though, eyes almost closed as he looked at you through his lashes, watching, waiting, seeing if you fulfilled your dare.
It was awfully quiet now, your friends silent, the radio and the fire both crackling and you could hear how you and Steve’s harsh breaths fell over each other’s faces.
You’d never been this close before. And then it all happened a little too fast.
His fingers flexed at your sides, digging into the soft there and you weren’t sure if it was out of anticipation, impatience or annoyance. There is as something screaming inside of you to move away, to take the loss, that kissing Steve fucking Harrington wouldn’t be worth the five second glory of completing a dare behind the gym hall.
But then Steve was whispering and it fell across your lips, his breath sweet like raspberry sour patch kids and rosè wine.
“If you’re too scared, princess, I totally understa-“
One more push was all you needed. A poke, a pinch, from him, the one person who knew how to rile you up the best.
You kissed him with a surprising softness. Your mouths clashed rough at first, like you did it just to shut him up, to prove a point. And that was true. But your lips gave way to him with surprising ease, a push and pull that felt less like a fight than you thought it would.
It was easy to pretend it wasn’t a dare when Steve let out the prettiest sound, a half sigh, half groan that came from the back of his throat and when he tried to move into you, to take a little more control, your hand that was still curled into his shirt pushed him back into the wall he was leaning on.
He seemed to like that though, ‘cause you felt the curve of his lips on yours, smiling into the kiss and his grip on your waist got almost too tight, like he was planning on leaving marks on you.
Maybe he was.
But then it was a fight, like always, the most dizzying kind. His lips were hot and he tasted sweet, like summer and candy and too cheap alcohol. It felt nice to be kissed, it was all very nice until you remembered it was Harrington and you pushed into him a little harder, nipped at his lip and tugged on his hair. He gave it back just as good, nails scraping against your back, just catching bare skin as he lifted the shirt from your sides.
No one said a word when you parted. Not you, not Steve, not your friends. Not even Billy. You left Steve with a small gasp, a soft noise as you finally parted, so entirely unaware of how long you’d been caught up in his kiss. You felt bruised, on fire, like you’d just stumbled away from your most heated argument yet.
The only saving grace was that he looked as dizzy as you felt.
—————
When a team meeting was called early the next morning, you walked into Hopper's cabin last, only to find everyone in different stages of a hangover, but all equally happy to see you.
They were all grinning, wide, knowing smiles that set your own teeth on edge, your headache worsening when you caught sight of Steve slouched low on the sofa.
He had a pair of Ray Bans perched on his nose and he didn’t look at you when you walked in, eyes on the floor and wincing.
Why the fuck did you kiss Steve fucking Harrington?
“Good morning to you, darlin’,” Billy drawled from where he was leaning against Murray’s desk, smirking with tired eyes. “Sleep well? You didn’t come knockin’ on my cabin so I assume Harrington took real good care of you.”
Oh, you remembered. That’s why.
“Fuck off, Hargrove.”
It was all you could muster when your mouth still tasted like bourbon and Steve, and Murray looked thoroughly interested when he took to the middle of the floor, clipboard in hand.
“I don’t know what went on last night,” he chuckled, “but I’m sure your hungover asses will be pleased to know that it’s hike day.”
Please for the love of god, no.
Everyone groaned, faces dropping in upset and Robin, who had already been sitting on the floor, her back to Nancy’s legs, slumped over, cheek pressed to the old carpet and she made a noise that was akin to a wail.
“Lucky for most of you, we already have sign ups,” Murray crowed gleefully. “Harrington, Hawkins número dos, have a great day.”
Your mouth fell open in protest - hypocritical, you knew, considering you went through the training for hiking safety last summer, but you weren’t on the schedule until next week.
You stared at Nancy who was flicking through the rota with confusion knitted into her features and when she caught your eye, she just shrugged.
“No, no, no,” you told Murray, a strange laugh bubbling in your throat that sounded like panic, “I’m not taking my kids out until next weekend, with Robin!”
Murray shrugged, not looking like he really cared and he crossed his arms, nodding his head towards Eddie.
“No, I know,” he told you in a voice he probably thought was soothing. “But Eddie Munster here-”
“Um, it’s Munson actually.”
“Whatever - your idiot colleague here decided that the road less travelled was the best way home last night.” Murray grinned and pointed down to where Eddie’s foot sat on a small stool, his ankle wrapped tightly in a haphazard bandage. “He’s sprained it.”
You gaped at the boy and Eddie had the right to look sorry, his teeth bared in an apologetic grimace and he mouthed “sorry” at you from beside Steve. His bunk mate hardly stirred.
“Can’t someone else go?” You asked, spinning back to Murray and you didn’t even care that you sounded desperate. “Like, literally anyone else?”
But Murray kept smiling, his clipboard clasped to his chest like a schoolgirl with a secret diary and he sighed dramatically at you before shaking his head.
“No.”
“But Hopper specifically said that we’re not allowed to group together anymore!” You tried, gesturing wildly to Steve who barely answered with a groan. “Not after summer eighty three when he almost drowned me.”
“Okay that’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”
You rounded on the boy, hands still flapping around yourself. “Oh, he speaks! Don’t you have anything to say about this?”
Steve peered at you from over the top of his sunglasses, brown eyes weary behind them. He groaned, frowned and pushed his head onto Eddie’s shoulder.
“Yeah, no, I’m too tired to argue right now, princess.”
Murray looked entirely too amused and he crooked his finger in air quotes when he snorted and said, “sure, tired, gotcha.” He turned back to you, still grinning obnoxiously. “Anyway, chief isn’t here today and I figured there isn’t any boating equipment for either of you to break out in the mountains.”
The group tittered.
“So hop to it,” he clapped his hands, board tucked under his arm and everyone leapt to their feet when the older man made a move to grab the whistle that hung around his neck. “The kids are finishing breakfast and I want both your groups at the meeting point for a safety debrief before nine.”
—————
You were busy smearing another layer of sunscreen on Will’s nose when Dustin appeared at your side.
The two groups had made it halfway up the trail, the sun lazy and warm, the way it could only be on an early morning hike. The sky was still hazy, a soft blue lavender that made the clouds in the sky seem dreamlike. The kids were still quiet with sleep, trailing happily behind each other, trading secrets and sips of water with their assigned hike buddies.
It was nice. Apart from Steve leading the way with a scowl on his face.
“Are you and Steve fighting?” Dustin asked, curls stuffed messily under a Camp Upside Down hat.
You finished patting at Will’s forehead as you turned to the other boy with a soft frown. But the two kids stared up at you expectantly, as if waiting for some sort of answer.
“Uh, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Henderson,” you laughed softly, “but Harrington and I fight all the time. Argue, I mean. Hitting is bad.”
Will rolled his eyes as he fell back into step beside you, the three of you continuing up the path a little behind the rest of the group. But Dustin tugged at your shirt sleeve, clearly not finished with the conversation, nor satisfied with your answer.
“But that’s the point,” he proclaimed and you huffed as you pulled him out of the way of a fallen branch, his attention focused too much on you to notice it in his way. “You haven’t been mean to each other all morning.”
“Or called each other names,” Will pointed out from the other side of you.
“That’s because name calling isn’t nice,” you tried to protest, but your voice sounded weak even to your own ears.
“You call each other names all the time.”
For the love of god.
Suzie Bingham had appeared beside Dustin, coke bottle glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose as she set you with a knowing look. Dustin grinned at the girl's appearance, cheeks pink as their shoulders brushed together on the narrow path.
“That’s not the point,” you told her, grappling for an explanation. You glanced up ahead, over the crowd of children’s heads to see Steve bickering with Lucas and Mike, Max poking him in the back with a long stick as she trudged behind them. “We’re adults.”
All three kids stared at you, expressionless and less than impressed.
“Have you and Steve ever kissed?” Will suddenly asked, letting the words burst out from his chest like he knew he shouldn’t have asked.
You tripped over a branch, the same fallen sticks that scattered the trail that you’d pulled Dustin away from. You turned to look at the boy so fast that your neck protested, your eyes wide.
“Because Steve looks at you like he wants to kiss you all the time.”
And then you were on the ground, gravel stuck to your bare knees and dirt on your hands and shins, swearing at the forest floor because all you could think about was the press of Harrington’s lips on yours, the way he dug his fingers into your sides like he couldn’t let go.
Fuck.
“Shit!” You cried out, hot, frustrated tears brimming at your lash line and you winced when you tried to stand back up.
Suzie dropped to the trail beside you, eyes worried as she took note of the blood that slipped down your leg, a nasty gash on your knee that looked like it came from the jagged piece of bark that lay beside you.
“Someone get Steve,” she started to say, a small hand on your shoulder that brought a little comfort.
But Dustin was already cupping his hands over his mouth and positively hollering over the line of kids that were oblivious to what was going on behind them.
“STEVE!”
You groaned, “Dustin, no, I’m fine, honest.”
“You’re bleeding!” Will protested, looking rather sickly at the sight of the red line that was quickly seeking into the white of your sock.
“STEEEVE!”
“Kill me,” you whispered to the ground, “just kill me.”
You saw Steve’s trainers before anything else, the soft thud, thud, thud of his soles on the dirt as he pushed his way through to you. You managed to shove yourself back, your knees protesting before dropping to your ass, inspecting your bloodied leg, wincing.
“Shit, are you okay?”
No comment about your clumsiness, or how you were dumb, or how your dirty, cut up knee looked gross. No, Steve’s voice was shockingly soft with concern as he dropped down on his haunches to inspect your injury.
“M’fine,” you muttered, cheeks warm because he was almost as close as he had been last night, smelling like leftover cologne and sunscreen, the strawberry smoothie you’d watched him grab at breakfast.
“Really?” He mused, his tone disbelieving. “‘Cause that looks pretty nasty, princess.”
His hand moved to cup the back of your sore knee, fingers tucked into the sensitive skin there as he went to inspect the scrape. You jolted at his touch, body electric underneath him and you watched the way Steve’s eyes widened at your reaction.
“Shit, did that hurt?”
“What? No, yes, fuck,” you were panicking, you could hear it in your voice and from somewhere behind you, you heard the distinctive sound of Max Mayfield’s laugh. “Just, Christ, don’t touch me.”
“I’m trying to help, idiot,” Steve snarked but he backed off scowling. You watched how he flexed his hand after he let go of your leg, like his skin was burning the same way yours was, like he’d been scalded. “You need to go get that cleaned.”
You hated that the boy was right but you didn’t give him the satisfaction of agreeing out loud. Instead, you wrestled to your feet, grunting as you did so, wiggling your ankle to make sure you hadn’t suffered the same fate as Eddie. It seemed fine, nothing crunched at least, but the sting around your split skin screamed at you.
Another slide of red rushed from your cut and down your leg as you moved it and beside you, Will groaned, quickly moving into the crowd to find Mike, his head pushed into his friend's shoulder and his hands clutched at his own stomach.
A chorus of “eww’s” came from the kids and you weren’t fairing much better, your expression pitiful as you watched your white converse turn crimson. You held your leg out awkwardly, hardly balancing on your good one and every time you pushed your foot to the ground, you hissed.
It stung like a bitch.
But then Steve was clapping his hands, well into camp mother mode as he demanded the kids attention. To his credit, everyone looked at him, waiting for further instruction. Well, everyone except Max, who’d found a larger, longer stick and was holding it, javelin style.
“Okay, let’s go,” he announced, his eyes still on you, and you were still surprised to see worry knitted in the space between his brows. “Turn it around gremlins, everyone in front of us and take your time going back down, okay? Stick with your buddy.”
The kids obeyed, muttering between themselves about how much blood was on your leg and would Hopper let them go to the lake now instead? But they trailed back down the path, two by two, and you and Steve waited for the last pair to pass you before he turned, grimacing.
“Put your arm ‘round me.”
You baulked, staring at the boy as if he’d suddenly grown another head.
“What? No,” you hated that you sounded so nervous, and you wondered if he could tell.
“Christ, woman,” Steve rolled his eyes, offering a hand out to you, the warmth of it hovering close to the small of your back. “Can you swallow your fucking pride for a second and let me help you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you sniffed, but you wobbled on your one good leg and Steve didn’t try to hide his smile.
“Stubbornness, then,” he mused, eyes on you and his hand still hovering over your back as you started down the hill, an uneven step that had you swearing and muttering to yourself. “Spite, maybe?”
“Fuck you, Harrington,” you told him plainly, hardly any heat behind it for once due to all your attention focused on the pain you were in. Your poor sock was ruined.
Steve’s shoulder bumped yours, his body too close, acting like a buffer in case you fell again. You huffed every time you touched, bare arms brushing, hips grazing and his damn hand still an almost touch on your spine. You could feel the warmth radiate from him.
“Is that dare, princess?” He was smirking.
You stumbled, swearing profusely as you had no choice but to reach out and grab the boy. Steve was already halfway to you, his arm resting at your waist, his other hand catching yours as it grappled for purchase on something. His fingers curled around yours and you were surprised to realise, that aside from the night before, this was the most you had touched the boy in all the years you had known him.
It was dizzying. But maybe that was the blood loss.
His palm was even warmer where it was pressed against your back, the dip where the band of your shorts sat, fitting into the curve rather nicely. Steve guided you down the trail, taking more of your weight when the ground became rockier, the gravel under your soles making you slip, your side falling into Steve’s.
“We’re not talking about that,” you told him, teeth clenched as your knee bent at a funny angle, a new kind of pain nipping at you.
“Oh, we’re not?” Steve asked, voice annoyingly light. You could feel his grin without having to look, like you knew the way the air changed when he smiled, everything warm and dizzying around you.
“Nope!” You declared, your tone leaving hardly any room for argument. Luckily for Steve, he always liked a challenge. “In fact,” you crowed, “it didn’t even happen.”
The boy snorted, a soft sound that you felt through your body, half of your back pressed into his chest as you both toed your way down the steepest part of the mountain. He held you to him, careful not to let you drop your weight onto your leg, one hand still curled large around your own, the other holding your waist now.
You swallowed, throat tight.
“It didn’t happen, huh?” Steve asked, voice low in your ear as you approached the back of the kids, Lucas and Suzie’s ears pricking up at the idea of eavesdropping. “That’s what we’re doing?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you repeated again, voice airy, nails digging into the back of Steve’s hand, a warning, another fight blooming in your chest.
Another snort, a tighter grip at your waist, as if he was trying to remind you of the way he held you last night, calloused fingertips pushing at the cotton of your t-shirt, barely touching the skin underneath.
You were so much warmer than when you were climbing up the mountain.
This waiting ‘rounds killing me.
The third week went by in a blur, your incident on the hike leaving you with a nasty cut on your knee that Joyce had to dig gravel and dirt out of, and a sudden overwhelming awareness of where Steve Harrington was at all times.
Your body lit up like a warning light every time he was near, a new agitation at the sight of his stupid hair and his stupid sunglasses and his stupid, stupid smirk.
He didn’t try to talk about the kiss again, he wasn’t that idiotic. But the energy between you both was a little different than before. It was still fiery, buzzing with tension and an electrical current that kept you on your toes, but it was different.
You weren’t sure if you liked it.
The week led up to the annual game of hide and seek, the entire camp split into two teams, the cabins turned into bases, the inside of the old gym a ghost town. No one was surprised when Murray declared you and Steve team leaders - one seeking, the other hiding - the camp cheering and whistling as you both took your new shirts, both with ‘captain’ printed on the back.
You’d barely led your team away from the middle of the camp before you heard Steve declare:
“Okay listen up, we need to win.”
You appraised your own squad with the same focused stare that Steve had, your gaze settling over Eddie and Nancy, the gaggle of kids that were all smearing face paint over their friends. War stripes on their cheeks, bandana’s wrapped around their foreheads and Dustin had even gone as far as to don a green ski mask.
You squinted at him, wondering if you should ask where he got such a thing but you decided against it, voice endearing as you said, “Dustin, sweetie, I don’t think you’re going to be able to see very well out of that.”
And before he could argue his case, Eddie pinched the top of it, whipping the fabric from his head, curls spilling out messily. The boy pouted, but he didn’t argue, instead standing still enough to let Lucas smear blue lines over his face.
“You gonna force me into the smallest corner you can find?” Eddie had turned to you whilst Nancy handed out some bottles of water, hushing the trash talk that was starting to get out of hand between Lucas and Suzie.
You grinned, looking at Eddie with an easy smile, shrugging, “maybe. You’re pretty flexible, right Munson?”
The boy snorted, shoulder nudging into yours, “like a fucking gymnast, sweetheart.”
You fell into a soft conversation with Eddie, a rare occurrence in the craziness of the camp, all gentle laughs and hands pushed to arms, cracked jokes and the promise of a joint after the game was over. And then Steve was there, almost too close, brows knitted together as he watched the way his bunkmate pressed teasing fingers into your ribs, making you squeak.
“Are we flirting or are we playing?” He snapped, shoulder brushing yours. But Steve wasn’t looking at you, his stare heavy and trained on Eddie. “Hey dude, didn’t Joyce tell you you’ve got to stick with Will?”
Eddie could read his friend like a book. He smirked, unable to help himself when Steve was making it so obvious, but he nodded, moving away from you to tussle at Will’s hair.
“Sure am, Harrington,” the longer-haired boy smiled good naturedly, “little Byers and I are gonna find the best spot, right kid?”
Will nodded enthusiastically, inhaler in hand and Mike at his side. But Steve was still scowling, eyes finally meeting yours before he turned suddenly, marching back to his team as if he couldn’t bear to be around you for any longer.
And that was fine with you. Totally fine.
From then, it was chaos, carnage across the camp with kids running riot, wrestling for the best hiding spot as Hopper and Murray watched from the office window, cups of coffee in hand.
It went the way it always did, with Mike and Will caught first, the latter giving away their hiding spot way too soon because his allergies made him sneeze, the other boy refusing to split from his friend.
Eddie trailed behind them, lazy and unbothered about being out of the game so early, a cigarette tucked behind his ear, waiting for Murray to stop watching.
The kids spread around the camp in clusters, hiding in beached kayaks, under the dock, squeezed between the crash mats in the gym. Max was caught out in the open - after being refused sanctuary in Hopper’s office - scowl on her face, El dragged behind her, grinning as you laughed.
“Hit the benches,” Steve had told them both, watching as they took their consolation s’mores from Joyce and sat with the rest of the captured kids around the fire.
Steve’s team took out the other kids one by one, screams and laughter heard across the forest, campers crawling out from underneath decking and out of trees, covered in mud and nettle stings, but so, so happy.
And then there were hardly any players left.
But Steve bypassed Dustin and Lucas, the two boys snickering underneath an overturned canoe, and he headed to the gym instead. The old building was empty, his footsteps echoing on the linoleum and the lights were off, the sun that was starting to set just barely shining in the high set windows.
It painted stripes of light and shadows on the floor and the air seemed golden. Steve kicked at the crash mats that were stacked and
pushed against a wall, his movements playful and throwing dust mites into the air. They caught the light, floating, glittering and Steve saw a pair of shoes sticking out from behind the ball cage and he grinned.
If you heard him walking over, you didn’t show it, stubbornly standing your ground until Steve rounded the corner, eyes bright on yours.
“You’re losing your edge, princess, that was far too easy.”
You were scowling at him and you pushed yourself away from the cage, the wheels squeaking as you rounded the other side, eyes on the boy. It was familiar, that feeling, that push and pull, a chase, a challenge, a dare.
“Don’t kid yourself Harrington, I’ve been waiting here for about an hour now.”
Steve followed, eyes trailing over your bare legs, the swell of your ass in your shorts, freckle on your thigh, the silver scar on your knee from the hike. You noticed, brows raised and you snorted when he shrugged, unapologetic in a way you hadn’t seen before.
He didn’t care if you caught him staring. Steve Harrington had always been the first to call you annoying, stubborn, a thorn in his side. But he’d never tried to deny that you were good to look at.
“That’s only ‘cause I was enjoying the peace and quiet,” Steve shot back and you smiled at him, eyes narrowed, overly fake. “But it looks like I win, who would’ve thought?”
But you were still moving, stepping around the pile of mats, the cold material brushing against your shins and the light from the window made you glow, eyes too bright, smile sharp.
You stared at the boy from across the crash pads, voice sticky sweet when you asked, “don’t you have to tag the other opponent before they’re out?”
Steve stopped, level with you across the hall and he grinned. And fuck, he looked pretty like that, standing in a sunbeam, freckles on his nose, hands on hips and eyes burning on you.
You weren’t arguing, not quite, not yet. But it still felt fun.
Steve looked around, eyes conspiring, and he smirked. “There’s no one here to say I didn’t, princess.”
And then you were moving again, circling each other, smiling a different kind of playfulness and you tutted, pushing your hands into the back pockets of your shorts and you smirked when Steve followed the movement of it.
Steve twisted his lips, ran a hand through his already messy hair and made it flop into his eyes and he pretended to think, just for a second or two, as if he didn’t already know what he was gonna throw back at you.
“Usually,” he told you, voice low, a little rougher than before. “But I think you owe me one, princess.”
You quirked a brow at him, standing still, one knee lifted and pressed to the mats to steady yourself.
“Is that so?”
There was a fizz in the air that hadn’t been there before.
“You got to win your little dare ‘cause of me,” he told you and god, something shifted. Maybe the sun dropped, maybe the shadows got darker, maybe the air got heavier. “I saved you from the clutches of Hargrove.”
You scoffed, turning and going back to walking around the mat, hiding the way your cheeks burned.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, remember?”
But Steve just grinned, that wide, bright kinda smile that showed off the dimples you almost forgot he had. He looked boyish like this, handsome in a pretty way, soft and full of sun. Maybe it was because he was looking at you without the lines between his brows, the downturn of his lips.
“Oh but you do, don’t you, sweetheart?”
‘Sweetheart’ was starting to sound less like an insult, less like a jab, when Steve said it. His voice was softer, a teasing pitch to it, that sounded so much different than you’d heard and you decided that you didn’t hate it.
Not at all.
But the boy was talking about the kiss and he was looking at you like you both shared a secret, despite the very public location it happened in. He was acting as if he liked it, as if he wanted you to admit that you did too.
You stopped, converse digging into the wall the mats made, eyes wary on the boy because Steve kept walking. He found one side, then the other, only pausing when you were a foot away from him. He mirrored you, hands shoved into his own pockets as he watched you through messy hair.
“What d’you want me to say, Harrington? Huh?” you smiled, sardonic, lips twisted to the side and gaze careful. You didn’t want to give anything away. “You want me to tell you that I liked it, is that it?”
Steve smirked, enjoying your tone, the teasing, the push of the taunt, the bite to your voice. He knew it so well.
“You want me to tell you that you’re a good kisser? Does wonder boy need a little ego boost?”
“Oh princess, I don’t need anyone to tell me that.“
Steve’s voice was a drawl. Heavy, warm, sticking to you like the summer heat, all low, hot sun and sweetness.
You were too warm, a tumble low in your stomach, a flush across your chest.
“I’m good at a lot of things,” Steve continued,voice far too casual, as if he wasn't making you think about the dirtiest things imaginable.
“You’re a pig.”
“You love it.”
“You fucking wish, Harrington.”
“Now you’re just flirting with me, princess.”
You weren’t sure when you’d moved closer. Neither was Steve, really. But you were once again in your favourite position with the boy, toe to toe and your chin tilted up defiantly to stare at him. He looked too happy, excited even.
“I’m not playing your games,” you narrowed your eyes at him, hands on your hips in an arrogant display, trying your best to prove that you weren’t as affected by the boy as you actually were.
The toes of his shoes brushed yours and you could smell his cologne, the forest on him, campfire smoke and pine, leftover rain and something minty.
“No?” Steve asked and his eyes were tracing the features of your face, the length of your lashes, the dip of your Cupid’s bow, the curve of your lip. “Not even if I pick dare?“
You swallowed, hard.
You weren’t sure what this was. Not anymore. Because it didn’t feel like the arguments you usually had, the poking and pushing and pulling at each other until something snapped and the yelling started. In fact, you were sure this was the quietest you’d ever been around Steve Harrington.
Except for the thundering of your heart. It beat against your ribs, a drumming sound that you wondered if Steve would hear. It made your body vibrate, it made your chest feel fit to burst and you couldn’t help but part your lips under his stare, sucking in a breath that you suddenly so desperately needed.
Steve did the same, an instinctual response to watching you, his tongue wetting at his bottom lip, his eyes heavy and hooded. You didn’t remember taking another step towards him, but you don’t recall Steve moving either. It was all a slow lean, a curl into each other’s bodies, slower and softer than the first time.
Your hand was on his chest again, fingers splayed across his shirt rather than fisting it in your palm and god, you still really weren’t sure if it was to encourage him closer or shove him away.
But then his touch was at your waist and the sun finally dipped below the windows and the hall went dark. The shadows sparkled as you got used to the lack of light, Steve’s face a pretty palette of lilacs and navy, the rosy tint of his lips looking deeper and closer to you than ever.
The slide of your nose against his, stuttering and a little clumsy, unsure and nervous. Everything in your body was screaming at you. To push him away, to pull him towards you, to chew him out, to devour him.
Steve fucking Harrington made you want to yell, to fight, to roll your eyes and rant for an hour and a half. Steve fucking Harrington made you want to be slammed against a wall, pushed down onto a bed, lips on your neck and kisses that were all tongue and teeth.
His breath huffed against your cheek, slow and careful like he was still deciding what to do too. Steve was cherry cola and the heat of an argument, cedar and spice and bad decisions. Steve was a hot touch on your waist, a white hot burn through your shirt and a tight grip that was sending you to another level of frustration.
Then light flooded the gym, a bright burst of it coming from the main doors as the very last of the low setting sun leaked through as they slammed open.
The noise of them hitting the wall made you both jump, the angry squeak of the hinges bringing both back to the harsh reality of who you were about to kiss. You stumbled and Steve tripped, falling backwards onto the crash mats with a soft “fuck” as you turned to see Nancy and Robin standing in the doorway.
No one spoke, not for a few seconds and the quiet was painful.
But then Nancy cleared her throat, a smirk on her face that she covered with her hand and Robin grinned.
“Um, all the kids have been found,” she told you both, glee in her voice that she couldn’t cover and god, you were burning with a new kind of heat. “We’re doing story time.”
“And uh, one of you needs to take over,” Nancy explained, still smothering a laugh under what she thought was a serious expression. “Billy started talking about demogorgons and made Will cry, so…”
“Again?” Steve muttered from his seat on the mat. “I thought Eddie told him that it was all made up.”
You didn’t dare look down at him, your body still overly aware of his, his shoulder brushing against your thigh as he moved and when he clambered to his feet, you were spurned into motion, your legs carrying you quickly across the gym.
Your shoes squeaked on the floor and your heart was still racing, leaving you feeling like a hormonal teenager who was out of control and unable to handle some stupid boy being too close. Grabbing Robin’s hand, you mumbled some sort of thanks to Nancy and then made up a lie about feeling sick, and how you needed to go back to your cabin now.
Looking at your flushed skin and glassy eyes, no one could really argue with that. So you left Steve with the responsibility of the nightly campfire story and ignored Robin’s husky laughter as you pulled her through the trees and the dark until you got back to your shared bunk.
You flew into the cabin like a bat out of hell, doing everything in your power to get away from the boy as quickly as you could. Robin was close behind you, still cackling before she slammed the door, just as you dumped yourself onto your bed, groaning.
The other girl braced herself, back against the wood, facial expression scandalised as she stared at you wide eyed and through messy bangs.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but it looked like you and Harrington were about to rail each other on those fucking crash mats.”
You spluttered, the sound of protest getting caught in your throat as you tried to sit up, pushing yourself onto your elbows so you could glare at Robin, trying your best to look appalled.
“What?!” You choked out, and you knew you were beetroot, you could feel the heat in your cheeks, the flush over your chest. “No we weren’t!”
“You know,” Robin mused, head tilted to the side as she looked at you, “your summer could be a lot more fun if you just admitted you don’t hate him as much as you claim to.”
Another noise came from your throat in response, strangled and panicked as you paced the cabin, old floorboards creaking under your feet.
“I do hate him,” you insisted, turning your back to the girl to fuss over a pile of clothes you’d left on your dresser after laundry day. You wondered if she’d be able to see the lie on your face, if she could hear it in your voice. “Harrington is a pain in my ass, he has been since-”
“Seventh grade, yeah, yeah,” Robin interrupted, her voice bored and impatient, and she waved a dismissive hand at you. “Science fair, vegetables, Steve and mentos and his dad, I know.”
You glared at her, clothes abandoned, clean shorts dropping to the floor, your arms now crossed. You hated that you were pouting.
“He didn’t look like he was causing you too much grief when you had him up against the gym wall the other week…”
“That was a dare!”
“And now - in the gym again actually - do you have some sort of kink?”
“Robin…” you were groaning, pleading.
“Is it a competitive thing? It gets you both going?”
“Nothing happened! We were- we were arguing!”
The other girl smirked, eyebrows raised and her back still pushed against the doorway. “Yeah, but babe, that’s foreplay for you.”
“I hate you,” you lied and there was no heat behind it, in fact, it only made your friend grin wider.
“As much as Steve?” She asked, voice sweet. “Should I light some candles? Pop a mint?”
“You’re a dick,” your voice was mulish but you couldn’t find it in you to care.
“You’re in denial,” Robin shot back, still sounding far too happy about the discussion. “Don’t you think all that pent up frustration could be easily solved?”
You rolled your eyes, knowing where this was going. The girl was moving towards you, eyebrows wiggling as she ran her hands over her chest in what you assumed was supposed to be a suggestive manner.
“Y’know, there’s other things your mouths could do instead of arguing.”
You pretended to gag, face scrunched up at the thought of it and you went back to sorting through your laundry. “You sound like Murray.”
“I knew he was a sensible man,” she told you and you scoffed because you’d watched Murray Bauman light a firework with the end of Billy’s cigarette last summer.
“But seriously, you’ve got to be attracted to him, right?”
“Murray?” You asked, all faux innocence, “he’s a bit old, no? Hopper, however-”
“You’re disgusting,” Robin snorted, grabbing at the pile of clothes you were hoarding, taking some of her own shirts to fold as she levelled you with a stare. “And you’re not fooling anyone. I’m very much gay - like, with a capital ‘G’ - and even I can say Steve is easy on the eyes.”
“Don’t let him hear you say that,” you tutted, “his head will get bigger.”
“Oh absolutely not.”
You fell into an easy silence then, clothes folded and sorted on your beds and you were surprised when Robin - perpetually messy - even went as far as to make her bed from that morning.
It gave you too much time to think. About how the boy had been almost nice to you at some points this summer, helping you when you fell, teasing instead of scathing, always too close, always nearby. It made you notice him too much, made you far too aware of him.
Like how his skin tanned so easily, new freckles every other day, how blue and yellow looked good on him, how when he got too close you noticed he had some green in his eyes. You knew he liked a smoothie for breakfast, he turned softer and quieter when speaking to Will, he encouraged Max to run faster, jump higher, swim deeper, that it was okay to be a little scared sometimes.
You stopped, a choked breath of complete indignation leaving your lips and dropped the pyjamas you’d been folding and marched to the door.
“Uh, where are you going?”
“To tell fucking Harrington that I know his game,” you seethed, “and that it’s not fucking working.”
Robin looked startled. “What?!”
You flung the door open and cringed when it hit the wooden wall behind it but you barely paid it any mind. The woods were dark, the sky inky and it smelled like rain was coming.
“His game!” You urged, and god, you sounded a little manic, didn’t you? “He’s trying to get me to like him. And it’s not happening, he’s not winning!”
“Winning what?” Robin was almost yelling, confusion colouring her tone and she squinted at you.
“I don’t know!” You told her, mouth agape because Jesus Christ, you really didn’t know, but you’d be damned if you let the boy think he had some kind of one up on you.
“Babe, curfew is in like, ten minutes.”
One glance at the clock on the wall told you that Robin was right, but stubbornness won out over sensibility so you made a strangled sound and shrugged, closing the door behind you a little too loudly and you made your way over the carpet of pine needles, heading towards the other cabins.
—————
Eddie answered when you knocked, wearing an old, Metallica hoodie that was too big, his long curls pulled messily back into a bun and he grinned, arms crossed and leaning against the doorframe.
“Now, I’m pretty certain you’re not here for me,” he told you, voice all light and full of a humour that you didn’t appreciate, “but there’s absolutely no fucking way you’re here for Harrington.”
You scowled.
“Is he in?”
Eddie cackled, pushing himself away from the door as he called out over his shoulder, looking thoroughly entertained.
“Hey, big boy, you’ve got a lady caller.”
This was starting to seem like an incredibly bad idea. Your irritation had waned slightly as you’d marched across the dark forest, the fresh air soothing your anger just a touch. But before you could change your mind, Steve appeared at the door, barefoot and shirtless, his hair messy and wearing nothing but a pair of low slung grey sweats.
For the love of fucking god.
He had a towel thrown over his shoulder, like he’d planned on taking a shower, but he seemed content to stay and talk to you, his body leaning lazy on the door frame like Eddie had.
“Princess,” Steve greeted, sounding bemused, “is this a booty call?”
From inside the cabin, Eddie snorted and you both made a point of ignoring him.
“Absolutely fucking not,” you told him, outraged at the idea of it. But you were warm again, tongue feeling clumsy and too thick in your mouth and you started to wondered when the fuck Steve Harrington made you feel nervous. “And that’s the reason I’m here, actually.”
Steve simply raised his brows, crossing his arms over his chest. He tilted his head, a small smile on his lips.
“Oh?”
“Mhmm, yeah,” you were stalling, trying to remember why you were actually standing outside with Steve at nine o’clock at night. His arms were entirely too distracting, the muscles there tensing and flexing as he moved. “I know what you're up to, Harrington.”
“You do?” Steve smirked, entirely entertained the way your gaze landed on his shoulders, his bare chest. “What am I up to, exactly?”
“This shit, that you keep pulling,” you told him, gesturing between the two of you. The space there crackled, it popped and buzzed with something unseen and electric, and you swore Steve felt it too. He had to, right? “This flirty, ‘lemme help you walk down the mountain’ crap.”
Steve was staring. And from inside, on his bed, Eddie was cackling again.
“Would you rather I’d left you to hobble down by yourself?” Steve asked, lips twisted to hide his amusement. Your eyes were flashing with annoyance, and you’d leant against the porch fence for support, back to the wood and hands curled around the ledge. “Let a mountain lion get you?”
“There aren’t any mountain lions in Indiana,” you replied scathingly.
“A bear then,” Steve shrugged, and Christ, he was grinning again, dimple and all. “Anyway, you think I’m flirting with you, princess?”
You stared, suddenly speechless.
“I’d have more luck getting Munson into bed with me than managing to have a pleasant conversation with you, sweetheart.”
But then Eddie was yelling from inside the cabin, a pillow hitting Steve’s back as he called out, “ready when you are, honey.”
Steve ignored him, eyes still on you. “If you think that I’m flirting with you, you’re sorely mistaken.”
He oozed too much confidence, sarcasm and charm.
It pissed you off.
“Well then stop it!” you growled, pushing yourself off of the porch fence and moving towards Steve. You stared up at him, stubborn, face tilted up to him, eyes defiant. You couldn’t help but push a finger into his bare chest. God, he was warm. “Stop doing-”
“Stop doing what? Huh?” Steve was smiling. Why was he smiling?
You stumbled over your breath, it hitched in your throat and honestly it only caused more anger to bubble in your chest. Was it anger? Annoyance? Frustration?
“Stop - stop, getting all close to me all the time, stop calling me princess and stop doing this thing where you’re clearly trying to distract me.”
Steve raised his brows, looking down at the small space between the two of you. He tilted his head, smirk dripping with amusement and you knew you could argue anymore. You’d moved to him, chests almost brushing, warmth radiating off of him to you, sharing the same air.
Fuck.
“Do I distract you?”
The facade dropped. The game, the challenge, the fight - whatever it was - it stopped. Genuine surprise coloured the boy's tone and he uncrossed his arms, leaving his chest open and more space between you both. He was so warm, you could feel it from his skin, like the sun lived in his chest and he swallowed the summer.
Steve looked shy, all of a sudden. Face flushed, eyes bright and wide and his lips dropped into a pretty ‘o’. Even in the dark, you could make out the pink of his cheeks, the tips of his ears and he was looking at you like an entirely different kind of challenge. A puzzle maybe, a new type of game.
“What?” you were panicking inside. That white hot flash of embarrassment ran up your spine, blooming over your chest until blood rushed loud in your ears. “What? No, I didn’t say that.”
“You definitely just said that.” There it was, that smile again.
“I didn’t,” you scoffed, eyes searching anywhere but his. You stared at the door behind him, groaning when Eddie waved from his bed, grin wider than Steve’s.
“You did,” Eddie added to the conversation, all soft smiles and messy curls. “I heard you.”
Suddenly you had had enough of boys.
“Oh for fuck sake.”
You stormed away from Steve with more swears mixing in with the night air, your frustration taken out on the stairs as you stomped back down them, trainers kicking up pine needles and fallen acorns as you made your way back to your own cabin, completely done with Steve fucking Harrington.
Summary: The world was never the same, she was never the same. Her dad is dead, Hawkins is ruined. She see's him everywhere. Going through the death of Hopper, Y/N wasn't the same, she had been acting different. More silent, to herself. Steve was worried sick about his best friend. What happens when Vecna starts to take control of Y/N. She is running out of time, will the gang be able to save her, or is life as she knows it about to end? Will Steve ever confess how he feels towards her?
This takes place during season 4, while Max is still alive and in the gang in this universe, she is not the one Vecna wants. You are.
Warnings: Language, Dark themes, Violence, (more to update) deep depression, overall sadness. NOT PROOFREAD!!!!!!
Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader Hopper.
Word Count: 4.2K
Part 1
Hawkins 1985
My head is pounding, and my eyes are blurry. I can’t think straight, if I try hard enough, I can hear a faint sound in the distance. I feel someone’s hand graze my elbow. This should be the happiest I’ve been, but as I’m looking around, I don’t see him anywhere. I do a mental note, Joyce, Eleven, Murray, Dustin, Steve. But no Jim, no dad. My eyes lock with Joyce as she gives a slight nod, and in that moment my stomach no longer felt normal. The urge to throw up became over whelming. Tears welding up in my eyes, I knew Jim Hopper is dead.
“Y/N.” Elevens voice startled me out of the trance I was in. I peer at her slightly but before I could even get a word out her arms came crushing into me. Her hot tears and stinging into my skin.
“Shhh, it’s okay.” Those are the only words I can muster before I’m crying as well. There’s something wet sliding down my cupids’ bow, as I reach my hand up to my face to get it off my face my finger is suddenly covered in blood.
Days Later:
I watch as Joyce, Jonathan, Will, and Eleven drive down the road. My heart is aching in a dull pain. I’ve lost almost all the family I’ve had in the past month. Steve quietly comes up beside me resting his arm around me.
“It’s going to be okay” his voice is soft but not convincing at all. I’ve decided to stay back, Joyce had opened her house and life with open arms, but at some point, it felt like too much. I reverted back to Hopper’s cabin, it was all dust, and broken parts but it was workable. Steve was able to get me a job at the Family Video, so at least there was something to occupy my time and keep me busy in my thoughts. There has been a dull ringing in my eyes every so often since that night, and my head has been pounding,
----
Hawkins Spring 1986
My eyes burst open as I look around, a small hum playing on the record player in the corner of my room. Sweat dripping down my face from the terrible dream I was having, minutes prior. I check the watch sitting right beside my pillow from where I threw it off last night, after an annoying attempt from Nancy and Steve to get me out of the house. The only time I even think about leaving is to see my therapist, or when I have a shift at Family Video. My friendship are grasping onto thin air. As I check the watch, I realize I have missed the big pep-rally at Hawkins High School.
“Shit Steve is going to kill me.” I sit up, my vision is still slightly blurry, and my head is pounding a bad migraine again. I get ready throwing on a bigger sweatshirt and jeans and throw on my headphones Purple Rain plays in the speakers as I walk down the path towards my bike. I finally reach my therapist office, somewhat on time. Walking into the building it feels like everyone’s eyes are on me. I close the door behind me once I reach her office. We sit there in silence for at least five minutes, Prince still blasting through me ears. She beams at me before making a motion towards me.
“Can you take the headphones off for me” she said it gently, not rude but I still roll my eyes and stop the music. Before letting out a small apology.
“What have you been doing to keep yourself busy” I begin to fidget with my headphone cord.
“Um, I’ve been working.” She raises her brows at me.
“Working” she repeats slightly
“Yes.” She sighs like she doesn’t believe me, writing something down. I’m sure it has to do with me having no life. Needing to find something keep my mind at ease.
“Have you been sleeping better?” her voice comes out loud, I look up from the ground.
“Yeah.” Lying through my teeth, she can tell. I can feel her judging me slightly. My heart is pounding as I hear it, Tik tok, tik tok. The sound of a clock going off in the distance. I begin to look around for the clock but to no avail I don’t see anything.
“What about your nightmares or headaches? Are you still having those?” I can tell she is fed up with me, her red lips thin out and she is starting through me, not at me anymore.
“No more headaches, and no more nightmares” I look down again and right as she is about to ask me another question, the timer goes off. Without even thinking I stand up grabbing my stuff rushing out. Steve is standing outside the office, a pissed off expression worn on his face.
“Where were you?” his voice seems so quite compared to my therapist.
“I’m sorry I overslept, before I knew it I had therapy” my voice even sounds distant, our friendship isn’t what it once used to be. At one point in time, we used to be inseparable. We grew up together, babysat together. He throws his arm around me. I shrug it off before walking ahead of him. I can see the hurt on his face, as he stops in front of me.
“You’re acting different” his voice is accusatory. “It’s like you’re not even here anymore; it’s like you’re a…” my voice cuts him off.
“A ghost” his eyes dart to the ground as he takes a visible gulp. “That’s not what I mean” his voice comes out quite again.
“I have to go.” I begin walking away, he grabs my arm. Not harshly but slightly.
“I miss you.” His voice is saddened as I let out a faint “I’m sorry” before running into the bathroom. I shut the door and lock it as tears stream fast down my face. The lights in the bathroom are dim, as I turn around, I hear a pounding on the door.
“Y/N OPEN THE DOOR” there is a harsh voice outside the door. The handle is being shaken harshly. Banging on the door is loud. I throw myself into the corner, screaming. “OPEN THE DOOR” the voice comes out mutilated. Then it all goes quiet, the door stops shaking, the voice disappears. All that is left is me shaking, with tears streaming down my eyes. I can’t breathe, I’m trying to not freak out, it’s not working panic is soaring all throughout my body.
I pick up all my stuff and rush out the door, Steve is already long gone and so is most of the office. It’s dark outside, when I do finally return to the real world. I bike down the road, Prince still blasting through the headphones on my ears. As I reach the cabin I see a flyer for the championship basketball game left on my door. Tomorrow night. I hear a slight movement in the cabin, and it startles me out of my trance. I walk eerily into the cabin looking around. That’s when I see him, sitting on my bed.
“Steve what the hell are you doing here” clutching my heart, I take a deep breath.
“You’re not getting rid of me that easily Hopper. I’m here to pick you up. We’re going to my house and watching Back to the Future and you’re going to goddamn like it” his voice is firm. There is no room for a rebuttal. So, I walk around my room, shoving clothes into a bag. Pretty soon I’m in his car, going to his place. His parents are never home, even if they were it’s not like they would notice either of our presence.
We reach his house with not even a whisper shared. I can tell he is lost in thought. Both of our minds racing but never saying anything to each other.
“Steve” my voice is small, it startles the both of us. His eyes meet mine softly before he lets out a quite hum in acknowledgment. My voice shakes and my eyes are watering before I look up at him.
“I’m sorry for being so distant” he looks at me for a minute. “It’s okay love.” His voice comes out steady. “You have been through so much in the past couple. Years. I would be a little worried if you went back to normal. But I need you to promise me something.” His voice is smooth, my heart aches as he talks. I’m starting to realize how shitty of a friend I have been within the last couple of months.
“Okay” my voice is shaky, something doesn’t feel right.
“If you’re not doing okay, you will tell me. You will call, or you will walkie me. Please- I’m- I’m just worried about you. I couldn’t handle myself if something happened to you.” His voice is soft, as he reaches up to brush hair out of my face. Hand landing on my cheek, rubbing back and forth. I feel calm at this second, but my heart race picks up slightly.
“I promise you.” He looked like he was about to say something else, his eyes shimmered in the sunlight. But a loud sound has shaken us from our trance.
“Steve, Y/N. FUCKING CHRISSY CUNNINGHAM WAS FOUND DEAD IN EDDIE MUNSONS TRAILER.” Lucas’s voice was loud and startled both of us, his hand leaving my face.
“Fuck what happened” my voice rasped.
“Her body was found mutilated, all her bones snapped, and her eyes were destroyed. We need to meet NOW. Meet us at Mikes” and the line went dead. We give each other a look. Steve is already backing out of his house and down towards Mikes house. We rush inside as soon as we get there, not wasting another second.
----
“Chrissy was found dead, but Eddie is innocent.” Mikes voice booms.
“I saw her earlier in the day, she was tweaking. I heard her mumbling in the bathroom. Something about her mom.” Max doesn’t waist a second. “Someone told me she hasn’t been sleeping well, been seeing things.”
“What kind of things.” All eyes on me.
“Eddie said she was buying drugs from him but yesterday was her first time. He took her to his house to get something a little stronger, told me he came out and her body was levitating, eyes rolled back to her head. Bones snapped like it was nothing.” I’m looking around as everyone is taking in what Dustin has to say. “Why the hell should we believe him” Steve lets out.
“Something in me tells me, he is telling the truth.” Max’s eyes snap to me. My hands are shaking, something about this whole thing feels off. My head is spinning; I stand rushing up. “I need a second.” Before rushing up the stairs. Once I’m out of the basement I’m running towards the bathroom to wash my face. Splashing the water in my face, I look up interrogating myself in the mirror. The bathroom lights flicker, once, twice, and a third time before turning back on completely. My breath is shaky, “Hello” my voice betrays me. Nothing is said back, so I slowly go back to the basement to join the others.
“Mike leaves for spring break tomorrow, we need to figure this out.” Max’s voice comes into my perspective.
---
“Do you want me to take you home.” Steve’s is beside me, placing his arm around me. I nod slowly. We say our goodbyes, heading towards the car. Steve is beside me going off on how he thinks Eddie is guilty.
Once we pull up to the cabin, a sense of relief floods over me. “You sure you want to be alone?” Steve is hopeful, he is never one to turn down a sleepover but much to his dismay I am not in the mood. “Yeah, my head is hurting and I’m afraid I’d be no fun tonight. Soon though.” I can tell this upset him slightly, but he doesn’t let that show.
“Okay, ring if you need anything.” I nod getting out the car and heading into the cabin. I rush to get ready for bed, slipping away into the night before I even knew what was happening.
---
My heart is pounding, my legs feel weak. Suddenly I’m standing in my childhood room, pink lights and pink walls. Hopper swore he would repaint these walls, they’re fading pink. The air smells like cigarette smoke.
“Daddy?” my voice comes out soft, innocent. I’m looking around, the walls it was the past, before El was here. Before I even knew what danger was. I see the hair sitting on top of my dad’s head. For once in the past year, I feel at home. A smile crosses my face. He is sitting in his old rocking chair, elbows on his knees. Hands together. He looks dismantled. Not too much stress on his face, until he looks up at me. I take a small step forward.
“I didn’t think you’d be here.” He is quiet.
My chest hallows “What do you mean? I’ve been trying. I- I didn’t.” then our eyes make contact. He didn’t look like my dad. His eyes were not hollow, not bloody. Just pure disappointment on his face.
“I waited.” He says “Do you know that.” The room stretches, the ceiling is pulled higher, the corners bending inward like they’re grasping everything I’ve ever said.
My head is shaking “That’s not fair. I didn’t know-” his voice booms before I can continue. “You always say that. You never know. Never see until its fully gone.” The lights go out completely.
Tik tok.
Tik tok.
I hear it before I see it. A grandfather clock spewing out of the wall behind me. It’s made its home in our walls, the hands turning too fast to actually be able to see what the hand is landing on.
“You gave up on me. You didn’t even fight for me to live.” He is stepping closer. “You’re a quitter. You were never strong enough to keep me alive.”
“No please.” I begin to sob. “I love you dad. Please it’s me. It’s you Y/N.” hands are now shaking. He gives a sadistic smile.
“Keep telling yourself that.” His face begins to warp, spiders crawling across his skin, dark black widows. The shadows behind min thicken and stretch more. A second voice is unmasked. It’s voice rings of amusement.
“But isn’t love what killed him” my dad’s mouth is still moving but the voice coming out of his mouth is no longer his.
“Guilt did.” Vecna whispers through him. “And you carry it so beautifully.” I take a big step back, your back colliding with the wall. I feel something grab at me, claw at me.
“Please stop. Please I can’t do this.” Vecna steps out of his body. He’s tall, twisted, and smiling. The room that was once full of light now dark and scary. Thunder is booming all around me. “Everything you fear.” He is taunting me now. “Every night you replay it. Every moment you wonder what would have changed if you would’ve saved him.” The clock goes off again. Hoppers voice rings through the air “Was your little boyfriend more important to save rather than your own dad?” I let out a loud scream.
A soft hum starts to play. Muffled at first, distant.
The room starts to warp. Vecna lets out a noise.
“You can’t run forever Y/N. Grief always wins.” My legs are carrying me fast and towards the sound.
I gasp awake. My eyes are hurting, and my head is spinning but the light sound of purple rain is played through a soft speaker in my room. I look at the alarm clock sitting on my side table 9:30 A.M. This creature must be connected to everything that happened last year to the mind flayer. As tears stream down my face, I realize this creature didn’t just visit me. He learned me.
---
I called an emergency meeting. There’s a quite hum from where everyone was waiting for me to talk. Robin is on the floor, knees to her chest. Dustin hasn’t stopped pacing. Max is scared, she has fear written all over her face, Lucas comforting her. Nancy is sitting there barley showing an emotion, or at least she is trying but I can tell she is scared.
“So.” Steve’s voice breaks the silence. We’re both sat on the couch; his hand is softly rested on mine. “You said something happened last night.” I let out a shaky breath. “I didn’t sleep the best.” I retreat my words “I mean- I did but I didn’t” if everyone’s eyes weren’t on me, now they were.
“Was it a dream?” Max was the first to speak. “At first, yes.” The words feel like they don’t belong on my mouth. “I was at home.” I continue on “Hop’s house. The cabin. But before you guys ever knew it.” Steve’s body goes rigid.
“He looked… happy.” Robin frowns “That’s not how dreams usually work” I let out a soft laugh. “Yeah. I know.”
“He started saying things. Stuff I haven’t thought a million times over. Stuff I’ve never told anyone.” The lights are flickering above my head. “I couldn’t move, then I heard a clock.” Max’s face drops. My heart is pounding. “A- A clock.” She stutters. I nod softly. “A grandfather clock. Loud. It was inside my head.” Silence crashed down around me. Steve’s hand is grasping mine tightly. I’m not sure when it started but tears are running down my face.
“That’s not a dream.” Max voice once again is slicing through the air. Steve looks at Max. “That is exactly what happened to Chrissy.” She stops for a second “and almost to me.” My heart drops to my ass. I feel sick.
“There was someone else there.” My voice barley comes out. “Not my dad, but something scarier.” Steve scoots closer his arm his now around my waist, pulling me into his side. “It talked to me. It knew everything, about my dad, about how hard I blame myself.”
“He’s been watching me.” The air gets thick. No one says a word. Nancy finally speaks up.
“That’s officially the worst thing I’ve ever heard.” Max lets out a soft breath “When you saw it- did it feel like it was… inside your head?”
“Yes.”
She takes a very large breath. Her eyes are shinning, tears welding up in them. “Then it’s the same thing.”
“Same as what?” Steve’s voice is strong; his grip tightens a little around my waist.
“The thing that has been killing people.” The air is taken out of my lungs. “So, there’s a mind-monster haunting Hawkins. Cool. That’s sick honestly.” His voice is sarcastic. But I can’t even think of anything other than I might die.
Steve sees the worry on my face. “Hey. You are not alone in this. Not anymore.” I want to believe him, badly. So, I give him a soft smile. Resting my head on his shoulder.
----
No one has moved. It’s been thirty minutes, and no one has moved. The word Vecna hangs in the air like smoke that won’t clear. The store lights buzz, too loud and too sharp. I feel it crawling under my skin. Vecna. Vecna. Vecna. Naming him didn’t make this any easier. If anything, it made me feel like he was right behind me. Robin is the first one to break the silence.
“So, hypothetically… if this Vecna- picked you.” The pause scares me.
“That doesn’t mean it stops, right. Until you’re dead.” For the second time today, the air was taken from my lungs. The answer is hanging in the air, thick.
“No, it doesn’t” Max is the one to answer. “Not until I ran.” Ran. The word echoes in my hand. My arms are pressed tightly around my body my hand meeting Steves lacing softly with his. His thumb immediately rubs over my knuckle. The memory of my dad, then Vecna flashes into my head. “I can still feel him. It’s like he’s still grabbing me. He didn’t like it when I woke up. He seemed angry.”
“What do you mean you feel him.” Lucas speaks up. “It’s stupid” my voice is small again. Steve unwraps his arm from around me, grabbing both hands in his. “Hey.” His voice is soft. “Don’t do that.” He brings my hands to his mouth placing soft kisses on them. For the first time in a long time my heart starts to flutter. A different feeling other than the pain and sadness I’ve felt for months. Steve looks scared, his eyes are wide and he’s scanning any sign of anything on my face.
“It feels like I’m being watched… when I’m alone, when it’s dark outside, but especially when it’s quite.” Robin stiffens, she gets up and comes to sit over next to me. Her hand now on top of mine and Steves.
“This is great. So, what we’re saying is Vecna is basically stalking you.” Dustin is the first to speak. “Shithead.” He hisses. I let out a soft nod, “And- I think he’s waiting for me.” Steve doesn’t waist a second. Robin and my hands dropping before he is kneeling in front of me. His hands are on my face holding me in place. “No. He doesn’t get to wait. He doesn’t get to touch you again.”
“Steve-“
“I’m serious. You are not sleeping alone. You are not walking home alone. Hell, you won’t even be thinking alone if there is anything I can do about it.” My heart stutters.
Robin raises a brow at us, her eyes going to his hands on my face. “That’s intense.”
“I don’t care” Steve doesn’t take his eyes off me. “If he came to you once- he’ll come back. But now we know how he works.”
“How?” I tear my eyes from Steve, looking at Max.
“He feeds on guilt. On grief. On the stuff you never say out loud.” My throat tightens. “He used my dad.”
“No.” It’s sharp. Too sharp. He takes a step forward like the word physically pulled him there. “No,” he repeats, louder now. “No, no, no. He doesn’t get to do that.”
My breath stutters. “Steve—”
“That’s not fair,” he snaps, hands shaking. “That’s—Hopper wouldn’t—he would never say that to you.” I let out a weak laugh, tears spilling over. “It sounded like him.”
Steve’s jaw tightens so hard I think it might crack. He turns away suddenly, dragging a hand through his hair, pacing once—twice—like he’s trying to outrun the image forming in his head. “That thing,” he says, voice rough, “that thing went digging. It didn’t just scare you. It went after the one person—”
He stops. Breathes in hard.
“The one person who was supposed to keep you safe.” Silence swells between us, heavy and choking. Steve turns back to me. And the look on his face— It’s not anger. It’s devastation.
“He didn’t leave you,” Steve says softly now, kneeling in front of me. “Hopper didn’t leave. He fought like hell. Everyone knows that.”
I shake my head. “Vecna said—”
“I don’t care what that thing said,” Steve cuts in, suddenly fierce again. “It lies. That’s all it does. It finds the worst fear you have and wears it like a mask.”
His hands hover near me, uncertain. He doesn’t touch—not yet.
“He saw how much Hopper mattered to you,” Steve continues, voice breaking just a little. “And he used it because he’s a coward.” My chest caves in.
“I believed him,” I whisper. “For a second, I believed him.”
Steve’s face crumples.
“Hey,” he says immediately. “Hey, no. That doesn’t mean anything about you. That means he hit you where it hurts.” He finally reaches out, gripping my sleeve like it’s the only thing anchoring him.
“You know what I see?” Steve says quietly. “I see someone who loved their dad so much that a monster had to steal his face to hurt them.” My breath shatters. Steve swallows, eyes burning.
“And if Vecna thinks he gets to keep doing that—if he thinks he gets to crawl into your head and use Hopper like a weapon—” His voice drops, lethal.
“He’s wrong.” I look up at him, tears streaking my face. Steve meets my gaze, unflinching.
“I don’t care what it takes,” he says. “I don’t care if it’s stupid or impossible or gets me killed.” He squeezes my sleeve, grounding, real.
“I’m not letting him touch you again.” For the first time since the dream, the weight on my chest eases—just a fraction. Because Steve Harrington is looking at me like a promise. And somewhere, far away, something angry screams in the dark.
“You’re not crazy, and you’re sure as shit not alone. I will stay by your side every step of the way.” His eyes never leave mine. “Neither will I.” Robins voice sticks.
And I want to believe him, I really do. Bust as the clock on the back wall ticks again I know.
We're so back, and to celebrate my return after three or so years here is a little snippet of what I am working on right now <3.
The Mind He Claimed.
Hawkins Spring 1986
My eyes burst open as I look around, a small hum playing on the record player in the corner of my room. Sweat dripping down my face from the terrible dream I was having, minutes prior. I check the watch sitting right beside my pillow from where I threw it off last night, after an annoying attempt from Nancy and Steve to get me out of the house. The only time I even think about leaving is to see my therapist, or when I have a shift at Family Video. My friendship are grasping onto thin air. As I check the watch, I realize I have missed the big pep-rally at Hawkins High School.
“Shit Steve is going to kill me.” I sit up, my vision is still slightly blurry, and my head is pounding a bad migraine again. I get ready throwing on a bigger sweatshirt and jeans and throw on my headphones Purple Rain plays in the speakers as I walk down the path towards my bike. I finally reach my therapist office, somewhat on time. Walking into the building it feels like everyone’s eyes are on me. I close the door behind me once I reach her office. We sit there in silence for at least five minutes, Prince still blasting through me ears. She beams at me before making a motion towards me.
“Can you take the headphones off for me” she said it gently, not rude but I still roll my eyes and stop the music. Before letting out a small apology.
“What have you been doing to keep yourself busy” I begin to fidget with my headphone cord.
“Um, I’ve been working.” She raises her brows at me.
“Working” she repeats slightly
“Yes.” She sighs like she doesn’t believe me, writing something down. I’m sure it has to do with me having no life. Needing to find something keep my mind at ease.
“Have you been sleeping better?” her voice comes out loud, I look up from the ground.
“Yeah.” Lying through my teeth, she can tell. I can feel her judging me slightly. My heart is pounding as I hear it, Tik tok, tik tok. The sound of a clock going off in the distance. I begin to look around for the clock but to no avail I don’t see anything.
“What about your nightmares or headaches? Are you still having those?” I can tell she is fed up with me, her red lips thin out and she is starting through me, not at me anymore.
“No more headaches, and no more nightmares” I look down again and right as she is about to ask me another question, the timer goes off. Without even thinking I stand up grabbing my stuff rushing out. Steve is standing outside the office, a pissed off expression worn on his face.
“Where were you?” his voice seems so quite compared to my therapist.
“I’m sorry I overslept, before I knew it I had therapy” my voice even sounds distant, our friendship isn’t what it once used to be. At one point in time, we used to be inseparable. We grew up together, babysat together. He throws his arm around me. I shrug it off before walking ahead of him. I can see the hurt on his face, as he stops in front of me.
“You’re acting different” his voice is accusatory. “It’s like you’re not even here anymore; it’s like you’re a…” my voice cuts him off.
“A ghost” his eyes dart to the ground as he takes a visible gulp. “That’s not what I mean” his voice comes out quite again.
harry is a bodyguard by trade and y/n would do anything just to be left alone
including: a mean father who crosses boundaries, some shouting, and unwanted letters
wordcount: 18.5k+
rêvasser
harry was too observant. y/n worried he could see the cracks in her walls.
including: a nail appt, gross guys at the country club, and a special gown.
wordcount: 12.8k+
ephemere
when the night comes crashing down, harry is the only one there for y/n.
including: a gala event, a panic attack in the bathroom, unwanted advances against y/n (nothing too intense or serious tho), and a very angry father
wordcount: 22k+
flâner
wandering around Paris is just what y/n needed. and harry, of course
including: some moping, a pilates class, sightseeing, and a visit from a friend
wordcount: 11.2k+
s'entendre
y/n's first night out since the gala couldn't be that bad. right?
including: a drunk!y/n on a night out, protective harry, more paparazzi, a mean father, and "I've got you"
wordcount: 14.4k+
retrouvailles
y/n goes on a date, harry finds out a secret, and something shifts.
including: a misogynistic date, dinner under the Eiffel Tower, and a first kiss
wordcount: 15.5k+
épanouissement
there's no place like home, even if the people there try to wreck it.
including: confrontation w her mean dad, a French cottage, cuddling on the couch, roses, and smut (oral f receiving, w a tiny bit of talking)
wordcount: 22k+
I do majority of my reading on Wattpad, so I've put together a list of my all-time favourite books from there and also attached my own reading list as well for anyone who would like to look through it!
Click for the full reading list
Breaking The Ice by sarbearfive
Hockerry with a slow burn romance. Read it all in one night IT WAS SO GOOD!!!!!!
Spotlight by Kiwiharryy
Enemies to lovers, also they're in a fake relationship which I eat up everytime!!!!
Rising Stars by tpwk1d00
Two famous singers fall in love
PRETEND by alittleloveeee
Another enemies to lovers where they're actors
Scandal by angelsvol6
Yet another fake relationship fic, trust me THIS ONE IS SO INCREDIBLE, I've read it at least 3 times now.
Assumptions by sugarpaperactuallyx
Famous au where the reader is working on the "behind the album" documentary with harry.
Hi friends! @1800titz here. This is my contribution to the collaboration, and I’d like to start off by saying that I am so, so, so beyond excited to work with the immensely talented @cherryjuiceblues!! Thank you for working with me Soph :’)
We have loads of goodies planned, and we’d like to kick things off with Mr. Hitchhikerry. (Sidenote: he’s a little late to the party, this WAS supposed to be a spooky piece for Halloween but SHDJDJCJDJD don’t worry about it. Life got in the way a bit, but he’s finally HERE so WOOOO). A little idea based on this reddit post. This one has great big warnings. DARK HARRY. VERY DARK HARRY. With a piece like this, I want to really emphasize: this is purely for entertainment purposes, and there is 0 correlation intended to the real Harry Styles <3 just a spooky faceclaim.
With that disclaimer out of the way, here’s some content warnings: dom/sub themes, choking, (light) spanking, degradation (and praise!) ((some good ol’ LET’S PLAY SIMON SAYS)). THE WOOF WOOF is for humiliation purposes only <3 GREAT BIG WARNING FOR A DISTURBING CONFESSION OF INTENT TO HARM.
Also, I writhe in my seat as I write, wanting to put in lengthy context of prediscussion and safewords and aftercare and everything important I always talk about, BUT. You’ll see. He’s an …interesting character and I tried to keep hitchhikerry true to himself.
PLEASE DON’T HOOK UP WITH STRANGE MEN YOU PICK UP ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD AT NIGHT. PLEASE DON’T PICK UP STRANGE MEN ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD AT NIGHT. Enjoy ٩(◕‿◕)۶ (WC is 11K)
She doesn’t do hitchhikers.
Not figuratively, not literally.
Y/N was raised outside of the scope of the seventies, post-Bundy and his hitchhiking antics, and since the evolution of serial-killer lore, she’s never been fond of a stranger hopping into her passenger seat and then cutting her up into itsy-bitsy parts to hang around his back garden like string-lights, or something. An ear there, a palm with crooked fingers there. Morbid stuff.
Y/N doesn’t do hitchhikers, but she doesn’t think about that, hurtling down some back-country road, a poorly lit vale through a field of tall, boundless grass. It’s not the first thought budding behind her skull when she sees his silhouette through the shone of her pearly brights — a blip by the line of tall shrubbery — even a good distance away. And from her distance, he’s just a little blip in a cream, hoodless sweatshirt, feet planted into a bed of patchy grass. Her first sane thought, as she squints through her windshield, has to do with why someone would be out on this road, at this time of night, with no feasible form of transportation, and how. As her Honda nears and passes some fork off, a dirt bend of clearing into the winding field of nature, the man’s hitchhiking, signature thumb morphs into a wave of his arms, and his foot steps out, toying at the edge of the road. It doesn’t quite breach the threshold, but her speedometer decreases enough for her to catch baggy denim, distressed at the knees, and a slow wave of his arms, raised. He doesn’t launch at her car, forlorn, as she passes — thank Christ. But even then, his frame swishes by, out of sight, coated by darkness. She casts her gaze to the rear-view, and the image of him scrubbing over his face with an exasperated palm shrinks in size the further she gets.
The young woman gets about a hundred feet before she nudges the break with her foot to a halt, sighing as the car settles with a subtle lurch. She makes another glance to the rear-view. Now, she can’t see him, not in the shroud of night, but she squeezes her eyes shut for a second, and then twists the wheel until the car curves. A tire slips off onto gravel and grass with the U-turn, but she steers herself back onto the road and drives into the same direction she’s just come from.
He looks surprised to see her reverse, form pivoted toward the same headlights that’d just passed him with a crease over his brow bone. Y/N slows and breaks as she nears, absent-mindedly pressing a fingertip over the lock button on her door. TV Girl is still playing quietly from her car speakers when she cracks the window, stopped beside him across the road, and beckons with her chin raised just enough for her cadence to seep through the opening, “Do you need help?”
“Yes, yeah, I—“ the man makes a quick glance towards the side of the road where vehicles would be incoming, a sharp turn of his chin, and then a step towards her parted window as Y/N twists over the volume toggle. “I just— my car broke down,” he raises an arm and points towards the dirt clearing that slips into the field, “I was coming this way, and my phone’s died—“
He pauses, shaking his head down at his converse, his voice a baritone croon with charming, foreign dialect, “I know this is so odd, and you probably don’t want a stranger in your car. But f’you could just order an uber or something, I could give you the cash for it?” the girl watches his ring-clad palm disappear into the front pocket of his denim hastily, only to retrieve a wallet, “—If that’s alright?”
Y/N doesn’t do hitchhikers.
And still, her pupils rove over the charming stranger, trailing from his soft dark curls, swiping over his lashes as his head ducks, down the slope of his nose, to the cushiony pink of his lips. Irises graze down his neck and catch a white tee under the collar of his cream pull-over, and they brush down his denim, to his battered, white converse. The young woman watches his hand stretch out, cautiously, a wad of neatly folded cash cupped by pads of fingers with short, yellow-lacquered nails.
“No, don’t— …I can give you a ride,” Y/N tells him, her tone soft as her gaze wanders over his frame.
A downward shift plucks at the corner of his plush mouth and his jaw flexes, a hesitant look shaping over his features, “It’s— I couldn’t— s’like a thirty minute drive, and I don’t wanna take you out of the way…”
His large hand is still stretched out toward her, and she admires the cross inked over the back of his hand, on the fleshy area between his thumb and forefinger. Her brows pinch together, and the window whirs as the glass partition sinks. The girl raises her hand and points back with her thumb.
“Are you going in that direction?”
Wordlessly, the attractive stranger nods — a single dip of his chin.
“I’m going that way, too. I can give you a lift.”
Another look of hesitancy flits over the curly-haired stranger’s face, a soft, dubious touch to his facial features. He purses his strawberry mouth.
“If you’re sure.”
Y/N doesn’t do hitchhikers.
And still, she slips her hand over the unlock button, and the doors click to signal unshuttering as the man culls his wallet and stuffs the cash back in, sticking that back into his jeans. She watches him wind around her car, his gait trailing behind, and her eyes follow his side profile, bathed in the red of the brake lights, through the rear-view. The passenger door slips open. She rolls her window the rest of the way up.
“Thank you,” the man tells her in his low baritone, raking fingers through his curls as he slides into the seat beside her and shuts the door.
He smells heady and fresh — expensive. But it’s not overpowering, by any means. A blend of tantalizing notes; cologne blotted in increments that mesh well with his natural musk. The pleasant scent is the first thing she notices when he climbs into her vehicle. The second is the sculpt of his side profile — lengthy lashes over the crest of his cheekbones, his nose, a plush, pink mouth, a stray curl splayed over his forehead. He’s a little older than her, at least by a handful of years; there’s this innate, aged quality to him, and she can witness it in the shape of his features, in the soft dusting of stubble over his jawline. Y/N catches glimpses of his side profile discretely as the music track shifts, eyeing the bob of his Adam's apple as he cranes his neck back against the headrest. The screen over the center console reads 1:02 AM.
“Long night?”
It’s a shit attempt at small talk, but the young woman turns the wheel in her palms, hopeful that the man is interested in something more than an awkward silence, sparsely filled with the mellow keys of electronic-indie leaking from the speakers. She heard him expel a breath more than she sees it in her peripherals, and as the car embarks on another U-turn, he tells her, with laughter suffusing his cadence, “Yeah. Yeah, s’been a long night.”
She does make out that he pivots a bit towards her, and his tone is earnest when he says, “But it’d be a little longer without you, I think. Thank you, again. Feels like I can’t say it enough.”
Her mouth quirks softly. The young woman keeps a haphazard left hand on the wheel, vision bouncing from the poorly illuminated road ahead and the phone in the cupholder. The LED display lights alive as she swipes her thumb over the lockscreen and toggles onto the maps app, cueing him by nudging the electronic in his direction.
“Um. If you could just type in the directions— I’m sort of shit in these parts, to be honest.”
She casts a brief gaze toward him and sees a soft divot pinch into his cheek as the corners of his mouth crook up. His fingertips, warm and rough — calloused — brush over the back of her hand with the handoff, and then his thumbs are working over the screen before an address and a winding blue line of directions with an eta of thirty-four minutes teems the screen.
“Hi, by the way,” the man says in his honey-smooth cadence, “My name’s Harry.”
“Hi,” Y/N grins, shooting a bashful glance into the attractive stranger — Harry’s — direction, before fixing her irises up ahead. “I’m Y/N.”
“Y/N,” the man parrots — God. She could listen to him drone on about the most monotonous topics in that voice. He doesn’t. Instead, he uses that same timbre again to say, “S’a pretty name.” And she has to ignore the flurry of butterflies that swarm her innards at the entirely innocuous compliment and the heat that suffuses her cheeks. “Are you from around here?”
“Ish. Sort of,” she slows at a curve through the field. Her brows pinch, “I mean, I’ve lived here for a bit now, but I moved from Oregon.”
“Oregon? That’s sick. Any particular motive?”
Y/N lifts a subtle shoulder, because there isn’t. She pauses before she answers. “Dunno. Just needed a change of scenery.”
Harry twists the ring over his pinky and nods down at the motion, lips pursed with intrigue, “Adventurous.”
The young woman’s mouth crooks, because he’s, evidently, from the opposite hemisphere.
“That’s admirable,” the man motions with his chin.
Her mouth is still smiley when she rounds another curve, in the opposite direction, and mirrors his dialogue, “What about you? Any motive?”
“My motive?” his inflection is cheeky and playful, “You don’t think I’m a native?”
The girl makes a wry sound of amusement; an obvious inclination of disagreement. The handsome man grins, all raspberry-tinted lips and friendly teeth. “Just …visited, and never wanted to leave,” he declares with little expansion on the topic. Simple, short, sufficing.
There’s a little moment of lull between them when she straightens the car out and the track slips into the chorus.
Harry shifts in the passenger seat and asks, in that same deep timbre she could sink into and drown in, “Where are you headed from?”
Where is she headed from? Y/N blinks at the road ahead, digits flexing over the steering wheel. Truth be told, it’s a late hour to be out and about, especially in this deserted neck of the woods. Every cozy little farmhouse in these plains, distant beyond the fields of grass, has lights off. No other car passes.
“I was on a …date,” the young woman tells him.
Harry nods and swivels in his seat to face her a bit. “Good date?”
Y/N pauses, the fragments of the story rolling around behind her skull. And truth be told, …it wasn’t a very good date. But it wasn’t a date to begin with. In all honesty, she’s not about to tell this attractive stranger that she’d driven forty minutes for a routine hook-up with an old tinder match, only to be stood up outside his door.
He was a character whose path happened to cross with hers for purely carnal purposes, and their flings were like rolls through seasons, rendezvous blotted into her timeline where either had a smidge to make room. She’s not going to talk about that. It’s piteous, basically. The young woman doesn’t risk side-eyeing him. This man seems like he’s well off in that department, and she doesn’t want to discuss her shit intimate life and the way that Cody decided, last minute, that he was more interested in going out for miller lites with his buddies than entertaining the idea of sleeping with her.
He didn’t even have that impressive of dick game anyways — that’s the brutal candor. It wasn’t that he had this particular lack of satisfaction guarantee, but the sex was okay. It didn’t tick all the boxes or leave her fulfilled, not in the real sense, but it was sex, and it was decent. Maybe the most brutal part is the way she’d driven all the way to see him, even knowing that the sex wasn’t going to be top notch.
Apparently, her silence stretches too long, and the pause gives away the answer she mulls tactics over hiding.
“Bad date,” the girl hears from beside her — it’s in this thoughtful sort of way, like Harry’s slotting puzzle pieces together in the lull.
Y/N shifts her fingers over the wheel, the sound of skin sliding over leather meshing with the starting notes of a Cage the Elephant track. Her thumb toggles over a button on the wheel. She skips it.
“No,” the girl responds, eventually, but she doesn’t even sound fully convincing to her own ears. There’s this high note to her cadence, and she hears it in her own waver of honesty. She wants to cringe up, a little, at the sound. “Not …bad. Just. Well, you know. What about you?”
For the first time since she’d gotten back onto the road, Y/N casts her gaze to him. A glimpse, a twist of her chin, enough to take in his side-profile for a smidge of a second, more in a way to incite switching the topic and pivoting the point of conversation than the inconspicuous stare she’d made appreciating his features. The corner of his plush mouth curves up, and he makes a little sound; a puff of air through his nostrils like he’s bridling mirth.
“Was my date bad?” Harry says, in this playful sort of way. Like he’s teasing her.
“No— your— whatever you—”
Y/N huffs. She rolls her shoulders back against the seat, a heat teeming over her cheeks. Why was she so nervous? Why did he make her so nervous? Harry makes another sound of amusement, the cushion of his lips unsealing to display straight white teeth.
“I was at a friend’s,” Harry expands, opting to stop drawing out the teasing, enough for Y/N’s shoulders (that’d grown rigid) to relax a little against the seat. “Was actually having a good night, believe it or not. And then, you know.”
Unfortunately, she does know. He’s sitting in her car, after all.
“Do you know what went wrong with it?” she ponders.
“Well,” Harry the pads of his fingers over the door, and it takes every fiber in her not to sneak a glance at the motion, not to admire the yellow polish, washed with darkness, dim in the car, “the check engine light was on for a bit, to be honest. But— no,” the man pauses with a little simper, shooting her a glance, “Cars aren’t my specialty.”
They talk about loads of things — she learns all about his friends and the sort of outing they’d had (game night it’d been, Uno, and he’d beckoned her opinion on a debate that’d arisen — whether a draw four could be stacked onto a draw two). That had spawned another conversation on card games —
(“Is it like Go Fish, then?”
“No,” she snorts, “not at all.”
“Not at all?”
“There’s a board and it’s— more complicated.”
“There’s a board,” Harry parrots, shifting with his elbow brace on the center console like an armrest, “And it’s just, like. Cards, like, in a deck of cards?”
“You’ve never played cribbage?” Y/N repeats in disbelief.)
She learns about his job, and his cat, and his collection of vintage vinyls. He’s amiable, and he answers every question she directs his way with this smooth sort of charm. He’s easy to talk to, and the span of the drive cuts shorter and shorter through intriguing conversation. But she leads the way for the majority of the inquiries.
It’s not until they’re at the halfway mark before he asks his own, rather than redirecting one of hers.
“Can I ask you something?” Harry drums his fingertips over the plush of his mouth, and Y/N struggles to fix her eyes back onto the road once she’s spared him a glance.
It takes her a second to hum out an agreement, too.
“It was a bad date, wasn’t it?”
The girl expels a breath and drums her fingers over the wheel, casting her gaze onto the screen of directions.
“It wasn’t even a date,” she confesses, “he was like—“ she blinks, lashes fluttering as exasperation at the reminder leaks through, “A tinder hook up, and we didn’t even end up hooking up.”
Before he can interject, Y/N tacks on, begrudged, “He wanted to hit the bars with his posse of Mag-con wannabes, instead.”
And then there’s this sort of pause that has Y/N thinking that maybe she’s overshared. The man with the sun-polished nails isn’t an old friend she’s having a gab with, catching up on the phone — he’s a stray man she’s plucked up off some deserted road, and if he judged her for her choices, it’d kind of be justified. Namely, the one where she’d driven out in the middle of the night for impromptu cock.
And anyways, this all feels a bit surreal — the beginnings of a therapy session with a stranger who’d hopped into her sedan for a lift, filling the void of a psychologist in a great, big leather armchair.
Except Harry sounds earnestly disbelieving when he says, “You’re kidding.”
She purses her mouth and readjusts her fingers over the steering wheel. “He sort of …canceled when I was already at his door? Forgot to text me that the plans changed. That’s what he said.”
“What a dickhead.”
“Mm,” Y/N hums.
“He’s a moron for passing up the opportunity,” Harry tells her. It’s not in an awkward way, or anything creepy, either. He’s got this air to him, she finds — an ability to make a comment like with effortless delivery of charm. He’s not even looking at her when he says it, only risking her a brief glance that she catches in her peripherals. She still side-eyes him from her seat in surprise, the edges of her mouth curling up bashfully.
“M’serious,” Harry says, dimples pinching into place beside the upturned-curl of his plush mouth.
And the thing is, Harry is so friendly. He’s kind, and interesting, and despite the way Y/N had assumed allowing for his presence in her car would be the world’s greatest chore, she’s pleased to be in his company.
That’s why she lifts a wry shoulder and tells him, “The sex was bad anyways.”
The man’s face pivots to face her, then. “Yeah?” he coaxes for expansion in his molasses-slow croon of a timbre.
“It was just a little boring.”
“Boring?”
“Not— maybe not boring. Just, you know. There was nothing…” Y/N drums digits over the steering wheel, “I don’t know.”
The man beside her clears his throat.
“Was he a missionary in the dark type of bloke, then?”
“Yes,” she responds, almost instantly. Because missionary in the dark is, perhaps, the best way to describe Cody’s sexual nature. Down to the T, practically. She can’t fathom how many times she’d lay there, hoping he’d switch up into something different, something where his hands weren’t resting shallowly on the bed sheets beside her shoulders, something where his face wasn’t tucked into the crook of her neck, his mouth biting back everything but soft hisses of air as his hips rocked at an mediocrely slow pace.
Harry’s mouth quirks.
“But not even that, it’s like. He wasn’t bad at foreplay, or anything. It wasn’t the best. But, you know. It was all sort of… plain.”
The young woman pauses before she continues with an apathetic, one-shouldered shrug, “And there’s nothing wrong with plain. It gets the job done, and, you know. That’s what some people like.”
There’s a shift in energy, from there. It’s subtle, but Y/N can feel it, and she wonders whether the morph is a one-sided experience. It happens with the honesty of the context, with the way she swears jade winds over her figure from beside, with the rasp of his voice beckoning something playful.
“But that’s not what you like.”
Y/N takes a second to answer. “No.”
“What do you like?”
Maybe that phrase is where it hits her. Where she recognizes that the subtle shift in energy is not one-sided. Not by any means.
Y/N risks a haphazard glance into his direction.
“Not …that,” the girl laughs. It’s a nervous, giggly kind of sound, but it’s not because of him.
It’s different now, she thinks. He’d been so timid at first — all bashful gazes through lashes glimmering under the beam of headlights, hesitancy shaping his features. Friendly dialogue — alluring, but curt in anything beyond friendly. This is different. This is blunt and forward. This is his eyes raking over her, this is his tongue swiping out over the plush of his pink mouth, this is his dimples peeking as the corners edge up.
“What do you like?” Harry asks again, a note of flirty, lighthearted amusement to his smooth cadence.
Y/N sighs, the corners of her mouth tipping up. “I don’t know. Oh my God. Why are you interrogating me?”
Harry laughs. His brows rise, and he tips his chin down so the green sparkles at her. “You don’t know what you like?”
“I don’t know,” she huffs, good natured. And then she gives. “Something… rough. Something exciting. I don’t know, pull my hair, make it hurt a little. Don’t… lay there in the dark and…” her speech morphs into giggles, “Groan into my ear about how tight I am while I’m laying there like a dead fish.”
Y/N doesn’t know how she ends up pulled over in some deserted parking lot. She doesn’t know how her headlights end up off, how the stranger’s hands sew into her hair, how his lips mesh softly with hers, hungrily. Well. She does know, but she doesn’t care about the details in between. Because he’s hot, and he tastes of mint, and the tips of his fingers press into her scalp and tug a little when they brush through, when he slips a palm over the nape of her neck through the work of his cushiony mouth. It’s thrilling, and it’s sexy, and it’s dangerous, she thinks, but that thought becomes clouded and pushed back to the dells of her mind.
“Such a pretty little thing,” Harry murmurs when they disconnect, fingers splaying over her cheeks. Her heart hammers in her chest, and his irises trail after the motion of his thumb, bumpily dragging over the side of her lips, all the way to her cupid's bow. That same pad of his thumb pauses and tugs, drawing her bottom lip down to show the slightly parted seal of her teeth.
And then he’s taking his thumb away and nudging the tips of his index and middle finger, coaxing, “Open your mouth, open your mouth.”
The pads of his digits meet the tip of her tongue and prod in, brushing over her taste buds, until he’s tapping onto the center of the muscle and crooning, “Stick it out. Tongue out for me.”
A little hum escapes her, plucking at her vocal chords when she complies, only for him to trace further with his fingertips and nudge until he strokes the back. He holds them there and makes a little motion with his chin and a soft tut when her irises stay pinned on him, glazing with a sheen of watery protest at the depth of the intrusion.
“Ah— don’t you gag,” he tells her softly, every syllable of every word coated with these notes of dominance that almost seem …innate — like the headspace is a pair of shoes for him to slip into with ease.
It’s filthy, it’s so filthy — this stranger’s fingers in her mouth, this man she’s never seen a day in her life, a complete, nameless stranger, not even an hour prior, prodding into the warm wetness behind her lips. And her, following his aimless direction, just to please him. She doesn’t gag through the way his fingers crook, her tongue twitching and her throat bobbing, her sight growing blurry with the coating of sheen. It’s worth it, immensely, when Harry hisses out a soft curse and groans softly, his brows pinched.
It’s worth it when he takes his fingers away, and Y/N’s jaw is coated with her drool, when her tongue is still out, when Harry says, in this soft, strained voice, like it’s praise, “Christ, you’re a filthy thing.”
She finds that this impromptu rendezvous sort of gives her whiplash. She’s parked in some empty parking lot with her lights off, and an alluring stranger’s just untucked his fingers from her mouth. Maybe someone would deem this a new low — having a shag with some hitchhiker she’s scooped off the side of a back-country road. But he’s eyeing her like she’s prey, and he rolls from one action like pages flitting and flipping in a book, and every detail keeps her on her toes. She can’t keep up. Y/N pants wetly, like she’s not sure whether to slip her tongue back into her strawberry mouth, because she’s not.
Not until he swipes another thumb over the tip of the lax, twitching muscle and beckons, like he’s a little amused, “Aren’t you?”
Slowly, her tongue retreats, and that’s when his hand slips and cups over her throat, and that’s—
Her pulse thunders like it’s straining to beat out from below her skin, and Harry adjusts his grip, that same, wet thumb drawing short, slow lines over the point like he wants to test the race of her heart, like he wants to know that the pattern has skyrocketed since his palm has made homage over her windpipe. The man hums, pupils trailing and lingering slowly.
“Tell me—“ Y/N shifts in her seat, spine straightening out against the cushion, and something wracks down every individual knob when his blown gaze pins her the same way his palm pins over her neck, “Tell me you’re my filthy plaything.”
The press of his hand isn’t harsh by any extent, not until she parts her lips to answer — that’s when he nudges a little firmer. A little harder. He cocks his head at her in this condescending way — like her stifled sound of surprise entertains him, like the subtle, almost unnoticeable jolt of her eyelids, widening, pleases him. Judging by the slight quirk at the edges of Harry’s plush mouth, it does.
Her tummy coils with unanticipated desire. This feels almost scary. This feels like traipsing over a rope, like teetering over dangerous territory, and the sudden spike of adrenaline only has her thighs clenching together harder. Because this is sweet Harry, the friendly hitchhiker, in his cream sweater with his nice smile, and his charming dimples, and his loose, clean curls, with his warm palm cupped over her throat and the pad of his thumb digging into her pulse. He looks fucking hungry.
“I’m—“ her statement’s muzzled by the press of his hand, an increase in only a slight increment. It’s enough to wrest a garbled sound from the back of her throat. He tips his head.
“What’s that?”
“I’m your…” she pauses when he presses harder, again, and this time’s enough to have her feeling lightheaded, her bleary eyes wandering over his face and every muscle of her face battling the light flutter of her lashes. She thinks a dimple peeks from his cheek. Harry lets up.
Y/N siphons breaths like her lungs have been deprived for ages, and not just partly for the timespan of a short fifteen seconds. Still, his palm is glued over the front of her neck — just there. His thumb strokes over her pulse gently.
“I’m your …filthy plaything,” the young woman confesses in this pathetic little voice that’d have her ashamed in every other setting. But in this one, it doesn’t.
Arousal creeps through every fiber of being, instead, crawling through her arteries and settling into her veins like a twisted, dark goo. It thrums through her and sinks through to the trench of her tummy, frothing as chills teem down her back. He’s got this glint in his eye, like a dance around a bonfire in the deep of the night — but it’s just a stray street light that casts its shone as a spotlight when he ducks forward a tad, just enough for it to. When he tips forward, his gaze growing half-lidded, lower and lower the closer he gets, it feels like he starts to siphon every breath from her own mouth as his cushiony lips ghost over her cupid’s bow. Even for the smidge of the second it takes for their mouths to mesh again, it feels like the movement is in ultra slow motion.
The mold of their mouths together, this time, feels a lot less like she’s got her hands on the wheel — the first time had been almost testing, sweet — something soft that’d shifted into something headier, something firmer. This feels like something he guides, something he takes the clear lead in, from the pace of his hungry lips to the exploratory nudge of his tongue against the seam of her own mouth. Her fingers flex over the center console aimlessly, palm straying, and fingertips catching on a part of his cotton sweatshirt. They twist into the fabric softly when Harry’s tongue strokes over her own. A hand settles onto her thigh. It’s not her own.
“Get in the backseat,” he hums into her open mouth, squeezing over her flesh when she doesn’t immediately comply. He’s got this way of dulling her reflexes, crumbling the semblance of her mind to mush, and Y/N is convinced it has more to do with his touch than it has with the time of night, despite the way exhaustion wears at her tired muscles. “Get in the fuckin’ backseat.”
When her arms strays and she reaches for the door handle, though, he squeezes at her thigh again, and hums out a displeased note of disagreement. “Not like that.”
Bemused, Y/N shifts in her seat. A glint of something playful glows in the jade when Harry tells her, “You can find another way, can’t you, pet? Go on.”
Y/N sits in confused silence for all of three seconds before the man sits back a tad and cocks his head, irises flashing towards the backseat with a playful, little grin quirking at his lips. Like he’s suggesting.
It takes her longer than three seconds to clamber into the back from the driver’s seat, through the slot over the center console, but it satisfies Harry, evidently, judging by the way he palms over the globes of her backside through her stretchy mini-skirt. It’s not very graceful, and if she was less aroused she’d probably find it in her somewhere to be a bit embarrassed, but. She doesn’t. She wriggles over the cushion, instead, settling back.
Harry has smarter ideas. He toggles the gear on the side of the passenger seat and sets the whole top of it back, like a makeshift day-bed, and scoots into the back of the sedan through the opening. And there’s not much leg room — not for the two of them, not with the whole back of the seat splayed — and there’s not much room for their heads, either, but they manage to squeeze back, and he’s gripping onto her shoulders and twisting her on his own whim before the young woman has a chance to shift around, herself.
“Get—“ the way Harry manhandles her with a grip on her hips, (once he’s got her slumped, at least somewhat) — with ease, like he’s flipping a page in a book rather than rearranging her whole position in the cramped space of a sedan backseat — that lights something fiery in the pit of her belly. “Hands and knees, baby,” Harry tells her, grunting softly while her limbs scrabble over the pleather. He pulls her back into him, by the hips as she’s physically molded into it, parroting, quieter, “hands and knees.”
“Itsy bitsy skirt… so easy to just—” Harry hums, this sort of mischief to his cadence — and it becomes blatantly obvious, the reason for it, when his digits creep under, from behind, and his colossal palms hitch it up, “Oops.”
She’s wearing tights under it. They’re not the fleece-lined kind, despite the bite of chill in the air outside, but they are there, and Harry spans the pads of his fingers over the barrier like he doesn’t have plans to discard them the practical way.
He doesn’t. The man stripes a fingertip down her core, from behind, over the fabric and the faint hue of cheeky purple that peeks through, and makes this devious sound of mirth when her whole body twitches. And then he draws the same fingertip back up, in the same line, and nudges a bit.
“What am I gonna do with you?” Harry coos. The third, slow drag has her arching her hips back. “Hm? What am I gonna do?” He takes almost a thoughtful second, tongue peeking out to swipe out over the cushion of his pink bottom lip, before Harry splays his palms over her bum, “Pretty girl… pretty arse…”
And it’s so calm — he’s so calm, so casual, so nonchalant — Y/N doesn’t even sense it coming until he sighs, and then he’s digging the tips of his digits into the nylon, stretching it from her core, and just tearing. Casually. Nonchalantly. The sound of fabric ripping apart coaxes her jaw to slip open, and her pupils stick to the inside of the door, unblinking, as he just tears, and tears, and tears.
And she’s not even upset, is the thing. She’s not irritated that this stranger’s just torn the crotch of her tights apart — she can’t be, not when he hums devilishly and strokes over her core, a layer closer. Maybe that’s pitiful. Maybe that’s sad, that she’s so fucking horny that she doesn’t care that her tights have been split open with no prior discourse on the topic, but this direction of impulse — the way she’s not even able to try and guess his next move, it kindles something hot and hungry.
And if she ever has Cody to thank for anything, Y/N thinks maybe it’d be that he’d inspired her to shave and slip on a pair of decently attractive underthings.
“These are pretty, too,” Harry tells her, thumbing at the crotch of the thong, just over one side. The young woman gives this dreamy little sigh and arches back up into him further. “What d’you want, sweetheart? Want me to give some attention …here—“
Her spine jolts when he nudges the pad of his index right up against her clit, lightly, over the purple fabric, “Maybe? Is that it? Eager girl.”
He draws a featherlight circle over it, and then another, and another until her thighs are trembling. The tip of his digit taps. She nudges back, and he takes it away altogether. An amused sound slips from his mouth.
“Say please,” Harry demands.
Y/N jumps as his fingertips trail to her inner thigh, crooking and tickling in the line they draw.
“Please.”
Again, he makes a disapproving tut, and Y/N rolls her cheek onto on a forearm, tucked over the seat.
His eyebrows climb up his forehead, and his fingertips drift up and down the back of her thigh, drawing closer and closer where she needs him most with every lap. Each word is covered with notes of firm dominance. “Not like that. Like you mean it — like you’re pleading.”
Y/N mulls over the words, her heart thundering.
“How d’you beg?”
It takes a second for his words to sink in, but then when they do, she croons out, softer, more desperate, “Please.”
There’s a soft sound of a breath being expelled, the seat crinkling quietly as, she assumes, Harry sits back on his haunches, head ducked. Like it’s not good enough. Her tongue traces out over her lips and she beckons, “Please, please,” each plea prompting a spiral of unfamiliar humiliation — glazed with arousal — to unfurl.
“Please, please, please—“ each word emphasized with a rock back of her hips. And finally, he touches her.
His palm cradles a cheek, and he doesn’t sound even slightly impressed. Instead, his voice comes out exasperated when he tells her, “That’s not convincing. You’re desperate. You want something — you need it, you’re pleading.”
“Please— please—“
“Louder,” he scoffs, “Beg. Beg.”
“Please,” she tries, desperation creasing her voice strained on the syllable, and Harry drags fingertips, airy, across her inner thigh, from bottom to top. “Please, please, please—“
And finally, something clicks. Something slots together, at some point, when she ditches the inhibitions and her cadence starts to border on a delirious sort of desperation. Finally, something works.
“That’s better,” Harry says softly, swiping his thumb over her clit, “Much better.”
She doesn’t pick up on that, though, and she’s still begging, pleading, quietly. Quieter, quieter, quieter — the words growing more sparse the longer he spends time honing on her clit, the firmer his touch becomes.
“Good girl,” Harry coos, his fingertips latching up under the hem at the crotch of her panties, before he tugs, “Good girl. You ask nicely, and I’ll give it to you. S’that easy.”
He slips a thumb against her gushing entrance and drags it down, tracing careful shapes over the bud of nerves, before he tugs down on the hood and emphasizes on the new exposure by reigniting the touch with the thumb on his opposite hand. Two hand task — very dedicated.
“S’this all for me?” the man teases, pinching her clit, lightly, between the pad of his thumb and the side of his index. He sounds a little self-satisfied when he declares, quietly, “I’m flattered.”
Her lips part as a silent, breathy moan wrests from the back of her throat. It happens when the pad of his long middle digit prods at her entrance and nudges in. The thumb on his other hand sweeps, side to side, over where she’d most sensitive, and he stuffs into her further. And they are lengthy — his fingers. She’d seen them drumming over the center console, and smush over the raspberry tint of his lips, felt them coat her tongue, and felt them press against her throat. They can reach further than her own, crooking against her spongy walls, curling when he adds a second before straightening out and scissoring for the stretch.
“Christ, you’re gushing,” Harry says, and as if on cue, the pornographic squelch of his fingers working crowds the cramped space, “Jesus— d’you hear that?”
Y/N buries her face in her arms to muzzle the little sounds of bliss that he pries from her mouth. It’s not until he’s proper fucking into her with his digits, the pad of his thumb dragging tight, little circles over her clit, that those sounds escape her. And when they start, they pour in a flood. Because he works so expertly, so deftly — from the pace, to the angle, to the way he hones on her clit with his other hand, and the filthy dialogue he spews in his honey-smooth baritone. It’s everything, everything, and it prompts the coil in her belly to circle and squeeze, tighter, tighter — a telltale prior to its inevitable snap. She clenches over his fingers helplessly.
But then he just— stops.
The nudge of his digits skirts to a stand-still within her, and his thumb stops drawing circles, and Y/N just squeezes over him like a silent plea. He makes this sound — this mirthy, deviously pleased hum, like her displeasure at his pause amuses him. It’s pure sadism.
It’s not until she rocks her hips a bit, a shallow, desperate kind of back and forth, that the amusement seems to slip from his tone.
“Don’t—“ Harry tuts sharply, taking his thumb off her clit altogether to grip at her hip harshly, “Stay still. Naughty, little minx.”
And she does. She stays still when his voice gets hard like that. There’s a bit of quiet between his snap and the subtle freeze-up of her rocking. Soft breaths sew through the lull, but then he talks again, his tone a little nicer.
“We’re gonna play a little game, yeah?”
That’s …intriguing. Y/N shifts over the cushion. His grasp over her hip has softened considerably, but there’s still this humiliating heat that swarms her face at the fact that the crotch of her panties is still tucked against her skin, that everything’s out in the open, that Harry’s practically ogling in lieu of touching her.
“It’s a bit like Simon Says. Except, when you play Simon Says, you hesitate a little, right?”
The man’s thumb presses back to her clit, and she buries her face in her folded arms.
“And I don’t want you to hesitate. I’ll tell you something to do, and—“
His fingers sink into her, and her shoulders grow tense from the bliss. Y/N muzzles her groan.
“You’ll do it. Sounds easy enough?”
It does. It’s easy enough instructions, and when Harry pats at the same hip he’d been clutching over and beckons, “Hands back here,” Y/N obliges easily enough.
Her cheek presses to the cushion, cool against the warmth teeming beneath her skin, and she lets him manhandle and move her splayed fingers to his liking, arms stretched behind.
“That’s good,” Harry croons in his low timbre, the warm, lewd praise of it drawing chills up the nape of her neck, “Now spread a bit for me.”
Y/N does that, too. Her finger pads nudge and press into her flesh, coated with the tights, and her digits crook as the tips dig in to splay — to follow his direction, to please him. And it’s shameful, a pinch in her shoulders as her arms reach back, fingers twitchy, imprinting into her own backside with little divots as she opens herself up for him to do nothing. But his satisfied little hum sends an unfamiliar sense of accomplishment spiraling through her veins. The way his warm palm rests on and pets over the back of her thigh along with it feeds something new and starving.
“Good girl. There you go. See? S’easy.”
Y/N makes a little sound into the seat, and her fingers flex as Harry pumps his own digits, a steady rhythm of in and out, paired with a hum from him that sounds absolutely pornographic.
“Such a good girl,” the man tells her, fingers crooking, but the praise isn’t enough to muffle the bemusement that wracks her when he says in this devious hush, “Let’s try another. Bark.”
Bark.
It takes a second for the command to register past the immediate threshold of the pleasure curling in her belly as he strokes at her spongy walls. And when it does click together, his word settling past the membrane of bliss, her initial thought is that she’s definitely misheard him. Because that’s …sort of a ludicrous request. The young woman sounds strewn between groggy and muzzled when she cranes her neck a bit over the cushion and beckons with a confused hum.
“Bark,” Harry repeats, “like a dog.” Simple and nonchalant.
Bark like a dog. She’s midway through creased brows, a strained raise of her head, and a baffled what, before the man stills his fingers and takes a grip over her wrist, sliding her hand away.
And then he smacks her, hard, with his palm on one side, in the same place where her digits had dug in to spread herself open.
It’s loud, and it stings, and it sends a shockwave through her nervous system, strong enough to have everything buzzing on alert as her forehead pastes to the seat and the parted gap of her mouth struggles to mute a gasp. Maybe the most surprising part is that the hurt feels good, that the sting morphs into something else as it fizzles and ebs, that the hammer of her heart spikes this famished, unfamiliar arousal coursing through her when he doesn’t even bother stroking over the bruised skin. It’s definitely hard enough to leave a ruddy mark under the tights, and Y/N blinks down at the faux leather, wordless and a little gobsmacked.
And then Harry sighs in this way that’s so …disappointed. And the calmness of his inflection, grouped with the irony of the harsh hit… that has a chill climbing up her spine.
“That’s not how you play the game, pet.”
He says it in this eerily nonchalant note of disdain, like he’s not just casually tattooed the shape of his hand onto her backside with a blow. Like he expected better. Like it’s a little mishap they’ll gloss over. She doesn’t even realize she’s still got a vice clamped over his fingers until he shifts the digits in her, coaxing her core to flutter around him. Harry sighs again.
“Did you forget the rules, baby?” he asks, cadence soft and basked in condescension. The man strokes over the heated skin, the same spot where Y/N is sure a subtle welt has peaked to the surface below the thin veil of the sheer tights, “I tell you to do something and you do it, right?”
Her knees are starting to ache a little, a soreness settling into the joints, but she doesn’t even mind it when his fingers pump again, slowly.
“That’s how the game goes. Right? I need an answer.”
She makes a soft sound. A little sound that’s not protest. A little sound that’s not outright agreement. It’s a whimper into a void, but everything about him and his touch lights something alive in her. And she wants more. She’s dizzy off of it when she manages out a breathless, “Yes.” It’s a short word that comes out in a breath, like she’d been holding the air in her lungs.
Maybe that’s why she’s dizzy.
“Are we on the same page? Let’s try again, then. Bark.”
Y/N shifts over the seat. The hand he’d moved has splayed helplessly to her side, and the fingers curl and uncurl as the weight of the suggestion hits her. Because that’s— it’s humiliating. It’s demeaning, and it’s strange, and the fact that he demands it has the tips of a fire licking up at her insides. The young woman makes an uncharacteristically pathetic noise.
Harry sighs.
The split second of hesitation is enough, apparently, for another slap, just as hard, in the same spot. It has her rocking forward and clenching over his digits again. Harry’s quick to correct her posture with a hand on her hip, guiding her back in a way that lacks gentleness.
“I said, bark.”
This time his voice is harder. Meaner. Y/N gives.
She gives because the tips of his fingers prod at this heavenly spot inside her, because her skin smarts in a way that has her practically drooling, because she’s dizzy, and hungry, and desperate. Her thighs are quivering when she gets out a half-hearted woof, her lips shaping over the word like the task is a chore to get out.
“Better—“ another slap, aimed lower onto the back of her thigh, has her hips jutting and the straight line of her spine twisting up, “—but not what I’m looking for. Try again.”
She doesn’t even aim to please, is the thing, when her yelp overlaps with another smack. But it morphs into something surprised and deliciously pained, and evidently, it’s enough, judging by the way his touch smooths over the stinging skin.
“Oh, baby,” Harry tells her, his fingers stroking like he’s smudging the pink-tinge of bruising, “That’s pathetic.”
And it dawns on her then, that there’s no winning with this game. When he tuts and tells her, absolutely patronizingly, “So desperate for it, she’s barking like a stray.”
It dawns on her that she doesn’t want to win. She doesn’t care, because his filthy dialogue, as demeaning as it is, just draws her wetter and closer. As if to highlight on it, Harry crooks his fingers and tacks on, “You’re leaking all over the seats, pet.”
And she is, she’s sure. It’s a dirty game he plays, and she loves every part of it and more. It has her writhing when he draws circles over her clit, it has her aching for more when he guides her hand back to her backside with a squeeze and a wordless coax to keep spreading.
“Gonna let me fuck you?” Harry pulls the digits out, dirtying what’s left of her tights and smearing sticky wetness over the back of her thigh, “Hm? Gonna let me—“ his belt clinks as he unbuckles it, and then comes the soft sound of a zipper, its teeth unlatching, “—fill you up?”
“Glovebox,” Y/N mumbles, hips shifting back when he pets at her thigh.
His pupils flit, sticking to the back of her head, before they jump back down to his handiwork. Harry’s tone sounds absent-minded and mirthy when he asks, “What’s that?”
“There’s condoms in the glovebox,” she expands, a little louder than her prior murmur, bracing on her forearms to cast her gaze back at him over her shoulder.
And he looks rugged in this boyish, youthful way, then, is the thing. The corner of his mouth jolts, lopsided, and a stray tendril has flopped over his forehead. His hands are on the undone buckle of his belt, and his fly’s down, and he sounds absolutely amused when he says, “Are there?”
There are.
“You’ve prepared for this, then, have you?” Harry sets a palm onto her hip, squeezing as a dimple pinches into his cheek, “Condoms in your glovebox …like a proper dirty whore?”
Coyly, she blinks, cheek nuzzled to the seat, and she watches him stretch his arm out for the glovebox as he knees away.
“I’m always prepared,” Y/N settles on, softly.
The glovebox slips open. There’s rummaging — his torso turns to face it entirely, and then he gleans a shining, golden little packet, tucked between the pads of his digits. The young woman wriggles her hips. There’s this glint of fiery …something. Something playful, something lewd, something hungry in the jade, when he clambers back over, steadying himself with a palm on her tailbone. It coaxes her spine into a pretty, sharper arch.
“You do this a lot, do you?” Harry teases, “Pick up strange men, let them fuck you?”
She hums in agreement as the man takes the little gold square, snug between his teeth, fingers working quickly, pushing buttons through slots and tugging his cock out.
“Maybe I do.”
He tears at the wrapper with his teeth. She knows, because his next words come out a little muffled.
“Is that right?”
It’s not. It’s so out of the norm, so far from the usual, but Y/N would be a masochist to string out the arousal that’d built between her thighs in lieu of letting Harry span his palms over the globes of her ass in the backseat. Harry, with his cheeky smile and his sunshine, short-trimmed nails. Harry, with his denim-tethered bulge dragging over the back of her thigh and his filthy tongue shaping crude dialogue.
She doesn’t see him as he tuts from behind, but she can picture it; his palm cupped over the base of his shaft as he rolls the condom over and then presses the tip against her teasingly.
“Wanted to be fucked like a dirty whore, is that it?”
Her “yes” stretches and ebs and splinters into a whispery hiss when Harry nudges forward and stretches her out. And then he’s beckoning for her hands, one hand splayed over her hip and the opposite coaxing at her shoulder, tugging and jolting in gentle nudges, mouth shaping over firm, “Hands, hands, give me your hands — behind your back— that’s— just like that.”
Barred from scratching at the seats with his firm, warm grip binding the joints hostage, Y/N presses her cheek to the cushion. She slumps into his willpower, gives into him, the smush of her face sweaty on the cushion, jolting with every rock forward. The young woman clenches over him helplessly. Soft sounds slip past her lips, pried out by the nudges of his hips, over and over, again and again. Her fingers stiffen and flex, and the arch in her spine shifts when the head of his cock bumps that delicious ridge so deep in her — and it’s like Harry senses it, the way her entire body grows taut like a string. He goes at that too, prodding, again and again, until a whine plucks at her vocal chords. Every shallow jolt of his hips sends waves of paralyzing bliss licking over her insides. Every nudge forward has her slumping more. And when he talks, Y/N barely registers it over the rush of blood in her own head.
There’s been little things that fall from his mouth — soft curses and hisses as he slides in, hums and groans when he bottoms out, readjusting his grasp over her wrists. Words, though — now he’s saying words. They’re still in that gentle baritone, this sort of luring croon.
“Come on, baby. Come on — got a stranger’s cock in your pretty, little pussy—“ Harry’s voice catches on a strained note as he pulls out—
…A sigh as he rocks back in, “—and …you’re not gonna struggle?”
A warmth stems from his grasp, behind her back, and as if on reflex, her digits crook and flex. The danger of the words don’t even register. Because, yeah, he’s right. She’s got a stranger holding her restrained, rocking up against her, and all that peaks in her at the filthy dialogue is a bud of deranged arousal. She doesn’t shoulder forward though, doesn’t try to pull her hands apart, doesn’t sag forward, not even a little, too concerned that even a minute shift will alter the delicious intensity of the angle.
“Not even a little bit?” Harry tuts, grinding forward, one more time, slow, and then he squeezes over her wrists hard and picks up in pace. Just until he settles into a hard tempo of short, deep thrusts, and her shoulders are aching from the way he pulls her arms back.
His words blanket her with this patronizing sort of humiliation — the kind that has her spongy walls pulsing over his length and chills erupting from the nape of her neck to the creases between her shoulder blades. “You make it so easy.”
So easy for a stranger to fuck her — so easy, pulling over in some desolate parking lot. So easy, letting him wrap a palm over her throat and stick his fingers past her lips. So easy, following his every command for the reward of his hips pummeling against her own.
And it’s easy to get close with the way he works into her, tip bumping into a spot that sends waves of pleasure coursing through every millimeter of her nervous system. The kind that has every muscle stiffening to stone until the wave ebs. It’s so easy to lurch higher and higher, closer and closer, when his touch digs into her joints, rendering her helpless to his crude affections. When strained grunts and sordid words fall from his mouth, when his other hand slips from her hip and knots into the hair, at the roots, on the back of her scalp, only smushing her cheek into the seat with more pressure.
“Fuck,” Harry groans, the pace of his thrusts stuttering as he picks up the tempo into something merciless, his digits flexing into her hair and his body weight sagging onto her frame.
Every time his balls slap against her clit, teasing where she wants that attention the most, she feels the spring draw tighter, lips smushed to and gaping against the seat. And then he readjusts his grip, lets one of her hands free while he keeps the other pinned, and he coaxes, “Touch your pretty clit, baby. Make yourself cum all over my cock.”
Y/N makes it to the crest before he does. It’s her fingertips sloppily winding loose shapes over the bud of nerves, it’s his cock hammering down into her, it’s the pinch in her shoulder, and the way Harry’s grip grows harsher over the hand he still has pinned, the closer he gets himself. The way his digits are still flexed at the roots of her scalp, the way his moans and curses are garbled with pleasure with each pump. The way her helpless fluttering, when she tips over the peak, draws this long, sordid groan from him as he cranes his neck back. And then he slows, ducking his chin to watch below through slow thrusts.
“Dirty girl, cumming all over a stranger’s cock,” Harry swipes with a thumb where the mesh, toying at the seam of her hole when he goes deeper, again, slow.
And then his grip on her wrist gets hard again as his fingers flex, and he holds onto her hip and guides her in a steady-paced, back and forth bounce over cock. He chases his own releases, every motion rough, and full of control, and so brimmed with this unfamiliar hunger. She’s mush by the time his head tips back, and he gushes ribbon after ribbon into the condom. She’s mush when his grasp over her wrist grows lax, when he knees back clumsily on his knees, when he discards the condom, wrapping it into the confines of its wrapper, when he fixes her purple panties back over her crotch and strokes over the back of her thigh with an amused huff.
“Alright?” Y/N vaguely hears Harry say from behind when she doesn’t instantly sit up, his voice bordering on amused.
That’s. Yeah, Y/N thinks. She’s great. There’s still this rush of blood in her ears, and an ache in her joints that interweaves with the soreness of her muscles, but it’s all in such a good way. She makes a barely coherent hum of agreement and rolls her shoulder forward, planting her palms onto the seat to sit up and glance at the time over the display in the front of the car. It’s nearly three in the morning now, and it hits her then, that she’s so tired. She’s so tired, she feels like every piece of her energy had been strewn up and pulled tight on a rope, and now it’s all wasted away.
Harry gets it. Or he seems to, at least. Sleep beckons her with a whispery croon and a soft touch. The corners of his mouth crook up, and he pats at her hip.
“Hop up, pet. D’you want me to drive the rest of the way? S’just a little bit, now.”
Y/N doesn’t do hitchhikers. She doesn’t let strangers into her car in the middle of the night from some empty road, she doesn’t fuck them in the backseat, and she certainly doesn’t let strange men drive her car to some unfamiliar location, only lacking being undisclosed from its visible street name on the GPS. Y/N doesn’t do any of that. But she nods weakly and lets their roles flip. She’s mid-raising the back of the passenger seat by the time Harry jogs around to the driver’s seat and slips in.
In the rear-view, her reflection greets with her unshed tears and bloodshot eyes, mascara smudged below. He turns to face her and strokes a hand down her thigh. He picks the same hand up and sets it onto the gear-shift. Switches to reverse.
The first thing he says from the front of the car, strawberry mouth quirking as his eyes direct to the back-up camera, is, “I’m sorry about your tights. I hope that was alright.”
When they pull up to the motel, Y/N doesn’t ask questions. There’s only been a span of, maybe, ten minutes passed between the parking lot and their final stop of the night before Harry pulls into a parking spot and shuts the car off.
He tells her, “This is my stop.”
Y/N doesn’t do hitchhikers, and exhaustion wracks at every sinew of muscle in her body. She half-expects him to wordlessly hop out of the car. He doesn’t. The man fixes her with a smile, and says, “Could I get your number, maybe?”
It’s not an odd request by any means, but if she weren’t so tired, maybe she’d ask more questions. Her pupils would wend over the shoddy motel sign, and the shit cars parked beside them, and she’d wonder what the hell they were doing parked in front of some abandoned-looking motel. She’d ask why this was his stop, and not a home. Instead, she pulls a napkin from her glovebox and digs for a pen. She scribbles her digits and hands them off. In the brush of the cool air, from the night, when she clambers out to swap spots with him, she wraps her arms about herself. When she takes a seat into the driver’s side, she expects him to walk away. He doesn’t do that either. Instead, she rolls her window down when he beckons, and Harry leans onto the car and tells her, “Get home alright, yeah?”
It’s a miracle when she hobbles up the steps of her apartment complex, when she pries open the front door and crashes into her sheets. The blankets envelop her like a warm hug, and she doesn’t even bother pulling off her tights.
It’s a week before she gets a phone call. There’s no texts, and the morning after, when she’s greeted with radio-silence, she thinks that maybe she’d dreamt the whole thing.
Her tights, ripped at the crotch, prove otherwise.
She’s in bed, days later, when her screen lights up with a call. It’s an unfamiliar number, and curiosity peaks before she swipes over the answer toggle.
“Hello?”
A gap of silence, a breath, and a familiar, smooth baritone on the other end of the line.
“Y/N.”
There’s a little sound of the bedsheets stirring as she freezes up. He’s caught her off guard. A little laugh plucks at his vocal chords, tinny on the other end of the line, like he’s amused by the stretch of lull. Her lips part, the corners of her mouth inching up as she hears a sigh from him that seeps in all the way to her eardrum. But she doesn’t have time to contemplate what to say or how to say it, because he doesn’t let her get a word in before he’s talking again.
And his next words are not a playful jest at her lack of response, or anything friendly, really. In fact, the confession, said so nonchalantly, causes chills to erupt down her arms.
“I was going to kill you that night.”
The chills aren’t the initial reaction. The initial reflex is the crook of her mouth to morph bemused, the pinch between her eyebrows, and this sullen feeling of dread that twists up in her stomach. A laugh bubbles in her chest, because, what the fuck?
But then he keeps talking.
“Thought about draining the life from those pretty eyes the second you rolled your window down,” the voice on the other end sighs, and it’s got this sort of …reminiscent quality to it. Like he’s tracing the steps of the night back to its starting point. Reliving it when he tells her, “It’s such a thrill, you know. Taking that from someone. So intimate.”
The young woman doesn’t make any sounds, kind of appalled by the sick joke. Because it is sick, it’s disturbing, and it’s a twisted way, at the least, to strike up a conversation if he’s …looking to do what they did again. This isn’t the Harry she’d met on that night. This isn’t the same one who’d worn the cream sweatshirt, and talked all friendly with this smooth, wholesome charm — this wasn’t the man she’d let into her car, this wasn’t the man she’d let do all those filthy things to her, in the backseat of her sedan. This doesn’t feel like the same man at all, and she wishes she’d been aware of the sick sense of humor to his character before she’d let him …violate her. Y/N’s just about to budge in with a disgusted comment, tell him off for calling her so late at night to mess with her, but he beats her to the edge of the gap, yet again.
Except this time, he sounds sort of frustrated, and the phrase comes out like a scolding, the tone of his cadence firm and irate. “Didn’t your mum ever tell you not to talk to strangers? …Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to trust strange men on the side of the road? S’just …bloody stupid.”
He laughs. It’s this soft sort of chortle she’d been so charmed by that night — it’s identical, except then, it was this sweet sound full of wholesome mirth. Now, it feels cold. Odd and detached. Surreal.
“But you… you made it so easy,” Y/N listens to every word that comes through the line, hanging onto every syllable of the empty threat as dread churns her stomach. His words from that night crowd behind her skull. You make it so easy. “So friendly, so sweet. Just wanted to chat on and on. I was going to kill you, and you wanted to have a shag—”
Harry tuts. Her heart hammers behind her ribcage, and she only realizes that her breathing has slowed and that her grip on the smartphone’s grown white-knuckled when it shakes against her cheek. She’d let him drive her car. She’d let him get into her car, she’d let him lure her into pit-stopping in a deserted parking lot, she’d locked the doors, and dimmed the lights, and let him open her up with his fingers and his cock. And then she’d let him drive her car, and take down her number. There’s a moment of mortifying silence.
Harry sounds deadly serious when he tells her, “Don’t you ever pick up another hitchhiker.”
The line goes dead.
Y/N calls back. The number she reaches belongs to a payphone, unanswered.
prompt: Harry has always admired how fierce, independent, and self-reliant his girlfriend is. But what happens when it leads her to not letting Harry take care of her in the way he wants?
word count: 7k
warnings: angst, smut
inspiration from this ask!
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enjoy.
——
Harry always worried that he was never going to find happiness with someone.
That the relationship would collapse like a dying star because of money.
In a world where people were so money-driven, hungry for it even when it wasn’t theirs, and ready to leech off of anyone who had a fat wallet.
There haD been countless amounts of dates where he had dropped the woman off, knowing he’d never call them again or ask for a second one.
They wanted to talk about how much his car cost, how much the rolex on his wrist cost, or did he see himself settling down with a wife soon?
He never thought he would find himself in the predicament he was in right now.
A fight about money in a relationship but it wasn’t about how much he had, well…it sort of was.
Harry is a moody, withdrawn but successful creature who needs a companion who can tend to his… needs.
Everything is not as it seems. Nothing ever is. Happiness grows like vines around him when she’s around but he worries they will smother her light.
Is it better to have loved and lost or never have loved at all? He used to be sure of his answer, but as soon as his own human ray of sunlight flounced into his life? He wasn’t sure of anything at all.
Welcome to our vamprry. He is a bit of a character but we hope you will gain a rather soft spot for him!
Warnings before reading- this story will contain a fantasy world mixed with our modern one. It should be fairly easy to understand but if you have questions we will be happy to answer them. This is a vampire story, and will contain blood. Blood drinking, blood play, everything to do with blood. If this is a trigger for you, please be advised! It is mentioned in every chapter. There will be violence, plot twists, trigger topics such as death, abuse, manipulation, torture, talk of murder and weapons including knives, swords, and guns. There will be kinky sex with taboo topics such as period sex, blood play, primal play, hair pulling, spanking, choking, degradation, dom/sub dynamic, bondage, etc. we will warn before each chapter but we make sure to warn even beforehand.
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Harry takes Y/N to a cozy cottage for a little getaway.
hi hello happy valentine’s day my beauty queens i hope you all enjoy this blurb i strung together today as a v-day gift and yeah have a good day muah kisses besitos <3
Anna is a twenty-one year old english teacher from Spain whose grown up catholic her entire life. Her mother and Father breathed and lived for one thing only: God. She’s always felt so suffocated when it came to church and had no room to discover anything other than. When surrounded by religious people your entire life, what kind of toll does it take on her mental health when she discovers it was being used as a manipulation tactic? She seeks help in the empty wooden booth of the confessional to wash away all of her sins, but she had no idea what was waiting for her when Father Harry overheard her confess to the one thing she regrets the most in her life.
Summary: Y/n accidentally cries wolf in the middle of the woods and Harry shows up, claiming to be her mate. Now she has to choose between her life with humans or a life with wolves.
prompt: It’s never been just them. Sometimes it felt like it would never be. Especially when Harry is going out to these events with a woman he can barely stand to look at.
word count: 6.2k+
warnings: smut, cheating, mentions of domestic violence, mentions of child abuse, this could just be overall triggering if you have experienced trauma or family struggles.
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an: enjoy bubs. i know most of you missed these couple. im excited for you to read because this is how i imagine this moment in my head for months. please let me know your thoughts, i worked very hard on this x
–
Harry was being dragged all over London today, he wouldn’t have complained one bit if it would have been with YN but no, it was Anna.
It was a full day of late lunch with her family, then shopping the local boutiques and antique stores before going to her friend’s art gallery exhibit.
When he had gotten ready this morning, YN was still bundled up in his bed with the smoothie he had made her and a pout of her lips.
He would rub his thumb over said puffy lips before kissing them, murmuring, “Be a good pup f’me. I’ll be back before you know it.”
“I’m going to miss you,” YN mumbles with a frown as her hand traces his jaw and drags him in for one more kiss.
“You know you can stop this, right? Just tell me, puppy,” Harry reminds her, a bit confused when she doesn’t tense up or freeze - just gives him a smile like he’s not in on the secret.
“I’ll be waiting for you,” YN replies instead, dodging the implications and weight of his words, “You look handsome.”
-
It would start out super sweet though, right?
With a sad little text when he arrives at the restaurant.
yn: miss you already
Harry would grit his teeth as Anna links their arms together as they walk into the building, with his free hand he responds.
h: I miss you more, be good for me. I’ll be home soon.
He is miserable as he sits at an overrated dinner with cheap wine and poorly cooked steak as her parents drill him about his job and personal life - like they do every time they’ve met with him.
“Are you looking to settle down soon?” Anna’s mother pries with a sickly sweet smile and a bat of her lashes.
Harry wants to chuckle but instead, he just gives her a tight-lipped smile, “I haven’t thought about it, to be honest.”
Hasn’t needed to because he’s going to marry the fuck out of the girl who’s currently lounging at his home.
He ignores the way Anna and her mother’s face drop at his blunt words, his girlfriend elbows him harshly, and hisses, “Harry.”
All he does is shrug with a blank look on his face and say, “What? Don’t ask questions that you don’t want the answer to.”
“Anyways,” Anna clears her throat, quick to change the subject, “How was Sweden, mum? I haven’t seen those pictures yet”
Harry’s phone buzzes about an hour and a half into lunch which he was glad for a bit of relief from the most talkative family on earth with nothing interesting to actually say.
It was YN but Harry quickly swipes, saying, “Sorry, it’s one of my employees. Might be an emergency.”
Anna is glaring dagger at the side of his face.
“One of you employees?” YN murmurs on the other end of the line with a giggle, “Hope I more than that, baby.”
Baby.
Fucking hell.
“What can I assist you with, Ryan?” Harry clears his throat, he can feel his heartbeat pick up when he hears a telltale faint buzzing in the background.
“I just need help getting off,” YN lets out another breathy, sexy giggle as he’s now fully aware she’s getting herself off.
Harry has so much love and pride in his girl. It’s quite sickening. He’s impressed but getting much too horny for this setting.
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