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harringtown · 8 months
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HI HELLO okay i know i vanished from the face of the earth, and i dont have a great excuse, but it was for a reason!!! drumroll… im being published!!!! my debut novel is coming April 2nd 2024 from Penguin Teen, followed by a second novel in the summer of 2025! this book would 100000% not have been possible without yalls support of my writing. whether you showed up a month or six years ago, yall helped me build confidence to create my own worlds, and now i get to share it! i cant promise ill be working on any new fic rn, as im on deadlines, but i did want to share w yall and thank you for everything youve done for me over the years! if you want to keep in touch, find me on twitter (@abrokeworm) and if you feel like it, add my book on goodreads!
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harringtown · 1 year
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hi what are your big writing things going on can you talk about them yet I AM SO CURIOUS PLS
hi!!! god I still can't talk about it but things should be official in the next few weeks!!! like y'all have no idea how hard this is keeping my big mouth shut I've been sitting on this since the week before christmas and all I want to do is scream at the top of my lungs
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harringtown · 1 year
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Sometimes I get the urge to read and reread all your stranger things/z nation fics and then I get to relive all the amazing stories you've written and go through all the roller coasters of emotions that your fics put me through. I mean seriously, Steve Harrington Must Die is making me feel so much and its so well done its incredible
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ur so KIND thank u I appreciate u so much and seeing ur url in my notifs always makes me smile <3333 thank u for sticking around and just being all around awesome!!!!
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harringtown · 1 year
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YESSSSSS PART THREE!! LET'S GOOOOOO
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WOOHOO ITS HERE part 4 will be up soon i promise!!!! i hope u enjoy!!!
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harringtown · 1 year
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steve harrington must die - pt 3
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a/n: hello im alive!! i know its been far too long but ive got some very very Very big writing things going on that i should be able to talk about in the next few weeks so I've been very very busy but for now!!! have the next part!! the last part will be up sooner i swear! ty for the patience <3
catch up here
pairing: Steve Harrington x reader
summary: Russian interrogation, truth serum, and secrets coming out (aka shit is hitting the metaphorical and physical fan)
wc: 3.9k
warnings: violence
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Contrary to popular belief, the space beneath Starcourt Mall is not occupied by a dark, dingy basement. Or, technically, it is. Partially. But beneath that single level, hidden behind massive chunks of concrete, is something else entirely.
A military base. A Russian one, just to make things interesting.
Which means Steve was right. He and his friends were right. He wasn’t lying or screwing with you or weaving tall tales with the intention of scaring you off.
There is more to Hawkins than you ever knew, and now, you’re getting a front row seat to the chaos under the surface. And you’re seriously regretting ever looking Steve Harrington’s way.
Break Steve Harrington’s heart. It seems silly now. Silly and pointless and small and cruel.
Shame and regret only elevate the anxiety racing through your veins. You only want to talk to one person about it, but you can’t, because the one person is the reason you’re in this mess.
And you realize that the only thing scarier than not getting out of here is losing Steve on the way.
-
Robin, Dustin, and Erica are okay. They’re okay. They have to be okay. If they’re not okay, then you and Steve’s sacrifice isn’t a sacrifice at all. It was just fucking stupid.
If they’re not okay, it means they’re not coming to get you out. It means you and Steve and all of them are stuck down here with no way out.
God, let them be okay. And let you and Steve be okay, too, while you’re making wishes.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Steve asks. He’s been gearing up to the question for the last five minutes, sitting and stewing so loud it's like his thoughts are bouncing around the room like a ping pong ball.
“Don’t you dare,” you say. “You know that door wouldn’t have held.”
The door. Steve ran to hold it when the Russians started pushing on it, and without thinking, without even breathing, you went to help him. You were the first down the hatch that may have led to safety, and the only one who climbed out of it. You didn’t even consider the consequences. You just saw Steve, alone, struggling.
“You don’t know that—”
“Yeah, I do,” you snap. “If I hadn’t come back, all five of us would be sitting here right now.” You test your binds, pulling up until pain sparks along your wrists, and you give up with a sigh. “And you know it.”
Steve goes quiet.
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“You did have a choice—” he says.
“I wasn’t going to leave you alone, Steve, so, no, there actually wasn’t a choice.”
He goes quiet again.
“Why?”
“What?”
“Why?” he repeats. “You could have saved yourself. Probably could have made it out. You were the first down that hole, y/n. But you came back. Why?”
That’s the real question, isn’t it? It’s also the one you don’t have an answer to.
“Because I—because—”
“What?”
You shake your head though he can’t see it.
“Look, we can talk about all the reasons my idiot self decided to come back for you, or, we can find a way out of here..”
Steve hesitates before asking, “Got any bright ideas?”
“No.”
“Cool.” Steve huffs. “Me neither.” He rolls his shoulders, shoulder blades grazing your back, and oddly, each brush of his skin is a wave of comfort.
At least you’re not alone. At least Steve is here to make crappy jokes. At least, at least.
-
Nothing scared you more than the Russian soldiers themselves, in their uniforms and with their clipped words you couldn’t understand.
Then they dragged a thrashing, yelling Steve out of his chair and through the door, and you realized there are scarier things than soldiers in this base. The most dangerous thing, it seems, is you. You and all the feelings you don’t understand.
Time drags and claws by, and you’re powerless to do anything but fight against your binds and listen. Every few seconds, a crack echoes through the vents, like a fist hitting bone.
Every few seconds, Steve screams. Every few seconds, another piece of your sanity breaks off.
You don’t think you’ll ever get that sound out of your head. His pain on loop until the end of time.
And when the door finally opens again, the Russians haul a limp, bloody boy in a sailors uniform inside, dropping him unceremoniously into the chair tied to yours. He slumps against your back, unconscious, as they rebind his wrists and ankles.
It takes everything in you not to cry or scream curses or thrash pointlessly in your own chair. None of that will help Steve.
Nothing you can do will help him. He’s passed out, bloody and bruised and definitely concussed, and all you can do is sit with your back to his and hope he wakes up. Hope you both don’t die down here.
Panic courses through your veins like a lit flame, building up like explosive gas. To keep from screaming your head off for help that isn’t coming, you settle for a decade old coping mechanism that never really did much in the first place. Pick a song, hum or sing the words, give your brain something to focus on apart from the
And by the time you’ve made it through three rounds of Total Eclipse of the Heart, you’re less inclined to jump out of your skin.
“The hell is this, karaoke night?” A rough, raw voice croaks at your back.
“Steve?” you ask. “Holy shit, Steve—“
“Are you singing… Bonnie Tyler right now?”
You let out a laugh that’s half sob, and say, “I was—it helps me calm down.” You crane your neck in a useless effort to catch a glimpse of him. You can feel the twitch of the muscles in his back as he winces with each breath, and you can smell sweat and that sharp rusty sting of blood wafting off him, but you can’t see him. “Are you… I mean, I know asking if you’re okay is a shitty question, but, are you okay?”
Steve lets out a rattling breath. “No, not really. But what’re ya gonna do?” He clears his throat, and ends up on a coughing fit that ends with him spitting something you hope isn’t blood onto the ground.  “What about you?”
“Better than you,” you say.
“Yeah, well, that’s pretty much a given,” Steve says.
You scoff, twisting to scan the room. It’s bare—only an operating table you pray remains unused, a pile of tools, and the chairs you’re strapped to.
“We gotta get the hell out of here,” you say.
“Yeah, that would be fantastic,” Steve says. “But unless you’ve come up with anything in the last half hour, we’re shit out of luck.”
“Don’t say that.”
He wheezes out a breath. Waits a beat, then says, “You know, for the record, this isn’t really the romantic evening I had planned for us.”
You can’t help but snort a laugh, though it dies out quickly. Shame coils and snaps like a whip at your insides, but you push past it to say, “Romantic evening, yeah?”
Steve goes to speak, but a wave of coughs rolls through him, and he shakes against your back. Your tied hands ache to yank free, to comfort him, though there’s nothing you can do except be there—be there, facing him, instead of close enough but too far to matter.
“C’mon,” you urge, suddenly terrified wondering just how hard he was hit, and whether his lethargy is more than just low morale. He could be hurt. Really, seriously hurt, and you can’t do a damn thing about it. But you can keep him awake. “Tell me what you had in mind.”
Steve wheezes another breath, and his voice is strained as he says, “Picnic. On top of the water shower. I figure, who cares how shitty the takeout is when you’ve got one of the best views of the fireworks in town.”
Your stomach churns. “You never know. We could still make it.”
“Yeah,” Steve huffs a dark laugh.
“And shitty takeout and the water tower will still be there tomorrow.”
He huffs again.
“It sounds nice,” you say. “Really nice.”
He remains quiet.
“Maybe tomorrow,” you say.
“Yeah,” Steve says, “maybe tomorrow,” and it’s so obvious he doesn’t believe it. He lapses into silence, and it bothers you more than anything how easily he gives up. How quickly he’s gone from the head of the escape pack to the back of it.
And something about his sudden apathy is a kickstart to your faltering motivation to find a way out of this horrible place.
Your gaze lands on the rolling table stacked with medical tools: scalpels, long syringes, and an assortment of other horrifying objects.
“Steve. Do you see that tray?”
Steve tries to hide a groan as he twists in his chair. “You mean, the one with the terrifying sharp tools on it?”
“Exactly. Maybe we can shimmy our way over—“
“Y/N—” Steve tries.
“And then we knock the tray over, and—”
“It won’t work.”
“It will work.”
He says your name again, and again, you urge, it’ll work. You don’t say the next part, the because it has to, but Steve must understand, because he just acquiesces with a, “Okay, okay. What do we do?”
You rake in a few breaths. “Okay, so, on the count of three, we both hop.”
“Okay, good, hop on three. Gotcha.” Steve nods his head a few times, and his hair tickles the back of your neck.
“Good.”
“Wait, on three, or after three?”
“After three, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Steve says, and you can hear the smile on his lips. It sends a flutter of warmth through your icy frame. “Just checking.”
“Alright.” You suck in a breath. “One, two, three.”
The chairs scrape a few inches across the floor, and though yours threatens to tip for a half second, it holds.
“Holy shit, that actually worked,” Steve exclaims.
You swallow a grin and say, “Don’t act so surprised, Harrington.”
“Let's go again.”
“Okay.” You steel yourself, fingers curling around the edges of your seat. “One, two, three.”
The two of you skid at least a foot across the floor with this leap. It’s more solid, too.
But the third jump does you in. One or both of you gets too confident, tries to move too far, and before you can let out the curse waiting on your tongue, you and Steve are crashing to the floor. You smash hard against one shoulder, and the angle of your bound limbs makes the impact rattle through your bones like a heavy bass.
Pain ignites every inch of you, but when you open your mouth, it isn’t a sob that comes out. It’s something between a cry and a giggle. And another giggle.
“Hey, hey, it’s gonna be okay,” Steve says, back bumping yours as he twists against you. “Don’t cry, we’re—”
The hysterical laughter bubbles up and out of you, like a blocked pipe breaking open. Steve stops, makes a noise that’s somewhere between shocked and horrified.
“Are you… laughing?” he asks.
“I’m sorry—It’s just—this really isn’t how I thought this day was going to go. This isn’t how I thought I was going to die. Strapped to Steve Harrington’s back, two hundred feet under the mall, tortured to death by literal Russian soldiers.”
“Hey,” Steve says forcefully. “We’re not gonna die.”
You ignore that, because Steve has no clue whether it’s true, and you don’t want to call his bluff.
“I just need a minute to think. To—to figure something out,” he says.
“There’s nothing to figure out, Steve,” you say. “Unless you can pull a miracle out of your ass. Which, you can’t even reach, by the way.”
“I’m not letting you die,” he says, and you can tell that this, at least, he believes.
“I don’t think you’ve got a say in that.” You don’t have the energy to try anymore; to be the perfect person you crafted this last month. There’s no room left to impress.
He just sighs, and his head bumps the back of yours before he lets it hit the concrete with a light tap.
And for some reason, that little action sends your resolve over the edge.
Stupid. This whole plan was so incredibly stupid, more than you ever could have imagined. Because apart from the circumstances you’re currently in—being held captive, interrogated, probably headed to your graves—you made an even larger mistake. You failed.
You fell for Steve Harrington, and now, you’re going to die with him, and it will all have been a lie. The realest thing you’ve ever had, and it’s a lie.
There’s one part of this whole thing you refused to touch with a ten foot pole. The after. What happens when Steve finds out what you’ve done.
It didn’t really matter in the beginning, when he was still just an asshole ex-jock with no more depth to him than a kiddie pool.
But that isn’t what he is. Not anymore, at least. And you may not know whether you’re going to survive the day, but you know one thing: he’s going to hate you when he finds out.
“Can I ask you a question?” you say softly.
“Shoot,” Steve says.
You inhale. “It’s not, like, a secret that you had a reputation back in school. For being…”
“An asshole?” he asks.
You’re grateful he can’t see your blush as you say, “I mean, yeah—but I… I meant…” You clear your throat. “Nevermind. Just forget I said anything.”
“Yeah, that’s not happening,” Steve says.
A smile ghosts your lips, but quickly disappears.
“You were like Hawkins' very own casanova,” you say, “and then, all of a sudden, you just… weren’t. After you and…”
“That’s not a question,” he says. When he realizes you’re not planning on asking it, he sighs, and says, “You want to know about Nancy.”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
You feel him roll his shoulders, shift his weight as best he can. He’s quiet for a long time, so long you’re sure he isn’t going to speak at all. Then, softly, he says, “It’s not like it was some big tragedy. It just…” He stops. “You know, it’s like…. We all grow up being told about this perfect person, and how when you find them, everything just makes sense. That, like, you’ll run into them, and everything will just work out. Nobody tells you that it doesn’t work like that. That sometimes, you think you found the right person, this perfect person that’s everything you want, and they just… don’t want you back. Or they do, and then they don’t. Or, they do, and it still goes to shit.” He exhales softly. “I spent my whole life looking. But after Nancy, I don’t know, I guess I figured, maybe not everyone gets a person.” He falls quiet. “And then I met you.”
The shame and guilt that have been growing inside you burst out of their cage, spreading through your limbs like poison. If you had anything in your stomach, you think you’d retch it onto the concrete floor.
How did you get it so wrong? How did you dig yourself so deep into this hole without realizing there was nothing at the bottom?
Tears well in your eyes, burning as they fall down your cheeks and hit the floor.
“Steve,” you say. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
“What?” he asks, hesitant.
Your lips part, but before the words can breach, the loud buzzer over the door blares, and the door whines open. The Russian guards from before filter in, followed by Dr. Ozerov and a man in a white coat, carrying a briefcase.
Ozerov comes to stand before your overturned chairs, a smug grin playing on his lips.
“Where were you two going?” he asks. He jerks a chin at the younger guards. Three men haul you and Steve up, righting the chairs, as the white-coated man pops open his briefcase and pulls out a vial of bright blue liquid. Everything about it screams danger, and you squirm against your binds.
“Try telling the truth this time, yes?” Ozerov asks. “It will make your visit with Dr Zharkov less painful.” He bends toward Steve, and you can’t see much in your periphery, but Steve grunts in pain, and a fire ignites inside you.
“Don’t touch him,” you snarl.
The white-coated man, Dr Zharkov, walks past you and around to Steve, holding a massive syringe with the blue vial loaded into it.
“Wait a second. Wait. Hold on,” Steve exclaims, shifting against your back. “Wait, wait, wait! What is that thing?”
Nausea coils and snaps in your gut.
“It will help you talk,” Ozerov says.
Dr Zharkov plunges the needle into Steve’s neck, and his scream pierces your skin, your muscle, down to your very bones. You don’t think anything hurts more than that sound, than being so helpless while he’s in so much pain.
Then the doctor brings the syringe to your skin, and you realize you were very, very wrong.
-
Truth serum. It’s supposed to be a movie myth, reserved for spy films and cautionary tales. It isn’t supposed to actually exist.
So, when Zharkov injected you with whatever was in that vial, you didn’t think it could possibly be the real thing.
Twenty minutes later, and you’re a believer.
“Honestly, I don’t really feel anything,” Steve says.
You do. You really do. The last month of secrets are lined up behind your teeth, and everything in you wants to let them out.
“Yeah, me neither,” you say. “Just… kind of good.”
Steve snorts a laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, I kind of like it, too.”
A giggle spills out of you, and you’re lucky that’s all it is.
Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet.
“Hey, what was it you were going to tell me earlier?” Steve asks after a moment.
Shit. Shit, shit—
“Oh, it was nothing,” you force.
“No, c’mon. What was it?”
“Steve,” you say. “Please drop it.”
He stops. The next time he speaks, his tone is rigid, tense.
“Y/N,” he says. “What’s going on?”
“Steve—”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
It wasn’t supposed to go down like this. Granted, you hadn’t put thought into how it should go down, but a little part of you had been hoping, hopelessly, that somehow, this conversation never needed to happen. That somehow you could peel yourself out of his life like a fallen bandaid, forgotten on the concrete.
And maybe there is a way to tell him that is better than the rest—still shitty, because the thing itself is shitty, but slightly less shitty—but with the drugs swirling in your veins, you can’t find it. Your limbs are warm and heavy, but your mind whirs a hundred miles an hour, collecting truths on your tongue. Every breath they get closer to spilling out.
Steve says your name again, and it’s like you’re not in control anymore; the warm feeling snaking through you is. And it wants out.
“I’ve been pretending. This whole time, I’ve been pretending, and I’ve been lying to you,” you say, and once you start, you can’t stop. “I’m not—I’m not who you think I am. This girl you spent the last month with, she doesn’t exist.” You roll your head as far as you can, and stare up at the exposed pipes above you. “We made her up so that you’d fall for her—for me—and then…” You can’t twist the words into something less harsh. You stop trying. “We were going to break your heart, the way you’ve broken so many girls.”
A long, agonizing second passes before Steve asks, in a clipped tone, “We?”
“Me. Theresa Hart. Bethany Goldwater. Rebecca McMann.”
Steve doesn’t speak, and though you should take this as a cue to keep your own damn mouth shut, now that it’s open, you can’t clamp it closed.
“It was before I knew you. Before I realized that you’d changed. And I would take it back if I could. I’m so sorry, Steve.”
He huffs a soft breath, but he doesn't say anything else. Doesn't do anything else.
The silence wraps around you like vines, closing around your airpipe with each passing moment.
“Steve.”
He acts like he hasn’t heard you, which is an easy bluff to call considering you’re tied to his back.
“Steve.” Your stomach churns. “Please say something.”
“What the hell do you want me to say?” he asks, and you’ve never heard his voice so cruel, so hard. But it’s nowhere near as painful as the next words that come out of his mouth. Sad, hollow, and wavering.
“Congratulations,” he says. “You win.”
Five minutes, or maybe an eternity, later, the buzzer over the door lets out a shrill shriek. You and Steve tense, his back and arms pressed into yours, skin hot where it touches your own.
But instead of the Russian’s returning for more interrogation or intimidation, it’s Robin, Dustin, and Erica. Alive and breathing and uncuffed, there to rescue you like Steve said they would be. You hadn’t believed him.
Mark it down as another thing you were wrong about.
Most of you is just plain relieved to see them, even if you are a little concerned about a deadly weapon in the hands of a trigger-happy fourteen year old, but a small part of you is disappointed it isn’t the Russians that come through the door.
Because with an enemy to escape, you and Steve were reluctant teammates, even if he refused to speak a word to you after his cutting you win. Even if he hated you, you knew that he wouldn’t leave you behind. That he’d fight to get out alongside you.
But Robin, Dustin, and Erica’s entrance shatters whatever was left hanging between you, as rotted and gnarled as it was to begin with. A divide slides down between you as the others free you from your chairs.
It isn’t just Steve you’re losing—have already lost. It’s them, too. Robin, who always greeted you with a grin and exchanged genuine pleasantries at the Scoops counter. Dustin and Erica, who you got to know surprisingly well in your time plotting and executing this failed invasion.
It’s this life you’ve created. It was only a month, but it could have been so much more. You can see that now. That it could have been more, and now, it never will be.
There’s too much chaos to try and get a word in during the escape from the labyrinth that is the base, not that Steve would listen. He keeps as far from you as he can, even in the small elevator as it soars back up to the ground.
He won’t look at you. You’re starting to think he’ll never look at you again. And you should be happy you pulled this off—you shouldn’t want him to look at you the way he does, like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.
But you’re not, and you do. Maybe you always did.
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harringtown · 1 year
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Hii! I don’t think I’ve ever talked to you but I’ve been reading your Steve stories for YEARS (and now the Eddie and Robin ones, too), you’re one of my OG favourite writers in here and it makes me so happy you’re still writing 🥹🫶🏻
I adore the way you write Steve so so much, especially sad, broken Steve (lol), your boy needs a hug!
I’m loving your newest series too, I’m so excited to see how it evolves 💖💖💖
omg im so sorry for the late reply, I didn't see this until now!!! this is so kind ah thank u!!!! thank u for reading for so long omg <3 it truly means so much to me that people stick w me to read my stuff I am so appreciative and so glad you're liking the new stuff!!!!
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harringtown · 1 year
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sorrow is a season
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a/n: ik I've been super sporadic these last few months, but book revisions and tight deadlines have had me v busy!!!! anyways I’ve spent so so long on this and wanted to pull off some wild plot stuff but then I got busy and I figured I couldn’t just let the 2k I had go to waste and so, here we are. apologies for the wait anon, its been TOO long, but I hope u enjoy!!!!
pairing: eddie munson x reader
summary: eddie munson is dead. or is he? (aka a kas/vampire Eddie au)
word count: 4k
warnings: blood/death/violence mention
-
In the end, he is alone, like he always knew he would be.
Even the bats, either bored of a limp plaything or drawn away, fly off. The lightning seems to follow them, leaving Eddie alone on the grass in a cold, gray version of a place he never liked all that much to begin with.
The only thing that ever made the trailer park worth it was you. Though, to be fair, the only thing that made a lot of things in this shitty town worth it was you.
You. You, smiling at him from the passenger seat as you sing along to the radio, and you, whispering to him under the stars at midnight, and you, looking at him like you never want to stop.
He would give anything to see you one last time. To make sure you’re alive. Because he can’t be sure—he doesn’t know if his sacrifice is amounting to anything, or if you’re dying, too, just out of sight. Panic clears some of the fog from his brain.
At first, he doesn’t realize he’s speaking, calling out the word, “Please,” until his raw throat protests. Even then, he doesn’t stop, forcing his voice louder, screaming into the twisted ether.
Please, don’t take me away.
He isn’t sure who he’s yelling to, exactly, because he’s never believed in God, and even if he did, God sure as shit can’t hear him down here.
“I don’t want to die,” he says. Tears have mixed with the blood on his face, and his vision blurs red.
What are you willing to give in order to live?
The voice asks, and Eddie isn’t entirely sure it isn’t just some figment of his dying brain.
He shakes his head, letting it thump back against the grass. Above him, the dark red sky doesn’t hold a single star.
What are you willing to give? The voice asks again.
Later, he’ll understand what he’s about to do. But not yet. Not yet.
“Anything,” Eddie croaks. “Anything.”
A tall, hulking silhouette moves through the shadows, but Eddie can’t see their face, or anything, really. All of his senses disappear, and he’s lost in an endless sea of darkness.
Eddie Munson dies. And then, he wakes up.  
-
Eddie Munson is dead.
Three months of telling yourself those words, and they still don’t sound real.
Two months since he was legally declared dead—there wasn’t a body, still isn’t, probably never will be, but in Hawkins, this is no longer a strange occurrence—and three months since you dragged Dustin away from his body, and it still doesn’t feel real.
You’re beginning to doubt it ever will. Maybe it will always be this way. You, looking out your front window every time you pass it and expecting to see his van idling at the curb. You, accidentally ordering his coffee alongside your own enough times that even the barista pities you.
You, still waiting for someone who isn’t coming back.
“But you’ll be there, right? 10 am?” Robin asks, her voice garbled through the phone.
Lounging on your bed, you push up, keeping the phone tucked between your ear and shoulder.
“10 am, on the field. I know. I’m not going to miss my own graduation,” you say.
“Our graduation,” Robin says. “And thank the heavens, because I swear to God, I don’t think I’d have survived another week with Mrs. Burton. If I had to read another sexist, poorly written poem by a long dead man, I was going to spontaneously combust.”  
You laugh, but something about the words our graduation sticks to the back of your throat like phlegm. You and Robin’s. It was supposed to be three of you, though.
It’s as if Robin can hear your spiraling thoughts, because she says, gently, “If you want company, I can force Harrington to buy us beer and drive me over.”
You smile. “I’ll live. Besides, there’ll be plenty of beer at all the after parties I’m dragging you to tomorrow night.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Robin quips. “For once, I don’t mind hanging out with these people, considering I’ll never have to see most of them again.”
“One can dream,” you say.
“One can,” Robin says. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Tomorrow.”
You exchange goodbyes with Robin and walk the phone back to the receiver, untangling the twisted cord, and hang it up. Before going back to your bed, you bring two fingers to your lips, then press them to the red electric guitar hanging over your dresser, like you do every night.
It isn’t the guitar he used to draw the very bats that killed him. That guitar was lost with Eddie.
It, along with a few tee shirts, the rings he pulled off his fingers and jammed into your hands before you left him, and a few photos, are all that remain of Eddie Munson.
You’d made a thousand plans together, and even if 99% of them were impossible, the 1% that weren’t still clatter behind you everywhere you go.
I think it’s finally my year.
1986 should have been the beginning of the rest of his life; hopefully, a life alongside you. It should have made high school and the monsters you’d fought an old story.
This, an empty grave, shouldn’t be the end.
-
The lock on the window in your room has been whining as long as you’ve lived in the house. A few years back, your parents tried to get it replaced, but you’d refused. You couldn’t tell them why, but you weren’t about to get rid of a built-in alarm on that window.
The whining sound pulls you out of sleep and off the mattress in under two seconds. You pull out the sledgehammer you have hidden under the bed before your eyes find the silhouette slipping through the now-open window and into your room.
Of all the nights for someone to break in, it had to be one of the miraculous few you weren’t having a nightmare. At three in the morning, that alone feels worthy of at least a tap with the hammer.
The second the figure hits the middle of your room, you lunge.
The figure ducks the swing, and jerks to the side, face illuminated by moonlight streaming in the window.
A face that can’t possibly be standing in your bedroom.
Eddie Munson. Or his ghost. Or something—
“Jesus Christ, babe, where the hell did you get a sledgehammer? Were you going to hit me with that?” Eddie exclaims, except it can’t be Eddie, because Eddie died in your arms. Because you pried Dustin off Eddie’s body. Because you’ve seen his death in your dreams every night for months.
It can’t be. It isn’t. But someone, or something, is wearing his skin, masquerading as the boy you love, and it’s the last of many, many straws.
You swing the hammer, but faster than your eyes can track, Eddie’s hand moves—you blink, and he’s holding the metal edge in one fist.
The hammer’s head is too heavy to be caught without breaking a finger—but the speed with which he moved is more troubling.
“Who the hell are you?” You snap, wrenching the hammer out of his fist, swinging again. “Get the hell out of my house, now—“
“Hold on, hold on—“ Not-Eddie backs up, hands raised, and with each second that passes, your brain files away the subtle differences. The color of his eyes, that beautiful brown, almost has a red tint in the dark. “It’s me. I swear to God, it’s me.”
“Whatever this sick game is, I’m not playing.” You raise the sledgehammer parallel to the floor and point it at him, using it to push him back toward the window. “Out.”
“Okay, okay, just—just wait.” He jumps to the side just before hitting the window, skating along the wall and darting around you. You whip around, and Eddie is there in a blink, plucking the hammer out of your hands. He tosses it onto your bed and slides into place directly between you and your weapon.
“If I wasn’t me, how would I have known how to open the window?”
Your Eddie could pop the lock in seconds. It was why you always kept it locked, because the only person who might need to get in could.  
“Anybody—anything— can jimmy a lock,” you snap.
Maybe it’s your lack of a good night’s sleep in the recent past, or the darkness of the room, but you swear, he almost looks hurt.
“Harsh, but fair.” He takes a breath. “But it really is me.”
“Eddie Munson died three months ago,” you say. “I was there.”
“Yeah, I saw the gravestone. Bet my funeral had a hell of a turnout,” he says.
“Just stop. You’re not him. I don’t know what you are, but you’re not him.”
Eddie seems to chew on his words for a moment. “We met in gym class. You were a junior. I was a senior, the second time. You were hiding behind the long jump mats during the mile run, and I army-crawled my ass over to you so that ancient gym teacher didn’t bust us both. Naturally, he saw me, and the second he yelled, you shoved me out onto the track on my ass.” He grins. “I was pretty much done for, after that.”
You shake your head. “Twenty other people were on the track  that day—”
“Fine. Okay.” He huffs a breath. Folds his arms over his chest. “Right, okay, so a few weeks after we started hanging out, I took you to Lover’s Lake. We ate Cheetos and drank warm Coke on the dock, and you told me about that field trip, the one to the museum in middle school. You got lost, ended up in the art exhibit for two hours until a chaperone tracked you down. After that, you couldn’t get enough of all those old—what is it? Abstract paintings.”
Your heart beats like a kick drum, so loud you’re surprised it hasn’t woken the whole house.
Eddie’s gaze darts down—and you don’t remember much of the few anatomy lessons you had, but you’d swear he looks where your heart is.
“This isn’t possible,” you say softly.
Eddie’s lips pull thin. “You kissed me outside that gas station on main because you said you were tired of waiting for me to do it.” A smile softens his expression. “And the first time you told me you loved me, we were in this room, in that bed, but you had to whisper because your parents were downstairs.” He takes a step forward. “And I said it back. Didn’t even hesitate. Didn’t whisper either, but you weren’t even pissed. Y’know, I’d only said that to one other person before you, but I didn’t hesitate.“
“No. You can’t be here.” You swallow. Shake your head. Hope is banging its fists against your ribcage, desperate to break out of the prison you locked it in. Tears prick at the backs of your eyes, but you don’t dare let them fall.
Eddie shrugs. “But I am.”
He takes a step toward you, and when you don’t move away, he takes another. Only when there are no more steps to take does he stop, the rubber of his sneakers kissing the tips of your toes.
He doesn’t move any further, like he’s leaving the last inch up to you.
You hold his gaze. Reach a hand up and let it settle on his cheek.
“Eddie?” you ask, barely above a whisper.
“Yeah,” he says, leaning into your hand. “It’s me.”
Just like that, the sob that’s been sitting at the base of your throat for months dislodges, and you throw your arms around him, burying your face in his neck. He still feels like your Eddie, still smells like him beneath that overhanging scent of ash.
The moment he wraps his arms around you and squeezes you, you know it’s Eddie. You’ve been in these arms so many times, you fit like puzzle pieces.
“Eddie,” you say again, voice muffled by his hair, and he just holds you tighter, so tight you can barely breathe but you don’t care.
“I’m here,” he says. “I’m here.”
And for the first time in months, you can breathe.
-
For ten minutes, everything is like it was. Eddie is all bravado and big smiles, like the last three months never happened, and you let the lie hang because you’ve missed him too badly to pull it back. But it’s more fog than curtain, and it evaporates fast.
Eddie pulls you onto the bed and into his arms, just holding you, and the way your bodies fold together may be the same, but nothing else is.
His skin is cooler, dryer. Covered in scars. His scent, one you can’t describe but know, isn’t totally different, but it’s not the same, either.
And his eyes. He clearly took efforts to keep them out of the light—asking you not to turn a lamp on, keeping his chin ducked—but up close, there’s no mistaking it.
The deep, dark brown is more like a deep red wine someone spilled on a carpet. It’s a beautiful, inhuman shade of red. And you may have seen enough weird shit to fill a museum over the last few years, it sets off every alarm bell inside you. Like an ancient voice is urging you to run while everything else tells you to stay.
Your first observation was right. He isn’t your Eddie. He’s something different. Evolved. And you’re not sure if it’s for better or worse. You’re also not sure if you give a shit.
There are so many questions to ask, but they’d all break the bubble you’re resting in, so you settle for the softest you can think of.
“Tell me what happened to you,” you say gently, keeping your forehead pressed to his chest so you don’t have to look him in the eye; that, and because you’re trying to find a heartbeat. You haven’t. “How you survived. I’m not an idiot, Eddie. And I can only pretend I haven’t noticed that your eyes are a different color or that you move faster than you should. That somehow, you’ve been in the Upside Down for three months, and you’re not a decayed corpse.”
Eddie’s hands, steady as they glide up and down your back, your arms, your sides, stall, and his fingers curl slightly into your hoodie.
“You were there,” he says. “You saw it all.”
“Clearly, not everything. You were dead when I left—”
“Almost dead.”
“What?” you stiffen.
“I wasn’t… I mean, I was mostly dead. Kissing Death, straight on the lips, tongue and all. And then…”
“And then?”
He inhales, and says, “And then, I made a deal with the devil. A deal I can’t take back.”
You lean back. You may not have all the pieces, but you have enough to get some understanding at the full picture.
The only devil in the Upside Down is Vecna. And if he brought Eddie back—whatever the definition of back is—he didn’t go it out of the goodness of his heart.
“Eddie, what did you do?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
“Look, I know you want answers, and I want to give them to you, but I…” He pauses. His hand comes up to your cheek, his cold fingers tracing a line down to your jaw. You shiver. “I’ve spent the last three months waiting for a single minute he wasn’t on my ass, watching me, and I don’t have a lot of time. So, I swear to God, I’ll answer all your questions, but right now, I just want to be here. With you.”
You frown. “You’re not staying.”
Eddie is silent for a long time before he says, “I can’t. Not yet.”
You shift back, sitting up so that only his outline is visible in your periphery. From this angle, blurry and out of focus, he still looks like the Eddie you lost. An Eddie whose biggest problem was whether he’d actually graduate this year.
Eddie sits up beside you, a hand on your arm. He exhales, dropping his chin onto your shoulder. It’s a familiar position, and without thinking, you tip your head against his, temple to temple.
“I’m still a puppet,” he says softly. “Just because he’s not holding my strings right now doesn’t mean he’s not coming back for them.”  
You scoff. “If you’re just… some puppet, how are you here now? I mean, am I even talking to the real you right now?”
Eddie stiffens.
“I’m me,” he says. “A lot of the time… I’m more him than me. But right now, right here, I’m me. I’m just Eddie.” He lifts his chin. You crane your head to meet his eyes.
“I spent months waiting for a chance. V—He’s been so weak after everything that went down, he’s been stuck down there. Healing. Even when I came topside to fee—” He stops abruptly. Changes course. “But now…” Eddie pauses. It’s like he’s battling two voices in his head, one telling him to speak, the other urging him silent. “Let’s just say, he’s on a business trip, and I’m supposed to be down there, keeping an eye on things. I only had a few hours.”
“I don’t want you to go,” you whisper, like if you keep your voice low enough, the world won’t hear and jinx you.
“I know, angel,” he says. He drops his chin and presses a long kiss to the side of your head. When he pulls back, his expression has shifted, freezing over like Lovers Lake every December. His voice isn’t entirely his own as he says, “But there’s something I need to take care of before I can stay.”
“Something?” you ask. “Or someone?”
Eddie lets out a long sigh. He rolls onto his back, hands coming up behind his head, and the posture, his presence beside you, the tickle of his hair against your shoulder, is somehow familiar and foreign at once.
“Do you really want me to answer that?”
“I want you to stay alive—” He lifts his brows, and you huff, pressing on. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah. And you know that it wasn’t some… miracle that brought me back. It was—” He stops. “If he’s still around, I’m not really me. I’m just another one of his weapons.”
“You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. No human should be able to hear it. But Eddie does.
“I’m gonna try,” he says.
“And if you can’t?”
Eddie shrugs. He pointedly averts his gaze as he says, “If I can’t, then I go out fighting. Maybe I can get a few decent shots in before he takes me out.”
“Eddie—”
Eddie twists, shifting so he’s half in front of you. He takes your face in his hands and forces your gaze. The angles of his face are sharper, his eyes are clearer. He isn’t the Eddie you lost, but he’s still your Eddie, under it all.
“I’m already on borrowed time, sweetheart. Might as well make it worth something.”
You shake your head. “No. That’s bullshit. We’ll just… we’ll get out of here. Tonight. We can get in my car and drive until we get to a city big enough to disappear in. It doesn’t have to be this way.”
“You know, I’ve been running since I learned to walk.” His thumb traces a line up and down your jaw. “I never even thought about stopping. Never wanted to.” A sad smile ghosts his lips. “Then, one day, I met you. And I had a reason to stay. So, I’m gonna fight for it. And I’m gonna come back for you.”
Before, Eddie Munson could have won a contest for stubbornness. It appears dying or almost dying didn’t change that.
You take a breath. Close your eyes for a long moment. When you open them, you say, “You better. If you don’t, I’ll kill you. And I’ll make sure it takes this time.”
Eddie snorts a laugh and loops his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. For a long time, you stay that way, holding each other and pretending the seconds aren’t rolling by.
And then, much sooner than you’d like, Eddie peels himself out of your arms. He climbs off the bed, and you follow him back to the window. The latch whines in protest as he lifts the windowpane, like it too is dreading his departure.
He climbs out onto the roof and turns back to the window, his slender hands on the sill. His fingers look naked without their rings.
Your stomach clawing up your throat, you lift the thin chain out from under your shirt, the metal rings hanging from it clacking. You unlatch it and pull off a thick, black ring. Unlike the others, taken off him in the Upside Down, you’ve had this ring for ages. He gave it to you a long, long time ago.
You lift one of his hands, sliding it onto his middle finger. He curls his fingers around yours, squeezing hard.
“Come back to me,” you say.
“I’ll see you soon,” he says. “Promise.”
Eddie leans forward to press a kiss to your forehead. You close your eyes, and the cool touch of his lips disappears. When you open your eyes, he’s gone. Like he was never there at all.
Maybe he wasn’t.
-
Three weeks pass. By the fourteenth day, you’re halfway convinced you hallucinated Eddie. By the twentieth, you’re sure of it.
Call it your brain trying to process the mountain of grief inside you. Or the end of the slow spiral into madness you started three years ago, when a Demogorgon nearly dragged you through a portal in a tree.
Fantasizing a conversation with your dead boyfriend isn’t exactly the weirdest thing that’s happened. It’s better than the alternative: that Eddie is gone, for real.
And then, on the twenty second night, the latch on your window whines open.
In seconds, you’re up and out of bed, standing in the middle of your room just the way you were a few weeks ago. Staring at a silhouette near the window just the way you were a few weeks ago.
The figure half-covered by shadows is limping, and something dark drips off their hands—what you can see of them is covered in a dark substance that has to be blood.
“I know, I know, I’m an asshole. I don’t write, I don’t call…” A familiar, if not a little rough and raw, voice says, and the massive knot that’s been coiling in your gut for weeks untangles itself in an instant.
“Eddie,” you breathe, as he steps into the moonlight.
“Told you I'd be back,” he says, flashing you a smile between heavy breaths. His canines are wickedly sharp, longer than they should be, and shining with blood. “Sorry I’m late.”
“You’re really here? I’m not hallucinating?”
A smile twitches across his red lips.
“You’re not hallucinating. I’m here,” he says.
“For good?”
“For good,” he says. His mouth curves up, and his smile appears here to stay.
Like him.
And you don’t care how he got here. What he had to become just to be standing here right now. You don’t care what it might take to keep him here, either.
All that matters is that he’s here. Period.
So, you cross the room in three steps, and pull him into your arms. Blood and all.
-
taglist: @milkiane​ @robiin-buckley​ @copycatkillerfics​  @robinbuckleyssgf @isshecrazyorissheclever @peanutbutter-y-jams​ @hellfire1986baby​ @minksblog @comfortcharactercraze​  
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harringtown · 1 year
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“x reader is so cringe.” to YOU. im reading this shit and having a ball ‼️
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harringtown · 1 year
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RUBY!!! RUBY OH MY GOD. oh my god. this fic is my new favorite thing in the world. tattoo the whole thing down my spine.
the prose??? top tier. beautiful. all the angst and the pain and uncertainty on both sides??? like WOW the characterization was PERFECT and this broke me and i would love to coherently compliment it but im just internally screeching!!! this is everything!!!
not if it’s you.
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word count: 7k summary: After the events at Starcourt Mall, you have a hard time convincing Steve that he’s allowed to be not okay. You want to take care of him. And if you harbour some more-than-friends feelings at the same time? Well, that’s nobody’s business but yours. [angst + hurt/comfort + friends to lovers]
You’re bone-deep tired.
The red and blue lights of the ambulance feel branded onto the inside of your eyelids, there even when your tired eyes slide shut. The cool metal on the ambulance door soothes your forehead and for a moment, head tilted against it, you could honestly just sleep even with all the noise.
It’s been a hell of a night.
You blink. You need to keep yourself awake, you’re not home yet. Gazing blankly across the crowded parking lot, reporters and townspeople milling between the yellow police tape, you can feel your brain begin to try to grapple with all the events of the night.
It’s like some warped horror flick of memories, parts of the film blacked out that you can’t quite recall. The elevator, the Russians, and some god-awful melted monster of people — even in your mind the image makes you shudder.
The longer you think about it, the more it feels like the stress is fusing with your bones, attaching itself to every cell in your body. It makes you shake, a forceful twitch of your head to put all the thoughts to rest.
Process it later. Make sure you can stay stitched together physically tonight. You must look a tad loony from the outside, twitching and shaking, but considering your night it’s more than warranted.
Keep reading
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harringtown · 1 year
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holy shit, i can't believe i found you again!! deleted my old blog and by the time i remade, i couldn't remember your user lmao. you're the one that first got me into z nation almost five years ago now. for a long time you were my favorite blog - notifs on, read every fic, read everything you wrote. you actually got me into writing reader fanfic, even though that didn't last very long lmao. and then you got into stranger things and that got me into stranger things and both fandoms are now my comfort fandoms, so i've got you to thank for that! it's great to see that you're still writing and i can't wait to read all the new fics you've posted since i last saw you. you made my tumblr experience amazing and are the reason i fell in love with both 10k and steve. so overall, thank you!
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oh my god hi!!!! thank u so so so much omg this is the kindest message!!! yk that scene from parks n rec where tom has that painting like ‘ive been staring at this for six hours’ thats me w this ask ajdjdjd. z nation and stranger things are huge comfort shows for me so im so so glad i could share that!!!! and thank u so much for the support and for reading!!! it means the absolute world and im so happy that you found me again <3333
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harringtown · 1 year
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the view between villages
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a/n: what’s this? two fics in one day? sometimes I even impress myself (aka I finished them both yesterday and am too impatient to space them out) anyways this request took far too long to get to, so thank u for ur patience anon and I hope u like it!!!!
requested by anonymous
pairing: steve harrington x reader 
summary: at a party with the reader, Steve has Nancy flashbacks (aka an insecure Steve, newly established relationship, and love confessions)
word count: 1.6k
warnings: cursing and alcohol/drinking
-
Everything was fine.
The party, hosted by someone’s older brother or sister and in a parent-free house, was in full swing, and the crowd was a mix of upperclassmen from the high school and graduates from the last year or two, like you and Steve.
The music was good, and whatever alcohol lurked inside the massive Gatorade cooler was hidden by something fruity, and there were a lot of people, but Steve didn’t mind, because it meant you had to press up against him and hold onto his arm to keep from getting separated.
You danced and laughed and shared sips from an overflowing red solo cup, and Steve was happy for the first time in a long time.
Then, he leaves to get a refill, and when he comes back, and starts sipping off of it, the energy shifts. He was walking the line of tipsy and too drunk, but now, he’s toppling over the far side.
From the way you cling to his arm and sway on your feet, you seem to be in the same boat.
And maybe it’s the alcohol getting to him, or maybe the lighting in this living room is too familiar, or maybe there’s no reason at all, but Steve can’t stop thinking about Nancy Wheeler.
Which he absolutely shouldn’t be doing, not as he’s dancing with his new girlfriend—the girlfriend he really fucking likes, probably loves. But he is. He’s thinking about her off-kilter steps as he guided her toward the bathroom and that vacant, angry look in her eyes as she spat bullshit like venom.
It’s been a long time since that night, and neither he nor Nancy are the same people, but the scared, heartbroken boy who walked out of the bathroom at that party never fully healed from it.
Steve has spent the three months you and him have been together waiting for the shoe to drop. It always has, and now shouldn’t be any different. The longer this hangs, the more it’s going to hurt when it does fall.
Your hands slide up his chest, fingers curling around the collar of his shirt as you stretch up to speak into his ear, almost yelling over the music. It sends Steve’s train of thought careening off its track.
“Can we go somewhere for a minute?” you ask.
Steve’s stomach drops to the floor, bouncing as the loud music shakes the floor, and he almost says no. He knows where this is going, and he wants to put it off as long as possible. He wants more minutes with you, dancing and drinking and happy.
Instead, he just nods. Lets you take his hand and pull him through the throng of people and into a quieter hall.
Somehow, you manage to find an unlocked door, and pull Steve into a dark room. You nudge the door shut behind you and flick the lock before reaching for the light switch. You’re in a small bathroom, with an alarmingly-scarcely stocked shower and dingy mirror.  
Steve backs up as much as he can. He ends up nearly taking out a towel rod, and settles for folding his arms and making himself as small as possible.
“God, it was so stuffy in there. I swear that living room was about a thousand degrees,” you say. You lean back into the counter, fingers curled around the ledge.
“I’d guess two thousand, minimum,” Steve says, and he prays you don’t notice the crack in his voice. He has to fight every urge to turn, open the door, and run the fuck out of this house before you say or do something he isn’t ready for.
He can’t run. But he can, maybe, stall, or change the subject enough times to avoid what’s coming.
The inevitable end.
His throat starts to close up, and though the alcohol swirling in his veins already had him flushed, he feels like he’s on fire. His heart is beating so loud, it could put the boombox in the living room to shame.
“Would it kill them to put out a few bottles of water at these things?” you muse.
“Would anyone drink it?”
You laugh, but the sound shuts off like a spigot as you turn and catch Steve’s eyes. Your brows cinch together and a frown pushes down on your lips.
“Are you okay?” you ask.
Steve shakes his head and tries to smooth out his features. He has no clue if he pulls it off.
“I’m good,” Steve says, forcing a smile. “I’ll be better after about five cheeseburgers from the diner. Or, like, an entire box of cereal.”
Your frown lingers for a moment, like you don’t really believe him.
“You sure? Because you kind of look like you’re going to puke.”
“I mean, with that jungle juice, it’s always a possibility.”
You laugh again, but your expression takes on an intensity that turns Steve’s stomach.
“So, there’s something I need to say to you, and I’ve wanted to say it for a while, but I kept talking myself out of it, but I’m just drunk enough to say screw it, so—”
Steve is strongly considering popping open the bathroom window and climbing out. Anything to get him out of this room.
You stop, stepping up to him, hands finding his shoulders. Your gaze burns into his.
“Okay, yeah, you’re definitely not okay. What’s happening?”
“Nothing,” Steve says. “Go ahead. Say what you want to say.” He’s fighting to keep the bitterness out of his tone, and from the furrow to your brow, he’s failing.
“Steve—” You start.
“If you brought me in here to dump me, or whatever, can we just get on with it?” Steve snaps, harsher than he means. He doesn’t really mean to say it at all; the words just spill lose. Every inch of him feels like it was pumped full with adrenaline.
“Wait, what? What are you talking about?”
“Look, I’ve seen this movie before, and I’m really not a fan of the ending, so—” He tries to move around you, but you step in front of him. You take him by the shoulders again and pin him in place.
“Hey. Look at me,” you say. Steve doesn’t. He can’t.
Your hands move to his cheeks, forcing his gaze onto yours, and this, too, holds him hostage.
“I don’t know where you got it in your head that I’m dumping you, but that’s so not what’s happening right now,” you say.
Steve can barely hear you over the rapid pounding of his heart. He tries to tear his gaze away from you, but your hands stay firm on his cheeks.
“Talk to me, Steve. What’s going on?”
Steve steps back, uncaring that he knocks a towel down, and your surprise makes you drop your hands, giving him his out. And he takes it, a step toward the door.
“Nothing. It’s nothing. I’m fine. I just—” He says.
Suddenly, you throw your arms around him from behind, burying your face in his back. You squeeze tight, with no apparent intention of letting go, and Steve is so surprised he freezes for a long second. Then, he twists in your arms, winding his own around your waist. After a beat, he tightens his grip, ducking his chin against your head. He lets out a breath, and he swears, some crooked piece of him rights itself.
Steve doesn’t know how long the two of you stand there, holding the other. He just knows he never wants to let go.
Eventually, you lean back, but you don’t let him go.
You lift your gaze to his, and give him that smile reserved just for him as you say, “I’m not trying to break up with you, for the record. Kind of the opposite.”
“What, are you proposing?” Steve asks.
You snort a laugh, and say, “No, dummy, I’m trying to tell you that I love you.”
Steve’s breath hitches.
“You...”
Your smile widens. “Yeah. I love you.”
Steve tries to speak again, but the words won’t form.
“I love you, and you don’t have to say it back, or say anything, but I just needed you to know because—” You shrug. “I just needed you to know.”
The fear and anxiety and dread churning inside him all go still—he goes still, maybe for the first time in his life. All he sees is you, and the affection billowing in his chest. What he feels for you is a forever-expanding helium balloon, big enough to lift you both and carry you away.
“I love you, too,” Steve says.
“You do?”
“Of course I do,” he says. He doesn’t think he’s ever smiled bigger in his life, and if you weren’t smiling the same, he might be embarrassed.
“Good,” you say. You readjust your arms to loop around his neck. His hands find your waist, pulling you close, your stomach flush against his. “Because this could have gotten real awkward, real fast.” Your lips pull into a wide smile, and Steve catches your mouth in his—it might be his favorite thing, the curve of your smile against his lips.
He kisses you until he’s breathless and his lips are numb, but even then, it’s only to say, “There’s definitely a line of drunk nineteen year old’s outside this door that want to kill us.”
You laugh, pressing your lips to his again, mouth parting against his, and Steve regrets saying anything; he truly couldn’t care less about anything outside this bathroom right now.
“Let them wait,” you hum against his lips.
And Steve is happy to comply.
-
taglist: @milkiane​ @spideyboipete​ @robiin-buckley​ @robinbuckleyssgf​ @la-fille-en-aiguilles​ @sunlitide​ @cityofidek​ @isshecrazyorissheclever @peanutbutter-y-jams​ @hellfire1986baby​ @comfortcharactercraze​ @sweetbabygirlsworld​ @cherryredharrington 
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harringtown · 1 year
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https://saviourkingsimp.tumblr.com/post/699945648879960064/
This is me @ your fics every time omg
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oh my gooood I didn't see this until now anon but THANK U omg I am humbly giving u a kiss on the forehead
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harringtown · 1 year
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steve harrington must die - pt 2
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a/n: wow it took much too long to update this, sorry loves!! this month has been v busy w book revisions and medication switches but im trying to get back into consistent writing!! ty for the patience as always <3 this is gonna be a four parter so we’re halfway!!
read the first part here
summary: three of Steve Harrington’s exes set up their former boyfriend to fall in love with the reader, so they can break his heart (aka russians can't design elevators)
word count: 4.3k
-
June is. Too perfect. More technically, Steve is too perfect.
A string of dates, all of them fun, in which you weave the web of a beautiful, perfect girl for Steve Harrington to fall in love with, and he plays the part of prince charming equally well.
There’s the mini golf adventure: Steve is really bad, you’re really good. The county fair: he holds your hand on the ferris wheel, and you gorge yourselves on carb-loaded fair food. A couple of movie dates. An attempted picnic that is sabotaged by a colony of ants.
With the help of Thea, Becca, and Beth behind the scenes, you’re pretty sure you’re actually pulling this thing off. And within another month, you might even have Steve wrapped entirely around your finger.  
Except, underneath all the niceties and flirting are the questions he doesn’t answer. The odd look he gets in his eyes sometimes and the way he’s always looking around the room like he’s categorizing the exits.
And though every hour you spend with him fractures the image you’ve always been presented with—a cold, cruel king—there is no denying that he’s hiding something. He’s not doing that great a job of it, either.
Then the end of June comes around, and the occasional skittishness becomes full blown avoidance.
You haven’t heard from him in over a day, a record after the last few weeks. Not even the girls know about the almost nightly phone calls between you and Steve.
The asshole actually stands you up. Leaves you waiting on your front porch like some lovestruck child. For the thirty minutes it takes to finally admit he’s not coming, you twiddle your thumbs, angrily trying to convince yourself you’re just angry. Angry that he had the audacity to not even call.
Angry, instead of sad or hurt. Anger is safer, bigger, sturdier.  
After thirty five minutes, you force yourself back inside, endlessly grateful your family is out tonight and doesn’t have to witness the walk of shame. Instantly, you head to the phone, drag over a chair, and dial Thea.
“He what?” Thea hisses through the phone, her voice crackling over the line.
“It’s only been a month,” Rebecca says. “He doesn’t usually ghost until at least month three. What the hell is he on?” She, Beth, and Thea always hang out while you’re with Steve, and when the date ends, you meet up with them to debrief—to talk you out of whatever falsities he inevitably uses on you.
Tonight is only proving that.
“He could be busy,” Beth adds, her voice lower, like she’s standing behind the other girls. You can picture them, gathered around the phone, twisted expressions on their faces.
“Oh, yeah, he’s accepting the key to the city, and that’s why he didn’t pick her up,” Thea says. “C’mon, B. This is Steve Harrington.”
“Yeah, but we’re not in high school anymore,” Beth says. “You aren’t the girl you were in high school. Maybe he’s changed.”
“What, for the better?” Rebecca asks. “I kind of doubt that.”
“Nobody said for the better,” Beth says. “But… maybe just different.”
“Whatever. Different year, same asshole is how I see it,” Thea says.
The girls go round and round, trying to decide why Steve didn’t show, trying to decide what to do next. And as they do, you bite back every instinct to defend the boy you’ve spent the last month with.
Because this is much harder than you ever imagined. Because if this is really a game, like the girls have said—like Steve’s occasional weirdness makes you believe—Steve is the MVP. He’s the pro, and you’re a rookie scrambling for the ball.
You tune back into the conversation as Thea says, “Well, he’s not getting away with it. Y/N, tomorrow, you march up to that counter and give him a piece of your mind—”
“I’m sorry, you want me to what now?” you ask, winding the phone cord once, twice, three times around your wrist.
“He pulls this little routine time and time again, and we let him. But you’re not going to,” Rebecca says.
You gnaw on the inside of your cheek. For a month, you’ve taken every line they fed you and spit it back at Steve, and though at first, each smile or each time you caught him sneaking a glance, it felt like a victory, each time is a little less triumphant.
And now there’s this tiny, little pit in the center of your belly that grows every day. It wonders whether you’re doing the right thing—whether Steve isn’t such a bad guy, after all.
“I don’t know, guys. Maybe we should just take the out. I mean, is it really worth it?” You ask. “Steve Harrington isn’t… the king of Hawkins High, anymore. He hasn’t been in a long time. He lost everything already. What are we even taking from him?”
“Boys like him don’t ever really lose anything. Nothing that matters. This is how we hit him where it hurts.”
“Right in the gonads,” Thea says. “The heart gonads.”
“Gross, Thea,” Beth says.
The girls giggle, and their energy is still as infectious as it was the day they convinced you to walk up to the Scoops Ahoy county. Four years at Hawkins High, and you never had friends like this. And if you back out, who knows if they’ll stick around.
Plus, you can’t say this whole thing hasn’t had its advantages. You haven't paid for dinner in a month. Or ice cream. You’ve been on some really fun dates, even if they were half lies.
Soon enough, this will be over, and summer will bleed into fall, and fall to winter, and maybe this summer of shenanigans will just be a story. And Steve Harrington won’t matter anymore.
So, you agree to stay in the game. You let yourself linger on all of Steve’s unexplainable qualities; his secrets and his lies and that cocky confidence that is so obviously a facade. Maybe, if you stare at them hard enough, you’ll forget all the good things.
You’ll forget that you’re no longer sure if you can break Steve Harrington’s heart without breaking your own.
-
A BACK IN TEN MINUTES sign sits on the Scoops Ahoy counter as you approach it. Despite the sign, noise—voices—filter from the back room.
You figure you’re already snooping, and may as well just take it up a few notches. Besides, it won’t be the first time you’ve crossed the counter. Silently, you lift up the partition and step into the booth, easing the red plastic back down behind you. You stop just beyond the thin door.
“Whatever’s in that room, whatever’s in those boxes, they really don’t want anybody finding it.” The voice is young, but you’ve spent enough time with Steve the last month to recognize the kids that materialize around him for ice cream or free movie access. This one is unfamiliar.
“But there’s gotta be a way in.” This one, at least, you recognize. Robin Buckley. The closest thing Steve has to a best friend, according to him. But hearing her voice, after he’s stood you up, makes something green and poisonous curdle in your chest.
And then, Steve’s voice. “Well, you know…”
And all your plans for casualness and playing it cool fly out the window. You tug open the thin sliding door between the front counter and the back room, stomping in to find Steve, Robin, and a boy no more than fourteen sitting around a faded folding table.
All eyes land on you, and you’re suddenly regretting every choice that led you here, but there’s no going back now. You fix your attention on Steve, narrowing your eyes.
“y/n?” Steve asks.
“Steven,” you say thinly.
“Oof,” Robin says, crinkling her nose.
Steve ignores her, asking, “What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here?” You scoff. “You know, I figured, when you stood me up and didn’t even bother to call, that maybe you were, like, deathly ill, or something, but I guess not, huh?” You ask, gesturing around. “You’re just an asshole.”
Steve’s brows furrow, and he’s already pushing to his feet as you start backing up, but you don’t wait around to catch whatever bullshit excuse he’s cooking up.
Staying isn’t part of the plan. Getting him to chase you is.
So, you don’t turn back, storming past the front counter and into the bustling food court.
Three seconds later, a voice calls, “Wait!”
You slow down, just a bit, but don’t stop.
“Wait—Jesus, dude, watch where you’re—y/n, wait!”
Then a hand grazes your elbow, and you yank it away, whirling to face a frazzled and out of breath Steve Harrington.
“Just—wait.” He swallows. Rips off his goofy sailor’s hat and rakes a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m sorry about last night. I should have called.”
“Yeah, you should have.”
Steve winces, though he hardly has the grounds for any offense. He sweeps a look around—you’re in the center of the food court, and drawing plenty of attention—before taking your arm gently and guiding you to an empty table with two rickety chairs. He pulls one out for you, and you ignore it, going to the other side and sinking into it.
Steve scoffs, but sits down across from you, leaning into the table and folding his arms.
“You deserve an explanation,” Steve says. And then he doesn’t say anything else.
“Yeah, I do,” you say. “But it doesn’t really look like you’re going to give me one.”
Steve presses his lips together. He glances around the food court again, like he’s looking for something or someone. Like he doesn’t want to be seen with you.
“It’s—Look, it’s kind of complicated.”
You snort and push your chair back, standing up.
“If you want to go out with Robin, go out with Robin. Just don’t—don’t string me along and leave me waiting on my porch like an idiot.”
Steve stands up, rushing around to stop you from leaving, his brows furrowed.
“Robin? What?” he shakes his head. “You’ve got it all wrong. I don’t want to go out with Robin. I want to go out with you.”
And even though this is the way this is supposed to go—he’s taking the bait just like the girls said he would—you can’t help the little flip of your stomach. The flutter in your chest.
Not real. Not real.
“Really? Because it’s pretty obvious you’re hiding something. And it’s also pretty obvious that Robin knows about it. And that kid, the one with the dorky shirt,” you say. You inhale, and try to convince yourself that you don’t mean the words as you say, “I like you, Steve, but I can’t be with someone who lies or disappears without any warning. So, if you can’t be honest with me, this is over.”
Steve presses his lips together. He reminds you of a sprinter on the starting blocks of a track, waiting for the signal to bolt.
“It’s not that I don’t want to tell you,” he says. “I do.”
“So, tell me. It’s pretty simple.”
“It’s not that simple.” Steve shakes his head. “It’s dangerous, and the less you know, the better.”
You fold your arms over your chest. “You’re kind of melodramatic, you know that?”
“God, you’re impossible,” Steve says.
You cock your brows.
“Okay. Alright.” Steve rakes a hand through his hair. “You really want to know?”
“Yes.”
“Fine. I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything,” he says. “But when it comes back to bite you in the ass, remember I tried to keep you out of this.” His tone awakens something ancient and cautious deep in your chest, like a warning bell, like your body senses a danger you don’t. “And don’t get pissed when I say I told you so.”
-
“You can’t actually expect me to believe this,” you exclaim.
“I know it sounds crazy.”
“It doesn’t sound crazy. It is crazy,” you say.
Steve gives an exasperated sigh, watching you pace and sinking back into the rusted bunch in the mall’s back alley. A popular spot for smokers on their break and right now, for the most ridiculous things you’ve ever heard in your life. Monsters and telepathic pre-teens and gates between worlds—except they’re not actually gates, they’re more like, fleshy, gooey holes.
You’d been told Steve Harrington was many things, but delusional wasn’t one of them.
“Yeah, I know. I told you it would be.” He folds his arms over his chest and inclines his head. “I also told you that you wouldn’t believe me.”
“You were right. I don’t.”
Steve throws up his hands, as if to say, what can you do?
Like he doesn’t care if you believe. Doesn’t care enough to try and convince you.
And you don’t believe him, obviously, because how could you, but you’re not exactly in this for innocent purposes, and a bunch of lies only make things easier for you.
“It’s probably better this way. It's better if you just turn around and walk away and curse my name, because at least you'll be safe,” he says, but he doesn’t sound bitter or angry. He just sounds sad. “So if you want to go, I won’t stop you. I can’t.”
The truth. It rings clear and strong against all of his lies and half-truths. This, what he’s saying, is something he believes. Really believes.
It’s not just that, though. It’s the look in his eyes. For all his facades, all the cockiness and the easy-going smiles, there is fear like you’ve never seen before. It pokes at something ancient and instinctual, deep inside you.
It’s real. The realest thing about him.
So you don’t walk away. You drop down beside Steve on the bench, and place your hand over his. He flips up his palm. Threads your fingers together. Gives your hand a squeeze, and you an inquisitive look.
“If you’re trying to scare me away, Harrington, you’re going to have to try a little harder,” you say.
Steve laughs. He slips his arm around your shoulder, keeping your hand in his. You tell yourself the flutter in your belly is anything but what it actually is.
“Be careful what you wish for,” he says.
-
In your defense, you didn’t walk into the mall today with the intent of trespassing, breaking and entering, or whatever the hell you’re doing now, standing beside Robin Buckley and two children as Steve holds up a tube of thick, bright green liquid.
“What the hell?” Steve muses, and you’re wondering the same thing.
Mostly, you’re wondering why the hell you came here.
Confronting him was one thing. Agreeing to tag along as he and the others set off to explore a shady elevator is another. And you keep telling yourself it’s about keeping your enemies close, or whatever, but that’s not the whole truth. The whole truth is that Steve Harrington, whatever he truly is, asshole or not, opened a can of worms, and you want to see what’s inside it.
Or, you wanted to. But now, you’re standing in the aforementioned can of worms, and you’re realizing the walls are too tall to scale.
“Did the elevator just move?” Dustin asks.
“Booby traps,” Erica whispers.
“You know what? Lets just grab that and go,” Robin says. You’re inclined to agree with her, already moving for the door as Dustin and Steve reach it.
But the buttons aren’t responding, no matter how many times they’re punched, or by how many people. A thick metal slat slides down over the door.
You catch Steve’s gaze long enough to watch his eyes widen.
And then you’re falling.
-
The elevator stops with a crash, throwing you, the others, and half the boxes onto the floor. You slam hard into the ground on your knees and elbows, and duck out of the way just in time to avoid kissing the corner of a massive box as it comes flying down.
A pair of hands wrap around your arms and haul you up, and Steve is there, gaze darting up and down as he asks, “Are you okay?”
You’re pretty sure you’re in shock, because all you can do is nod and say, “I’m okay. I’m okay.” You grab onto him long enough to steady yourself, then pull away.
“Is everyone okay?” Robin asks, pushing to her feet in the other corner. She, Dustin, and Erica seem relatively unharmed, if not battered and frazzled. You probably don’t look much better.
“Yeah, I'm great now that I know Russians can’t design elevators!” Steve exclaims, marching over to the elevator panel, though it has already proven itself worthless. Right now, you can’t exactly blame him for beating a dead horse. There aren't any live horses in sight as an alternative.
“I think we’ve clearly established that those buttons don’t work,” says Robin.
“They’re buttons,” Steve, who seems about five seconds from a full mental breakdown, emphasizes. “They have to do something.“
“Yeah, if we had a keycard.”
“A what?”
“It's an electronic lock,” she says. “Same as the loading dock door. If we don't have a keycard, it won't operate, meaning…”
“We're stuck in here,” Dustin says.
“Yeah.” Robin huffs a sigh.
“Just so you nerds are aware,” Erica announces, “I'm supposed to be spending the night at Tina's, and Tina always covers for me. But if I'm not home for Uncle Jack's party tomorrow and my mom finds out you four are responsible, she's gonna hunt you down, one by one, and slit your throat.”
Robin meets your eyes and arches her brows. You stifle a giggle.
“I don't care about Tina! Or Uncle Jack's party!” Steve says. “Your mom's not gonna be able to find us if we're dead in a Russian elevator!”
It’s all so ridiculous, so insane, so fucking impossible, you want to drop to the floor and laugh until you throw up or pass out.
You cross the elevator in two steps, a hand closing around his arm, the other rising to his chest as you say, “Hey, it’s gonna be okay. We’re not dying in here.”
Steve holds your gaze, and the look in his eyes isn’t one you’ve seen before. It’s like shock and concern and… admiration, all rolled into one.
Steve exhales and reaches up to flick the stray hair off your forehead. He gives you a reassuring smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Oh, so you’re an optimist, then? Good to know,” he says, easily stowing the fearful expression he’s worn since the elevator stopped moving. This, at least, you know what to do with. The jokes and the bravado.
“For now,” you say. “Give me another twenty minutes in this hellhole, and I’ll get back to you.”
Steve laughs, and it isn’t entirely happy—it’s a little mangled, a little too tense. But despite that, despite everything, there is a little voice in your head that won’t quit whispering. And it says if you had to get stuck in a terrible situation, at least Steve is by your side.
You have no idea if that voice is true. You sure as hell don’t know what it means if it is.
All you know is that you’re in way, way over your head. And there might not be a way back out.
-
After an hour, all attempts at escape have died down. In one corner, Dustin and Erica have nodded off, and curl against one another like sleeping kittens—in another scenario, it might be heartwarming to see. Now, though, it’s just painful. Like even the kids have given up.
Robin is in the other corner, her head tipped back and her arms looped around her drawn knees. You’re not sure if she’s still awake, but she hasn’t moved in minutes.
You’re in the third corner, sandwiched between fallen boxes and watching as Steve paces back and forth in front of the locked elevator door.
It feels like a lifetime ago that you were standing on your front porch waiting for him. Longer since you and the girls came up with your asinine plan in the first place.
Break Steve Harrington’s heart. Right now, it feels like a fantasy. Or a joke. Certainly meaningless.  
“Steve,” you say softly.
He pauses. Tosses you a glance.
“Sit down. You’re going to wear a hole through the floor.”
Steve lets out a defeated sigh. He comes to squeeze down beside you. The space is small enough that his leg is pressed firm against yours. Once again, there’s more comfort in his presence than there should be.
You bump his shoulder lightly.
“So,” you say. “Is this the part where you say I told you so?”
Steve lets out a laugh that also sounds a bit like he’s choking. He shakes his head and runs a hand through his disheveled hair.
“God.” He sighs again. “I’m so sorry. I never should have dragged you into this. This is all my fault—”
“Hey.” You shift sideways, drawing a leg up, but there’s so little room, your knee ends up against his chest. “Stop. You didn’t drag me into anything. I walked into this cursed elevator of my own volition, thank you very much.”
Steve smiles again, a tiny, sad smile. He closes his eyes for a long moment. When he opens them, he says, “Look, there’s something I didn’t tell you yesterday.” And that familiar flush of nausea threatens to overwhelm you—the moment of the girls were right and this is all a lie for him, too. But then, that cavern of grief you’ve only seen glimpses of breaks open in his eyes, and you think, for the first time, you’re really seeing Steve Harrington.
And he isn’t a king. He’s just a sad, broken boy.
“What?” you ask, even if you’re not certain you’re ready for whatever he says.
He turns his gaze toward the other corners of the elevator, and doesn’t look at you as he says, in a low voice, “I told you that I was there when Barbara Holland died. Me and Nancy.”
Your heart beats like a kickdrum, booming against your ribs. You nod.
Steve exhales sharply. “Yeah, well, that’s not exactly the whole story. The truth is, I left her alone, bleeding, like damn monster bait. I was so obsessed with getting Nancy’s attention, saying and doing all the right shit, that I didn’t stop for a second to look out the window. I could have stopped it.” He sits back against the metal-plated walls. Only then do you realize one of his hands is resting on your knee. “She’s dead because of me.” A muscle clicks in his jaw. “I can’t let that happen again. And if—” He stops. A shiver rolls through him. “I just can’t let anyone else get hurt.”
You pause for a long second before you speak.
“You can’t blame yourself for what happened to Barb,” you say. “I mean, say you had looked out the window and seen…” You gesture at nothing. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I believe your whole monster thing, but I do know there’s nothing you could have done.” You press your lips together. Lay a hand on his shoulder. “And as for us, it’s mighty noble and all, but no one here asked you to save them. I didn’t. So if you’re carrying that around, you can put it down. All of this shit you’re carrying, you can put it down.”
Steve swallows visibly and turns to look at you. This, too, is a new Steve. Open and unarmed.
He places his hand on top of yours, and when you flip up your palm, he twines his fingers with yours. He lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a long kiss to your knuckles.
Steve’s gaze flicks to yours, and the tiny space between boxes seems infinitely smaller. His face is only a few inches from yours.
His eyes dart down and back up, and you know he’s going to kiss you. More than that, you know you want him to. And you know you shouldn’t.
But you don’t stop him. You lean toward him, and he bends toward you, and he presses his lips to yours, and god, you’re kissing Steve Harrington.
It isn’t what you thought it’d be like, which, if you’re being honest, is something you’ve considered. A few times. Maybe more than a few.
It—he—is gentle. Careful. His hands weave behind your head to draw you closer, and his lips are soft and warm, and despite the very real and pressing concerns around you, he kisses you like you have all the time in the world. And for a second, you forget where you are. Who you are, if you’re being more honest.
When he pulls away, he doesn’t go far. He dips his forehead against yours, and his breath is warm on your chin.
Eventually, he says softly, “You know, for the record, if I had to be stuck in some cursed Russian elevator with anybody, I’m glad it’s you.”
“Me, plus your coworker, and two children, you mean?” You ask, leaning back.
Steve laughs, ducking to press another quick kiss to your lips.
“Yeah, obviously, that’s exactly what I meant.”
You smile, and say, “Me too,” but the warm, fluttery feeling in your chest subsides by the second. Shame, hot and sharp, replaces it.
Because the plan is working. Everything you and the girls set out to do is coming to fruition, but it’s all wrong, cracked and wreathed in rot.
Steve Harrington might be falling for you, but you’re falling for him, too. And somehow, that isn’t even your biggest problem. There is still this elevator and whatever waits beyond the doors.
You’re screwed. Royally, entirely, wholly screwed.
You’ve spent the last month living a lie, and now, it’s looking like you might die in one, too.
-
taglist: @dutifullyspookyrebel @le-who-zer-her 
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harringtown · 1 year
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Oh my god, just found the deadly class fic and I fell in love. I love marcus so fricking much and your writing is amazing!
ah omg thank u!!! god i did love that show and im forever bitter it didnt get renewed for a s2 like how dare they take away my emotional support school for hot assassins…
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harringtown · 1 year
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having thick hair and going to get your hair cut is just having to listen to your hair dresser repeat over and over again how millions of people would commit despicable crimes to have your hair
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harringtown · 1 year
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hi, will you be writing steve harrington must die pt 2 or is the pt 1 just it?? i looooove the movie and im so glad that i found your fic but i was so sad bc there were no pt 2 :(
hi yes i promise im still writing it!!! ty for ur patience i swear i have the next part half finished!!!
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harringtown · 1 year
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The more I hear about your editor, the cooler I find her
she is so cool 😩 like not once has she been like ‘change this/i dont like this’ it’s always’ this could be cool but if u hate it dont do it’ which is so appreciated!! and on our original call she was walking around talking to me about the book and she got so excited that she TRIPPED and i was like… shes the one lmao
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