sweetstevesblog

[sweetstevesblog]

djo via poonehghana

[sweetstevesblog]

ADJOINING ROOMS ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x fem!BAU!reader

summary: you and reid are just colleagues. and hookup partners. and fake lovers for a case in a swinger’s club. but it’s fine. until it really, really isn’t.

genre: smut, angst | w/c: 8.5k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, situationship/fwb, coworkers to lovers, brief references to alcohol consumption, emotional avoidance/lack of communication, mentions of the swinger lifestyle (case related) (probably full of inaccuracies & stereotypes so apologies in advance for that lol), canon-typical case/violence, fingering, oral (f receiving), p in v, multiple orgasms + a lil overstimulation, soft dom!spencer if you squint, spencer calls reader good girl/baby/sweet girl, slight praise kink, aftercare, no use of y/n

a/n: never written a case-centric fic before (although idk if I’d call this case-centric — more like case-adjacent) and zooo weee mama the hours upon hours I put into this 😮‍💨 but I’m very pleased with how it turned out, so I hope someone enjoys it as much as I enjoyed writing it! I know it’s long but fingers crossed it’s worth it. (p.s. fourth pic is not indicative of reader’s appearance!! it just had the right dress + vibes)

The roundtable room always feels colder than it should. Maybe it’s the fluorescent lights, or maybe it’s the weight of what gets said in here — every case, every file, every name. Sometimes you think the walls remember too much.

Hotch is talking. His voice cuts through the stillness in that crisp, efficient way it always does. Words like “victimology” and “behavioral escalation” stack on top of each other, building the scaffolding of a case you’re supposed to be paying attention to. But your mind is already drifting — across the table, past the file folders and scattered pens, to where Spencer is sitting.

He’s chewing the inside of his cheek again. Not nervous, exactly — more like restless. His gaze flickers from the files to the floor to the case board, anywhere but you. He hasn’t looked at you once all morning.

You wonder if anyone else notices.

Last week, you kissed him. Again. Or rather, he kissed you.

It was late. You were both a little tipsy from post-case beers, tiptoeing down the hotel hallway like teenagers who missed curfew. You’d said something about how quiet it was — how strange it felt after so much chaos that day. He’d nodded. Then there was a long, loaded pause, and suddenly your back was against the wallpaper and his mouth was on yours, hot and searching and almost rough.

“We shouldn’t,” you’d whispered, even as your fingers curled into his shirt.

“I know,” he’d breathed back against your lips.

And still, neither of you stopped.

You think about that now — his hands framing your jaw, the way he touched you like he’d been dying to all day — and it makes your palms itch. You press your nails into your skin, leaving little crescent-shaped indents, and force your gaze back to the board.

On it: photos of the bodies of three women. All strangled. All posed ritualistically. All in their late twenties to mid-thirties, all married or in serious relationships. All affiliated with the swinger lifestyle in the greater Chicago area.

“Preliminary theory,” Hotch says, “is that the unsub attends these parties, separates the woman from her male partner, and kills her in private. He’s not targeting them at random — he’s studying their interactions with their partners first. Police pulled together a sketch of the unsub from witnesses, but the locals haven’t been able to identify him yet.”

Spencer finally speaks. “It’s possible he’s embedding himself in the community. Not just observing, but actively participating in swinging.”

You swallow hard. His voice sounds normal. Clinical. Almost bored. You wonder how he does that — compartmentalizes so easily when you’re in the room like nothing ever happened between you.

You, meanwhile, are still trying to forget the taste of his mouth.

“Wheels up in an hour,” Hotch says, flipping the file closed. “We’ll get briefed by local PD and the Chicago field office when we land.”

He pauses and glances around the table.

“We’re also going to need to send two of you in undercover at the next club night.”

As soon as he says it, you already know what’s coming. Hotch focuses his eyes on you before he continues speaking.

“You’ve got the most experience working undercover,” he says. “And you fit the victimology. Reid, you’ll go with her. You make a believable pairing.”

You feel it. Not just the sharp jolt in your own chest, but the way Spencer tenses. A small shift in posture, like someone bracing for impact. His eyes stay fixed on the table. You just nod.

“If the unsub is targeting women in stable relationships,” Spencer begins, voice measured, “we need to appear convincingly connected — not just physically, but emotionally. Studies show that up to 10 % of American married couples have experimented with swinging, and many report that emotional intimacy drives their participation more than the physical variety. If he’s looking for that connection when seeking out victims, we’ll need to sell both.”

You almost laugh. Not because it’s funny — but because this is how he protects himself. With facts. With rationality. Like if he says the right words in the right order, it won’t matter that your mouths have already memorized each other.

“Exactly. And you two will blend in best with the age group at these clubs. We’ll do more prep on the plane,” Hotch says.

You nod. Spencer nods.

And then, finally, he looks at you.

It’s barely for a second, but it’s long enough to see the thing he’s trying to hide:

Want. Fear. Something brittle and unspeakable pressed tight beneath his ribs.

You look away first. You have to.

—

The jet hums around you. You’ve always found something oddly comforting about the sound — the steady thrum of the engine, the muted clink of coffee mugs, the gentle rustle of case files and paper.

Spencer is sitting across from you, the way he always does on the jet. Close enough to keep an eye on you if he wants to, but far enough away for plausible deniability. He’s got a file open in his lap, one leg crossed over the other, pen tapping absently at the margin. But he hasn’t turned the page in eight minutes.

You’re pretending to read, too. Words blur. You underline things at random just to look busy. The profile you and the team have already built is solid — mid- to late-thirties, white male, organized, narcissistic injury around female sexuality, history of escalating violence against women starting from a young age, currently or formerly involved in the swinger community himself.

But all you can think about is the fact that Spencer isn't looking at you again, and it’s starting to eat at you.

“God,” Morgan mutters from behind you. “This case is wild. Sex parties, swinging, murder.”

“People have all kinds of lifestyles,” JJ says, gentle and unbothered, flipping through photos. “That doesn’t make them deserving of this.”

“Not saying that,” Morgan replies. “Just… can you imagine Hotch at one of those clubs?”

A collective groan-laugh moves through the jet. Rossi makes a deadpan comment about leather harnesses. Even Hotch cracks a grin.

But Spencer doesn’t. He’s still staring at his file, unmoving, jaw tight.

The last time you were alone with him, he was on his knees.

You remember the way he looked up at you, hair falling into his eyes. His mouth was reverent. Careful. Like you were a puzzle he desperately needed to solve with his tongue.

“Please,” you’d whispered. “Don’t be so gentle.”

But he was. He always is. Even when he’s needy, even when you’re shaking — he’s still soft. Still murmuring little praises like, “You’re doing so well for me,” and “Good girl.”

And when it was over, you got dressed, said a quiet goodnight, and tiptoed back down the hall to your room alone, same as you always did. Even after countless nights together, you never slept beside him. One of you always left. It was the one boundary you hadn’t crossed. There was a seemingly impenetrable wall between the two of you, and you weren’t even sure which one of you had built it. Maybe it was him, maybe it was you, or maybe it was a joint effort.

Back in the present, the jet hits a small patch of turbulence. You jolt, fingers tightening around your pen. Spencer looks up instinctively, and your eyes meet.

He blinks once, then looks back down.

You wonder if he’s thinking about the same things you are. If the silence between you is just his version of restraint, or if he’s decided it’s easier to forget.

“Here’s some background on the club,” Hotch says, sliding a printout across the table. “Invitation-only, but you two,” he nods at you and Spencer, “are already on the guest list.”

Spencer shifts slightly. “Did they send a floorplan?”

JJ passes him a sheet with the building layout. You watch the way his fingers curl around the edge of the paper.

You want to say something. You want to joke, to ease the tension, to break the silence before it breaks you. All you can manage is:

“So. You ready to pretend to be my boyfriend, Reid?”

It comes out lighter than you feel.

Spencer’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, though.

“I’ve pretended to be worse,” he says softly. And for a moment, it almost feels like the past six months didn’t happen.

Then Rossi clears his throat, and Spencer looks away again.

You stare at the grain in the tabletop and trace it like a fault line, wondering how you’re supposed to fake wanting all of him when that’s already too close to reality.

—

The hotel room you’ve just checked into is a bit dated, with a king bed, fake art, heavy curtains, and neutral tones. Standard, by every definition of the word. But your eyes keep flicking to the left — where a second door sits flush with the wall you share with the adjacent room. It feels like the universe is laughing at you when you realize who’s staying in the suite next door — Spencer, naturally. And maybe it’s not a big deal. Maybe two FBI agents sharing a door between rooms isn’t a scandal. Maybe it’s even practical, since you’ll be working so closely on this case.

Still.

It feels too absurdly romantic for a murder investigation. Like the setup to a bad workplace rom-com that ends in a wedding montage and a corny piano medley. The thought makes you snort. You’ve got a deadpan sense of humor, especially when you’re tired or scared or two seconds away from thinking about the taste of his mouth again.

You groan and drop your go-bag at the foot of the bed. Your boots are already off. You’re about to get up and shower when you hear a rattle of movement on the other side of the wall.

Then: a knock.

Not at the main door, but the other one. The one that’s supposed to stay shut.

Of course.

You pad over and unlatch it.

Spencer’s standing there in mismatched socks, tie loosened, hair slightly mussed like he’s been running his hands through it for the last twenty minutes.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

You both hover for a second. There’s something soft in his eyes — like guilt, or maybe just caution.

“I, uh, thought we should talk through tomorrow. Get our story straight before we go in.”

You arch a brow. “Our story?”

He swallows. “Cover story. Our… relationship history. As a couple. So we’re believable.”

You blink. Then you laugh — short, surprised. “Right. Gotta make sure our fake relationship is fully fleshed out.”

His expression doesn’t change, but you see the muscle in his jaw jump. Like he’s trying very hard not to say something he’ll regret.

You step back. “Come on in, then. Let’s build a backstory.”

He enters cautiously, and the adjoining door swings closed behind him with a click.

You’re the kind of person who flirts when you’re uncomfortable. Who masks tension with sarcasm. Who doesn’t let people in until it’s already too late. And deep down, you hate that you’ve been soft with him. He’s seen the version of you who doesn’t deflect — the quiet version. The real one. You spent years learning how not to feel things too deeply, but now one look from Spencer and it’s like a dam breaking.

“So,” you say, cocking your head, “how long have we been together?”

He glances up to the ceiling. “A year?”

“Bold of you to assume I’d put up with you that long.”

His mouth twitches. “Six months?”

“Try four and a half. Tops.”

“Fine,” he murmurs. “Four and a half months.”

You bite your lip, a smirk teasing the corner. “And how did we meet? Office romance?”

He gives you a look of exasperation and says your name with a groan. Clearly, that hit a nerve.

You chuckle. “Fine. Come up with something better.”

There’s a beat. Then: “You spilled coffee on me in a bookstore. I insisted it was fine, you apologized profusely and offered to buy me a new shirt. Turned into a whole scene,” he decides.

You laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s believable.”

“Because I’m clumsy, or because you’re uptight?”

“Both,” he says, almost smiling.

The air shifts.

There it is again — that familiar tilt of the atmosphere. The way everything around him bends just slightly, like gravity favors his orbit.

He crosses the room and perches on the edge of the desk chair, spinning it half toward you.

You watch him from the bed, legs folded underneath you, pretending this is the most intimate moment you’ve ever shared. Which is, frankly, ridiculous. You’ve had your mouth on every inch of him. He’s said things in your ear that still make your toes curl when you think about them late at night.

“Tomorrow,” he says slowly, “we’ll need to act familiar. Emotionally and… physically.”

You nod. “We’re supposed to be in love, after all.”

That gets him. His eyes flick to yours, sharp and unreadable.

You tilt your head. “Or maybe just horny. That’s easier to fake, right?”

Silence.

Then, softly: “You’re not helping.”

“No,” you admit. “I’m not.”

You’ve always been like this — deflective to the point of recklessness when you’re backed into an emotional corner. It’s easier to make a joke than to say what you really mean. Easier to prod him than to admit you want something to give.

There’s a beat of quiet. You shift, pulling the blanket up over your legs, suddenly chilly despite the warmth of the room. The joke has worn off.

He clears his throat. “I should go, let you get some sleep.”

You nod, even though you know you’ll be restless for hours. The moment he’s gone, you’ll feel his absence echo like ringing in your ears after a fire alarm.

He stands. You stand, too. You walk together to the adjoining door like a real couple might, and that alone feels like cruelty.

For a second, neither of you moves. Then, you speak, voice quieter than it had been a few moments ago:

“Spence?”

He stops, glances back. His nickname in your mouth always does that — stalls him mid-step, like he’s never truly ready for it.

“If we’re going to be convincing,” you say, trying to sound casual, “you’re gonna have to at least look at me tomorrow.”

His gaze drops to the floor before finally lifting and meeting yours again, albeit briefly. “I’ll look at you,” he promises quietly, after a long beat.

And then he’s gone.

You lock the door, press your forehead to the wood frame, and exhale. You debate a shower again.

And that’s when it hits you — the memory, sudden and sharp, sparking bright in your mind like a match catching:

Three months ago. It was late. You’d just gotten back to the hotel one night in the middle of a case that left you feeling hollow, and you’d turned the shower on to heat up while you undid your ponytail with tired fingers.

The knock at your door came soft, almost guilty. You spotted Spencer through the peephole and let him in. You didn’t need to ask why he was there — you could see it in the way his shoulders slumped from the weight he was carrying, in the way his hand kneaded at the tension in the back of his neck, in the way he looked at you with those honey brown eyes like you were the only thing in this universe that could make him feel human again.

His mouth crashed into yours before you could even register it. Urgent. Consuming. The kind of kiss that didn’t care what came after, only what needed to happen right now.

You pulled him into the bathroom by his collar, lips parted and hungry. Clothes came off swiftly into a messy heap by the base of the sink. He lifted you into the shower then, water cascading around your tangled limbs, and braced you against the wall, tiles cool against your back.

You let him take everything he needed that night. Every thrust a release, every gasp a plea. He murmured little things against the warm skin of your neck — you don’t remember what they were, but you do remember the sound of his voice: low and wrecked and achingly tender. You came with your head tipped back, body trembling under the hot spray, thighs tightening around his waist, and he came harder. Like he couldn’t stop it — like your body had pulled it out of him, with a stifled groan and a shudder that rolled through his entire frame.

You stayed like that for a moment — both of you breathing hard, the sound of the water the only thing steady.

Eventually, your thighs loosened around him and he set you gently back down to the ground. You half-expected him to lean down and kiss you, to keep the moment going, but instead, he just studied your face and softly brushed your wet hair away from your cheek. Something quiet passed between you, fragile and echoing.

Then, without a word, he stepped out.

You watched through the fogged glass as he toweled off. Pulled his shirt back on over damp skin. Buttoned it unevenly, stepped into his slacks. His hands shook a little.

You were still standing under the water when he paused at the door.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he said, barely audible over the rush of the shower. You nodded in reply.

Just as quickly as he’d showed up, he was gone again.

You blink back into the present, your skin prickling with goosebumps.

You hate that your body remembers him like that. You hate even more that your heart does, too.

—

The club doesn’t look like a potential murder spot.

It looks like money. Like velvet and champagne and curated decadence. Everything about it is just a little too sleek — brushed brass door handles, scented candles tucked into corners, red-tinted lights that paint everything in crimson and shadows.

Spencer’s arm is around your waist.

It’s not the first time he’s touched you like this, but it is the first time he’s pretending you belong to him.

And you’re pretending not to like it.

“You’re sure you’re okay in that?” he asks, voice low.

You glance down at the dress you’d picked out with Garcia’s help via video call — sleek, black, open back. It felt like a good idea when you tried it on at her suggestion — something sexy that would blend in with the rest of the club’s clientele. But now, with Spencer’s hand resting on the exposed curve of your spine, you think Garcia might’ve known exactly what she was doing when she encouraged it.

“I’m fine,” you murmur. “You’re the one who looks like he’s seen a ghost.”

He exhales through his nose. “I just… I can’t help it. It’s you. You look—”

“Spence,” you interrupt gently. You mouth the words: “We’re wired.”

The reminder shuts him up. Somewhere in an unmarked surveillance van, your colleagues are sipping stale coffee and listening to every breath you take. Every fake laugh. Every flirtation. Watching your every move via the security cameras Garcia hacked into.

You lean in close, brushing your lips just near the shell of his ear.

“Smile, sweetheart. You’re in love, remember?”

He does smile then, a crooked thing, tight around the edges. His hand dips a little lower, warm against your exposed skin. You wonder if it’s for show or if it’s just for him.

In front of you, the club scene unfolds. Couples swirl around the open space like slow-moving constellations, orbiting each other in wine-dark booths and shadowed alcoves. The music is low enough to be sexy but loud enough to muffle secrets. There’s a large bar near the back, a velvet rope section with private rooms upstairs, and at least two couples openly making out on chaise lounges.

You pass a bowl of condoms by the entrance and stifle a snort.

You try not to think about how this place is meant to seduce. That it’s built for sex and permission and skin. And tonight, you’re supposed to be playing the part.

Spencer’s fingers brush your hip. You glance up at him, and he leans in like a man in love.

“Back wall,” he says softly. “Let me handle the couple, figure out if they’ve seen anything. You work the man in the charcoal jacket.”

You split apart in practiced sync. He heads to the couple and you drift left, letting your eyes catch on the man Spencer mentioned. He’s older than you expected, but clean-shaven, wearing an expensive watch. His gaze skims over you, then lingers. You tilt your head, sip your drink.

He bites. Of course he does. Within minutes, he’s walking you to the bar for a refill.

You lean against the edge of the bar, feign laughter, touch his wrist when he says something passably clever.

It’s an act. You’ve done this before. You know how to fake a smile like you mean it.

But you also know Spencer is watching.

You don’t look for him, but you feel it. The way you always feel it — his attention, boring deep into your skin. You imagine his jaw twitching. His hand curling into a fist inside his pocket.

He’s not an outwardly jealous person — not usually. But you’ve learned that jealousy doesn’t always wear teeth. Sometimes, it just lives quietly in the way someone stops breathing when they look at you.

You think back to the first time you saw that look after finishing up a case in Boston six months ago and letting a handsome stranger buy all of your drinks. Spencer had peeled you away from the man and the bar and back to the hotel under the guise of exhaustion and an early flight home, but you’d noticed the way he’d been discreetly watching you all night. So you’d kissed him in the hotel elevator — just to see how he’d react. Just to test how it’d feel. He’d melted into you after a few moments of your lips against his, and all of the sudden, the rest of your world faded into nothing. He tasted like whiskey and peppermint and something warmer that made your entire body ache.

You didn’t go your separate ways when the elevator dinged on your floor. And you didn’t talk about it the next day. Or the time after that. Or the one after that.

You’re still not talking about it now.

You shift your body, laughing at something the man says, and trail your fingers lightly up his forearm — flirtation, just enough to maintain your cover. It’s nothing.

But the second you do it, Spencer’s voice crackles in your ear.

“You there?”

You don’t react. Just cross your legs slowly, let your gaze slide over the crowd like you’re looking for a third. The man you’ve been flirting with is distracted by the bartender, ordering another round.

“Mhmm,” you murmur.

There’s a pause. A rustle of breath. Then:

“Eyes right. Column near the leather bench. White shirt, sleeves rolled. That’s gotta be him.”

You let your gaze drift lazily to the right, like you’re just admiring the architecture.

And then you spot the man Spencer’s referring to.

You catalog the similarities between this man and the police sketch hanging on the case board back at the precinct. His face is symmetrical, forgettable in a way that makes your skin crawl. Like someone who’s practiced looking normal. His eyes skim the room like a hunter watching a watering hole. He’s still — too still.

You can feel it, the same way Spencer can. It’s more than a hunch or a guess— it’s an instinct, a read, a real-time application of the profile living inside your brain. That man is the unsub.

“Copy,” you say lightly, but your smile is gone now.

You dip your head towards the man beside you, murmur something about needing a bathroom break, and move towards the back of the room. Once you’re out of view from the bar, you catch up with Spencer.

His fingers close over yours.

“Everything okay?”

“Peachy,” you lie.

But the word tastes like sand in your mouth. You can feel how close danger is.

Spencer’s hand releases yours and moves to rest firmly on the small of your back. His thumb rubs slow circles against your skin, barely there. It could be part of your cover, or it could be genuine affection. Regardless, it’s a silent message: I’ve got you.

You’re standing near the fringe of the crowd now, a cluster of couples trading flirty glances and low-toned jokes about partner swapping. Someone’s making conversation about a weekend retreat. A woman in a sequined dress laughs too loud. You nod along, sipping your drink, body tilting naturally toward Spencer.

And then he walks up — the unsub.

White shirt, sleeves rolled. Watchful but charming. Forgettable face, memorable eyes.

You feel the breath catch in Spencer’s chest beside you.

“Evening,” the man says easily. “You new here?”

You smile like your skin isn’t crawling, like you don’t know he’s already killed at least three women with his bare hands and left their bodies displayed like offerings.

“We are,” you say, glancing up at Spencer. “Still figuring out the vibe.”

The unsub chuckles. “Well, you’re blending in just fine.”

He’s talking to you, but he’s looking at both of you, measuring. It’s not interest — it’s a test. A subtle prod to see what kind of relationship you and Spencer have. To see how easy it might be to wedge his way in.

Spencer answers before you can. “We’re curious,” he says. “Just observing for now.”

His voice is calm, but you feel the steel in it. His hand is still at your back. He pulls you in a little closer.

“Nothing wrong with watching,” the unsub says, his mouth twitching. “Sometimes that’s the best part.”

He takes a slow sip of his drink, and his gaze settles fully on you.

You don’t flinch.

“I’m Marcus,” he says. “You two have names?”

You give a soft laugh and glance at Spencer. “We’re trying to stay mysterious tonight.”

“Suit yourself.” Another sip. “Just thought I’d say hello. Let you know there are a few playrooms open upstairs if you’re feeling adventurous.”

Playrooms. Right. You’d seen them in the floorplan — semi-private spaces for couples or groups, monitored lightly by staff but otherwise left alone.

“Thanks,” you say, casual, “we’ll keep it in mind.”

“Maybe I’ll see you up there,” he says before walking away with a wink.

Your pulse spikes, and you try to suppress it. Try to breathe around it. Spencer shifts slightly, steps closer, like he’s reading your vitals through his fingertips.

“Did you see his hand?” he murmurs, only for you. “There was blood under his nails.”

You nod once. “And a crescent-shaped scratch on his hand.”

“He’s escalating. He wants to be noticed.”

You don’t say it, but you both know what that means:

The unsub is spiraling. He’s deviating from his own profile. He’s been organized and methodical this whole time, but now, he hasn’t even washed days-old evidence off his hands. He’s losing control. And that makes him even more dangerous.

“Hotch, did you catch that?” you murmur under your breath.

“Affirmative,” comes the reply in your ear. “Garcia picked him up with facial recognition. Name’s Marcus Blackwood. His wife left him and moved in with another man three months ago. Surveillance confirms he was at the same clubs as all three victims. Do not engage until backup is in place — we’re on the way. Just keep an eye on him if you can.”

“Copy,” you and Spencer say together.

You glance toward the far end of the club and realize Blackwood is heading up the stairs that lead up to the playrooms.

“Shit,” Spencer mutters.

Blackwood is baiting you.

He wants you to follow him.

You scan the crowd — an endless pool of potential victims. The rest of the team is en route. Five minutes, tops. But that’s too long.

“Hotch said we should keep an eye on him. I can stall,” you say softly.

Spencer looks at you, and for a split second, his composure falters. It’s not fear for himself. It’s fear for you.

You touch his hand.

“I’ll be fine.”

You step away before he can stop you and move toward the stairs slowly, wine glass still in hand. You feel the heat of Spencer’s gaze the whole time.

You don’t look back.

Blackwood greets you at the top of the stairs with that same bland smile. The hallway beyond is dim, quiet, lined with half-cracked doors. You glance at one and see the vague blur of movement — flashes of skin, moans, laughter.

“I figured you might be curious,” he says.

You plaster on a sultry smile. “Curious is one way to put it.”

He leans casually against a doorframe.

“You strike me as someone who likes attention,” he says. “Like you enjoy being wanted by people who don’t belong to you.”

You tilt your head. “What makes you say that?”

His eyes flick over your body. “Just a hunch. And you dress like it.”

You laugh.

He doesn’t laugh back.

Instead, he steps in.

You step back. He steps forward. The wall is against your spine now.

“You know what I hate?” he says, voice tightening. “When women pretend it’s all for fun. Like none of this means anything. Like they’re not breaking something sacred.”

There it is: the projection. The motive. The pathology.

You keep your voice even, your smile fixed. “Or maybe they just don’t owe you anything,” you say, hand drifting toward the distress button hidden in your bracelet. Click.

And then he grabs you.

It’s fast. One hand to your throat — not squeezing, just holding, controlling. His other hand catches your wrist, hard. Pain blooms instantly. You gasp, squirm—

And that’s when the hallway explodes.

“Marcus Blackwood, FBI!” Hotch’s voice, sharp and authoritative, cuts through the air.

Blackwood spins toward the sound just as Morgan slams into him like a freight train, pinning him to the ground. You hear the clatter of handcuffs and Emily’s voice confirming: “Unsub is secured.”

It’s over.

But you’re still frozen.

You hadn’t realized how fast your heart was pounding, or that Spencer had run in and pulled you to safety before Morgan could even reach the unsub. He doesn’t ask permission — just gathers you into him.

His arms are tight, all instinct and adrenaline. You let your forehead press to his shoulder. Let yourself breathe.

“You okay?” he asks, voice wrecked.

You nod against him, but you can’t hide the fact you’re shaking.

“You came,” you whisper. “You got here.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“I always will.”

You don’t let go.

—

The hotel lobby is too bright.

Artificial light washes over upholstered chairs and glass-topped tables, and the scent of something overly citrusy hangs in the air. You hate it. You hate how it feels to sit still after something like that. You hate how normal it all looks.

The team has regrouped, huddled around a seating area tucked away from the elevators. Garcia is patched in through a tablet set up on the table, video call flickering just slightly.

“DNA under Blackwood’s nails matches the last victim,” she confirms. “And there’s timestamped security footage of him leaving the same club as the second victim the night of her murder. We’re solid.”

Everyone exhales. JJ leans back against the sofa. Emily’s got a paper cup of coffee she’s holding like it might anchor her to the planet. Derek’s pacing. Rossi’s talking softly to Hotch a few feet away.

You’re curled in an armchair, wearing an FBI windbreaker jacket over your slinky dress, legs tucked under you, fingers still brushing where he grabbed your wrist. The pressure’s gone, but the shape of it lingers.

Spencer’s across from you. Elbows on his knees, hands folded together. He hasn’t looked at you once since you separated from him to give your statement back at the scene.

You’re not surprised.

That’s always the case with him: once safe, he pulls away. Retreats into himself, into the comfort of something he can control. You’ve seen him do it before, but tonight it feels personal. Tonight, you’re mad about it.

“Thanks for the assist in there,” you say softly, desperate to pull him back to you.

He nods, still not meeting your eyes. “Of course.”

You fold your arms across your chest and pretend you don’t feel cold blooming again behind your ribs.

You don’t expect a grand gesture. You’re not someone who needs to be rescued. But you wish — god, you wish — that he’d stop trying to shrink the thing between you into something that doesn’t matter.

Because it does matter. You know that now. He looked at you in that club like it does. He held you like it does. And it sure as hell feels like it does, especially now.

No one else notices the tension between you. They’re all distracted, all coming down off the adrenaline high in their own ways. You wish you had something to do with your hands.

“Alright,” Hotch says, checking his watch. “Everyone get some rest. We’ll regroup in the morning before we fly home.”

The team heads to the elevators in quiet pairs, and you hang back a moment so you can ride up alone.

You’re barely through the door to your room when there’s a knock at the adjoining one. You unlock it before your brain can convince you otherwise, and once you’ve got it open, Spencer’s standing there with one hand raised like he was about to knock again. You don’t let him speak.

“You here to debrief, or to ignore me some more?”

He freezes.

“Because if it’s the first,” you continue, “we already did that in the lobby. If it’s the second, I’ve had enough of that for one night.”

His hand drops.

“I’m not here to debrief. Or to ignore you.”

There’s a beat of silence, then he steps into your room like it hurts to cross the threshold.

“I just wanted to talk,” he says. “To explain why I got weird after—”

“You don’t need to explain anything.”

You say it too fast. Too sharp. And you know he hears the lie in it.

Spencer closes the door behind him gently. Then he turns.

“I hated it,” he says quietly.

You blink. “What?”

“I hated watching you flirt with those men tonight.”

You stare at him for a long beat. Something inside you twists.

“You were fifteen feet away, Spencer.”

“I know.”

“I was undercover.”

“I know.”

“The unsub didn’t touch me until the very end, and even then—”

“I know,” he says again. “But I still hated it.”

You fold your arms across your chest, like that will keep everything caged inside. “Why?”

He looks at you like he can’t even believe you’re asking.

You press him anyway. “Why did you hate it, Spencer?”

His brow furrows. “Because you were in danger.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “That’s not it.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No,” you repeat. “That’s why you were afraid. I’m asking why you hated it. I’m asking about jealousy. I’m asking about the part where you couldn’t even look at me.”

His mouth opens, then closes.

You cross the room and stop in front of him, close enough to see the flicker in his eyes. “Do you have any idea how hard that was for me? Being there, with you? Pretending? Letting you touch me like any of this means something? And then you just… abandoned me after it was over and avoided making eye contact as if I’m fucking Medusa or something.”

“I didn’t know how to act,” he admits. “Or what to say.”

“I’m not asking for poetry,” you say, exasperated. “I’m asking for something. Anything. Because I felt like I was going to die in that club, but the worst part wasn’t even his hand on my throat. It was wondering if you’d still pretend none of this matters.”

The words hit. Spencer flinches like you’ve slapped him.

“I’m not pretending,” he says, voice hoarse. “I was scared. I’ve been scared for months.”

“Of what?” Your voice rises. “Of me?”

“No,” he says. “Of losing you.”

You laugh once, short and sharp. “You’ve never had me.”

He steps back like the words burned him. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

“It’s not.”

You stare at him. Your heart is racing. You’re exhausted. You can still feel the pressure of the unsub’s hands on your skin, and Spencer’s arms around you, and the fact that neither of you seem capable of telling the truth until it’s too late.

“I’m not some fantasy, Spencer,” you say, quieter now. “I’m not just always going to be here when you want attention or sex or someone to lean on after a bad case. And I can’t keep being whatever you need if you’re going to keep pretending we’re just… coworkers who fuck sometimes.”

“I don’t think that,” he says, stepping closer. “You know I don’t.”

“Do I?” you whisper.

He looks at you - really looks, and takes another step to close the distance.

“I don’t want to keep acting like this is meaningless,” he finally says. “Or like I don’t think about you constantly when you’re not around.”

He pauses, gulps, steadies himself before he adds:

“Or like I haven’t been falling in love with you since you kissed me in that elevator in Boston.”

That knocks the wind out of you.

You say nothing. You can’t. You’re too busy holding your breath like if you let it out, your heart will tumble out with it. He looks so sincere, so raw, so threadbare.

“I don’t want temporary. Not with you. With you, I want everything,” he says softly.

And that’s when you fall into him.

It’s not graceful. It’s not soft. It’s a collision of everything you’ve both been holding back — anger and relief and love and ache, all packed into the same breath, into the greediness of your lips against his.

His hands find your waist like they’re finally accepting it’s where they belong. Yours curl into the fabric of his shirt and tug.

You move together without thinking, stumbling toward the bed.

“You should’ve said something sooner,” you murmur between kisses.

“I didn’t know how.”

You push him back onto the mattress and crawl over him, breath heaving. “You do now.”

And then your mouth is on his again.

It’s messy. Not rushed, but a little frantic — like the both of you are trying to find your way back to something you never really had to begin with.

His hands are on your hips, then your ass, pulling you down against him as your thighs straddle his waist. Your dress comes off. His belt is unbuckled. Everything about the moment feels slightly unmade yet still overwhelmingly perfect.

“I’ve thought about you every night since Boston,” he murmurs against your throat. “Every single time I’m around you, it’s all I can think about. Even when I’m not around you, you’re all I think about.”

You grind down against the shape of him through his pants and he groans, hips flexing. His mouth grazes your collarbone, then your shoulder, as if he’s tracing the map of you in reverse — starting from memory, finishing with fact.

And then — he looks at you. Really looks.

It doesn’t happen often. But when it does, it’s always like this:

Like he’s watching a sunrise unfurl from the inside. Like it’s almost too much for him to bear.

“I love the way you look at me,” you whisper.

“I’ve never looked at anyone else like this,” he replies. His voice is low, and it makes your knees go weak.

You reach for the button on his pants and he stills you with a hand on your wrist.

“Not yet,” he murmurs.

He shifts the weight, flipping the two of you and guiding you gently to lie back against the pillows. His hands trail over your chest, your stomach, your hipbones — not teasing, but anchoring. He tugs at the waistband of your lacy black underwear, and you lift your hips to aid him in taking them off.

When his mouth dips between your thighs, you nearly sob.

Because it’s not just about getting you off — not right away. It’s about presence. About reverence. He kisses the inside of your knee. Your inner thigh. Trails his nose up the side of your leg like he’s cataloging your scent. When his tongue finally makes contact with your center, it’s slow. Devout, almost. Like your entire existence is something holy he’s come to worship.

You bury your hands in his hair and exhale something like a prayer.

His tongue flicks. Sucks. Circles. Presses flat. You moan his name, and his groan vibrates through you.

Then, two fingers, slow and certain, slide in deep.

You gasp. Arch. He murmurs something soft against your thigh, but you barely catch it over the sound of your own breathing.

“That’s it,” he says, lifting his head just enough to look at you. His voice is low, frayed. “You’re so beautiful like this. All open and needy for me.”

You whimper. “Spence—fuck—”

His jaw clenches. You can almost see it before you hear him say it:

“Good girl.”

God, how those words ruin you.

Your whole body pulses.

Your orgasm hits low and hot — a deep, dragging pull in your gut that spreads outward in waves. Your thighs clamp around his shoulders. Your head tips back. You make a sound you didn’t know you were capable of — something between a sob and a moan — as it crests and crests and crests again.

But he doesn’t stop.

You whine. “Spencer. Too much—”

“I know baby,” he murmurs, voice molten. “But you can give me one more. Just one more for me. Please?”

How could you ever deny him?

Your body bows without permission — back arching, thighs twitching, another cry tearing from your throat. It rolls through you like heat lightning, wild and blinding, buzzing like static electricity.

By the time he finally pulls back, you’re gasping, wrecked, flushed all over.

He presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. Then another. Then your hipbone, your stomach, your breasts, your sternum.

You pull him up into a slow, grateful kiss and roll him beneath you, fingers curling around the buttons of his shirt.

“Off,” you murmur.

He lets you undress him, never breaking eye contact. When he’s bare under you, you settle against him, chest to chest.

You reach down and stroke him slowly, watching the way his lips part and his brows knit together.

He catches your wrist before you can do more.

“I’m gonna lose it if you keep that up.”

You smile and shift against him, lining up your hips.

“Maybe I want you to lose it a little.”

But he doesn’t. Not yet.

He flips you gently onto your back again and slides between your thighs, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other guiding himself into you.

The stretch makes you gasp, but the moment is slow. Steady.

He sinks in deep — inch by inch, until you’re full, until your nails are digging into his shoulders.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You feel…”

“Like you’ve been falling in love with me since Boston?” you whisper, almost teasingly.

His eyes flick to yours, dark and unguarded.

“Something like that,” he murmurs with a soft smile.

He pulls out almost all the way, then thrusts back in, long and slow. You hook your thigh around his waist, giving him deeper access to every part of you. The rhythm builds — deliberate, relentless — hips grinding just right, his forehead dropping to yours.

“Open your eyes, baby.”

You do, just barely.

“Look at me.”

You do, and he holds your gaze like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

“You’re mine,” he says roughly. “Say it.”

You breathe out the words, partially for the sake of obedience but mostly because you mean them wholeheartedly. “I’m yours.”

Something cracks behind his eyes. “That’s right. That’s right, sweet girl. You’re mine.”

The praise and possessiveness tear through you. You clench around him and he stutters, breath breaking.

Your body starts to spiral again, tension building almost too fast. “I can’t—Spence, I’m gonna—it’s so much, I—”

His hand cups your jaw, grounding you.

“Yes, you can,” he says, tone dripping in sweetness. “You can. Let go. I want to feel all of it.”

He slips a hand between you and presses soft circles where you’re already pulsing. The overload is immediate — your back arches, your legs lock around his waist, and you sob his name as you fall apart for the third time, body shaking, salty tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. Spencer kisses them away, one by one.

When you finally come back to yourself, he’s still moving. Faster now, messier. His rhythm stutters as your body clenches around him, drawing him in deeper.

He curses into your neck, his voice low and a little helpless.

You press your lips to his ear. “Don’t stop, Spence. Need you to come for me.”

The tension in him coils tighter, his thrusts shallower now, more erratic, like he’s negotiating with his own body for just a few more seconds. You watch it happen — his mouth parting, lashes fluttering, that soft gasp he always makes right before—

His hips stutter. He drives in deep, one final time.

And then he shatters.

He comes hard, gasping your name into the side of your neck, arms trembling as he tries not to collapse. You hold him to you, breath shaking as you feel the aftershocks ripple through him.

It’s not clean or composed. It’s full-body and bone-deep, the kind of release that empties something unnamed. His whole weight sinks into you, like his body finally gave up pretending it could survive without yours.

Neither of you say anything at first. It’s all just shared breath and the heat of skin on skin, a heart beating against your ribs that might be his or yours — at this point, you’re no longer able to tell the difference.

Eventually, he shifts, just barely, enough to press a kiss to your collarbone.

You turn your head and kiss his temple, fingers in his hair.

His voice is soft when it comes:

“I’m yours, you know.”

And that’s the moment it hits you — quiet and certain. Like your body already knew, and your mind is finally catching up:

You love him. Of course you love him. You’ve been falling for him since Boston, just like he’s been falling for you.

You close your eyes and smile into his skin. “I know,” you murmur back. “And I was always yours.”

—

You don’t know how long you lay like that — tangled together, skin damp, hearts still syncing. The room is dark, save for the thin bar of light spilling in under the hotel curtains. The bedsheets are bunched around your thighs. One of his hands is resting on your hip, the other curled into your hair like he never plans to let go.

You stroke his back slowly, the way you’ve always wanted to — not as a way to coax or distract or ground him, but simply because you can.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly.

You nod against his shoulder. “Yeah. Are you?”

He huffs a breath — not quite a laugh. “Getting there.”

After a few more moments of comfortable silence, you speak again:

“Stay.”

He lifts his head, eyes glassy and soft.

“You sure?”

You nod again, slower this time. “I want you to.”

There’s a long pause, but then he kisses you — not rushed like before, not like something he’s afraid of losing. Just a kiss, plain and true.

He shifts off you carefully, murmuring a soft “hang on,” and grabs a tissue from the nightstand to clean you up. It’s quiet, almost instinctive. He doesn’t make a show of it — just does it gently, like it’s wired into him to want to take care of you like this.

Then he reaches down and pulls the comforter over your bodies, nudging you to lie on your side so he can curl himself around you. His chest to your back, one arm snug around your waist. You settle against him like you were designed for it — and maybe you really were.

After a while, you feel him press his lips to your shoulder.

“I wasn’t going to leave anyways,” he whispers.

—

You wake to the sound of a watch alarm beeping on the side table. For a second, you forget where you are.

Then you feel it — the warmth pressed along your back, the steady rise and fall of Spencer’s chest against you. His arm still draped around your waist. Sleepy kisses at the top of your spine, like he’s been waiting for you to stir.

“Morning,” Spencer mumbles against your skin.

You smile without opening your eyes. “Hi,” you whisper. He kisses your neck again, and you giggle. “Is this the part where you tell me it was all just a heat-of-the-moment thing and go back to calling me ‘agent’?”

He huffs a sleepy laugh and tightens his grip. “Not unless you want me to.”

You wait a beat. Let the silence stretch.

“I don’t want you to,” you finally murmur.

His voice softens. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He presses another kiss to your back, and you feel him smile into it.

—

The flight back to Quantico appears normal from the outside, but inside, you’re buzzing.

Morgan is asleep with his arms crossed. Emily has her headphones in. JJ is half-reading, half-daydreaming. Rossi and Hotch are reviewing something on a tablet in the back.

No one notices the way Spencer chooses the seat next to you instead of across. Or how his knee keeps brushing yours — casual, insistent, like an inside joke only the two of you are in on.

Your phone buzzes in your lap and you glance down, already smiling.

Spencer’s phone is in his hand and he’s looking at you, cheeks pink.

Spencer Reid: Would you maybe want to come over tonight after we land, if you’re not too tired?

You bite your lip and smile as you type back.

You: You asking me out, Dr. Reid?

There’s a pause. Then:

Spencer Reid: I’m asking you in, actually.

But next time I’ll take you out. Promise.

You glance sideways at him, trying not to grin too hard. He’s wearing that smile you love — the boyish, slightly shy one he only ever breaks out when he’s attempting to play it cool. You give him a wink and a nod in lieu of a written response, and his smile grows.

It’s in that moment — in the glow of his grin and the comfort of his knee pressed softly against yours — when you realize that maybe there was never a wall between the two of you at all.

Just a door, waiting for one of you to knock and leave it open.

ᝰ.ᐟ

masterlist

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[sweetstevesblog]

painted and powdered jezebel get off my screen

📸 poonehghana

[sweetstevesblog]

TITANIC 1997, dir. James Cameron

[sweetstevesblog]

hot shot

[sweetstevesblog]

Djo Warsaw

[sweetstevesblog]

dead wrong — steve harrington x reader

summary: steve harrington is down horrendous for you, his best friend. his love is not as unrequited as he thinks.

contains: best friends to lovers, mutual pining (but mostly steve pining), steve’s pov, fluff galore, idiots in love, reader is good with the kids, reader is a skater like max, reader hurts her wrist and steve is a worried lovesick idiot. cw! descriptions of wounds/blood, mentions of hospital, reader wears steve’s clothes. she/her pronouns used.

a/n: first long fic yay!! I am extremely proud of this so pls love it 🤍

fem!reader 5.3k words

gif by @barneswayne

Steve Harrington is totally, most definitely, not in love with you. Just friends, he thinks, best friends. Best friends who hold hands and sit far too close together.

Speaking of, you push further into Steve’s side, your scent washing over him. Your hand squeezes Steve’s, and he thinks, never mind. Maybe he is in love with you. So in love with you it fucking hurts.

A chorus of shouts erupts around him. You and Steve are watching Eddie, Robin and the kids play beer bong, only without the beer. It’s soda. Dustin starts doing a stupid victory dance while half of his peers laugh and the others cringe. Steve cringes. You laugh. All high and lilting and adorable. Steve has to remind himself to breathe.

He brings your joint hands to rest on his knee. Your rings push into his skin, almost like harsh reminders that he can’t hold you like he wants to. He frowns.

“Steve?” Your voice brings Steve out of his thoughts like it always does. You give his hand a shake. “You okay?”

Steve looks up and prays you can’t see the hopeless devotion in his eyes. You’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, with your messy hair and your eyes lined with glitter. Rosy cheeks, glossy pink lips that he stares a beat too long at. He’s known you for years, and yet he’s never gonna get used to how gorgeous you are. He swallows, forces his eyes up to yours.

“I’m okay,” he says, though he’s really not. He never is, because you never won’t look like that. “Are you?”

There’s another explosion of noise from the soda-pong players, but you don’t seem to notice. You frown like you don’t believe him. He’s being too obvious, he knows.

“Yeah, I’m good. Are you sure, Steve?” You stretch your free hand across your torso to touch his face. Steve heats like an oven under your hand as you press your palm to his forehead. “You’re not feeling sick, are you? You feel sort of hot.”

Steve grabs your wrist, harder than he means to. He loosens his grip guiltily when you give him an alarmed look.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, lowering your hand gently. He can feel your pulse, only just, underneath his fingers. It’s damn sure slower than his. “I— uh, no. I’m not feeling unwell. It is pretty hot in here though.”

A total lie. The only reason he’s burning up is you.

Your frown deepens, a push of your bottom lip that makes Steve want to kiss you. It’s such an overwhelming feeling that he has to blink multiple times to make it go away.

“Oh,” you say. You look around the room and then back at Steve. “Do you want to go outside?”

Steve has a bit of a dilemma. If he says yes, he’ll be alone with you. He can’t tell if that’s a good or bad thing. If he says no, he’ll have to stay in this stuffy room with yelling teenagers and ping pong balls flying at him every five seconds. He decides on the first option.

“Sure,” he says as nonchalantly as he can. Then, to make you laugh, “Smells like boy in here anyway.”

You giggle. Steve feels like copying Dustin’s lame victory dance.

“You’re a boy, Stevie,” you say teasingly.

He wrinkles his nose at you. “No, I know, but it’s like … adolescent boy.”

You laugh loud, your mouth pulled up in a staggering smile. “Oh, okay,” you say, as if anything he just said made any sense.

Steve is starstruck for a second before you’re pulling him up from his seat, your hand in his a familiar, heart-aching weight.

Steve finds himself sitting side by side with you on the hood of his car. He can’t exactly remember how he got here — on the way, all he could think about was your hand in his and the fact that your thumb kept brushing over his knuckles in very distinct lines. Whether you’d meant to or not, he doesn’t know. He hopes you did.

“Any better?” You ask quietly, stretching your pinky across the small gap between your hands to tap his.

Steve feels something like an electric shock where your skin touches his. It baffles him, how such a tiny touch can cause such a big reaction throughout his body. He stares at your hand when he answers.

“Much,” he says honestly. He looks up at you. “You didn’t have to come with me, you know. You can go back in if you want.”

Secretly he hopes you’ll stay here with him forever. But that would be selfish, and if Steve is anything when he’s with you, it’s not selfish.

“Eurgh, no.” You pull a disgusted sort of face that makes Steve grin. “I could barely stand it when you were there. Without you, I think I’d die from the smell alone.”

Steve laughs. Really laughs. The words without you, I think I’d die, float around his brain like fish in a fish tank. When he’s done laughing he catches your smile, all pretty and wide, and his heart does one of those funny backflips that he’s never gonna get used to.

Steve watches as you brace your hands on the edge of the car and push yourself up the hood, pulling your shoes up to rest on the metal. Your skirt is short enough that Steve can see half of your thighs, more when you shift yourself like that. He stares for two seconds too long and then feels so guilty he almost apologises.

Instead, he says, “Aren’t you cold?” He points at your skirt but doesn’t look.

You shrug. “No, not really.”

With a sigh you let yourself fall back against the hood of the car. Your skirt rises even more and a half inch more of your skin is exposed — Steve feels like the universe is out to get him. His only escape is to fall back next to you, his right shoulder brushing your left one. You smile when he does, head rolling to the side to look at him. Face to face now, Steve can feel every small breath coming from your parted lips.

“See any stars?” He blurts, because your face is much too close and he’s scared if you look at him like that any longer, he’ll kiss you stupid.

You look up at the dark, empty sky and wrinkle your nose. “No.”

“Wait, look, there’s one.” Steve lifts his arm to point at what he thinks is a star.

You squint in its direction. “That’s a plane.”

“What? No it’s— oh.” He trails off when he realises the ‘star’ is moving. It disappears behind a cloud a second later.

You laugh, breathless and pretty, and drop your head onto Steve’s shoulder. Your perfume fills the air around Steve and he has to stop himself from leaning closer. You bring a hand up to fiddle with your necklace, a cheap, plastic ‘S’ charm that sits directly on your sternum. The fake diamonds are falling off, half of them gone already, but you’ve refused to take it off after all these years. Steve has one of your initial, too. You got them from a dollar store when you were twelve and pinky promised to be best friends forever.

You slip your necklace safely beneath your top and then stifle a yawn behind your hand.

Steve gives your elbow a nudge. “Tired?”

You shrug one shoulder and then droop further into Steve’s side. Every point of contact between you burns.

“You’re tired,” Steve says matter-of-factly.

You make a noise that’s probably meant to be a sound of protest but comes out more like a tired moan. Steve chuckles lightly, reaches over and rubs your arm.

“Alright, sweet girl. Let’s go home.”

‘Home’ really means Steve’s house, because you’ve left your car there and because you’re over so much it’s become your second home. By the time Steve is pulling up the driveway, you’re so dead beat he doesn’t even consider letting you drive yourself home. You practically hang off his waist as he walks you both inside.

“M’tired,” you mumble as you pass the living room.

Steve has to bite back a laugh. “Uh-huh, I can tell.”

You look up at him and squint like you know he’s laughing at you. Then you say, “Can I sleep in your bed?”

Steve’s heart skips. Sure, you’ve slept in his bed before, but every time you have Steve lay awake for at least half the night. He’s not above admitting that he’s watched you sleep more than once. He’s seconds away from telling you to take the guest bedroom when you pout dramatically.

“Please? You’re so warm.” You push into his side, your arm tightening around his waist like you don’t ever want to let go.

Steve hates himself for nodding, but he can’t help it. “Yeah, okay.”

He drags you up the stairs and into his room. Your makeup and stray jewellery is strewn across his dresser — you’d gotten ready at Steve’s before the party. If you could even call it that, Steve thinks. He plants you on his bed and you fall back immediately, eyes shut tight as your hair splays across the sheets.

“You’re like a zombie,” Steve says amusedly, his gaze all fond and mushy as he looks down at you. “From like, Day of the Dead or something.”

You pull a face, faux offended but your big grin gives you away. “Ew. I’m not that ugly, am I?”

Steve hums long and high like he’s thinking about it. This makes you gasp and throw a hand to your chest like he’s wounded you. Before Steve can get half a laugh out a pillow is hitting him straight across the face.

“Hey!” He exclaims, glaring at you. You’re still lying down, eyes screwed tight like you’re pretending you didn’t just brutally attack Steve. He laughs because you’re fucking adorable. “Zombies don’t throw pillows, Y/N.”

Your words are plagued by a yawn as you say, “This one does.”

Steve sighs at your antics, picks up your murder weapon (his pillow) and replaces it on the bed.

“Oh no,” you groan suddenly, like you’ve remembered something awful, hands flying to your face in despair. “My makeup, Stevie. M’too tired to take it off.”

Your words stick to each other like taffy in your tired state. Steve remembers the last time he let you sleep in your makeup. He didn’t hear the end of it for days. He’d rather avoid your wrath this time round.

Steve sighs, knowing full well he’s about to put his foot in it. “Well, will you let me do it?”

You open one eye blearily and look at him. “Would you?”

Steve shrugs, though the thought of being that close to you makes him feel nauseous. Luckily, you’ve closed both eyes again so he can blush all he wants. Plus, he’d do anything for you. Even endure the overwhelming urge to kiss you breathless.

“Sure thing, babe. I’ll get the stuff.”

Steve ends up sitting on his bed with you across from him, crossed legs pressing up against his. You’re sitting so close you’re almost in his lap. He ignores this for the sake of his dignity.

You’ve got your eyes shut and your hair up in a clip. A lock of hair has tumbled out of its knot and Steve pushes it away from your face, fingers hooking behind your ear and lingering. He keeps his hand on your jaw as he raises his other hand, a wet cloth ready to clean your sparkly makeup off.

“You sure about this?” He asks hesitantly. He’s dead terrified he’ll do something wrong, like get glitter in your eye.

You smile softly, your eyes staying firmly shut. “Yes, Steve, it’s fine.” Your tone is half reassuring and half exasperated.

Steve bites the bullet and goes right in, pressing the wet cloth to your cheekbones first. You’ve got blush and glitter there, sprinkled on your cheeks like fairy dust. He smooths the cloth along your skin and it comes away sparkly and pink.

“Okay?” He asks, pausing worriedly.

You nod slowly, your head starting to droop in his hand. “Yeah, Steve.”

Steve grins fondly at your face, screwed up in exhaustion. He tightens his grip on your jaw to keep your head steady, thumb hooked under your chin. Carefully, he begins to dab at your eyelids, also painted with silvery glittery eyeshadow.

Your face dewy and makeup-free, Steve thinks you’ve never looked prettier. So pretty it drives him mad. He stares, really stares, for far too long but he’s worried if he opens his mouth, breaks the silence, he’ll never get to see you like this again. Your hair all messy pretty, your eyes shut and eyelashes kissing, your pink lips turned in a half smile.

He’s not surprised when your soft voice drifts into his thoughts.

“You done?” You open your eyes, eyelids heavy and head heavier.

Steve snaps out of it. He lets go of your face quickly, slides off the bed even quicker.

“All done,” he says, almost tripping over his own feet.

You smile, seemingly oblivious to his clumsiness. Or maybe, it’s just happened so often that you’re not surprised. Either way, your smile is sickeningly sweet. Steve is torn between the desire to kiss you or run as far away as possible from you.

Your voice matches your honey-smile when you say, “Thank you, Stevie.”

You reach out to touch his forearm, your hand a heavy weight on his skin as you wrap your fingers around his arm and squeeze.

He grins lopsidedly, and he’s sure he looks like a lovesick idiot but he can’t find it in himself to care. “You’re welcome.”

You drop your hand and Steve’s arm suddenly feels cold as ice. He wants to touch you again but knows he shouldn’t. He strides to his bedroom door and pauses to turn and look at you.

“I’m gonna get you a glass of water,” he says. Your eyelids are drooping again. He laughs fondly. “Get in bed while I’m gone, zombie-girl.”

Your giggle follows him all the way to the kitchen.

When Steve gets back, a glass of water in each hand, you’re still as a statue on your self-appointed side of the bed. You’ve swapped your outfit for a grey t-shirt that you totally stole from him but deny every time he asks about it, and the shortest shorts known to mankind.

He switches off the light and shuts the door with his heel. Pointedly avoiding looking at your bare legs, he rounds the bed and sets the water down, then bends over you.

“Y/N?” He whispers.

You hum softly, though Steve can’t tell if it’s a hum of acknowledgement or just a sound you’ve made in your sleep. He leans closer, listening to your breathing. You’re awake, only just.

He brushes his hand over your upper arm, touch as light as a feather. He thinks he feels goosebumps on your skin but doesn’t have time to wonder why. You’re lifting your chin slightly, lips parted.

“Goodnight, Stevie,” you whisper, so quiet he barely hears you. Steve’s heart swells. “Thanks for … everything.”

A few moments later you fall silent and your breathing grows steady, and Steve wonders how the hell you always fall asleep so fast.

He rubs your arm, kisses your forehead because he knows you won’t remember this part. His lips buzz as he pulls away. “Goodnight, sweet thing.”

-

You’re outside Family Video. Steve emerges from the back room and spots you so fast it’s like he’s got a third eye. He’s both shocked and pleased — he hadn’t expected to see you until after his shift.

You’ve got the kids with you. You and Max are zooming around the carpark on your skateboards while Dustin and Lucas are poised on the hood of your car, poring over comics.

He watches you skate with Max. Like some lame rom-com cliche, your hair is blowing in the wind and Steve swears you’ve moving in slow motion. You’re laughing and joking with Max and Steve stares and stares. Stares until Robin sidles up next to him.

“What’re you— oh.” Steve can hear the smirk in her voice even though he refuses to look at her. “What’re they doing here?”

Steve shrugs and makes an ‘I don’t know’ sound, moving to the counter to put down the box of videos he’s carrying. Robin follows.

“You’re not gonna go say hi to Y/N?” Robin asks slyly. Steve can hear in her voice what’s coming. “You’ve been staring long enough.”

Steve blushes furiously despite himself. “I wasn’t staring.”

“Oh, sure.” Robin hoists herself onto the counter, peers into the box of videos and picks one out at random. “Just like you weren’t holding her hand on Tuesday night?”

Steve can’t exactly get himself out of that one. He snatches the video from Robin with an annoyed tsk, slotting it back into the box. Her laugh is devilish.

“You are hopeless, Steven,” she says, whacking Steve over the head as she hops off the counter.

Steve rubs his head and glares at Robin. If looks could kill she’d be dead meat. “That’s not my name.”

Robin gets this look on her face that Steve knows all too well. He wants to pummel her before she’s even said anything.

“Oh, sorry,” she says, all sarcasm. “What is it, then? Stevie?”

Steve’s blood boils. Only you’re allowed to call him that.

“Y’know what, Robin?” He says loudly. He turns on his coworker, seething. She’s totally nonchalant, a stupid smirk on her lips. “Why don’t you just leave me—?”

“Steve!”

A shout of his name from the door. He turns and finds Lucas standing there, looking panicked.

Steve’s brow furrows. Then he notices you and Max are no longer whizzing around the carpark. “What—“

“Y/N fell,” Lucas says, out of breath. “We think she hurt her wrist.”

Steve’s heart drops. “Shit.”

He goes flying out the door and into the parking lot. You’re sitting on the concrete, one knee pulled up to your chest, your skateboard dormant next to you. Max is kneeling over you, and Dustin has graciously abandoned his comics for your sake.

“Y/N!” He damn near shouts. He runs over to you and Max and gets on his knees. He’s probably just ruined his jeans on the concrete — he doesn’t give a single fuck.

“Y/N,” he says frantically, a tentative hand landing on your shoulder. Both your knees are scraped something awful and a nasty gash blooms on the outside of your wrist. Steve’s worry is loud and his heartbeat twice as much. “Y/N, are you okay? What happened? What’s—“

You look up. Your eyes are shining but you’ve got a dopey smile on your lips.

“Steve,” you say breathlessly. You blink and a tear falls from your eye and over the bump of your cheek. “Hi. Good to see you.”

Steve stares at you in horror. How can you be making jokes at a time like this? You laugh wetly and Steve looks at Max, totally alarmed.

“What happened?” He demands.

Max is much calmer than he is. “She went over a bump or something,” she says. She’s rubbing your back and Steve feels a rush of gratitude for the younger girl. “Fell on her left arm. Her wrist might be sprained or broken, but—“

“Broken?” Steve repeats. He’s pretty sure his soul just left his body.

“I said might,” Max says through her teeth.

“Y/N?” Steve slides his arm around your shoulder, carefully avoiding your left wrist, which you're cradling in your uninjured hand. “Y/N, baby, can you get up?”

You make a noise like a scoff but it’s muffled by your sniffly nose. “‘Course I can.”

Steve helps you anyway, Max on your other side keeping a firm hold on your jacket. You hiss as you straighten your legs, knee-wounds sprouting fresh blood. Steve bites down on his lip so hard he almost bleeds himself.

“Are you gonna take her to the hospital?” Max asks. There’s genuine worry in her eyes that Steve barely sees. Dustin, Lucas and Robin appear, looking equally worried.

Steve puts on a brave face. “Think so. What do you think?” He asks Max. “You’re the skateboard expert.”

She grins so quick Steve almost misses it. It disappears when she looks at you in your bloody and bruised state. “Yeah. Just in case.”

Steve walks you over to your car, half dragging you. Not that you need him to, he just can’t bear for you to hurt any more than you already are. He deposits you in the passenger seat, ducks his head in to pull your seatbelt across your torso. He’s seconds from ducking back out when you stop him, your uninjured hand on his chest, right over his racing heart.

“It hurts,” you say, quiet enough that only Steve can hear. Your eyes are welling up again. Steve feels like crying himself.

“I know,” he says, nodding vigorously like it will make a difference. “I know, sweet girl. It’s gonna be fine. You’re gonna be okay.”

At this point he’s talking to himself as well as you. You nod in an exhausted sort of way and Steve presses a kiss to your cheek. Slow and soft and as close to your lips as he’s ever kissed. He has to take a few seconds to compose himself before straightening up and turning to the others.

“I gotta take her,” he says, sending an apologetic grimace in Robin’s direction.

Robin nods once and surprisingly, doesn’t say a word. She looks about as sympathetic as Steve has ever seen her. He turns to the kids.

“Help Robin,” he says. He’s trying desperately to make his voice sound normal but falling short of the mark. Everyone notices but nobody comments. “Don’t mess up the store.”

He gives a grateful smile to Max and then rounds the car, hopping in and starting the engine.

-

You’re half asleep on Steve’s couch, your head in his lap. You’re wearing his yellow sweater — the one he bought only because you’d said he’d look good in yellow. You’ve just woken up from a post-hospital nap and Steve’s hand is in your hair, brushing slow strokes over the side of your head.

He’s feeling a lot of things. Relieved, for starters. The doctor had said it was only a sprain, they’d bandaged up your wrist and you’d left the hospital in far better conditions. Steve was in far better conditions, too.

Steve looks down at you, at your bandaged wrist and the huge bandaids on your knees and thinks, fuck. He thinks his heart is about to claw its way out of his chest. He doesn’t think he can take this love thing any longer.

You stir and take a long breath, turning your head in Steve’s lap to look up at him. Your eyes are tired but you’re smiling.

“You okay?” Steve asks softly. He doesn’t want to break the silence. It feels good, to sit in silence and comfort with you. He runs his fingers through your hair again.

You nod. “Mhm. I’m good.”

“Hurting?”

You shift in his lap. “No, not right now.”

You fall silent and Steve doesn’t know what to say. He wants to tell you how worried he was about you, but you could probably tell. Anyone with a pair of eyes could tell he was nauseous-level worried. Then he thinks about telling you he loves you. It’s a stupid reason, really, but it was all because a nurse had asked if he was your boyfriend. He’d wished he could say yes.

“Steve?”

Steve hums and meets your eyes. You move to sit up and Steve helps you, knowing you won’t let him stop you. A firm hand between your shoulder blades, his palm sliding down your back as you straighten yourself. You shift so you’re facing him, your legs crossed beneath you and your injured wrist resting in your lap. Steve is careful to avoid your wounded knees.

“What is it, babe?” Steve asks quietly. He brings his hand up to caress your cheek, dragging his thumb over a spot where your tears had smudged your mascara earlier.

You melt into his hand, eyes falling shut as a long, deep sigh falls from your lips. You raise your good hand to cover his, holding it to your face. Your hand burns stars onto the back of his.

“Is it your wrist?” Steve asks. You’re acting strange. He puts it down to your injured state. “Your knees? Do you want more ice? New band-aids?”

He’s being a total worrywart, he knows, but who can blame him?

You shake your head, eyes open but cast down. “No.”

“Just feeling bad?” He asks through a frown. In a strange parallel to a couple of days ago, he lifts his free hand to press his palm to your forehead. You feel warm but not hot.

“It’s …” you start, then trail off. Both yours and Steve’s hands fall to your lap.

Steve’s concern spikes. You’ve never been one to hide anything from him. “Yeah?”

“Um, it’s … it’s silly but—“ You take a deep breath and let your eyes raise to Steve’s. You get a look on your face Steve doesn’t quite understand, but it makes his heart leap to his throat anyway. “You know today, when that nurse asked us if you were my boyfriend?”

Steve laughs embarrassedly, too loud and too sudden. So you’d been thinking about that, too. He pulls his hand away from your lap and rubs the back of his neck.

“Yeah, that was kinda weird, wasn’t it?” He says, though it wasn’t really. Almost every new person he meets thinks you’re dating him. “I was—”

“I wanted to say yes, Stevie.”

Steve stops talking abruptly, his mouth slamming shut. He hadn’t really known what he was about to say, anyway. He searches for words but all he comes up with is a garbled, “What?”

You laugh, all soft and slow and distorted by fatigue. You raise your hand to rub your neck, a mirror of Steve only a moment ago.

“I wanted to say yes,” you repeat, like it’s obvious. Even the second time, Steve doesn’t believe what he’s hearing. His chest feels like it’s on fire, worse when you say, “I want you to be my boyfriend.”

For once in his life, Steve has nothing to say. He gazes at you like you’re some sort of angel on earth. Maybe he’s dreaming. Maybe he’s in some cruel dream and he’s about to wake up with his chest aching.

“I …” Steve‘s voice catches on the words. His throat burns so he mustn’t be dreaming. He tries again. “Y-You … you do?”

He’s not even embarrassed by the stuttering. Just when he didn’t think he could be any more in love with you, you giggle. He was dead wrong. His heart grows about three sizes too big for his chest.

“Yeah, Steve,” you say, fondness smothering your fake exasperation. “Do you … do you want me to be your girlfriend?”

What Steve wants is to kiss you. He wants to kiss you til you can’t breathe and then some more after that. Silently, he takes your injured wrist in his hand and gently shifts it so it’s out of the way, resting on the couch cushions. Then he grabs your face, fingers splayed over your jaw and neck. He can feel your pulse. It’s almost as quick as his. He leans so close he can hear every breath you’re taking.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he whispers, his lips ghosting over yours. “That okay?”

You laugh a giddy, breathless laugh, surprised at his suddenness. “Please do.”

He slams his eyes shut, darts forward to kiss you and fucking misses. Your noses bump. A surprised giggle bubbles from you and Steve goes red.

“Wait, I’m sorry—“ He tries again, tilting your head to one side and angling his head to the other. This time it works perfectly, and your giggling is swallowed up by Steve’s mouth, lips fitting together like they were made for each other.

You sigh and go all melty and Steve’s heart skyrockets. It feels like everything in the world is falling into place. It’s years of longing, eternities of lingering touches and offhand compliments and longing glances all rolled into one life changing kiss. Your good hand has jumped to Steve’s chest, first bunched in the material of his t-shirt and then spreading over it, palm atop his wild heart. He thinks he might die on the spot. Or like, catch on fire or something.

Steve is losing breath but he won’t stop just yet. He drops his hands to your shoulders and pulls away a hair’s breadth. Then he dives back in for one, two, three kisses that you respond to with all the eagerness in the world. Your kisses are so lovely they make him light-headed.

When Steve pulls away (for oxygen, nothing less) you chase his lips with yours. He laughs, all fondness. He’s dizzy with love.

“Woah, hold your horses, cowboy,” he says through a woozy laugh. He’s finding it hard to speak. He barely hears himself. For all he knows, he’s talking in an alien language.

“Sorry,” you whisper, not sounding very sorry at all. “So … was that a yes?”

Steve has to laugh. He can’t help it. “Are you kidding? Yes, Y/N. That was a yes. I—“

He’s rudely interrupted by someone banging on the door. He thinks he knows who it is. Only one person he knows knocks that hard.

He sighs morosely but he can’t keep the grin off his face for very long. “I’ll get it.”

He heaves himself off the couch and makes for the front door. You stop him before he gets very far, a hand in his bicep.

“Wait, Steve.”

Steve turns, puzzled. “Yeah?”

You’re lifting your chin up, lips parted. Steve knows exactly what you want.

His grin grows impossibly wider as he bends at the waist to kiss you once, chaste and slow and just as perfect as the kisses shared moments ago. When he pulls away you’re smiling so big he’s worried you’ll get stuck like that forever. He wouldn’t mind.

Another round of banging from the door. Steve sighs, squeezes your good shoulder once and then marches to the front door, just about ready to kick the intruder off his front porch. He opens the door and finds his suspicions were correct. It’s Dustin.

He’s holding a handful of flowers that look suspiciously similar to the ones that grow in Steve’s mom’s garden.

“Those for me?” Steve asks. He shoots his arm out to stop Dustin from barging in, hand gripping the door frame.

Dustin pulls a face. “Ew. No, they’re for Y/N.” He steps aside and more kids appear, plus Robin and Eddie. Eddie’s van has been parked haphazardly in Steve’s driveway. “Can we come in or are you gonna stand there and guard the door like that all night?”

“She’s tired.”

“But we bought chocolates.”

“Well—“

“Dustin?” You call from the living room. Oh, great. Now Steve’s gonna have to let them in. “S’that you?”

Dustin beams and gives Steve an expectant look. Steve drops his arm with a defeated sigh and Dustin goes marching in like he owns the place. Max, Lucas and even Mike follow. Mike, who never shows up to anything. Though Steve shouldn’t be surprised. You’re Mike’s favourite, out of the older ones.

Eddie comes next, then Robin, who stops to give Steve a grimace.

“Sorry,” she says wryly. “They really wanted to see her.”

Steve shrugs good-naturedly. He’s on cloud nine and much too happy to care all that much. He follows Robin into the living room and finds everyone crowded around you, Max on your side and Dustin getting down on one knee to present you the probably-stolen flowers like you’re the Queen of England. You look the same as Steve feels — kiss bitten and with your head in another world. But you’re pleased by the company, he can tell.

Dustin moves to give you one of his bone-crushing hugs and Steve goes all panic mode.

“Please be careful with her!” He says urgently, his panic obvious under the usual demanding tone he takes with the kids.

But you’re laughing under Dustin’s hug, and Steve can’t stay mad when you look like that. You meet his eyes over a mop of curly hair and your gaze goes all mushy and sweet. Steve’s legs feel like jelly. If he keeled over dead right now, he wouldn’t be surprised.

He’s sure someone will see but he doesn’t really care. Grinning from ear to ear, he mouths, “Love you.”

He’s said it before, of course he has, you’re his best friend in the whole entire world. This time though, it’s all the more different. It’s better. You flush, oblivious to the noisy chatter around you.

“Love you too,” you mouth back.

Steve can’t stop smiling for the rest of the night.

thank you for reading! feedback is appreciated!! reblog this and I’ll kiss you on the mouth mwah

[sweetstevesblog]

Party 4 U

steve harrington x fem!reader // situationship

🎶 I was hopin’ you would come through, it’s true, it’s true, I only threw this party for you.🎶

summary: Steve hasn’t returned any of your calls the past two weeks, but Harrington never misses a party.

word count: 4k

warnings: 18+ heartbreak (I mean it’s based of party 4 u and also a little bit of my personal life), emotional cheating kinda, the classic I have to let you go because you don’t realize you’re in love with someone else trope. a little self destructive self aware delulu at the end. kissing. drinking and smoking. also lots of Eddie! 🎸

authors note: my first full fic in over a year 💕 i missed you guys and i hope you enjoy it.

With only a few more weeks of summer left. Everyone in Hawkins was chasing the last bit of those 9 pm sunsets and the freedom they bring only three months out of the year, which made convincing your two roommates to throw a last minute party easy. In fact you were so casual with it, they didn’t even notice the way your canines dug themselves into the skin around your nail bed the moment they both squealed ‘yes!’ in the kind of excitement that would usually be contagious, because who doesn’t love a house party?

Steve Harrington lives for a good house party.

The boy they had warned you about four years ago when you first moved to Indiana, the former king of Hawkins high, and now the current king of Hawkins Community College. A crown that he wears begrudgingly, but a crown with privilege nonetheless.

In fact the warning was so intense, you heeded it like your life depended on it, even when all the stories seemed far from the goofy guy you’d pass in the hallway or see laying out in the courtyard with his fast talking, daily nail color changing best friend, Robin. You stayed strong when he started saying “hi” on your daily passes to class flashing you his perfect pearly whites in jeans that fit him a little too tight. You even held it together when his big hand would spread out in a wave across the lawn in an effort to catch your gaze. His mossy green eyes lingering just a little longer on your thighs whenever it was warm enough to wear shorts no matter what animated thing his best friend was saying.

But at the beginning of May when you stumbled into your house at the crack of dawn after an end of year party with tequila fresh on your breath and his teeth marks decorating your neck, they had to warn you again.

’Everyone who grew up here knows he’s always going to be in love with Nancy Wheeler.’

’He’s never going to leave Hawkins, and you’re moving after college.’

’I think he’s probably dated or asked out every girl in this town at this point. Do you really want to be added to that list?’

Two weeks ago, you couldn’t wait to tell them how wrong they were. That you weren’t the fool they warned you’d become. Not when you’re falling asleep under the stars with him, a blanket that had been shoved in his trunk laid out while your heavy lids win under fingertips that trace the warmed soft skin of your face from a day out in the sun on the lake. You couldn’t be, not when you woke up to sleepy hazel eyes at the crack of dawn and that messy mane of hair at the top of his head somehow even more chaotic than before with a slow lazy smile pulling up at pink lips that constantly beg to be kissed.

There was no way something that feels like this would just go away with a couple hundred miles in between it when the time had to come.

But, that was two weeks ago, and multiple unanswered calls later.

You can start to hear the bells on your jester’s hat beginning to jingle in the distance. Taunting you, just like the sound of his voice mail but you don’t dare to tell them.

Strawberry pink skies bleeds into a dark plum as the setting sun kisses the tops of the swaying trees outside, the chilly breeze that only reveals itself at night in Indiana hits your sticky skin in a welcomed reprieve from the open front door. Anxiety tickles at your subconscious, while glittery fingertips tug at the bottom of your short dress, soft thighs sticking together underneath the thin cotton fabric despite the temporary chill. You’d been standing at the top landing for longer than you’d care to admit, eyes scanning the crowd of rowdy college kids for any signs of him.

Your house vibrates with the energy of twenty something’s on the cusp of the rest of their life, all mega watt smiles and blushing cheeks thanks to the keg Eddie Munson set up in the backyard next to the pool. A kind gesture and a ploy to get with one of your roommates, you just didn’t know which one because he actively flirts with both. It didn’t matter to you tonight, because your new mission was to get that joint you knew he had tucked behind his ear long forgotten since hiding it there before he left the trailer park, because the idea of Steve not showing up has you gnawing at your bottom lip so hard it might bleed.

Making your way through the crowd, there’s an anger that simmers just below the surface and you’re not sure if it should be directed at yourself for letting him get under your skin, when you should’ve known better. Or if maybe, he should take the blame, because the lack of communication on his end comes with realizations shrouded in the kind of sadness you’re not equipped to handle yet. Still, you look for him, smiling and nodding at a few people that you recognize zig zagging through the makeshift dance floor all the way to the kitchen.

At any party, you can always find Eddie Munson by the cheap bottle of tequila, a beer in hand and unlit cigarette dangling dangerously at the edge of his mouth debating peoples music taste. Which typically is annoying for everyone involved but it’s perfect tonight because not only do you need a shot to go with your much needed THC, he needs to finally smoke that cigarette, and whoever he’s trapped needs to be saved.

“There she is! I thought you locked yourself away in your tower for the night.”

The metal head grins wide enough to see his signature dimple poke the side of his cheek when you walk in, and sure enough that Marlboro red is hanging on for dear life. Heather Halloway sees this as her escape route and quickly shuffles out, she is a big New Kids On The Block fan and you know he can’t stand them.

”Thought about it,” you shrug with a small smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, “pour me a shot?”

Eddie studies your face long enough to know something is off, so he pours you a double in a red solo cup instead.

”That’s funny cause, I heard this party was your idea.” He arches a brow, offering you the shot with a hand decorated in chunky silver that catches in the fluorescent light.

”Maybe.” You play nonchalant, downing the whole thing without warning or time for him to give you any kind of chaser which you usually demand with a look of disgust on your face any time you catch a whiff of alcohol.

”Jesus Christ.” Eddie huffs, finally knocking the dangling cigarette from its resting place but his reflexes are still quick enough to catch it, “not maybe, that’s literally what I was told when I was invited.”

”Ooo which one invited you?” You tease, making his cheeks turn pink.

”That’s neither here nor there sweetheart,” He tries fighting a grin before forcing a serious look on his boyish face, “what’s going on here? What’s wrong with you?”

Your stubbornness kicks in, giving him a shrug staring down into your empty red cup, not wanting to reveal all your pathetic cards just yet.

”Pour me another one,” you sigh, finally meeting his big brown eyes, “and then I’ll tell you.”

Eddie contemplates the idea of telling you no because he’s a firm believer of not drinking when you're sad but, he also thinks about the consequences of actually telling you no. So he pours you just a single, in which you down just like the first one tossing the empty solo cup in the trash with a small burp before pointing to the joint behind his ear.

”Also, I wanna smoke that.”

The metal head looks confused for a minute before his eyes roll up towards the joint he had indeed forgotten about, a realization that makes his lips curve up.

”You’re needy tonight aren’t you?” He teases with every intention of giving into you, the nicotine in his fingers calling his name “to the bonfire we go then.”

Goosebumps pebble across the skin that’s not lucky enough to be warmed by the flames in front of you, but the big inhale of your first hit that fills your lungs does what the fire can’t do. The temporary rush to your head settles the anxiety that’s been clawing at your chest for days and you relish in the relief for a little bit before finally confessing your secrets to Eddie under the starry night sky.

”It’s Steve.” You say simply, defeat evident in the way you roll your shoulders back and take your second hit.

”Harrington? Wait, you two are a thing?” He practically chokes on the smoke of his Marlboro.

”It’s new-ish, I mean since right after graduation.” You shrug, desperately trying to come off as nonchalant, refusing to meet his eyes.

”Three months? You and Harrington have been bumping uglies for three months and I never figured it out?!”

“Eww Eddie! You are making me regret this, oh my god.” Embarrassment sets your cheeks on fire, and you take another big hit to get rid of it.

”I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Raising his hands in surrender, the smirk that pulls up his full lips makes you want to punch him, “just not what I was expecting, I mean, good for you. I’ve heard…things.”

”EDDIE!” You huff standing up, smashing the burning end of the joint into the brick surrounding the bonfire, putting it out.

”Sorry! Sorry! Don’t go, please I’ll stop!”

He does his best to sound serious in between small giggles, metal bound fingers grabbing your wrist to stop you from leaving. Your desperation to finally talk about it has you forgiving him quicker than usual, but not without a glare and a heavy roll of your eyes, before you flop back into your chair.

”I can’t stand you.” You complain with a cross of your arms.

”You love me.” He grins, clearing his throat, “so, what’s going on with Steve?”

For some reason hearing someone else say his name makes the dull throb in your chest ache just a little more. Swallowing your pride, you even contemplate re lighting the joint before confessing, but ultimately decide against it.

”I haven’t heard from him in two weeks. I’ve called him a few times, nothing, you know, crazy or anything, but I’m getting pretty familiar with his voicemail.”

You hope that Eddie can’t hear the bitterness in your tone, the anger from before starting to bubble again.

”That’s weird, I literally just saw him yesterday at Wheeler’s house. They’re moving Nancy out, and he was helping everybody. He seemed fine, I mean I’d even say a good mood.” He says casually taking a long drag of his cigarette, not realizing that he just confirmed your worst fear with two simple sentences, punching a hole in your gut.

It’s too late for damage control when realization dawns on Eddie quickly adding in a panicked, “Jonathan was there too!”

But that part didn’t really matter, everyone who’s familiar with their history knew that.

”Umm, I’m uh, glad to hear he’s doing good. Not hurt or like, kidnapped.” There’s no hiding the crack in your voice, and you refuse to meet the pity in Eddie’s gaze that you can feel burning a hole into the top of your head.

”Hey, I’m sure it’s not like tha-“

”EVERYONE JUMP IN THE LAKE!”

Eddie’s attempt at easing your worries falls on deaf ears, both of you jumping at the sound of Patrick McKinny’s very loud exclamation, followed by an even louder round of cheers as most of the party starts running down from the house in a blur of clothes tossed into the air along the way. Conveniently ending your conversation with Eddie at the perfect time.

‘Everyone who grew up here knows he’s always going to be in love with Nancy Wheeler.’

“I’m gonna go with them, thanks for the joint.” You don’t wait for him to answer, getting up and quickly blending in with the crowd, before he can stop you.

The heartbreak tightens in your chest and restricts the air flow to your lungs, the corners of your eyes stinging because how could you be so wrong? How could you be so sure that you were the exception to the Steve Harrington rule?

You blink back tears nearing the edge of the lake, haphazardly kicking off your sandals, letting the soft waves lap at your toes, before taking a shaky breath finally lifting your eyes. The lake is full just like the people swimming in it, water splashes accompanied by playful screams and the kind of smiles that glow under the silvery moonlight. Carefree chaos orchestrated by you, but somehow you’re the one with heavy shoulders, and a broken heart. A plan that was doomed from the start, a truth you knew deep down after day two of his radio silence.

The water is colder than you thought it would be, but you don’t let that stop you from continuing deeper, only getting used to the temperature once you’re waist deep. A shiver runs down your spine, and you plug your nose before throwing all caution to the wind fully submerging yourself. Because who cares at this point?

It’s quiet under the water, and the party that surrounds you becomes muted in the peaceful darkness and it feels like you can finally slow your thoughts down for the first time since Eddie opened his unknowing mouth. Folding your knees you let yourself sink deeper, the soft cotton of your dress clinging to your curves like a second skin. You extend your arms out, spreading your fingers, feeling the soft water between them, letting the gentle currents soothe you. Cursing your need for oxygen, you ignore the screaming of your lungs for as long as you can, basking in your solitude for just a few seconds longer before planting your feet on the rough sand beneath you pushing yourself back up.

It’s almost jarring how loud the party is when you breach the surface, wiping the water from your eyes, you notice how many more people jumped in after you. It makes you wonder just how long you were actually under, especially with the way every deep breath you take stings in your chest. Pushing your hair back, a twinkle in the stars catches your gaze, craning your neck, you try and get a better look. Tugging your bottom lip between your teeth, you pick your feet up, letting the lake cradle your back. Floating. Weightless. Just like you.

The sky expands the more your eyes adjust, and it’s easy to get lost in its beauty just like your thoughts that come racing back. The sadness that you feel now, you know is a temporary kind of pain, because you had a whole life before Steve, and you’ll have another one after him. But it all hurts just the same, mourning the part of you that day dreamed the summer away about a future that might include him too.

’He’s never going to leave Hawkins, and you’re moving after college.’

It’s not Hawkins, that Steve won’t leave. It’s Nancy. He’ll wait here till her inevitable return when her new life with Jonathan implodes in on itself because anyone with eyes can already see the cracks in their foundation. He’ll help her pick up the pieces of her broken dreams and meld himself into them with her new ones. Everyone else between now and that fated moment is just here to pass the time. Practice for the main event. You’re just a visitor in Steve’s long path to the one that got away, whether he knows it or not. There’s a part of you that’s not so sure he even sees it yet, because putting her first has always just been second nature.

The thought is enough to ease some of the anger, but sadness just fills in the gaps, making the corners of your eyes sting again. It takes you a minute to hear it, too lost in your own head to realize the man that’s consumed every waking thought is calling out your name. Your reaction is stalled, heart racing because your plan actually worked after all of this. Your toes find the sand, pushing yourself back up onto your feet, and you hate that you meet his gaze almost instantly. Eyes locking together like two magnets searching for each other, and the smile that pushes up his cheeks makes your chest tighten and not in the way you’ve grown so fond of.

He waves excitedly like he hasn’t just dropped off the face of the earth the past two weeks to help his ex girlfriend move. You wiggle your fingers just barely above the surface and you know your smile doesn’t meet your eyes. He’s either too far to notice or is completely oblivious because the shine of his pearly whites doesn’t falter while he lifts his shirt over his messy bed head making you suck in a sharp breath, and another one when his jeans hit the grass too.

Of course Steve Harrington is coming to unknowingly stomp all over your heart some more in nothing but his underwear.

His skin looks tanner than the last time you saw him, which you didn’t think was even possible this far into summer. The patch of hair on his chest that drives you crazy is a dark contrast to the bronze he glows under the moonlight. His long fingers nervously card through his hair while he adjusts to the water temperature walking towards you trying to play it cool like he didn’t need extra time, and it’s almost enough for the corners of your lips to twitch.

“I was looking for the prettiest girl at the party,” he flirts like he just kissed you silly across the console of his car last night, “and Eddie told me she was in the lake with everyone else.”

Steve winks, looking for the eyeroll he usually gets in response to his relentless cheesy passes, but he gets nothing but an awkward half smirk, and that stupid smile on his face finally falters.

“Hey honey, are you okay?” Concern twists his handsome features, finally closing the space between you, water lapping at his waist straightening up.

Honey.

The anger from before finds its way back, warming your cheeks, and you look up at him between slanted eyes, doing your best to ignore the bergamot and amber that threatens to envelope you.

“It’s weird hearing you say anything besides ‘hey you’ve reached Steve, sorry I missed your call.’”

His face drops, catching the hurt that’s wrapped around your words, guilt making him unsure of what to do next, trying his best to read your body language despite most of it being hidden from his sight under the dark water.

“Look, I know I sucked at calling, but I swear I wasn’t doing anything but helping the Wheelers. Nance is moving to New York with Jonathan -“

”I don’t really care what Nancy Wheeler is doing Steve.” You bite, watching him flinch, satisfaction swelling deep in your gut.

“I just lost track of time, we did so much -“

”You didn’t talk to me for two weeks. What am I supposed to think about that? That I wasn’t even a thought in your head, I wasn’t even worth you sparing five minutes. You don’t even see how wrapped up you are in her do you?”

The tears that had been threatening to spill over finally do, and Steve can’t help himself, swiping them away with the pad of his thumb before cupping the side of your face in the palm of his hand that almost swallows you whole.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he coos, but you refuse to meet his gaze, “I’m here now, I came here for you, I showed up here looking for you, to see you.”

He bends down, doing his best to get you to look at him, but you hold strong because you know that you won’t be able to fight how good it will feel to be with him tonight after wanting nothing more for the past few weeks. Even if you know it’s not the forever that you wished for, the one you were silly enough to daydream about despite knowing better. With just two months before your chapter in Hawkins is set to end, the thought of walking away from him while you can still have him is a different kind of torture you weren’t prepared for yet, one that would be easier when you’re miles apart. Not while he’s pleading for you now.

”I can fix this, I can make it up to you.” He whispers, gently tugging at the bottom of your chin, doing his best to coax you to lift it and meet him halfway. “Come on baby, let me.”

He can’t fix a problem he doesn’t realize is there, a truth he’s not ready to admit to himself yet, but you’ll selfishly let him have it this time because when you finally meet the emerald and gold in his eyes, you want to believe he can too for right now.

”There she is.” His smile is warm, just like his touch pulling you closer by the hip when you lean deeper into his palm. “I’m sorry. I really am, baby. I’m here now though, let me make this okay.”

You don’t trust yourself not to cry if you try to give him a response, so you don’t, encouraging him silently with your hands flattening against his chest instead. Glittery fingers getting lost in coarse hair, deciding to memorize this feeling while it still exists. The sounds of the party drown out for the second time as he bends down, the tip of his nose brushing against yours, asking for permission that you grant with the slightest tilt of your head, letting him kiss you dizzy like this isn’t the end.

[sweetstevesblog]

Omg can we plsss get a Steve summer blurb like I’d be happy with anything I love your Steve sm and he is just sweet golden summer boy

Steve digs his nose against Robins freckled cheekbone and says something you can’t hear. Must’ve been something kind. She goes soft even as she pushes him away from her, citing a need for her personal bubble, Steven.

He loves Robin half to death and she spends most of their time together making fun of him —it’s why you want him, you can be the most embarrassing version of yourself and Steve won’t flinch.

He’s like it with everyone. Dustin has a mustard stain in the corner of his mouth and hair greasy from sweating in the sun and Steve just wipes at him with a groan. Eddie breaks another glass on account of his bad arm and Steve tells him they were shitty anyways. You lay down beside the pool, unmoving, useless company and treasured anyhow, constantly checked on. He’s making his way to you now with Robin’s towel around his shoulders, water from the swimming pool glistening on his tanned neck.

“Baby,” he greets. 

“Hey, killer.” 

He clambers down on your towel, knees bruised from a fierce game of chicken where Eddie insisted he could be the one on the bottom and then promptly fell forwards, dunking the both of them and almost killing Lucas and Max in the process. 

The sounds of the kids arguing floats on the breeze. The sun winds down slowly, gives everything at the pool and clementine glow like watered down paint, but nobody mentions going home. Robin coughs around a cigarette and Eddie offers to roll her her first ever doobie, but she kindly declines. “I’ve been high before,” she says. “It was fun, but I hated throwing up. Steve didn’t even hold my hair back.” 

“Fucking Steve.” 

“Fucking Steve,” you murmur through a smile. He leans down to kiss you, his hair dripping on your chest as he hovers. 

“What’s the matter with you? You’re like a statue today. Not talking, not swimming. You need something to eat or what?” he asks. 

“Need you to take off my bikini bottoms for fucking Steve,” you say calmly. 

“Shut the fuck up,” he laughs, tipping away from you. He hangs his head and his neck beckons, long and pleasing, pleading for a kiss. 

You take a pull of your strawberry and apple juice, sitting up properly, ducking your head. You watch as his neck turns splotchy with blush. Mean, you spread your hand across his stomach. 

“Want to cool off with me in the pool?” you ask. 

Steve gets in with a splash, holds his hand out as you slide in like he’s worried you’ll take a tumble. The water is lukewarm, not immediately cooling until Steve holds your face and dips your head back, and the water feels cold in your hair. 

“That better?” he asks. 

You squint in the sunshine. He’s pretty with a sunshine halo. “We’re cooling you off, not me. I was fine.” 

“I was fine, ‘til you came onto me like an animal.” 

“An animal?” you ask. 

He grins at you. “Am I in trouble?” 

You close your eyes. Steve pinches your nose gently, predicting your dunk under the water before you’ve submerged yourself. For a couple of seconds you stay there, holding your breath, Steve’s hand keeping you from sinking to the bottom where it’s spread against the small of your back.

He lifts you up and kisses you suddenly. You give into him for as long as you can, three or four seconds of breathlessness, pushing him away to gasp against his chin.

“Owed you that one. Robin’s had more kisses today than you,” he says.

“I’ve had more sloppy ones.” 

“That’s what you think.” 

You giggle listlessly —he’s pulling you in, pressing his wet tummy to yours, your chest to his chest but your head held apart. It’s too hot to be close out of the water. This is a good happy-medium. “My smart boy,” you tease lightly, “the pool day has really lifted moral.” 

“Just wanted to see you in your keds.” 

“My swimsuit, you mean.”

“Nah, I like the tennis shoes.” He wipes water from your cheek unthinkingly. It’s honestly hotter than the kiss. 

You use the water to bouy yourself up, wrapping your arms around his neck in a passionate embrace that’s one part dramatics and two parts real. He laughs out loud, bending under your weight as you brush back his hair with your nose to kiss the sweet almond shape of his eye. 

Eddie wolf whistles from the sun loungers. Mike cries indecency. Steve falls back into the water to escape them, taking you with him, tiny bubbles flying in a rush from between your chests. 

[sweetstevesblog]

[sweetstevesblog]

I LIKE TO THINK OF YOU AS MINE: APARTMENT ONE

a pick your own adventure fic - steve harrington x fem!reader

Your apartment wasn’t just surprisingly nice for Hawkins, it was surprisingly nice considering you paid less than three hundred dollars a month rent - and that was split with your roommate.

It was just outside of town, far enough away from the police station and retirement home that you could play music louder than some would consider sociable and near enough the only pizza place that you didn’t have to pay for delivery when you were too tired to leave the couch. It was an old, renovated warehouse - big windows, old, sliding doors, an elevator that sometimes worked and two bedrooms that could fit in more than a single.

In fact, it was big enough to hold regular parties, with a fridge full of beer and a balcony off of the living room that could hold five whole people and a keg or two. Honestly, the only reason you and your roommate could afford to stay there was because your landlord was using the empty apartment beside you as a grow room. The smell of weed and regular power outages were easy to put up with when your kitchen had an island and your shower worked through the winter months.

It was filled with your things, second hand furniture and vinyls from the knock off record store on Cherry Street, Polaroids filled the refrigerator door and there was a collection of stupid things that littered the shelves and surfaces.

Your trophy from high school that declared you the least able to hold your drink.

A battered copy of Stand By Me that had been taped over seven times and never returned to Family Video.

An impressive array of sunglasses that your roommate lost, purchased, lost and found again.

An obligatory road sign that lived on the wall behind the sofa, screwed precariously into the crumbling brick.

A bong made from questionable materials.

A fish tank with zero fish.

A bedroom door across from your own, the front of it scratched and worn from being nudged open with hands filled with car keys and coffee cups, old boots and impatient feet. It had stickers from bands over the worst scrapes, another road sign that had “for a good time, call Steve Harrington,” written in sharpie in the middle of it. More Polaroids, more than a few of them featuring you. You and Steve when you were both four years old and half naked in the Harrington's backyard one summer, sticky with melted popsicles. Another at graduation, Steve’s arm slung over your shoulder, you laughing at the camera. A party, two years ago, both of you drunk and the whole scene a little blurry, the cameraman just able to catch you both in an armchair amongst a night of chaos, heads together and you on the boy’s lap as he looked up at you through his lashes, listening to whatever it was you had been drunkenly talking about.

You looked like a couple in that one.

You look like a couple in a lot of them.

But you and Steve? A couple? No.

Roommates, yes. Best friends? Yes. Drinking buddies? Absolutely. Platonic movie night partner? Of course.

And have you kissed him before? Sure, maybe, like… five years ago. But you were both drunk and someone dared you - Robin, no, Jonathan? It didn’t matter. You did it and Steve kissed you back and he tasted like lemonade and cheap beer and a little like the weed your landlord had given you and it was only for a second, really.

Definitely less than a minute. No more than three.

And then you never spoke about it again. Ever. And that was fine.

It was really, really fine.

You had more parties, threw more ragers. Collected more Polaroids and Steve lost more sunglasses and you found them again for him weeks later. You both tried to keep the plants that your mom gifted you alive and it was a good week if there was more than a carton of milk in the fridge.

It was an even better week if you made it through without thinking about the time you kissed your best friend over four years ago.

Especially since your boyfriend really didn’t like him.

That wasn’t ideal.

And honestly, you weren’t really sure you liked your boyfriend all that much anymore.

That wasn’t all that ideal either.

Was it?

[sweetstevesblog]

can we have dad!steve where he doesn’t shave and r actually loves it? ty <3

thank you for requesting ❤︎ fem, 1k

“What are you looking at?” 

You duck your head. “Nothing,” you say, giving Avery a little scowl. “Why don’t you mind your business?” 

Completely unused to your aggression, Avery bursts into giggles and points at you. “Silly,” she says, kneeling by your feet. She grabs her Barbie from your lap and gives her a wiggle. “Why don’t you mind your manners?” she says through a pout. 

“Nosey girl.” Avery nearly landed you in hot water. You retrieve Dove’s Dotty Dolly from the floor and stand her in front of Barbie. “Don’t be such a tattle.” 

“I am not!” Avery denies. 

“Then let’s talk about something else.” 

“Like what?” 

“Like where ladybugs come from.” 

Avery’s eyes go wide and bright. “The dirt, mom.” 

You’re not ten minutes into a skit on ladybug-Barbie when another presence is making itself known beside you. “Hi,” Steve says, smile in his eyes as he crosses his legs beneath himself, sitting squarely left of you and right of Avery. 

“Hi, daddy.” 

Steve nods at her hands. “What are we playing?” 

“We’re doing Barbie as a ladybug-girl,” Avery says, leaning into Steve’s thigh. He rests a hand on her back and she begins to melt into his hold, until she’s folding funny across him and he’s hugging her shoulders. 

“That sounds fun,” he says. 

“Do you want to play?” 

“Please. But don’t cheap out on me, I want a Barbie with clothes and shoes.” 

Avery looks like she might roll her eyes. “Dad, none of them have shoes.” 

“I put all their shoes back on like, two days ago,” he says, his outrage lost to her hair as she shoves her face into his chest. Steve’s easy smile calms. “What’s the matter, baby?” he asks. “You need a nap?” 

Avery mumbles. 

Steve leans down to put his ear next to her lips. “What? Tell me again, honey.” 

Avery whispers into his ear. Steve glances at you from over her head, his face set in an expression you have trouble deciphering. He presses his nose to her hair, says, “Thank you for telling me.” 

“Wait, what’s wrong?” you ask. If Avery’s not feeling well, you want to know. 

Steve releases Avery from his hug and she gives you an owlish stare that clears things up for you quickly, worse when Steve says, “Oh, nothing, just– My Avery says you got a staring problem. Care to explain?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You catch Avery’s eye, mouthing ‘tattle’ as she giggles and flees the living room altogether. 

“Avery said you’re looking at me and asking her not to tell me.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “So. What gives?” 

You shrug and lean away from him, the top half of you coming to rest on the big bean bag that the girls use for naps. It flusters beneath you. 

Steve leans back too. Your eyes love the cut of his t-shirt and the jeans hugging his legs, his pink-kitty socks and his hair curling at the nape of his neck. But the thing you like most, the thing that’s caught your attention all day, to your own surprise, is the dark stubble around his mouth. Steve has a ‘stache, and you don’t want him to know how much you like it. 

So weird. The girls hate it because it makes their kisses scratchy, but you don’t mind it. Didn’t mind it on your neck last night, and won’t mind when he kisses your cheek at dinner. If he showers tonight he’ll probably shave, too, and you won’t mind, you like him clean shaven. He always has been. 

Who knew he could find new things for you to crush on? 

Steve lowers his voice. “What, are you, like, pent up?” he asks with a laugh. 

You shove his knee with your foot until he grabs your ankle. “Shh!” you laugh. “No, I’m not, thank you very much. You think you’re such a lady killer.” 

“Well, you like me,” he says. 

“That’s astute. How’ve you worked that one out?” 

“Oh, you’re funny,” he says, pulling at your leg, dragging it over his. He pulls at you until you’re splayed over his lap, giggling at your limpness and the quiet thump of your head on the rug as you go flat. Gentle, he works his hands behind your back, leans in, and gathers you into his arms. One minute you’re laying down and then done, there, you’re in his lap. 

“Steve…” you say, laughing, letting your hands rest on his hips. 

“Let me look at you,” he says, lifting his chin. 

You stay very still. 

He rubs the small of your back with his knuckles as his eyes flit from one plane of your face to another. You shift a little when your knees begin to protest, but Steve doesn’t flinch, waiting for you to settle again before he meets your eyes. “Why were you staring at me?” he asks finally.

“I think you look handsome today,” you confess. 

“Really?” 

“Mm-hm. I like this,” you say, raising a finger to his lip. You touch the hair there and draw a line down to his chin. “The last time you grew out your scruff I didn’t like it, remember? But I don’t know. I sort of love it.” You press your forehead to his chin, then, fingers tied up in his t-shirt. 

You’d forgotten you weren’t gonna tell him. 

Steve doesn’t make fun of you. He presses a kiss like a light touch to your cheek, hand on the small of your back encouraging you closer to him. 

“That’s why you’re staring?” he asks. 

“No, I don’t know. I guess I wanted you to kiss me.” 

“I can kiss you. You don’t have to want it without saying anything,” he admonishes, bemusement in his voice and the slip of his fingers running under your t-shirt to tickle your lower back. 

You straighten up from his touch and he chases you for a kiss.

“Scratchy,” you murmur into his mouth. 

Smile to smile, Steve kisses you soundly, laughs against you, the itch of his nice-silly moustache under your nose. You almost sneeze. 

“I can get rid of it,” he says. 

Oh, honey, you nearly say, laughing into his cheek. “I like it, just, your girls don’t handle change well.” 

“They’ll get used to it,” he says surely, though you both know he’ll be in the bathroom with a razor and a rag the next time one of his girls refuses a kiss.

[sweetstevesblog]

STEVE HARRINGTON & EDDIE MUNSON STRANGER THINGS 4.08 "Papa"

[sweetstevesblog]

joe keery as steve harrington in season 4 bts hits different

[sweetstevesblog]

I’M SAT

I LIKE TO THINK OF YOU AS MINE: COMING SOON

a steve harrington fic where you get to choose the outcome each week. were you here for bad for business? this is her sister.

But you and Steve? A couple? No.

Roommates, yes. Best friends? Yes. Drinking buddies? Absolutely. Platonic movie night partner? Of course.

And have you kissed him before? Sure, maybe, like… five years ago. But you were both drunk and someone dared you - Robin, no, Jonathan? It didn’t matter. You did it and Steve kissed you back and he tasted like lemonade and cheap beer and a little like the weed your landlord had given you and it was only for a second, really.

Definitely less than a minute. No more than three.

And then you never spoke about it again. Ever. And that was fine.

It was really, really fine.

You had more parties, threw more ragers. Collected more Polaroids and Steve lost more sunglasses and you found them again for him weeks later. You both tried to keep the plants that your mom gifted you alive and it was a good week if there was more than a carton of milk in the fridge.

It was an even better week if you made it through without thinking about the time you kissed your best friend over four years ago.

Especially since your boyfriend really didn’t like him.

That wasn’t ideal.

And honestly, you weren’t really sure you liked your boyfriend all that much anymore.

That wasn’t all that ideal either.

[sweetstevesblog]

A soulmate AU: Steve Harrington x fem!reader [3.5K] 18+

THE TIMELINE

“I'mma put some goddamn moves on you, babe, I know you need it. Die a double death for you, death for your secrets. I'll find another way for you, wait 'til you see it. Put some goddamn moves on you, God knows you need it.”

- Moves by Suki Waterhouse

VI. AMSTERDAM, THE NETHERLANDS: 1996

It drew you towards it in a way you couldn’t explain.

A shitty hole in the wall dive bar in an alley you had walked past countless times before, never sparing it a second glance. The lights from the restaurants and bars illuminated the canal, the cobblestones busy with tourists and locals alike, all hunting for something that could only ever be found at two am on a Saturday night.

A good time, maybe. Bad decisions, perhaps. A strong drink, a stranger, sex against a bathroom stall door, regret, shoes in your hand as you walked out their door the morning after, possibly.

You weren’t sure which one you wanted. Maybe all of it, maybe one. You should’ve been tired, right down to your bones, because you’d worked a twelve hour shift at the coffee shop three streets over and your feet had ached right up until you pulled your rucksack from your locker.

The black heels you’d worn for Robin’s birthday were still stashed in the back and suddenly you weren’t as exhausted as you had been before. You jammed your rucksack back in, throwing in your apron too before buckling the straps of your heels around your ankle and swiping on some lipstick. The black dress you’d worn to work would do.

Legs out, eyes bright, skin warm from the summer evening balm.

You walked right to it. The place with no sign, only lit up neon from the buzz and glare from the lights from other bars around it. It made your skin aquamarine and magenta, the euros you shoved at the doorman an electric blue in the halo of it. Bare brick scraped your arms as you walked through the narrow doorway, the noise of the street left behind you in a faint hum as a pretty voice filled the space instead.

A dark bar, the lights dimmed to a deep red, flashes of pink bouncing off of a disco ball that hung in the middle of a small dance floor. The place was packed, tables filled with drinks hugged a stage in the corner that was no more than a few pallets stacked together. A girl stood on it, accompanied closely by a long haired man with a red guitar and another behind a small drum kit, fringe in his reddened eyes. She crooned with a smokey voice, the song slow and sensual, making the crowd of the dance floor sway and gyrate against each other with ease.

The tugging feeling in your chest seemed to ease now that you were there, a strange feeling of coming home washing over you. The smoke and music and heat from the other bodies piled at the bar made your shoulders drop, tension leaving your frame.

It took a while, but you felt even better once you had a martini glass in your hand, a far cry from your usual choice of vodka lemonade but something about this night called for something different. There was still that lingering feeling in your chest, in a space close to your heart. It pulled, it urged, it told you something was near, something was going to happen. It made the time turn over slowly, like the night itself was yearning, wanting, pleading.

Waiting on someone.

“Have I seen you before?”

You blinked, swallowing your drink before turning to the voice over your shoulder. A man stood there, grinning at you, seemingly pleased with himself for his less than original line. He was blonde, stocky and not too much taller than you, his white t-shirt glittering with an Ed Hardy bedazzled skull. He had a pair of sunglasses perched on his head, the iced tips of his hair looking candyfloss pink in the light. His acid wash jeans hung too low on his hips, the rumpled checkered print of his boxers puffing out the top of the denim, a try hard attempt at looking like some kind of boy band member.

You squinted at his face, pretty in a cute way, ruined by his over confident smirk. You shook your head, keeping your body turned to the bar, a sure fire sign that he wasn’t welcome. If you were looking for anybody tonight, it wasn’t him.

“No, sorry,” you shrugged, a half hearted smile given. This man wasn’t the reason for you being here tonight. “I don’t think so.”

It took you another fifteen minutes of polite smiles and stilted conversation before he finally left you alone, sullen and sulking that his chat up line hadn’t worked. The girl on stage was still crooning, the people on the dance floor still swaying, hips pressed into hips, the group of twenty somethings on the end of the bar smoking enough cigarettes to generate a haze in the air that made everything feel dreamlike. You nursed another martini, the olive disposed of on the edge of the bar and people came and went like ghosts in the night, all strangers , every face unknown.

You weren’t sure why you were here. You didn’t know this place, this wasn’t your usual spot. The bartender had a kind face, even if it was an unknown one. No one knew your name, no one seemed familiar, until—

“Do I know you?”

Another cliché, another chat up line, another lame attempt at flirting— but you turned and the man standing there was different from the first and when you looked at his face the tugging you’d felt in your chest - deep in your bones - finally loosened. You looked at this stranger and something inside of you clicked, a key turning in a lock, a jigsaw piece slotting perfectly into place.

If the music hadn’t been so loud, maybe you would’ve heard the sky outside thunder.

“Um,” you cleared your throat, so aware that you’d been staring, mouth ajar, eyes wide. “Uh, I don’t… I don’t know. I don’t think—?”

The man shared a look similar to your own and he was easy to stare at, handsome with strong features and pretty eyes, honey coloured in the warm light, beautiful and sleepy looking with long lashes and freckles dotting his cheekbones. Brown hair, curling at the nape of his neck and behind his ears, grazing the collar of the black t-shirt he wore.

Dark slacks, brown belt, t-shirt tucked in, no rhinestones or acid wash to be seen.

“I’m sorry,” he explained, smiling kindly. His cheeks were tinged pink, embarrassment colouring his words. “That was kind of abrupt, my bad. I just meant to say, you look familiar. Like, really familiar.” The man paused, his eyes darting over your face in a way that made you feel naked. You were burning. “Have we met?” He blinked, slow, like he was thinking too hard about something he couldn’t recall. “I think we’ve met?”

You forgot about your drink, turning away from the bar to face the stranger and you saw that he was tall, his build lean and muscular and stubble covered his sharp jaw. A packet of opened cigarettes were tucked into the sleeve of his t-shirt cuff, a pair of gold wire glasses hidden in the chest pocket.

Something buried inside you, in your fucking DNA, told you that you knew this person. It was late, too late, on a Saturday night in the middle of a bar in Amsterdam and everything you were made up of told you that you could trust this man. It wasn’t the martini, it wasn’t the need to be touched, it was something else. Something molecular, something deep, something old, older than the earth.

Maybe it was magic.

Maybe it was some soulmate shit.

That’s why you smiled when you shook your head. “No, I don’t think we have.” The man smiled back, eyes lighting up, cheeks flushed with the knowledge of knowing something exciting was about to happen. The sky was rumbling, the rain was pouring. “But maybe we just can’t remember.”

You said yes when he asked you to dance, your hand fitting inside the expanse of his own, body electric as he pulled yours into his. The girl on stage was still singing, voice angelic, the guitar riff a little dirty, the drum beat slow. The lights were low enough for shadows to dance across the strangers face, lips and cheeks pink in the spotlights, tiny refractions of light dancing across both of you, the disco ball spinning above.

He dipped his face down to yours before he spoke over the music, the bridge of his nose grazing your own, his breath dancing over you lips. He smelled sweet, like pomegrante juice, like fresh linen, like the sea air.

“I’m Steve,” he told you and when you gave him your name back, his smile was blinding. “S’nice to meet you.”

Again, something said. The wind, maybe, a whisper in your ear from you couldn’t see. A ghost, a god. Maybe just the alcohol that nipped at your tongue.

Steve kept his hands on your waist and back, long fingers and strong palms traversing the space there, sliding along your spine to keep you close and dancing became nothing more than swaying as you kept yourself pressed together as much as possible. The room became warmer when his palm touched your neck, rough and calloused as he skimmed over your pulse point and you wondered if he felt the tempo of it pick up considerably.

You wanted to do the same in return, to sweep your hand - no, your lips - over the same spot on his neck, right where two freckles lay, begging to be kissed. You didn’t know this man, Steve. You’d never met him before, you didn’t recognise him, not in the way people would expect. But something else was screaming at you, a voice inside your ribcage, deep in the bones, yelling at you that somehow, you knew this person more than you’d ever understand.

He felt like a part of you when he held you. Like his hands belonged in your own, like his arms were once something that held you together.

They felt a little like home.

But maybe that was just the gin.

Maybe that’s why you took Steve’s hand before the song had ended and led him into the tiny bathroom at the back of the club. He was kissing you before the door had locked, slow and deep and not like the frantic mess you’d expected from a bar toilet hook up. He was careful with how he held you, your jaw between his hands like he was holding something precious as he licked over your lips, tongue pressing against your own in a way that had you moaning something stupid.

The buzz you felt was ridiculous, that kind of fizz that you hadn’t felt since you’d allowed your first real boyfriend to slip his hands down the front of your underwear when your mom thought you were upstairs studying. Steve’s kiss came with a bolt of lightening, his touch enough to make your knees buckle but he caught you, your back against the locked door as your arms wound around his neck.

He was breathing heavy, lips parted as his chest heaved, half lidded eyes staring down at you. Mouth reddened already, hair mussed, you pulled at the collar of his shirt as he yielded easily to you and the feeling in your chest was ready to burst.

It was yearning, wanting, hoping, begging, needing.

It bloomed in you, a new heartbeat ready to errupt, a pulsing between your legs, a heaviness between your breasts.

Steve kissed you and pulled new sounds from your throat, your lips. He gave you some of his own to taste and you swallowed them whole, soft groans and rough sighs, mixed with the sound of your name which had never sounded as pretty as it did coming from his mouth.

When your hand found his belt buckle, the back of it grazed the hard length of him that was trapped against his thigh. Eyes wide and skin hot, you looked up at him from where he still had you pinned between the door and his chest. Blinking, you struggled to clear the haze from your head before you spoke. You didn’t sound like yourself when you said, “I really don’t do this kind of thing.”

“We don’t have to— oh, fuck me—”

Your fingers traced the outline of his cock, long and thick and warm even through his trousers and you were mesmerised at the way his eyes slammed shut, his words turning throaty and rough.

You lifted yourself onto your toes, mouth touching his, teeth tugging at his bottom lip in a way that made his hands squeeze almost too hard at your waist.

“No, I really, really want to.” You swallowed, the movement harsh. “I - fuck - I really want to. I feel like I’m on fire,” you tried to explain, eyes watering at the idea of not being touched by this man. “I don’t understand, it sounds so— so stupid. But I feel like I’m going to die if you don’t touch me.”

Maybe it wasn’t as stupid as you thought because Steve looked serious when he nodded and crashed his lips to yours once more. The rain outside fell harder and if you’d been aware of anything more than the man in front of you, you’d have sensed that something in the air, something big, something unseen, was lingering.

Something bigger than you. Bigger than the world.

“How d’you want me?” You managed to ask between kisses, panting as Steve nipped and sucked his way across your jaw, planting a kiss on your chin before moving down your neck.

He groaned at the scent of you, muttering curses into your collarbone, the space against your throat. “Fuck. Fuck, any way you’ll let me,” he rasped. “Every way, all the ways, entirely, completely, fuck…” he moaned your name into the swell of your chest, nose pressed against the skin there as he kissed above the line of your dress.

You ended up at the sink, perched on the edge of the old counter, the wooden top scarred with names of couples who weren’t together anymore, of email address and MySpace usernames, initials in hearts and dates that didn’t seem as important as right now.

The skirt of your dress hiked high, the folds of it scattered across your thighs as they trapped Steve between them, your hands in his hair as you pulled him down to your height, kissing him like you hadn’t kissed anyone before. It felt like a dance, it felt instinctual, something that didn’t need choreographed, that needed no rehearsal.

Kissing this stranger felt more natural than breathing. In fact, you wondered how you’d managed to live this long without feeling his lips on your own.

He tasted like lemon trees, like the salt of the ocean, like a summer night, like yours to keep.

“I wanna take my time w’you,” Steve murmured, his hands curling around your knees, palms roaming higher higher higher. Heat sunk into your bones, it wrapped around you, it consumed you. “God, I wanna taste you, I wanna make you yell for me.” He sounded desperate, words punctuated with moans and grunts as you tugged at his hair and nipped at his jaw.

You watched his eyes roll, lashes fluttering when you pulled at his belt buckle, cock twitching towards your grasp. He was unravelling, a sight to behold, a sight that seemed so familiar, like you’d seen it before. In a movie maybe, a scene in a TV show that only got played after ten o’clock at night, a dream perhaps.

Another life.

“Just touch me,” you managed to plead. You sounded as tightly strung as you felt, words choked, lips kiss bitten and swollen. “I need you to touch me, fuck, I need you so bad I can’t even cope—”

Steve didn’t waste anymore time, the small bathroom getting warmer the longer you both stayed. The club on the other side of the door was still full, people dancing, laughing, talking. Glasses clinked, the bar was busy and the singer was still crooning, the guitarist playing a riff that made Steve’s touch feel even more electric.

His fingers, two of them, found their way under the elastic of your underwear, sliding into the side to swipe through your folds. He groaned loudly at the slick he found there, silky wet and warm, fingertips nudging at your clit with ease.

He tore his lips from your own, nose bumping yours. He pecked at your cheek, the corner of your mouth, your jaw. “Sit back for me, pretty girl, like that - yeah - fuck, get comfy. Spread your legs, yeah? Please? Lemme see you.”

You did as he asked, as if you’d ever have said no.

He brought his fingertips to his mouth, tongue peeking out from between rosy pink lips to lick at the pads of them, eyes fluttering before he brought them back down between your legs. Somewhere outside the door, on that tiny stage, the girl was still singing. But you closed your eyes and let your head fall back, the dull thunk of it hitting the mirror barely even registering as Steve worked his fingers over your clit again, two of them sinking into you with a slow, tight stretch.

The walls around you could easily have crumbled and you wouldn’t have known. The world outside could’ve sprung into the flames, you wouldn’t have cared. You would’ve let everything burn if it meant this man kept touching you. You felt starved, as if you’d been kept from this feeling for too long. And at first you thought it was the pleasure of it all, that too warm, too much, too good sensation of being filled by something that wasn’t your own fingers but when you opened your eyes and saw Steve watching you, well—

That need grew, it grew into an almighty thing that suddenly felt too much and you remembered what he had said to you only hours before at the bar, his voice all too familiar, his hazel eyes even more so.

“Have we met?”

You were starting to think you had.

Every touch was perfect, too well practiced, toogoodtoogoodtoogood.

The girl outside the bar had stopped singing, maybe seconds ago, maybe too many minutes ago, you weren’t sure. You weren’t sure how loud you were when you came, if you’d muffled your moans well enough in Steve’s shoulder, your teeth pulling at the cotton of his shirt, your eyes squeezed shut, your hands on his biceps, nails digging into skin.

Steve’s heavy breath and soft reassurances in your ear drowned everything else out, the bassline, the drum beat, the clink of glasses from behind the bar, the low, dulled chatter of people talking amongst the music.

You knew how this went, you remembered it now. Like a dream, a wish, another life. It came back to you a little fuzzy, soft around the corners, crinkled like an old photograph. A memory? Maybe. You weren’t too sure.

But when Steve lifted his head and his eyes met your own, there was something in his gaze that reminded you of home. Of the ocean and fruit trees, white bed sheets, sprawling gardens, a marble fountain underneath an olive tree.

You knew that it was too good to last. That all good things came to an end… you just weren’t sure who told you that. Maybe it was just engrained in your bones. Your soul - if you believed in that sort of thing.

So you smoothed down your dress and Steve leaned in for a kiss, one that you gave him happily, greedily, selfishly. You drank him in, let your tongue lick over his, tried your damn best to remember the feel of his lips on yours, the way he tasted underneath the alcohol. Because somehow, you knew that one day you’d have to find him again.

That same kiss, that same look, that same boy.

Your hand found his jaw, sweeping down warm skin and stubble under your palm lingered on his neck, curling around the side until it covered two freckles that were etched there. You memorised them too.

Just in case.

And then, like Steve knew all of this too, he smiled a little sadly and nodded. He stepped back and the tiny bathroom suddenly became a little colder. You could hear the noises outside now, the rush of it coming back. Music and conversation and beer bottles clinking.

And above it all, louder than the world, you could hear thunder. Angry, furious, booming. The strange thing was, by the time you’d walked away from Steve and back outside, the storm had stopped.

Once you’d left Steve behind, there wasn’t any rain at all.

[sweetstevesblog]

Enjoy a little taste of Party 4 U under the cut ✨

With only a few more weeks of summer left. Everyone in Hawkins was chasing the last bit of those 9 pm sunsets and the freedom they bring only three months out of the year, which made convincing your two roommates to throw a last minute party easy. In fact you were so casual with it, they didn’t even notice the way your canines dug themselves into the skin around your nail bed the moment they both squealed ‘yes!’ in the kind of excitement that would usually be contagious, because who doesn’t love a house party?

Steve Harrington lives for a good house party.

The boy they had warned you about four years ago when you first moved to Indiana, the former king of Hawkins high, and now the current king of Hawkins Community College. A crown that he wears begrudgingly, but a crown with privilege nonetheless.

In fact the warning was so intense, you heeded it like your life depended on it, even when all the stories seemed far from the goofy guy you’d pass in the hallway or see laying out in the courtyard with his fast talking, daily nail color changing best friend, Robin. You stayed strong when he started saying “hi” on your daily passes to class flashing you his perfect pearly whites in jeans that fit him a little too tight. You even held it together when his big hand would spread out in a wave across the lawn in an effort to catch your gaze. His mossy green eyes lingering just a little longer on your thighs whenever it was warm enough to wear shorts no matter what animated thing his best friend was saying.

But at the beginning of May when you stumbled into your house at the crack of dawn after an end of year party with tequila fresh on your breath and his teeth marks decorating your neck, they had to warn you again.

’Everyone who grew up here knows he’s always going to be in love with Nancy Wheeler.’

’He’s never going to leave Hawkins, and you’re moving after college.’

’I think he’s probably dated or asked out every girl in this town at this point. Do you really want to be added to that list?’

Two weeks ago, you couldn’t wait to tell them how wrong they were. That you weren’t the fool they warned you’d become. Not when you’re falling asleep under the stars with him, a blanket that had been shoved in his trunk laid out while your heavy lids win under fingertips that trace the warmed soft skin of your face from a day out in the sun on the lake. You couldn’t be, not when you woke up to sleepy hazel eyes at the crack of dawn and that messy mane of hair at the top of his head somehow even more chaotic than before with a slow lazy smile pulling up at pink lips that constantly beg to be kissed.

There was no way something that feels like this would just go away with a couple hundred miles in between it when the time had to come.

But, that was two weeks ago, and multiple unanswered calls later.

You can start to hear the bells on your jester’s hat beginning to jingle in the distance. Taunting you, just like the sound of his voice mail but you don’t dare to tell them.