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@godstrayed wednesday & enid
A shrilly squeal followed by galloping footsteps are possibly the only warning her archaic styled companion would've gotten before a pair of arms are coiled tightly around Wednesday, a series of excited mewling sounds escaping Enid at the sight of her. ā Welcome back! I mean āāā obviously, you were coming back, you said so in your letters- ā she rambles into her shoulder, her body moving with the sheer elation thrumming through her at that given moment.
Although, it comes to her realisation eventually that she might be crushing her bones in the tight embrace she has Wednesday trapped in. Enid releases her vice-like hold on her almost immediately after, brushing out the creases in her friend's uniform with a toothy grin blooming across her face. ā I just- I'm so excited for another semester, and hopefully not another repeat of... you know, murdered students this time. ā
Maybe that was too optimistic āāā Nevermore underwent changes over the summer; new headmaster, different students. It really shouldn't surprise Enid if something else were to happen. ā I've only just started unpacking my bag, I wanted to wait for you so we could set up together this time! ā
#ā ā Ā Ā šš. Ā Ā enid sinclair Ā āŖ Ā thread#ā ā Ā Ā šš. Ā Ā godstrayed#ā ā Ā Ā šš. Ā Ā arc Ā āŖ Ā vehement fashionista at heart#basing this around s2 which obvi is not out but !!!#we can make things up susgdg#dms and disco is open if you wanna discuss anything!!
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Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā SHE SLIPS INTO THE DIMLY LIT CLUB, THE BEAT OF HEAVY MUSIC VIBRATING THROUGH THE FLOOR BENEATH HER FEET; THE ICEBERG LOUNGE. Some things in her little ventures never quite change, do they? GOTHAM IS ALWAYS, & WILL ALWAYS REMAIN GOTHAM. Tonight, she has business sheād like to tend to; eyes scan the crowd with distaste but laser-focus, attempting not to focus TOO MUCH on the undercurrent of danger that always seem to linger in such places, Ā Ā [ SHEāS NOT ONE TO PARTY, NEVER HAS BEEN, TRULY ] Ā Ā & she doesnāt have to look hard / far to spot the one sheās looking for:
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Seems to be engrossed in some sort of conversation with another, busy with one thing or the other; THEY TEND TO ALL LOOK THE SAME, AT SOME POINT, FOR HER ( Gotham never changes; Gotham never changes; Gotham never- ) but with a confident stride, she makes her way over, not at all mindful of bubbles or personal space [ IRONIC, ACTUALLY; CONSIDERING HOW MUCH SHE SNAPS AT THOSE WHO INVADE HERS ] Ā Ā āā Ā Ā Well, hello there Ā Ā āā Ā Ā she purrs out, undertone complete with a GROWL if one is to listen closely; Ā Ā āā Ā Ā Nameās Selena; Iām afraid I seem to be a little⦠lost, Ā Ā āā
SHE DOESNāT ACT LIKE SOMEONE WHOāS AS SUCH, but she doesnāt exactly bother to play the part no matter how true it technically is. Ā Ā < @gothpeng CALLED UPON THE CAT, > Ā Ā She leans in just ever so, only enough to keep things at a playing field, Ā Ā āā Ā Ā But you? You have something I want, Mister; Iām⦠willing to make it worth your while, of course Ā Ā āā Ā Ā not that she means it that way ( SHE NEVER DOES, ACTUALLY ) but doesnāt quite elaborate either,
#gothpeng#ā šā š„š¢ššš£ššš¬šš”šā :ā šš.ā writingsā ļ¹#ā šā š„š¢ššš£ššš¬šš”šā :ā šš.ā threadsā ļ¹#ć
¤ okay so fun fact i have never actually watched Gotham; just clips of catwoman here & there ( surprise surprise )#ć
¤ & i do know nygma / oswald are a thing [ i think??? ] aaaaand that's it dsalkjdf; friendly reminder that Selena universe hops because-#ć
¤ -of her curse SO she's not the same catwoman / Selina from Gotham; also also because of my unfamiliarity i tried to make this ambiguous-#ć
¤ -enough to leave room for response. if there's anything i got wrong PLEASE lmk! new territory for me & Sel hehe
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ā Ā Ā Ā Ā @ximerose Ā Ā Ā Ā set Ā Ā Ā Ā sail
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā ššššĀ Ā Ā Ā ššš
šššĀ Ā Ā Ā ššššĀ Ā Ā Ā š
šššĀ Ā Ā Ā ššššššĀ Ā Ā Ā šššš,Ā Ā Ā Ā šĀ Ā Ā Ā ššššššĀ Ā Ā Ā šššššššĀ Ā Ā Ā šššĀ Ā Ā Ā ššššššĀ Ā Ā Ā ššššĀ Ā Ā Ā šššĀ Ā Ā Ā šššššĀ Ā Ā Ā ššš
ššššššĀ Ā Ā Ā š
šššĀ Ā Ā Ā šššššĀ Ā Ā Ā ššššš. Ā Ā Ā Ā ćĀ Ā Ā Ā Tanner, Ā Ā Ā Ā TARTARUS.Ā Ā Ā Ā ć Ā Ā Ā Ā The Ā Ā Ā Ā half-blood Ā Ā Ā Ā muttered, Ā Ā Ā Ā taking Ā Ā Ā Ā one Ā Ā Ā Ā last Ā Ā Ā Ā glance Ā Ā Ā Ā around Ā Ā Ā Ā the Ā Ā Ā Ā empty Ā Ā Ā Ā shores. Ā Ā Ā Ā ćĀ Ā Ā Ā Hey Ā Ā Ā Ā bud, Ā Ā Ā Ā we Ā Ā Ā Ā are Ā Ā Ā Ā getting Ā Ā Ā Ā you Ā Ā Ā Ā OUTTA Ā Ā Ā Ā there.Ā Ā Ā Ā ć Ā Ā Ā Ā
#ximerose#( ximerose 003 )#ā | ššššššš š
šš ššššššš ššššš šš ššĀ |Ā threads.#ā | Ā ššš šš. š
šš šš šššš šš šššššššĀ |Ā kronos Ā verse.#ā | šššš šš š ššš š šššš šššššĀ |Ā queue.#still thinking about the kronos zoom call
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GGGRRRRRRRR.
#( š ) āøŗ STUDIED.#( šš ) āøŗ MIRROR.#( ššš ) āøŗ DESIRED.#( šš ) āøŗ THREADS.#( š ) āøŗ TUNES.
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š.Ā Ā outĀ Ā ofĀ Ā characterĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā šššššš
š.Ā Ā outĀ Ā ofĀ Ā characterĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā psa
š.Ā Ā inĀ Ā characterĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā valettice
š.Ā Ā threadsĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā verse name
šš.Ā Ā aboutĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā musingsĀ Ā &Ā Ā insights
šš.Ā Ā aboutĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā visageĀ Ā &Ā Ā mannerism
šš.Ā Ā aboutĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā aestheticsĀ Ā &Ā Ā atmosphere
šš.Ā Ā aboutĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā dashĀ Ā games
šš.Ā Ā aboutĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā inĀ Ā depthĀ Ā lore
šš.Ā Ā aboutĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā characterĀ Ā study
šš.Ā Ā aboutĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā headcanons
ššš.Ā Ā miscellaneousĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā prompts
ššš.Ā Ā miscellaneousĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā wishlist
ššš.Ā Ā miscellaneousĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā pinned post
ššš.Ā Ā miscellaneousĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā rules
ššš.Ā Ā miscellaneousĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā characterĀ Ā information
ššš.Ā Ā miscellaneousĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā other
šš.Ā Ā theĀ Ā worldĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā sourceĀ Ā materialĀ Ā study
šš.Ā Ā theĀ Ā worldĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā loreĀ Ā development
#š.Ā Ā outĀ Ā ofĀ Ā characterĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā šššššš#š.Ā Ā outĀ Ā ofĀ Ā characterĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā psa#š.Ā Ā inĀ Ā characterĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā valettice#š.Ā Ā threadsĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā verse name#šš.Ā Ā aboutĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā musingsĀ Ā &Ā Ā insights#šš.Ā Ā aboutĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā visageĀ Ā &Ā Ā mannerism#šš.Ā Ā aboutĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā aestheticsĀ Ā &Ā Ā atmosphere#šš.Ā Ā aboutĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā dashĀ Ā games#šš.Ā Ā aboutĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā inĀ Ā depthĀ Ā lore#šš.Ā Ā aboutĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā characterĀ Ā study#šš.Ā Ā aboutĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā headcanons#ššš.Ā Ā miscellaneousĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā prompts#ššš.Ā Ā miscellaneousĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā wishlist#ššš.Ā Ā miscellaneousĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā pinned post#ššš.Ā Ā miscellaneousĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā rules#ššš.Ā Ā miscellaneousĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā characterĀ Ā information#ššš.Ā Ā miscellaneousĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā other#šš.Ā Ā theĀ Ā worldĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā sourceĀ Ā materialĀ Ā study#šš.Ā Ā theĀ Ā worldĀ Ā ā¦Ā Ā loreĀ Ā development
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tags.
#š . prompts#šš . out of character#ššš . musings#šš . inquiries#š . threads
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23 for the spotify game! Ā Ā Ā Ā |Ā Ā Ā Ā @counterpoiise
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā #šš šššš ššš ššššš šš šššš - šššš ššššš
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā ćĀ Ā Ā Ā I Ā Ā Ā Ā don'tĀ Ā Ā Ā knowĀ Ā Ā Ā where Ā Ā Ā Ā else Ā Ā Ā Ā to Ā Ā Ā Ā go Ā Ā Ā Ā and Ā Ā Ā Ā my Ā Ā Ā Ā time, Ā Ā Ā Ā I Ā Ā Ā Ā fear, Ā Ā Ā Ā is Ā Ā Ā Ā nearly Ā Ā Ā Ā OVER.Ā Ā Ā Ā ć Ā Ā Ā Ā
#counterpoiise#ā | ššššššš š
šš ššššššš ššššš šš šš | threads.#ā | ššš šš. š
šš šš šššš šš ššššššš | kronos verse.#ā | šššš šš š ššš š šššš ššššš | queue.#banger
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tag dump.
#š. ( the fool ) / out of character#š. ( the magician ) / aesthetic#ššš. ( the hanged man ) / visage#ššš. ( the empress ) / musings & isms#šš. ( the emperor ) / ask prompts#š. ( the hierophant ) / headcanon#šš. ( the lovers ) / answered#ššš. ( the chariot ) / thread#šššš. ( verse ) / i. main#šš. ( verse ) / ii. past#š. ( verse ) / iii. hsr#šš. ( justice ) / dash commentary#šš. ( the high priestess ) / dash games#šššš. ( death ) / ship tag#tag dump
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CallousedĀ fingersĀ traceĀ theĀ inkĀ overĀ brutalisedĀ skinĀ Ā āāāĀ Ā allegoricalĀ bloodstainedĀ fleshĀ smearingĀ acrossĀ theĀ scarsĀ whichĀ theĀ breathingĀ wildfireĀ bore.Ā Ā Ā Ā RowanĀ isĀ tentativeĀ withĀ everyĀ strokeĀ ofĀ hisĀ touch,Ā notĀ thatĀ itĀ wasĀ needed.Ā Ā Ā Ā āĀ YourĀ breathingĀ givesĀ youĀ away,Ā youĀ know.Ā āĀ Ā Ā Ā hisĀ wordsĀ areĀ softĀ andĀ playful;Ā Ā Ā Ā aĀ partĀ solelyĀ reservedĀ forĀ Aelin.Ā Ā Ā Ā āĀ IĀ halfĀ expectedĀ aĀ scoldingĀ reprimandĀ byĀ nowĀ forĀ disturbingĀ yourĀ soĀ calledĀ beautyĀ sleep.Ā ā
ā±Ā Ā @f1ameheirĀ gets Ā a Ā smol Ā starter!
#ā ā Ā Ā šš. Ā Ā rowan whitethorn Ā āŖ Ā thread#ā ā Ā Ā šš. Ā Ā arc Ā āŖ Ā tbd#i dunno when this would be set#probs during or before empire of storms chucfd
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Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā SHADOWS STRETCH ACROSS THE MARBLE FLOORS, cast by the dim emergency lights lining the hallways; the air is thick with tension, as if the museum itself is holding its breath. She, THE CATWOMAN Ā Ā [ HARBINGER OF DEATH; CORPSE DAMNED TO WALK NO MATTER WHAT⦠] Ā Ā moves through the darkness like a whisper; lithe form barely makes a sound as she navigates the museumās high-tech security. OUR FELINE-FEMME HAS HER SIGHTS SET ON THE PRIZE: Ā Ā a priceless artifact rumored to be the key to a long-lost fortune ( āa black cat looking for good luck ? Ā Ā PRICELESS )
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā NOT THE MOST PRACTICAL SCORE, COMPARED TO HER HISTORY; & YET, the thrill of the challenge IS WHAT KEPT HER SANE, SO SHEāD TAKE WHAT SHE COULD, even if that includes worthless scrap in the long run. She approaches the exhibit, smirk present behind her mask, blood-red framing pearly whites; the artifact in question, A JEWEL-ENCRUSTED RELIC, is displayed in a glass case in the center of the room.
With just few more steps, a flick of her wrist to disable the sensors, & it would be hers; IT CALLS HER, DRAWS HER IN, & sheās about to be the cat that caught the cream ( & there go the ādirty tinglesā again; tail would be surely wagging in delight, if she had one, ) Ā Ā SHE CAN FEEL HER INCISORS DRIPPING; METAL TALONS POISED ABOVE THE THICK ENCASING,
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā BUT SOMETHING SHIFTS IN THE AIR; a sharp pang, like lightning, static creeping upon flesh, her arms & up her back, making her stiffen. INSTINCTS, HONED FROM YEARS OF PROWLING GOTHAMāS ROOFTOPS, TINGLE WITH THE SENSE OF ANOTHER. Catwoman pauses, eyes narrowing as she scans the shadows. A flash of red makes her turn; a figure, a shadow Ā Ā < @the-mocking-robin CALLED UPON THE CAT , > Ā Ā moves along with seemingly purpose & stealth
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā āā Ā Ā Well, well, Ā Ā āā Ā Ā she purrs, stepping out of the shadows; amusement, a challenge, Ā Ā āā Ā Ā I DIDNāT REALIZE THIS WAS A TEAM JOB. But, well, Ā Ā āā Ā Ā a subtle click of the tongue as she reluctantly sheathes the claw, Ā Ā āā Ā Ā I SUPPOSE Gothamās big enough for the both of us⦠  that is, unless you have a problem with sharing ? Ā Ā āā Ā Ā a jest / nothing more than poking at the bear Ā Ā [ PLEASE, CATWOMAN DOESNāT SHARE, ]
A slight tilt of her head, orbs gleaming with interest as she sizes him up, trying to work out his angle. NO FEAR IN HER POSTURE; just curiosity mixed with a hint of⦠  FRIENDLY, ALBEIT COMPETITIVE SPIRIT. Catwoman waits, gloved fingers casually resting on her hip; HEāS NO BATMAN, SHE CAN GATHER THAT MUCH, AT LEAST.
#the-mocking-robin#ā šā š„š¢ššš£ššš¬šš”šā :ā šš.ā threadsā ļ¹#ā šā š„š¢ššš£ššš¬šš”šā :ā šš.ā writingsā ļ¹
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tag dump.
#š. [ . . . ] visage /#šš. [ . . . ] musings & isms /#ššš. [ . . . ] aesthetic /#šš. [ . . . ] prompt /#š. [ . . . ] headcanon /#šš. [ . . . ] answered /#ššš. [ . . . ] thread /#šššš. [ . . . ] verse / i. main#šš. [ . . . ] verse / ii. past#š. [ . . . ] verse / iii. genshin impact#šš. [ . . . ] dash commentary /#ššš. [ . . . ] dash games /#šššš. [ . . . ] out of character /#ššš. [ . . . ] ship tag /#tag dump
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tag dump
#š. [ . . . ] visage / poet and king#šš. [ . . . ] musings & isms /#ššš. [ . . . ] aesthetic /#šš. [ . . . ] prompt /#š. [ . . . ] headcanon /#šš. [ . . . ] answered /#ššš. [ . . . ] thread /#šššš. [ . . . ] verse / i. main#šš. [ . . . ] verse / ii. past#š. [ . . . ] verse / iii. hsr#šš. [ . . . ] dash commentary /#ššš. [ . . . ] dash games /#šššš. [ . . . ] out of character /#ššš. [ . . . ] ship tag /
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ā * tag dump.
#ā ā ā [š.]ā āā āLOVE LETTERS FOR DEATH�� : prompts & the like.#ā ā ā [šš.]ā āā āSTITCHED TOGETHER IDENTITIESā : study.#ā ā ā [ššš.]ā āā āTHE MUSEUM OF PEOPLEā : aesthetics.#ā ā ā [šš.]ā āā āUNENDING THEATRESā : threads.#ā ā ā [š.]ā āā āSHATTERED MIRRORS / FALLEN MASKSā : ooc.#ā ā ā [šš.]ā āā āUNLOVEDļ¼UNLOVED!ā : musings.
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ā | š
ššš ššš ššššš šššššš šš
šš | visage. ā | ššššš šš
ššš ššš | dossier. ā | ššš šššššš šššš šš šš šššššššššš | musing. ā | šš ššššš ššššš šš šššš ššššš | aesthetics. ā | ššššššš š
šš ššššššš ššššš šš šš | threads. ā | ššššš ššš šššš šš šš ššš šššš | crack. ā | ššš
š šššš ššššš šš šššššš šš
šššš | music.
#ā | š
ššš ššš ššššš šššššš šš
šš | visage.#ā | ššššš šš
ššš ššš | dossier.#ā | ššš šššššš šššš šš šš šššššššššš | musing.#ā | šš ššššš ššššš šš šššš ššššš | aesthetics.#ā | ššššššš š
šš ššššššš ššššš šš šš | threads.#ā | ššššš ššš šššš šš šš ššš šššš | crack.#ā | ššš
š šššš ššššš šš šššššš šš
šššš | music.#ā | šššš šš š ššš š šššš ššššš | queue.#ā | ššš šš. š
šš šš šššš šš ššššššš | kronos verse.#ā | ššš šššššš šššš | critical role verse.#ā | šššššš šš
ššš ššš | royalty verse.#ā | š'šš šššš ššš ššššššš ššššš | voltron verse.#ā | ššššš šš
ššš šššššš | meme.#ā | š
ššššš šššššš | promo.#ā | ššššššš šššš & šššššššš ššš | mun.#ā | šššš ššššššš ššš ššššš | dash comm.#ā | ššš šš
ššššš | ooc.
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tag dump.
#š. [ . . . ] visage / know your place#šš. [ . . . ] musings & isms /#ššš. [ . . . ] aesthetic /#šš. [ . . . ] prompt /#š. [ . . . ] headcanon /#šš. [ . . . ] answered /#ššš. [ . . . ] thread /#šš. [ . . . ] dash commentary /#ššš. [ . . . ] dash games /#šššš. [ . . . ] out of character /#ššš. [ . . . ] ship tag /#šššš. [ . . . ] verse / i. main / wanderer#šš. [ . . . ] verse / ii. past / scaramouche#šš. [ . . . ] verse / ii. past / kabukimono#š. [ . . . ] verse / iii. hsr#tag dump
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Hell hath no fury like a Buckley | Steve Harrington x reader
š§ššÆš¢š ššš¢šØš§ / š¬šš«šš§š šš« šš”š¢š§š š¬ š¦šš¬ššš«š„š¢š¬š / š¢š§ššØš± / š©š. šš
summary: there's exactly two thoughts left in Steve's brain: you, and the fact that he's about to majorly violate the bro code
word count: 6.2k
tags / content warnings: the usual I guess, hopeless pining, smut, mostly those, seems the only writing style I have is 'falls desperately deeply in love at first sight' and I'm not in the mood to psychoanalyse it so here's more of that
a/n: was gonna work on this more but I had to commemorate Pope Francis' morbidly entertaining demise somehow x
Steve Harrington was many thingsā
Former King of Hawkins High (retired, thank you very much). Babysitter extraordinaire (unofficial title, of course, but the kids would back him up). And, according to Robin Buckleyāhis best friend, partner-in-crime, and personal tormentorāaĀ āwalking disaster with good hairā.
But right now?
Right now, he wasĀ fucking mortified.
Okay.
Waitā
Letās rewind.
Five minutes ago, life had been simple: Steve had been doing his best impression of a responsible lifeguard, which mostly meant leaning against the chair with his sunglasses perched low, pretending he wasnāt counting the minutes until his shift ended and he could stop caring about pH levels. The Hawkins community pool was the same as everā the sharp tang of sunscreen and chlorine in the air, kids cannonballing into the deep end, and Debbie ā the one lifeguard who actually gave a shit about the rulesā blowing her whistle at some poor kid for running.Ā Steve?
Steve was here forĀ twoĀ reasons. One: free access to the pool after hours āĀ unofficial, of courseācourtesy of Keithās lack of managerial oversight.Ā And two: A pay cheque thatĀ barelyĀ covers gas money but is still better than listening to his dad rant on to him aboutĀ āloafing around all summer like a goddamn bum.ā
And thenāĀ
Then he sawĀ you.
Which,Ā okay, is not that unusualā people come to the pool all the time.Ā And it wasnāt that you stood out, not really. No, you were justāĀ there. In a swimsuit like half the other girls, a loose cover-up tied around your hips, butĀ fuckā As you stepped into the sunlight, it was like the universe had hit pause.Ā You moved like a struck match in a room full of shadowsāvivid, flickering, impossible to look away from. Everybody else blurred at the edges, cardboard cut-outs in your wake, but you? You burnt.
And SteveāGod, Steve was already half in love with the way the light would destroy him.Ā He knew the story. Knew how it ended. Orpheus wasnāt supposed to turn around. But you smiled at him, and suddenly he understood: some temptations arenāt meant to be resisted. Theyāre meant to unravel you, thread by thread, until youāre grateful for the ruin.
Oh, shit.
You were walkingĀ straight toward him.
Fuck.
Think, Harrington, think.
You lookedĀ familiar.Ā Hawkins isnāt exactly a metropolisāif youād gone to school here, heādĀ knowĀ you.Ā Had you been at the summer fun fair? Sat behind him in chem sophomore year?Ā Christ, this was bad.Ā Steve���King Steve, who used to have the entire school catalogued in his peripheral visionācouldnāt even scrape together a fuckingĀ name.Ā Maybe you wereā
Your eyes met hisāsharp enough to flay him openāand your smirk said you knewĀ exactlyĀ how hard his brain was liquidating.
Double fuck.
You were smiling at himāChristāthat stagnant, astute curve of lips that already felt branded behind his eyelids, and he was staring. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Some distant, rational part of his intellect screamed at him:Ā say something cool. Say something cool.Ā
Instead, all he could track was the way you tilted your headāthat loose strand of hair escaping, catching sunlight like spun gold as it tumbled free. His fingers spasmed at his side with the sudden, visceral urge to reach outāto brush it back behind your ear with a touch too tender forĀ whateverĀ this was. The realisation made him feel violently stupid, like some second-rate rom-com hero about to monologue his feelings in the rain.
"Hey," you said, and your voice wrapped around him like smoke. Steve's pulse stuttered. "Have you seen Robin by any chance?"
The whiplash of itāthe casual destruction of that momentāleft his cerebrum sputtering like a dying engine.
Robin?
Why the hell were you asking aboutĀ Robin?
Robin doesnātĀ haveĀ friends he didnāt know about.Ā HeĀ is herĀ best friend, which means he knows all herĀ peopleāthe band geeks, the weirdos from the record store, and even that one girl who could reciteĀ The HobbitĀ in Elvish. Heād met themĀ all.
And yet,Ā here you were, asking for her like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like you had theĀ rightĀ to know her schedule. Like youā
His mouth moved faster than his brain. "She left to grab beers, like...five minutes ago."
"Figures," you hummed, rolling your eyes, but the corners of your mouth twitchedāthat tell-tale sign of years weathering Robin's particular brand of chaos. "She swore she'd meet me here, but I guess we're operating on Buckley Standard Time again."
Steve's thoughts screeched to a halt.
Buckley Standard Time.
That wasā
No.Ā That couldn't be right. Because that wasĀ hisĀ bit. Well, technically it wasĀ theirĀ bit ā his and Robināsā the joke he'd made after she'd shown up forty minutes late to their shift because she'd "gotten into a debate about whether hot dogs were sandwiches with some guy at the record store."Ā
He'd thought that was theirs. Just theirs.
ButĀ youĀ knew it.
Which meantā
OhĀ shit.
Oh,Ā no.
His stomach dropped like heād just crested the first hill of a rollercoasterāthat awful, weightless second before the plunge. Because there were only two kinds of people who knewĀ Buckley Standard Time: him, and someone whoād known Robin longer than he had. And unless you were some kind of psychic super-stalker (which, given the way his heart was currently trying to break through his ribs, he mightāve honestlyĀ preferred), that left only oneĀ earth-shatteringĀ possibility.
His eyes flicked over your face again, searching for itāthe resemblance. The same sharp wit tucked into the corner of your smile. The identical nose scrunch when you laughed.Ā Christ, how had he missed it? Heād been too busy beingĀ dazzled, too busy cataloguing the way sunlight caught in your eyes, to notice the nuclear bomb of a truth staring him in the face.
āY-youāreāā Steve cleared his throat, trying to wrestle his voice into something resemblingĀ casual indifference. It came out closer toĀ a pubescent seagull.Ā āYouāre Robināsā¦?ā
āTwin.Yeah.ā Your grin widened, head tilting in a way that shouldāve had a government warning:Ā Caution: May cause permanent heart palpitations.
Holy.
Shit.
HeādĀ heardĀ about you,Ā of courseāthe mythical other half of Robinās childhood stories, the shadow in the Polaroids stuffed in her wallet. Heād even known you were coming to town for the summer. But in his mind, heād just picturedā¦Ā Robin 2.0.Ā Same chaos, different zip code. But meeting you in person was aĀ different kind of disaster.
Not only were you Robinās sisterāfully, irrevocably off-limits by the Bro Code in every conceivable universeābut heād just spent the past two minutes mentally draftingĀ embarrassingly bad poetry about how your eyes reminded him of...something poetic (he hadn't gotten that far).Ā
And Robin?
Robin was going toĀ murder him.
Slowly. Painfully.Ā With that special look of disappointment she reserved exclusively for when he was beingĀ āparticularly Harrington-ishā.
"Oh," he said, brilliantly. "Cool. That'sācool." The words hung in the air like particularly unimpressive confetti. You raised one eyebrow, clearly savouring the spectacle of smooth talking. Steve Harrington reduced to a floundering mess. "You okay there?"
"Yep.Ā Great.Ā Never better."Ā His grip on the lifeguard chair tightened until the plastic creaked ominously. "Just,Ā uhādidn't know Robin had a sister." Stupid. Stupidstupidstupidā
The moment the words left his mouth, your face twitchedāpart amusement, part genuine bewilderment.Ā āReally?ā For a second he wondered if he should just fuckingĀ bolt, but then your smile returned, and he forgot how his lungs worked. "I've been away at college,"Ā you explained, shifting your weight just enough to make the hem of your cover-up ride up, and Steve suddenly developed anĀ intenseĀ fascination with the chlorine dispenser behind you, his ears burning crimson. "But I'm back for the summer, and Robin promised me pool privileges." You leaned in, dropping your voice to a conspiratorial whisper that sent shivers down his spine.Ā "Apparently, you're the guy to sweet-talk for after-hours access."
Sweet-talk.
You wanted toĀ sweet-talkĀ him.
Oh no.Ā Oh no, no, no.
His mouth opened, ready to blurt something catastrophically eager like,Ā "You don't even need to sweet-talk me; I'd drain the pool and refill it with champagne if you asked,"Ā whenā
"There you are!"
Robin materialised like some kind ofĀ vengeful angel, arms loaded with a six-pack and a half-eaten bag of chips. "I see you two already met." Her expression cycled fromĀ reliefĀ at spotting you toĀ instantĀ suspicionĀ as her gaze darted between your amused smile and Steve'sĀ deer-in-headlights-meets-fish-out-of-water-meets-man-who-just-remembered-he-left-the-stove-onĀ panic. "Why does Steve look like he's about to pass out?"Ā She asked flatly, already exhausted. "Earth to Harrington. You good?" Robin waved a hand in front of his glazed-over eyes, then shot you a look.Ā "This guy's supposed to save lives?Ā Yeah, right."
Which brings us back toĀ fucking mortified.
Robin doesnāt even wait for you to reach the car,Ā having commandeered you on an urgent towel retrieval mission she absolutely (and suspiciously) couldnāt handle herself. One second Steve's watching you go, the next he's being manhandled behind the snack bar like a misbehaving golden retriever, Robin's fingers digging into his bicep like sheās trying to jump-start his malfunctioning brain through sheer force. "What theĀ fuckĀ is up with you?" She hisses, voice low enough that it bypasses his eardrums and vibrates directly in his panic centre. Her free hand gestures wildly toward the parking lot. "Why are you acting so weird?ā
Steve opens his mouth. Closes it. His throat makes a noise like a dial-up modem trying to connect. "I wasn'tā" Robin's eyes narrow into lethal slits. "You were."Ā She releases his arm only to jab a finger against his sternum hard enough to leave a bruise.Ā "The moment she walked in, you short-circuited so hard I could smell burning wiring. You called the pool ladder āmaāamā. Twice."
Steveās pulse kicks into overdrive.Ā āWhat? I was justābeing nice.āĀ He gestures vaguely at the pool, as if that explainsĀ anything.Ā āIām a nice guy, Robin.Ā Itās a thing I do.ā She scoffs, nostrils flaring.Ā āHarrington, Iāve seen your āniceā. This wasnāt āniceā. This wasāā She makes a frantic explosion motion with her hands, complete with aĀ āpshooo!āĀ sound effect. āāfull-systemĀ meltdown āniceā. You wereĀ sweating.ā
āItās July,āĀ he protests weakly.
āYouĀ neverĀ sweat.ā
āIĀ alwaysĀ sweat!ā
āYou once fought a demodog in a leather jacket and came outĀ dewyĀ atĀ most.ā
Steve opens his mouth.Ā Closes it. Opens it again.Ā āThatāsā thatāsĀ notāā But before he can dig his grave any deeper, you reappear, sauntering over with a smirk that spells nothing butĀ trouble.Ā āEverything alright over here?ā Robinās grip on his arm tightens like a warning.Ā āGreat!āĀ she chirps, voice suddenly three octaves too high.Ā āSteve was just telling me howĀ thrilledĀ he is to have another Buckley around.ā
Steveās smile is lessĀ charming Harrington grinĀ and moreĀ man awaiting execution. āThrilledā, he croaks. āYep.Ā So.Ā So thrilled.ā Your grin widens at his wordsāslow, studious,Ā dangerous. "Yeah?" You step closer, and Steve's heart launches into an Olympic-grade gymnastics routineātriple backflip, perfect landing, gold medal in catastrophic panic. "Because I was just thinking..." Your finger taps a thoughtful rhythm against your chin. "...about all that quality time we'll be sharing. Robin says you throwĀ legendaryĀ parties."
Steveās brain flatlines.Ā Parties.Ā Together.Ā You.Ā Him. Oh God.
Across from him, Robinās gaze darts between the two of you, her expression morphing from suspicion to outrightĀ dread.
Steve's Adam's apple bobs like it's trying to flee his throat. She knows. Christ, sheĀ definitelyĀ knows. He has just enough coherent thought left to realise:
He is so spectacularly, catastrophically, irrevocablyĀ fucked.
He spends the rest of the weekĀ tryingĀ to avoid you. TryingĀ being the key word here. The universe, it seems, has other plans.
Because you'reĀ everywhereāa constant, maddening presenceĀ burning at the edges of his vision like the ghost of a flashlight in the dark. HeĀ swearsĀ you're doing it on purpose, catching his eye just to watch him fumble, that sly smile playing at the corners of your lips every time his pulse stutters under your gaze. And God, does it stutter.
Youāre at the impromptu movie night Nancy throws, wedged between Robin and Eddie on the couch, laughing as you recall some childhood disaster involving a stolen bike, a jar of peanut butter, andāif Robinās dramatic interruptions are to be believedāaĀ "very pissed-off raccoon with a personal vendetta."
"WayĀ more traumatic than this,"Ā you declare, gesturing at the slasher flick on the screen where some poor extra is meeting their gory demise. Steveāwhoās stranded in the armchair like some sombre,Ā forgotten puppyācanāt manage to join in. Not when your laughter does things to his pulse thatās sure to send him into cardiac arrestĀ anyĀ day now.
But then your knee brushes against Eddieās as you lean forward to grab a handful of popcorn, and somethingĀ hot and irrationalĀ coils in Steveās gut. ItāsĀ stupidāEddieās just a friend, and itās not likeĀ heĀ has any claim over youābut the way your fingers linger near Eddieās wrist for half a second too long makes Steveās jaw clench.
Then there's the Hawkins High tailgate, where the lukewarm beer and golden-hour sunlight are the real stars of the show āĀ not the Tigers' tragic losing streak.Ā Steve leans against his BMW, nursing a drink and trying to convince himself that heās here forĀ school spiritā heās lying.Ā Heās so fucking obvious about it that Robinās been giving himĀ that lookĀ all afternoonāthe one that says,Ā āI will skin you alive if you make this weird.ā
And like his personal reckoningāyou appear. One second, heās staring blankly ahead, and the next, youāre sliding onto the hood of his car like you own it, allĀ long legs and lazy smiles.Ā The dying sun paints your skin in hues of amber and gold, catching on the delicate bend of your collarbone and the smooth plane of your thighs where your cut-off shorts ride up.
Christ.
He wants to map every inch of you with his mouth, starting at the delicate dip of your ankleāthat vulnerable hollow where his lips could lingerāthen leisurely, torturously working his way up. Up the taut line of your calf, tracing the sensitive bend of your knee with his tongue. Higher still, along the trembling skin of your inner thigh, where his teeth might graze just to feel you shiver. An unhurried pilgrimage of worship, every gasp and hitch of your breath another sacred waypoint in his journey.
āDude, youāre, like,Ā actuallyĀ drooling.āĀ Dustinās voice cuts through his increasinglyĀ inappropriateĀ thoughts. SteveĀ chokesĀ on his drink, beer burning his sinuses as he wheezes,Ā āWhat? No, Iām notā!ā But Dustin just raises his eyebrows, impervious.Ā āUh-huh. Sure.ā And then Robinās there. āSo!āĀ she chirps, stealing Steveās beer right out of his hand.Ā āWhoās ready to watch our team get slaughtered?ā You hum softly in your throat ā a vibration Steve feels more than hears ā as you tilt your head toward him. The calculated brush of your knee against his thigh burns through the denim between you, lingering just a second too long to be accidental. His breath catches when you don't pull away, your leg warm and insistent against his.
Heās so screwed.
Even as the midday sun is brutal at the Hawkins pool, he barely feels itānot when youāre walking toward his lifeguard chair withĀ thatĀ lookĀ in your eyes āthe mischievous Buckley spark.
You hold up the sunscreen bottle , tilting your head with a smile of practiced innocence. "Can you help me?" Before he can answer, you're already turningāpresenting your back to him where the strings of your bikini top form a delicate,Ā infuriatingĀ knot.Ā "I can't reach," you add, voice dripping with false helplessness.
Steve's soul nearly leaves him: "Iā YouāRobinĀ canā" "Robin's allergic to coconut oil," you lie effortlessly, glancing over your shoulder. The sunlight catches the curve of your shoulder blade, the flutter of your lashes. His mouth goes desert-dry. "And youĀ areĀ the lifeguard." You let the implication hang between you like the summer heat. "Isn't it your job to protect me?"
Fuck.
His hands tremble as he squeezes sunscreen onto his palms, the lotion warm from the sun. When his fingers finally make contact with your skin, youĀ humāsoft, satisfiedāand he swears you lean into his touch, just slightly. The sound goes straight to his gut,Ā hot and insistent. His thumbs press into the dip of your spine, dragging sluggish circles that haveĀ no business being that deliberate. āYou missed a spot,āĀ you murmur, shifting just enough that his fingers brush the edge of your bikini tie. Steveās breath comesĀ ragged.Ā This isĀ torture.
And now? Now the bass from Tinaās stereo thrums through the floor, rattling Steveās bones like a second heartbeat. The air is thick with sweat and cheap beer, the kind of chaos he usually lives forāexcept tonight, his entire world has narrowed down toĀ you.
All evening, heās been trapped in a loop of stolen glances and half-formed hopes, wondering if the way your eyes linger on him means something or if heās just another fool drunk on wishful thinking.Ā Is this real? Is this worth it?Ā The questions gnaw at him, unanswered, even as he drains the last of his beer and sets the bottle down with a clink. And then, as if summoned by his desperation,Ā youāre there. EmergingĀ beside him like smoke, you lean into the wall, your shoulder pressing against his, and suddenlyāthe music, the crowd,Ā the entire fucking roomĀ might as well not exist.
"Trying to hide from me, Harrington?" You taunt, tipping your drink to your lips. The bottleās rim glistens under the dim light, and your mouthāpink, slow, meticulousālingers there for a beat too long. Itās a calculated assault on what little composure he has left. His throat goes dry.
āWould it work if I were?āĀ He shoots back, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. His voice is rougher than he intended, betraying the way his pulse jumps under his skin. You laugh, low and keen, before stepping into his space. Your palm lands on his chest, searing through the fabric of his shirt.Ā āProbably not.ā You admit, fingers crooking slightlyātesting, teasingāand heĀ knowsĀ you can feel the frantic hammering of his heart beneath your touch.
āYou know,āĀ you murmur, leaning in until your breath ghosts his jaw,Ā āRobin talks about youĀ allĀ the time.āĀ
His breath hitches.
This is dangerous.
Your knee brushes his thigh,Ā prudentĀ andāholy shitāhis thoughts dissolve into static. āBut sheĀ neverĀ mentioned howĀ cuteĀ you are when youāre flustered.ā The words curl into his ear, sweet and lethal. He should say somethingĀ clever, somethingĀ smooth, but all he can manage is a shaky exhale as your fingers trail up to his collarbone, tracing the edge of his shirt. Youāre close enough now that he can smell the jasmine of your perfume and the faint tang of gin on your tongue. Your hips tilting, just a fraction, andā āI wonderā, you whisper, lips grazing the shell of his ear,Ā āwhat else I donāt know yet.ā
Before he can respondābefore he can evenĀ breatheāyouāre leaning in, your nose almost brushing his. His hand liftsāto pull you closer? To push you away?Ā āwhenā
"Oh myĀ God." Ā
Robinās voiceĀ shattersĀ the moment as sheĀ stands there, arms crossed, lookingĀ done.Ā āI leave you two alone forĀ five minutesāā
Steve jerks back like heās been burnt. "Robin! Hey!Ā We were justā"
"āabout to makeĀ my lifeĀ a living hell?"Ā
Steveās mouth snaps shut, his fingers flexing at his sides like heās still debating whether to reach for you again, and his gaze flickers to your lips āĀ just for a momentā before he forces a laugh, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. The gesture does nothing to hide the flush creeping up his throat. āCome on,ā he deflects, āWe were justĀ talking.ā
Robin raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.Ā "Uh-huh. And 'talking' now involves you two looking like youāre about to re-enactĀ Dirty DancingĀ in the middle of the living room?" Steve canĀ feelĀ your pulse kick where your thigh brushes against his, but you donāt back down.Ā Youāre clearly used to these sparring matches with Robin, a rhythm he doesnāt yet know the steps to, and heās equal parts terrified and intrigued.
"Maybe you shouldāve knocked,"Ā you shoot back, grinning wider when Robinās jaw drops andĀ Steveās composure nosedives like a bird that just noticed the window isnāt open.
"Nope.Ā No. AbsolutelyĀ not."Ā Robin jabs a finger between the two of you like sheās warding off evil.Ā "I refuse to be the third wheel in whateverā¦Ā thisĀ is."Ā She spins toward the kitchen with enough dramatic flair toĀ create wind resistance. "I'm getting another drink," she announces over her shoulder. "Or seven. Alone. Like the abandoned best friend in every fucking rom-com."
Steve takes a half-step forward.Ā "Robā"
"Save it, Dingus."Ā She pauses, levelling you both with a glare thatās equal parts warning and surrender.Ā "Ground rules," she announces, holding up a finger. "Youā" The finger jabs at Steve's chest.Ā āIf you hurt my sister, Iāll give you aĀ live demonstrationĀ of whyĀ The Texas Chainsaw MassacreĀ wasnāt rated PG. Spoiler:Ā Itās the bone saws.ā Her finger swings to you, and Steve can practically hear your heartbeat kick into overdrive against his side. "And youāif you give him another existential crisis, I'm telling Mom you're the one who broke Grandma's urnĀ andĀ that you're the reason we had to get the couch steam-cleaned in '82."
Then sheās gone, swallowed by the noise of the party.
The silence between you is thick, charged. Steve exhales, slow and shaky, before turning back to you. The air cracklesāRobinās interruption only fanned the flames, and now it licks at his skin, relentless. His voice comes out rough, just this side of breaking: "SheāsĀ neverĀ gonna let me live this down." You bite your lip, stepping closer. The scent of your perfume coils around him, dizzying.Ā "Then we might as well give her somethingĀ realĀ to complain about," you murmur, lips grazing the shell of his ear. His breath stutters when your fingers skate up his throat, nails scraping justĀ barelyĀ over his stubble. A whimper claws its way out of him, raw and unbidden.Ā "Christ. YouāreĀ killinā me here." You grin, all teeth.Ā "Good."Ā Your thumb brushes the frantic pulse under his jaw.Ā "Weāve got about twelve minutes until she storms back. Better make āem count."
This time, when you lean in, thereās no one to stop you, just the muffledĀ clinkĀ of Robin angrily rearranging liquor bottles in the kitchen. Steve finallyāfucking finallyālearns what you taste like (gin and mint and somethingĀ addicting), how your lips feel against his (softer than he imagined, but demanding,Ā hungry), andĀ how the dip of your waist fits under his palms like it was made for him. AndĀ Christāthe sound you make when he pulls you flush against him, a moan clawing its way up your throat, is enough to unravel him completely.
His brain, stuck on a loading screen for days, finally processes one coherent thought:
Fuck it.
Steve's hand fists in your hair, dragging you closerāChrist, not close enoughāuntil your shared breath turns jagged. Just as he tilts his head to finally taste you properly, you pull back. His stomach plummets like a failed carnival ride. For one gut-twisting second, he's certain he's ruined itāmisread the way your body arched against his,Ā all heat and hunger, like you wanted to melt into his skin. Then your fingers lock around his wrist, nails biting just shy of pain, and the look you give him isn't hesitationāit's wildfire. "C'mere," you murmur, already walking down the hallway, tugging him along. Steve doesn't think; his body moves before his mind catches up, pulled by the magnetism of your touch.
The party dissolves into white noiseādrowned out by the hammering rhythm of his pulse.Ā Every passive draw of your thumb against his skin is a brand-new dare, burning straight through to his sternum.Ā The hallway diminishes around you, lit only by a sputtering bulb that throws strobe-light shadows across your face. He doesn't miss the way your teeth sink into your lower lip as you glance at the bathroom doorāor how your grip tightens like you're fighting the urge to sprint the last few steps.
Then you're shoving him inside, all impatient hands and shared momentum. The door clicks shut behind you with finality, sealing you both in the dark. Somewhere outside, a cheer goes upāmaybe for the keg stand, maybe for the universe laughing at how thoroughly Steve Harrington is about to lose his goddamn mind.
The space is cramped, the air thick with the odour of soap and the lingering sweetness of someoneās perfume.Ā The sink digs into his lower back, cold enough to make him hissābut then your hands are on him, warm and demanding, and he forgets everything else. Forgets the way your thighs had tensed when he licked the salt off his hand before taking a shot. Forgets the way youād watched his throat bob as he laughed at one of Robinās jokes. Forgets the way youād nearly choked on your own tongue when heād rolled up his sleeves in the kitchen, forearms flexing as he scooped ice into a cup.Ā The partyās bass thrums through the walls, a distant echo beneath the serrated sound of his own breathing and the slick noise of your mouth on his skin.Ā Christ, he hopes the musicās loud enough to drown out the way you whimper when he sucks at your pulse point.
āYouāve been driving me crazy all night,ā you admit, voice low, and the crude honesty in it makes his throat go dry. Your fingers dig into his hips, pulling him closer. āAllĀ weekā,Ā you correct, and suddenly heās replaying every glance, every brush of contact: the way youād ātrippedā into his side at the pool, how youād lingered in his space after movie night, your knee pressed to his thigh for a full thirty minutes before Robin kicked you both off her couch. The memory of your breath on his neck when youād leaned over his shoulder to steal a fry at the dinerāhad youĀ alwaysĀ smelt this good?
Steveās hands trail up your waist, thumbs carving possessive lines into that sliver of exposed skin where your shirtās ridden up. āYeah?ā he rasps, voice wreckedādrunk on the way your breath hitches, on the way your ribs expand under his palms like youāre already starving for it. āFunny. I thought I was the one losing my damn mind.ā You humāa quiet, perceptive soundābefore inching your lips along the column of his throat. He feels the vibration of it like a live wire down his spine, sparking at every vertebra. āShow me,ā you murmur against his pulse, and the challenge in it sends his blood south so fast he gets lightheaded. Itās all the permission he needs.
One hand fists in your hair, wrenching your head back as he crashes into you. This kiss isnāt like beforeāno teasing, no hesitationājust heat and teeth and the slick, filthy slide of your tongue against his. He swallows your whimper when his other hand slips under your shirt, palm skimming the bare dip of your waist. Christ.Ā The whimper you let out when his fingers dig into your hip isnāt just sound. Itās a bloody revelation.
Steve knows heās on borrowed time. Robinās sharp and observantāsheāll come looking sooner rather than later, and when she does, sheāll take one look at his flushed face and your swollen lipsĀ and know.Ā The thoughtĀ shouldĀ sober him up, but right now?Ā He doesnāt give a shit. All that matters is the way your nails bite into his shoulders, the way you gasp when he nips your lower lip, and the way your body fits against his like you were carved from the same damn stone. And when you roll your hips against hisāslow, deliberate,Ā maddeningāhis grip tightens, fingers digging into your waist hard enough to bruise. His voice is rough, wrecked, barely recognisable when he growls against your mouth: "This isn't exactly how I pictured our first time."
The words tear from Steve's throat, rough and wreckedāa confession to his sinful thoughts. The second they hit air, he freezes.Ā Shit.
But youāChrist, youājust beam like you've won the lottery, dragging your teeth over his swollen bottom lip in a way that makes his knees threaten to buckle. "YouĀ picturedĀ our first time?" Your voice drips with delight, thumb brushing the frantic pulse in his neck. Heat floods his cheeks, but you don't let him recover. You crash into him, kissing him so hard his back slams against the tiled wall. His hands move on pure instinctālifting you onto the sink with a grunt, fingers skating up the soft underside of your thighs like he's memorising the map of you. When they dig in, kneading with a hunger that surprises evenĀ him, you moan directly into his mouth, and the sound goes straight to his dick.
You moan, and the sound tears something primal from his chestāa growl that rumbles against your lips, vibrating through you. "How about we save yourĀ ideal first time for later?" You murmur against him, biting his lip just hard enough to make him jerk against you. Your voice drops to a whisper, all heat and promise:Ā "And focus on fucking my brains out in the next ten minutes?"
Steve's resolve doesn't just shatterāit disintegrates. Any pretence of patience evaporates as his hands find your waist, fingers pressing bruises into your hips that you'll savour tomorrow. His mouth crashes into yours again, but this time he's a man on a mission. He charts your skin like territory to be conqueredāthe sharp line of your jaw, the salt-slick column of your throat, the frantic flutter of your pulse beneath his tongue. When he reaches the swell of your cleavage, you arch into him with a gasp that turns into a whine as his teeth scrape delicate skin. Your fingers are already working at his belt, tugging with impatient urgency.
"Steveā"
"Fuck,"Ā he rasps, pulling back just enough to watch your face.Ā "You sound even better than I imagined." AndĀ Christ, he has imagined thisāin the shower, trying to relieve the ache with his hand, in his bed with the sheets tangled around his thighs, in the fucking Family Video break room when you'd leaned too close to reach a tape. Every fantasy pales in comparison to the reality of your nails digging into his hips as he shoves his jeans down just enough to free himself. Your hand wraps around him in one smooth motion, and for one blinding second, the world narrows to the slick heat of your fingers, the way your thumb swipes over the head just to watch his abs clench.
If this is heaven, he'll sign his own damn death warrant.
But thenāthenāyou spin him around with surprising strength, dropping to your knees on the bath mat. The cool tile bites into his palms as he braces against the sink, but all he can focus on is the way your breath ghosts over him, the way your eyes lock onto his as your tongueā
Jesus.
Fucking.
Christ.
His vision fractures at the edges, tunnelling until the universe condenses to three points: the wicked curve of your lips, the flutter of your lashes against your skin, and the sinful press of your tongue where he needs it most. For one suspended, blasphemous moment, Steve's convinced RobinĀ actuallyĀ killed himābecause there's no earthly way this is real: your mouth sinking onto him like you've been starving for it, hot and wet and perfect, swallowing him down to the hilt with a vibration that travels straight to his fucking spine. The sound you makeāa muffled, content hum around him as he hits the back of your throatāsends a full-body shudder through him.
Holy mother of God.
He knows better than to look. HeĀ knowsĀ he shouldnātābut he does anyway, helpless as a marionette with its strings cutā
Big mistake.
Because now he's watching, really watching, as your lips stretch obscenely around him, as your throat works to take him deeper.Ā Your eyes lock onto his, crinkled at the corners with vicious amusement as you take him deeper, andĀ shit, suddenly heās sixteen again, stumbling across his firstĀ Playboy, heart racing and palms sweating. Except now itāsĀ yourĀ mouth,Ā yourĀ knowing gaze scalding him hotter than July asphalt as you savour every choked noise he canāt suppress. He should say something, should at least try to form words, but all his head does is thud back again. That look aloneālike youāre cataloguing his every twitch and heaveāthreatens to spill him into your throat right fucking now. If he doesnātā
A burst of laughter ricochets down the hall, sudden andĀ too close. Your fingers tighten reflexively around the base of him, nails grazing the sensitive skin there, and Steveās entire body tenses like a bowstring drawn too tight, but his hips jerk forward before he can stop them, dragging a ragged groan from him.
āFuckāwe have to be quiet,ā he rasps, but you just smirk around him, all devilish intent, dragging your tongue along his underside in a measured, filthy stripe that makes his vision blur at the edges. His legs actuallyĀ cave in; he has to brace a forearm against the wall to stay upright.
ItāsĀ agony.
ItāsĀ ecstasy.
Then your eyes flutter shut, and the soft, satisfied hum you let out vibrates through him straight to his spine. His fingers fist in your hairāgentle, got to be gentleābut his hips jerk of their own accord, chasing the sinful heat of your mouth like itās his only chance at salvation. āFuck, sweetheart,ā he chokes, voice shredded. āYouāre gonna fuckingĀ ruinĀ me.ā And heĀ meansĀ it. Because if this is what you do to him in some shittyĀ bathroom, with Robin and half the party just beyond the doorāThen what happens when he gets you alone? His mind whites out, fever-bright with the images: Pinning you against the first available surfaceāhis bed, his car, the fucking kitchen counterāanything to finally take what youāve been tormenting him with. Peeling you out of your clothes with agonising slowness, just to hear you whine and beg for his name. His mouth on every patch of skin heās watched you expose all summerāthe dip of your collarbone, the inside of your thighs, that spot behind your ear that makes you gasp when heĀ accidentallyĀ brushes it. The way youād clench around him when he finally sinks in, tight and desperate after an eternity of stolen glances. The filth heād whisper in your ear:Ā āKnew youād take me so fucking good.ā
āChrist,ā he grits out, hips stuttering as you swallow him deeper. His knuckles tensing against the sink.Ā āYouāre so fuckingāā
A sharp knock at the door interrupts him.
āHey, dipshits!ā Robinās voice slices through the haze, sharp with accusation. "You better not be doing what IĀ thinkĀ youāre doing in there."
Steveās head thunks back against the wall.Ā Goddamn it.
His entire body locks up, every muscle pulled taut between the mind-numbing pleasure of your mouth and the very real possibility of Robin kicking the door in. His fingers twist tighter in your hairānot to stop you,Ā never to stop you, but because if he doesnāt anchor to something, he might genuinely combust. The bathroom light flickers overhead, casting shadows against your cheeks as you glance up at him, andāfuckāheāsĀ never seen anything more obscene.
"Shit,"Ā he hisses, voice shredded. "Fuck,Ā fuckā" The litany spills from him like a prayer, like a curse, like heresy. You pull off just enough to smirk up at him, lips slick and swollen, and the sight alone nearly undoes him. "We should stop," you murmurāliar, fucking liarāyour breath scorching his skin. Your tongue grazes his tip as you speak, and Steve sees actual stars. He groans, low and wounded, but his thumb trails over your bottom lip anyway, smearing spit as he claims the wetness there. "Yeah.Ā Yeah, weā" Another knock, louder this time, rattling the doorframe.
"I swear to God, Harrington," Robinās voice cuts through the wood, "if youāre defiling my sister in there, Iām replacing your hairspray with Nair."
You pull back just enough to make him ache, and Steveās breath hisses through his teethāsharp, frustrated, barely holding back something far filthier. His hands twitch at your waist like heās debating dragging you right back, but all he does is adjust himself with a rough groan, his jeans straining. When his gaze locks onto yours, itās wildfire in the dark, pupils swallowing every last bit of reason. "This isnāt over."Ā The words scrape out of him like a match strike, sulfur-sharp and spark-ready.
A smirk curls your lips as you stand, lips grazing the stubble along his jaw. The shudder it pulls from him is downright criminal.
"Better not be,"Ā you murmur against his skin, your tongue swiping the sting from his skin, sweet as poisoned candy.Ā "Or Iāll finish what you started on my ownāand trust me, youāll lie awake trying and failing to picture it half as vividly as itāll sound."
Steveās breath catches. "Christ," he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. Heās half-hard, wholly ruined, and absolutely fucked when you step back, looking far too innocent for someone who just had their mouth onā
The door flies open under Robinās impatient fist. Steve barely has time to yank it wider before sheās glaring up at him, arms crossed. But Steve only has one thought consuming him:
Later.
[pt. II]
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