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aueternus Ā· 6 months ago
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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€œ Welcome back! I mean ——— 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€œ 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 ——— Nevermore underwent changes over the summer; new headmaster, different students. It really shouldn't surprise Enid if something else were to happen. ā€œ I've only just started unpacking my bag, I wanted to wait for you so we could set up together this time! ā€
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pv55y Ā· 10 months ago
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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 she’d 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  [ SHE’S NOT ONE TO PARTY, NEVER HAS BEEN, TRULY ] Ā  Ā  & she doesn’t have to look hard / far to spot the one she’s 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  ā›ā› Ā  Ā  Well, hello there Ā  Ā  āœāœ Ā  Ā  she purrs out, undertone complete with a GROWL if one is to listen closely; Ā  Ā  ā›ā› Ā  Ā  Name’s Selena; I’m afraid I seem to be a little… lost, Ā  Ā  āœāœ
SHE DOESN’T ACT LIKE SOMEONE WHO’S AS SUCH, but she doesn’t 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  ā›ā› Ā  Ā  But you? You have something I want, Mister; I’m… willing to make it worth your while, of course Ā  Ā  āœāœ Ā  Ā  not that she means it that way ( SHE NEVER DOES, ACTUALLY ) but doesn’t quite elaborate either,
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okeancsa Ā· 2 years ago
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♆ Ā Ā Ā Ā @ximerose Ā Ā Ā Ā set Ā Ā Ā Ā sail
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Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā šŽšš‚š„Ā Ā Ā Ā  š’š€š…š„š‹š˜Ā Ā Ā Ā  š€š–š€š˜Ā Ā Ā Ā  š…š‘šŽšŒĀ Ā Ā Ā  šš‘š˜šˆšš†Ā Ā Ā Ā  š„š˜š„š’,Ā Ā Ā Ā  š€Ā Ā Ā Ā  š†šŽš‹šƒš„šĀ Ā Ā Ā  šƒš‘š€š‚š‡šŒš€Ā Ā Ā Ā  š–š€š’Ā Ā Ā Ā  š“šŽš’š’š„šƒĀ Ā Ā Ā  šˆšš“šŽĀ Ā Ā Ā  š“š‡š„Ā Ā Ā Ā  š‹šˆš†š‡š“Ā Ā Ā Ā  š‘š„š…š‹š„š‚š“š„šƒĀ Ā Ā Ā  š…š‘šŽšŒĀ Ā Ā Ā  šŽš‚š„š€šĀ Ā Ā Ā  š’šš‘š€š˜. Ā Ā Ā Ā ć€Ā Ā Ā Ā Tanner, Ā Ā Ā Ā TARTARUS.Ā Ā Ā Ā ć€ž 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 ć€Ā 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€ž Ā Ā Ā Ā 
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wolf1sh Ā· 1 month ago
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GGGRRRRRRRR.
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takerette Ā· 1 month ago
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šŽ.Ā  Ā outĀ  Ā ofĀ  Ā characterĀ   ✦  Ā š’”š’š’‡š’•š’Šš’†
šŽ.Ā  Ā outĀ  Ā ofĀ  Ā characterĀ   ✦  Ā psa
šˆ.Ā  Ā inĀ  Ā characterĀ   ✦  Ā valettice
šˆ.Ā  Ā threadsĀ   ✦  Ā verse name
šˆšˆ.Ā  Ā aboutĀ   ✦  Ā musingsĀ  Ā &Ā  Ā insights
šˆšˆ.Ā  Ā aboutĀ   ✦  Ā visageĀ  Ā &Ā  Ā mannerism
šˆšˆ.Ā  Ā aboutĀ   ✦  Ā aestheticsĀ  Ā &Ā  Ā atmosphere
šˆšˆ.Ā  Ā aboutĀ   ✦  Ā dashĀ  Ā games
šˆšˆ.Ā  Ā aboutĀ   ✦  Ā inĀ  Ā depthĀ  Ā lore
šˆšˆ.Ā  Ā aboutĀ   ✦  Ā characterĀ  Ā study
šˆšˆ.Ā  Ā aboutĀ   ✦  Ā headcanons
šˆšˆšˆ.Ā  Ā miscellaneousĀ   ✦  Ā prompts
šˆšˆšˆ.Ā  Ā miscellaneousĀ   ✦  Ā wishlist
šˆšˆšˆ.Ā  Ā miscellaneousĀ   ✦  Ā pinned post
šˆšˆšˆ.Ā  Ā miscellaneousĀ   ✦  Ā rules
šˆšˆšˆ.Ā  Ā miscellaneousĀ   ✦  Ā characterĀ  Ā information
šˆšˆšˆ.Ā  Ā miscellaneousĀ   ✦  Ā other
šˆš•.Ā  Ā theĀ  Ā worldĀ   ✦  Ā sourceĀ  Ā materialĀ  Ā study
šˆš•.Ā  Ā theĀ  Ā worldĀ   ✦  Ā loreĀ  Ā development
#šŽ.Ā  Ā outĀ  Ā ofĀ  Ā characterĀ   ✦  Ā š’”š’š’‡š’•š’Šš’†#šŽ.Ā  Ā outĀ  Ā ofĀ  Ā characterĀ   ✦  Ā psa#šˆ.Ā  Ā inĀ  Ā characterĀ   ✦  Ā valettice#šˆ.Ā  Ā threadsĀ   ✦  Ā verse name#šˆšˆ.Ā  Ā aboutĀ   ✦  Ā musingsĀ  Ā &Ā  Ā insights#šˆšˆ.Ā  Ā aboutĀ   ✦  Ā visageĀ  Ā &Ā  Ā mannerism#šˆšˆ.Ā  Ā aboutĀ   ✦  Ā aestheticsĀ  Ā &Ā  Ā atmosphere#šˆšˆ.Ā  Ā aboutĀ   ✦  Ā dashĀ  Ā games#šˆšˆ.Ā  Ā aboutĀ   ✦  Ā inĀ  Ā depthĀ  Ā lore#šˆšˆ.Ā  Ā aboutĀ   ✦  Ā characterĀ  Ā study#šˆšˆ.Ā  Ā aboutĀ   ✦  Ā headcanons#šˆšˆšˆ.Ā  Ā miscellaneousĀ   ✦  Ā prompts#šˆšˆšˆ.Ā  Ā miscellaneousĀ   ✦  Ā wishlist#šˆšˆšˆ.Ā  Ā miscellaneousĀ   ✦  Ā pinned post#šˆšˆšˆ.Ā  Ā miscellaneousĀ   ✦  Ā rules#šˆšˆšˆ.Ā  Ā miscellaneousĀ   ✦  Ā characterĀ  Ā information#šˆšˆšˆ.Ā  Ā miscellaneousĀ   ✦  Ā other#šˆš•.Ā  Ā theĀ  Ā worldĀ   ✦  Ā sourceĀ  Ā materialĀ  Ā study#šˆš•.Ā  Ā theĀ  Ā worldĀ   ✦  Ā loreĀ  Ā development
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ruinati0ns Ā· 1 month ago
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tags.
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okeancs Ā· 6 months ago
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23 for the spotify game! Ā Ā Ā Ā |Ā Ā Ā Ā  @counterpoiise
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Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā #šŸšŸ‘ š–š‡š„š š“š‡š„ ššˆš†š‡š“ šˆš’ šŽš•š„š‘ - š‹šŽš‘šƒ š‡š”š‘šŽš
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Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā ć€Ā 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€ž Ā Ā Ā Ā 
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blacklambs Ā· 1 year ago
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tag dump.
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aueternus Ā· 4 months ago
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CallousedĀ  fingersĀ  traceĀ  theĀ  inkĀ  overĀ  brutalisedĀ  skinĀ   ———  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 ā€œĀ  YourĀ  breathingĀ  givesĀ  youĀ  away,Ā  youĀ  know.Ā  ā€Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā hisĀ  wordsĀ  areĀ  softĀ  andĀ  playful;Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā aĀ  partĀ  solelyĀ  reservedĀ  forĀ  Aelin.Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā ā€œĀ  IĀ  halfĀ  expectedĀ  aĀ  scoldingĀ  reprimandĀ  byĀ  nowĀ  forĀ  disturbingĀ  yourĀ  soĀ  calledĀ  beautyĀ  sleep.Ā  ā€
♱  Ā @f1ameheirĀ  gets Ā a Ā smol Ā starter!
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pv55y Ā· 10 months ago
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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 museum’s 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 ( —a 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 SHE’D 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, & she’s about to be the cat that caught the cream ( & there go the ā€˜dirty tingles’ 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 GOTHAM’S 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  ā›ā› Ā  Ā  Well, well, Ā  Ā  āœāœ Ā  Ā  she purrs, stepping out of the shadows; amusement, a challenge, Ā  Ā  ā›ā› Ā  Ā  I DIDN’T REALIZE THIS WAS A TEAM JOB. But, well, Ā  Ā  āœāœ Ā  Ā  a subtle click of the tongue as she reluctantly sheathes the claw, Ā  Ā  ā›ā› Ā  Ā  I SUPPOSE Gotham’s big enough for the both of us… Ā  Ā  that is, unless you have a problem with sharing ? Ā  Ā  āœāœ Ā  Ā  a jest / nothing more than poking at the bear Ā  Ā  [ PLEASE, CATWOMAN DOESN’T 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… Ā  Ā  FRIENDLY, ALBEIT COMPETITIVE SPIRIT. Catwoman waits, gloved fingers casually resting on her hip; HE’S NO BATMAN, SHE CAN GATHER THAT MUCH, AT LEAST.
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wingspiked Ā· 1 year ago
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tag dump.
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odewinds Ā· 1 year ago
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tag dump
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pasaime Ā· 1 year ago
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ā €* tag dump.
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okeancs Ā· 8 months ago
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♆ | š…š€š‚š„ š“š‡š„ š“šˆšƒš„š’ šˆšš’šˆšƒš„ šŽš… šŒš„ | visage. ♆ | š‚š‡šˆš‹šƒ šŽš… š“š‡š„ š’š„š€ | dossier. ♆ | š’š„š€ šƒšŽš„š’šš“ š‹šˆšŠš„ š“šŽ šš„ š‘š„š’š“š‘š€šˆšš„šƒ | musing. ♆ | š€š šŽš‚š„š€š š‘š€š†š„š’ šˆš š˜šŽš”š‘ š‡š„š€š‘š“ | aesthetics. ♆ | š‹šŽšŽšŠšˆšš† š…šŽš‘ š“š‘šŽš”šš‹š„ š‚šŽš”šš“ šŒš„ šˆš | threads. ♆ | šŽš‚š„š€š šŒš€š š“š€šŠš„ šŒš„ šš˜ š“š‡š„ š‡š€ššƒ | crack. ♆ | š‹šˆš…š“ š˜šŽš”š‘ š•šŽšˆš‚š„ šˆš š‚š‡šŽš‘š”š’ šŽš… šŒšˆšš„ | music.
#♆ | š…š€š‚š„ š“š‡š„ š“šˆšƒš„š’ šˆšš’šˆšƒš„ šŽš… šŒš„ | visage.#♆ | š‚š‡šˆš‹šƒ šŽš… š“š‡š„ š’š„š€ | dossier.#♆ | š’š„š€ šƒšŽš„š’šš“ š‹šˆšŠš„ š“šŽ šš„ š‘š„š’š“š‘š€šˆšš„šƒ | musing.#♆ | š€š šŽš‚š„š€š š‘š€š†š„š’ šˆš š˜šŽš”š‘ š‡š„š€š‘š“ | aesthetics.#♆ | š‹šŽšŽšŠšˆšš† š…šŽš‘ š“š‘šŽš”šš‹š„ š‚šŽš”šš“ šŒš„ šˆš | threads.#♆ | šŽš‚š„š€š šŒš€š š“š€šŠš„ šŒš„ šš˜ š“š‡š„ š‡š€ššƒ | crack.#♆ | š‹šˆš…š“ š˜šŽš”š‘ š•šŽšˆš‚š„ šˆš š‚š‡šŽš‘š”š’ šŽš… šŒšˆšš„ | music.#♆ | š“š‡šˆš’ šˆš’ š€ šš„š šˆ šŒš„š€š šš”š„š”š„ | queue.#♆ | š€š‚š“ šˆšˆ. š…šŽš‘ šŒš˜ šš€šŒš„ šˆš’ šš„š‘š’š„š”š’ | kronos verse.#♆ | š“š‡š„ šŒšˆš†š‡š“š˜ šš„šˆš | critical role verse.#♆ | šš‘šˆšš‚š„ šŽš… š“š‡š„ š’š„š€ | royalty verse.#♆ | šˆ'š‹š‹ š’šŽš€š‘ š“š‡š„ š„ššƒš‹š„š’š’ š’šŠšˆš„š’ | voltron verse.#♆ | š‡š˜šŒšš’ šŽš… š“š‡š„ šŽš‘š€š‚š‹š„ | meme.#♆ | š…š‘šˆš„ššƒ š’š‡š€šš„šƒ | promo.#♆ | šŒšŽš‘š€š‹š‹š˜ š†š‘š„š˜ & š‡šŽš‘š‘šˆšš‹š˜ š†š€š˜ | mun.#♆ | š’š‡šˆš“ ššŽš’š“šˆšš† šš„š‘ š”š’š”š€š‹ | dash comm.#♆ | šŽš”š“ šŽš… š–š€š“š„š‘ | ooc.
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eonadrift Ā· 1 year ago
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tag dump.
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wonderlandwalker Ā· 2 months ago
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Hell hath no fury like a Buckley | Steve Harrington x reader
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š§šššÆš¢š ššš­š¢šØš§ / š¬š­š«ššš§š šžš« š­š”š¢š§š š¬ š¦ššš¬š­šžš«š„š¢š¬š­ / š¢š§š›šØš± / š©š­. šˆšˆ
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
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Steve Harrington was many things—
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 Buckley—his best friend, partner-in-crime, and personal tormentor—aĀ ā€˜walking disaster with good hair’.
But right now?
Right now, he wasĀ fucking mortified.
Okay.
Wait—
Let’s 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 wasn’t counting the minutes until his shift ended and he could stop caring about pH levels. The Hawkins community pool was the same as ever— the sharp tang of sunscreen and chlorine in the air, kids cannonballing into the deep end, and Debbie — the one lifeguard who actually gave a shit about the rules— 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 — unofficial, of course—courtesy of Keith’s 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 ā€˜loafing around all summer like a goddamn bum.’
And then— 
Then he sawĀ you.
Which,Ā okay, is not that unusual— people come to the pool all the time.Ā  And it wasn’t that you stood out, not really. No, you were just— there. In a swimsuit like half the other girls, a loose cover-up tied around your hips, butĀ fuck— 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 shadows—vivid, flickering, impossible to look away from. Everybody else blurred at the edges, cardboard cut-outs in your wake, but you? You burnt.
And Steve—God, Steve was already half in love with the way the light would destroy him.Ā He knew the story. Knew how it ended. Orpheus wasn’t supposed to turn around. But you smiled at him, and suddenly he understood: some temptations aren’t meant to be resisted. They’re meant to unravel you, thread by thread, until you’re grateful for the ruin.
Oh, shit.
You were walkingĀ straight toward him.
Fuck.
Think, Harrington, think.
You lookedĀ familiar.Ā Hawkins isn’t exactly a metropolis—if you’d gone to school here, he’dĀ 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 vision—couldn’t even scrape together a fuckingĀ name.Ā Maybe you were—
Your eyes met his—sharp enough to flay him open—and your smirk said you knewĀ exactlyĀ how hard his brain was liquidating.
Double fuck.
You were smiling at him—Christ—that 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 head—that 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 out—to 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 it—the casual destruction of that moment—left his cerebrum sputtering like a dying engine.
Robin?
Why the hell were you asking aboutĀ Robin?
Robin doesn’tĀ haveĀ friends he didn’t know about.Ā HeĀ is herĀ best friend, which means he knows all herĀ people—the band geeks, the weirdos from the record store, and even that one girl who could reciteĀ The HobbitĀ in Elvish. He’d 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 you—
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 twitched—that 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 was—
No.Ā That couldn't be right. Because that wasĀ hisĀ bit. Well, technically it wasĀ theirĀ bit — his and Robin’s— 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 meant—
OhĀ shit.
Oh,Ā no.
His stomach dropped like he’d just crested the first hill of a rollercoaster—that awful, weightless second before the plunge. Because there were only two kinds of people who knewĀ Buckley Standard Time: him, and someone who’d 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 might’ve honestlyĀ preferred), that left only oneĀ earth-shatteringĀ possibility.
His eyes flicked over your face again, searching for it—the 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? He’d 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.
ā€œY-you’reā€”ā€ Steve cleared his throat, trying to wrestle his voice into something resemblingĀ casual indifference. It came out closer toĀ a pubescent seagull.Ā ā€œYou’re Robin’s…?ā€
ā€œTwin.Yeah.ā€ Your grin widened, head tilting in a way that should’ve had a government warning:Ā Caution: May cause permanent heart palpitations.
Holy.
Shit.
He’dĀ heardĀ about you,Ā of course—the mythical other half of Robin’s childhood stories, the shadow in the Polaroids stuffed in her wallet. He’d even known you were coming to town for the summer. But in his mind, he’d just pictured… Robin 2.0.Ā Same chaos, different zip code. But meeting you in person was aĀ different kind of disaster.
Not only were you Robin’s sister—fully, irrevocably off-limits by the Bro Code in every conceivable universe—but he’d 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 ā€œparticularly Harrington-ishā€.
"Oh," he said, brilliantly. "Cool. That's—cool." 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 uh—didn't know Robin had a sister." Stupid. Stupidstupidstupid—
The moment the words left his mouth, your face twitched—part amusement, part genuine bewilderment.Ā ā€œReally?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 when—
"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 doesn’t even wait for you to reach the car,Ā having commandeered you on an urgent towel retrieval mission she absolutely (and suspiciously) couldn’t 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 she’s 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't—" 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 ā€˜ma’am’. Twice."
Steve’s pulse kicks into overdrive.Ā ā€œWhat? I was just—being nice.ā€Ā He gestures vaguely at the pool, as if that explainsĀ anything.Ā ā€œI’m a nice guy, Robin.Ā It’s a thing I do.ā€ She scoffs, nostrils flaring.Ā ā€œHarrington, I’ve seen your ā€˜nice’. This wasn’t ā€˜nice’. This wasā€”ā€ She makes a frantic explosion motion with her hands, complete with aĀ ā€œpshooo!ā€Ā sound effect. ā€œā€”full-systemĀ meltdown ā€˜nice’. You wereĀ sweating.ā€
ā€œIt’s July,ā€Ā he protests weakly.
ā€œYouĀ neverĀ sweat.ā€
ā€œIĀ alwaysĀ sweat!ā€
ā€œYou 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 ā€œThat’s— that’sĀ notā€”ā€ But before he can dig his grave any deeper, you reappear, sauntering over with a smirk that spells nothing butĀ trouble.Ā ā€œEverything alright over here?ā€ Robin’s grip on his arm tightens like a warning.Ā ā€œGreat!ā€Ā she chirps, voice suddenly three octaves too high.Ā ā€œSteve was just telling me howĀ thrilledĀ he is to have another Buckley around.ā€
Steve’s smile is lessĀ charming Harrington grinĀ and moreĀ man awaiting execution. ā€œThrilledā€, he croaks. ā€œYep.Ā So.Ā So thrilled.ā€ Your grin widens at his words—slow, studious,Ā dangerous. "Yeah?" You step closer, and Steve's heart launches into an Olympic-grade gymnastics routine—triple 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."
Steve’s brain flatlines.Ā Parties.Ā Together.Ā You.Ā Him. Oh God.
Across from him, Robin’s 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 everywhere—a 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.
You’re 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, and—if Robin’s dramatic interruptions are to be believed—aĀ "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. Steve—who’s stranded in the armchair like some sombre,Ā forgotten puppy—can’t manage to join in. Not when your laughter does things to his pulse that’s sure to send him into cardiac arrestĀ anyĀ day now.
But then your knee brushes against Eddie’s as you lean forward to grab a handful of popcorn, and somethingĀ hot and irrationalĀ coils in Steve’s gut. It’sĀ stupid—Eddie’s just a friend, and it’s not likeĀ heĀ has any claim over you—but the way your fingers linger near Eddie’s wrist for half a second too long makes Steve’s jaw clench.
Then there's the Hawkins High tailgate, where the lukewarm beer and golden-hour sunlight are the real stars of the show – not the Tigers' tragic losing streak.Ā Steve leans against his BMW, nursing a drink and trying to convince himself that he’s here forĀ school spirit— he’s lying.Ā He’s so fucking obvious about it that Robin’s been giving himĀ that lookĀ all afternoon—the one that says,Ā ā€I will skin you alive if you make this weird.ā€
And like his personal reckoning—you appear. One second, he’s staring blankly ahead, and the next, you’re 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 ankle—that vulnerable hollow where his lips could linger—then 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.
ā€Dude, you’re, like,Ā actuallyĀ drooling.ā€Ā Dustin’s voice cuts through his increasinglyĀ inappropriateĀ thoughts. SteveĀ chokesĀ on his drink, beer burning his sinuses as he wheezes,Ā ā€What? No, I’m not—!ā€ But Dustin just raises his eyebrows, impervious.Ā ā€Uh-huh. Sure.ā€ And then Robin’s there. ā€So!ā€Ā she chirps, stealing Steve’s beer right out of his hand.Ā ā€Who’s ready to watch our team get slaughtered?ā€ You hum softly in your throat – a vibration Steve feels more than hears – 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.
He’s so screwed.
Even as the midday sun is brutal at the Hawkins pool, he barely feels it—not when you’re walking toward his lifeguard chair withĀ thatĀ lookĀ in your eyes —the 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 turning—presenting 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: "I— You—RobinĀ can—" "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 hum—soft, satisfied—and 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. ā€œYou missed a spot,ā€Ā you murmur, shifting just enough that his fingers brush the edge of your bikini tie. Steve’s breath comesĀ ragged.Ā This isĀ torture.
And now? Now the bass from Tina’s stereo thrums through the floor, rattling Steve’s bones like a second heartbeat. The air is thick with sweat and cheap beer, the kind of chaos he usually lives for—except tonight, his entire world has narrowed down toĀ you.
All evening, he’s 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 he’s 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 you’re there. EmergingĀ beside him like smoke, you lean into the wall, your shoulder pressing against his, and suddenly—the 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 bottle’s rim glistens under the dim light, and your mouth—pink, slow, meticulous—lingers there for a beat too long. It’s a calculated assault on what little composure he has left. His throat goes dry.
ā€œWould it work if I were?ā€Ā 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 ā€œProbably not.ā€ You admit, fingers crooking slightly—testing, teasing—and heĀ knowsĀ you can feel the frantic hammering of his heart beneath your touch.
ā€œYou know,ā€Ā you murmur, leaning in until your breath ghosts his jaw,Ā ā€œRobin talks about youĀ allĀ the time.ā€Ā 
His breath hitches.
This is dangerous.
Your knee brushes his thigh,Ā prudentĀ and—holy shit—his thoughts dissolve into static. ā€œBut sheĀ neverĀ mentioned howĀ cuteĀ you are when you’re 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. You’re 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, and— ā€œI wonderā€, you whisper, lips grazing the shell of his ear,Ā ā€œwhat else I don’t know yet.ā€
Before he can respond—before he can evenĀ breathe—you’re leaning in, your nose almost brushing his. His hand lifts—to pull you closer? To push you away? —when—
"Oh myĀ God." Ā 
Robin’s voiceĀ shattersĀ the moment as sheĀ stands there, arms crossed, lookingĀ done.Ā ā€œI leave you two alone forĀ five minutesā€”ā€
Steve jerks back like he’s been burnt. "Robin! Hey!Ā We were just—"
"—about to makeĀ my lifeĀ a living hell?"Ā 
Steve’s mouth snaps shut, his fingers flexing at his sides like he’s still debating whether to reach for you again, and his gaze flickers to your lips — just for a moment— 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. ā€œCome on,ā€ he deflects, ā€œWe were justĀ talking.ā€
Robin raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.Ā "Uh-huh. And 'talking' now involves you two looking like you’re 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 don’t back down.Ā You’re clearly used to these sparring matches with Robin, a rhythm he doesn’t yet know the steps to, and he’s equal parts terrified and intrigued.
"Maybe you should’ve knocked,"Ā you shoot back, grinning wider when Robin’s jaw drops andĀ Steve’s composure nosedives like a bird that just noticed the window isn’t open.
"Nope.Ā No. AbsolutelyĀ not."Ā Robin jabs a finger between the two of you like she’s warding off evil.Ā "I refuse to be the third wheel in whatever… 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 "Rob—"
"Save it, Dingus."Ā She pauses, levelling you both with a glare that’s equal parts warning and surrender.Ā "Ground rules," she announces, holding up a finger. "You—" The finger jabs at Steve's chest.Ā ā€œIf you hurt my sister, I’ll give you aĀ live demonstrationĀ of whyĀ The Texas Chainsaw MassacreĀ wasn’t rated PG. Spoiler:Ā It’s the bone saws.ā€ Her finger swings to you, and Steve can practically hear your heartbeat kick into overdrive against his side. "And you—if 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 she’s 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 crackles—Robin’s interruption only fanned the flames, and now it licks at his skin, relentless. His voice comes out rough, just this side of breaking: "She’sĀ 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. You’reĀ killin’ me here." You grin, all teeth.Ā "Good."Ā Your thumb brushes the frantic pulse under his jaw.Ā "We’ve got about twelve minutes until she storms back. Better make ā€˜em count."
This time, when you lean in, there’s no one to stop you, just the muffledĀ clinkĀ of Robin angrily rearranging liquor bottles in the kitchen. Steve finally—fucking finally—learns 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 Christ—the 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 closer—Christ, not close enough—until 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 it—misread 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 hesitation—it'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 noise—drowned 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 door—or 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 up—maybe 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 someone’s perfume.Ā The sink digs into his lower back, cold enough to make him hiss—but 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 you’d watched his throat bob as he laughed at one of Robin’s jokes. Forgets the way you’d nearly choked on your own tongue when he’d rolled up his sleeves in the kitchen, forearms flexing as he scooped ice into a cup.Ā The party’s 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 music’s loud enough to drown out the way you whimper when he sucks at your pulse point.
ā€œYou’ve 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. ā€œAllĀ weekā€,Ā you correct, and suddenly he’s replaying every glance, every brush of contact: the way you’d ā€œtrippedā€ into his side at the pool, how you’d 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 you’d leaned over his shoulder to steal a fry at the diner—had youĀ alwaysĀ smelt this good?
Steve’s hands trail up your waist, thumbs carving possessive lines into that sliver of exposed skin where your shirt’s ridden up. ā€œYeah?ā€ he rasps, voice wrecked—drunk on the way your breath hitches, on the way your ribs expand under his palms like you’re already starving for it. ā€œFunny. I thought I was the one losing my damn mind.ā€ You hum—a quiet, perceptive sound—before 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. ā€œShow me,ā€ you murmur against his pulse, and the challenge in it sends his blood south so fast he gets lightheaded. It’s all the permission he needs.
One hand fists in your hair, wrenching your head back as he crashes into you. This kiss isn’t like before—no teasing, no hesitation—just 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 isn’t just sound. It’s a bloody revelation.
Steve knows he’s on borrowed time. Robin’s sharp and observant—she’ll come looking sooner rather than later, and when she does, she’ll 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 doesn’t 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 his—slow, deliberate,Ā maddening—his 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 wrecked—a confession to his sinful thoughts. The second they hit air, he freezes.Ā Shit.
But you—Christ, you—just 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 instinct—lifting 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 chest—a 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 shatter—it 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 conquered—the 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.
"Steve—"
"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 this—in 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 then—then—you 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 tongue—
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 him—because 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 make—a muffled, content hum around him as he hits the back of your throat—sends a full-body shudder through him.
Holy mother of God.
He knows better than to look. HeĀ knowsĀ he shouldn’t—but he does anyway, helpless as a marionette with its strings cut—
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 he’s sixteen again, stumbling across his firstĀ Playboy, heart racing and palms sweating. Except now it’sĀ yourĀ mouth,Ā yourĀ knowing gaze scalding him hotter than July asphalt as you savour every choked noise he can’t suppress. He should say something, should at least try to form words, but all his head does is thud back again. That look alone—like you’re cataloguing his every twitch and heave—threatens to spill him into your throat right fucking now. If he doesn’t—
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 Steve’s 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.
ā€œFuck—we 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.
It’sĀ agony.
It’sĀ 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 hair—gentle, got to be gentle—but his hips jerk of their own accord, chasing the sinful heat of your mouth like it’s his only chance at salvation. ā€œFuck, sweetheart,ā€ he chokes, voice shredded. ā€œYou’re 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 door—Then what happens when he gets you alone? His mind whites out, fever-bright with the images: Pinning you against the first available surface—his bed, his car, the fucking kitchen counter—anything to finally take what you’ve 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 he’s watched you expose all summer—the 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 you’d clench around him when he finally sinks in, tight and desperate after an eternity of stolen glances. The filth he’d whisper in your ear:Ā ā€œKnew you’d take me so fucking good.ā€
ā€œChrist,ā€ he grits out, hips stuttering as you swallow him deeper. His knuckles tensing against the sink.Ā ā€œYou’re so fuckingā€”ā€
A sharp knock at the door interrupts him.
ā€œHey, dipshits!ā€ Robin’s voice slices through the haze, sharp with accusation. "You better not be doing what IĀ thinkĀ you’re doing in there."
Steve’s 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 hair—not to stop you,Ā never to stop you, but because if he doesn’t anchor to something, he might genuinely combust. The bathroom light flickers overhead, casting shadows against your cheeks as you glance up at him, and—fuck—he’sĀ never seen anything more obscene.
"Shit,"Ā he hisses, voice shredded. "Fuck,Ā fuck—" 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 murmur—liar, fucking liar—your 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, we—" Another knock, louder this time, rattling the doorframe.
"I swear to God, Harrington," Robin’s voice cuts through the wood, "if you’re defiling my sister in there, I’m replacing your hairspray with Nair."
You pull back just enough to make him ache, and Steve’s breath hisses through his teeth—sharp, frustrated, barely holding back something far filthier. His hands twitch at your waist like he’s 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, it’s wildfire in the dark, pupils swallowing every last bit of reason. "This isn’t 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 I’ll finish what you started on my own—and trust me, you’ll lie awake trying and failing to picture it half as vividly as it’ll sound."
Steve’s breath catches. "Christ," he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. He’s half-hard, wholly ruined, and absolutely fucked when you step back, looking far too innocent for someone who just had their mouth on—
The door flies open under Robin’s impatient fist. Steve barely has time to yank it wider before she’s glaring up at him, arms crossed. But Steve only has one thought consuming him:
Later.
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[pt. II]
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