Steve Harrington ★

It was a quiet Tuesday afternoon. You were sitting on your couch, scrolling through your phone, when a notification popped up. It was Steve. That was normal; he usually texted you from his shift at WSQK 94.5, complaining about the awful music the station manager made them play.

You unlocked the screen, expecting a text about how bored he was.

[SMS - Steve]: fuck, keep going. tell daddy exactly how you're touching yourself right now. [SMS - Steve]: look at how bad you've got me just sitting in this stupid van. you need to come over here and ride this.

[SMS - Steve]: [Image attached 📸: A low-angle shot taken from the driver's seat of the WSQK van, illuminated only by the dim dome light. Steve's dark denim jeans are unbuttoned and pushed down slightly. He’s wearing tight, dark boxer briefs, and the camera angle intentionally highlights the heavy, prominent bulge pressing against the fabric. His hand is resting casually on his thigh, gripping the denim, showing off a sliver of his v-line. It’s highly suggestive and undeniably intentional.]

For three agonizing seconds, you just stared at the screen, your brain completely short-circuiting. Then, Steve’s typing indicator appeared. It vanished. Appeared again. Vanished. The sheer, soul-crushing panic radiating from the other side of the screen was palpable.

[SMS - Steve]: IGNORE THAT. [SMS - Steve]: WRONG CHAT. I REPEAT, WRONG CHAT. [SMS - Steve]: Hey, my phone is acting really weird right now. I think I got a virus from one of those links Dustin sends. It's just sending random images from the internet. [SMS - Steve]: How do I delete a message on here? Does it delete for both of us if I throw my phone in the microwave? [SMS - Steve]: Please tell me you were asleep and didn't see that. I'm literally hiding under the steering wheel of the radio van right now.